Author's note: Lark and Rosethorn belong to Ms. Pierce, this little story is mine. Just a short and sweet look at their relationship. Herein are hinted slashy feelings, although, if you really choose to ignore that, it could just be a story about friendship. Feedback is adored, flames are heartily laughed at.
Three days had been spent making bandages, and Lark was exhausted. She melted into her bed, her muscles relaxing until she felt that nothing could ever make her move again, and she slept. Worries slipped away, dangers were forgotten and she lost herself in a world of deep, peaceful darkness.
And then there were green threads, tugging at her mind, gently insisting that she leave the comfort of her sleep. Lark resisted, and the threads twisted around her and pulled more forcefully, and she realized that they were not threads at all, but living vines. She relaxed and let them take her, and then they were gone, and Rosethorn was there, her cool hand on Lark's forehead and a cup of tea on the table beside her.
"There you are," Rosethorn said, a hint of impatience in her voice. "We wondered if you were ever planning to wake." She handed the tea to Lark, frowning as the other woman began to gulp it down. "It will do you no good if you drink it like that. Honestly, you're worse than Briar sometimes."
Lark smiled at the fondness in Rosethorn's eyes, despite her brisk tone, and sipped the tea. Its warmth filled her, waking up her muscles and clearing her head. "How is Sandry? I think she was working harder than I was."
"Sandry has been up since yesterday, getting into my hair. She is fit and fine and out for a walk right now."
"And I am still in bed. I'm getting old, Rosie."
"Hardly," snorted Rosethorn, her hand again on Lark's forehead. Lark closed her eyes, imagining that the cool touch enveloped all her being. "You do feel all right, don't you?" Rosethorn was asking, her voice soft but still with a hint of sharpness. Lark was glad to hear it; if Rosethorn was not prickly, then she was truly worried, and Lark hated to make her worry.
"Wonderful. Never better," Lark answered, opening her eyes and grinning. "I could turn cartwheels all the way to Hajra."
"Nonsense," said Rosethorn, her hand moving down to cup Lark's cheek. "But I am glad that you're awake."
"I'm glad you're here," Lark said, and she meant much more. They never spoke of it. Lark knew it would make Rosethorn uncomfortable to talk about it, to lay her emotions out. But it was all right to look, to feel, to touch. Sometimes Lark wondered if it was the same for Rosethorn as it was for her. If the other woman felt the same, or if she really knew how much Lark cared.
She felt tired again. Rosethorn noticed and briskly took away the cup of tea, then rearranged Lark's pillows. Lark smiled up at her, content to be taken care of and feeling sleep calling to her again. Perhaps it would be good to say it once, just once, so that Rosethorn would really know. And with weariness filling her head, she spoke. "Rosethorn? Rosethorn, I -"
"Shh," said Rosethorn, her eyes suddenly warm. "I know. You need your rest."
Better to keep silent then. Lark did not protest, but closed her eyes and drifted away, embraced by the darkness. And then there was a touch, a caress, and a feeling, prickly and gentle at the same time. And a color, a shimmery, bold green that was more beautiful than any other. There were no words, but Lark understood that they were not needed, for the meaning was clear, and she slept, content.
And I also love you.