I switch POVs subtly in this a few times; hopefully it's not too jarring :).

We Happy Few

From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remember'd;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers. –Henry V

Kel stood at the door of the manor house, arms wrapped tightly around her ribs in protection against the late-autumn chill, and watched Neal ride away with a heavy heart. It seemed only yesterday that he had arrived, though it had been more than two weeks. His presence had been an incredible help to her. While she made frantic arrangements to bring outside aid to bring in the harvest, sent for supplies, oversaw burials, and kept Duke Baird informed of the progress of the quarantine, Neal had seen to the sick, organizing their resources and making sure their limited supply of healers worked to their best advantage. Each evening, they met in their makeshift office in her sitting-room, going over what needed to be done. It was so comforting to be able to have him run the hospital side of things while she concentrated on running the fief.

But now he was gone, riding back to Corus at the king's request, and she was alone again.

Well, not alone, precisely. Lord Wyldon was still abed, but Neal had confirmed that the illness had passed its peak, and he was out of immediate danger. Although he was limited in what he could do to help, Wyldon insisted on doing his part from his bedchambers. Kel smiled involuntarily, remembering his gimlet eye when she expressed a concern for his health.

"I may be bedridden, Mindelan, but I am hardly at death's door," he had told her, conveniently forgetting that he had been at death's door a handful of days before.

Just thinking about it gave her the shudders. Kel cast one more glance down the road to where Neal had disappeared with Magewhisper, and stepped back inside. The faded echoes of a racking cough floated down the stairs, making her grimace. She hadn't realized how welcome just a few moments of peace and quiet had been, even in the bitter cold, until they were over. Trying to shake off the gloom that descended, Kel intercepted a maid with a tray as she padded across the carpeted entryway.

"I'll take it up," she said, taking the tray with a smile. "He'll snap at you, like as not. At least I can snap back."

The maid, a lively young woman with vivid red hair, bobbed a curtsey as she gave over her burden. "My thanks, lady," she said, smiling brightly. Her good spirits were infectious; more than once Kel had silently blessed her work with the patients, who always cheered up after being tended by Merry. "He's all bark and no bite, but it's just not the same, with him abed and lookin' so pitiful."

Sending the girl on her way with a word of thanks, Kel turned and took the stairs two at a time. The sounds and smells of illness grew fainter as she moved down the opposite wing of the manor from the temporary infirmary. She passed a few servants along the way, but didn't stop to chat. They each had their own duties to see to, as did she. Coming to the door she sought, she knocked lightly before entering, closing the door softly behind her.

It was dim within, the heavy drapes blocking out the early morning light. Blinking away the gloom, Kel waited by the door until her eyes adjusted before going to the bedside.

"That had better not be more of that slop you've taken to pouring down my gullet," Wyldon told her, eyes still closed as he laid on his back beneath the coverlet.

Kel bit her lower lip hard to keep from laughing. He thought she was Merry. "No, my lord. New bread and eggs this morning."

Wyldon's eyes snapped open, and he had the grace to look abashed. "Keladry. I thought you'd be taking your breakfast with Queenscove."

"I already did," she replied, setting the tray on the bedside table and helping him to sit up against the pillows. He swatted ineffectually at her hands, grumbling that she was treating him like a newborn babe, but she ignored it with the ease of long practice. "He rode off to Corus early."

His dark eyes were sharp as they studied her face. "You miss him already."

Kel busied herself with arranging the blankets, concentrating on keeping her voice steady. "He was such a help. But he's needed at the capital, and he'll be able to confer with his father more easily this way."

When he didn't reply, she picked up the tray and set it on his lap. His hand caught hers as she pulled away. "He means a lot to you, doesn't he?"

"Neal?" She looked surprised by his question, but answered readily enough, a wry smile playing around her mouth. "Yes. Ever since he was my sponsor, we've been best friends. He says we're 'platonic life partners.'"

Wyldon barked a laugh before he could stop himself, but quickly muffled it. Busying himself with his tea, he replied, "Then I suppose I can bring myself to be civil to him, for your sake."

It was her turn to chuckle, and he took pleasure in the lighthearted sound as she settled in a chair by his bed. When he looked at her questioningly, she explained, "Neal gave specific orders that you're to eat all your given. You need to keep your strength up." She smiled wickedly. "I'm here to see that you follow orders. Besides," she added, relenting, "this is the only place I feel… happy." She shrugged, her twined fingers betraying the self-consciousness that was absent from her smooth face. "It's hard to keep up your spirits in a sick ward."

"And this is not a sick ward?" he asked, gesturing with his spoon.

Kel smiled slightly. "Not anymore, thankfully."

They were quiet for a little while as he ate, the silence punctuated with the clink of cutlery and the sounds of chewing. Kel was pleased to note that he ate everything on his plate; even better was the steadiness with which he did it. Gone was the inexorable shaking of his hands, the slightly uncoordinated movements. He was still too thin, and a sheen of sweat on his brow told her that he was exerting himself just to put food in his belly, but it was a vast improvement from a few days ago. Remembering the restless delirium and raging fever, Kel clenched her hands together tightly to keep them from trembling.

"Keladry?" He'd noticed. Of course he had. Those dark eyes were sharp as an eagle's, and they rarely missed a trick.

She met them reluctantly. "Sir?"

His mouth twitched. "If you wanted to assure me of your composure, you've already failed. You only ever call me 'sir' when you're hiding something – your emotions, usually." Setting down his spoon, he leaned back against the pillows without taking his piercing gaze from her face. "What troubles you?"

Kel shook her head slowly. "I have to keep pinching myself to see if I'm dreaming. It feels like yesterday you were so ill, and now you're eating on your own and speaking coherently."

"Coherently? Ah yes, Queenscove – Nealan – said I was delirious for a few days." The pained expression on his face when he uttered Neal's name almost made her laugh, but the furrow that appeared between his eyebrows stopped her. "How… how bad was it?"

"Bad," Kel replied, entirely frank. Then, a little more reluctantly, "You called me Vivienne."

Shock flashed across his face, followed quickly by regret. "How many times?" he asked quietly.

She chewed her lip briefly. "I lost count. Whenever I came in your room, you would look straight at me and…" She stopped, mouth twisting in a humorless smile. "Once, you asked if I – if she – had come to take you to the Realms of the Dead."

Wyldon closed his eyes and turned his face away. "I'm sorry."

"For what? You weren't yourself, Wyldon." Kel took his hand and squeezed it gently. "Please don't be upset."

He squeezed it in return, looking back at her with a faint smile. "If you order it, then I will not be. Besides, there's too much sorrow in this house already. Let us try and speak of happier things while you are here."

Kel nodded slowly. After a few false starts, they settled to talking of the successful harvest, and the good effects of Neal's spells on the patients. The conversation felt right, and comfortable, as did her hand in his; she didn't let go until she stood to leave, and when she left, she could almost imagine the pressure of his fingers still cradled in her palm.