VERA

Vera quickened her steps home, knowing that she would have another episode if she took her time. Her head was already pounding, and the corners of her vision were edged in darkness. It was early morning, the sky tinged with pinks and darker blues.

The streets of Ketterdam were quiet, though not silent. There were a few others out in the streets, workers coming off from a late shift, those without homes snoozing in the dirty corners.

Vera's hurried footsteps made light tapping noises on the cobbles, and as she turned the street her home was on, she stumbled, her head aching severely. She let out a soft gasp, her fingers pressed harshly against her temple.

Her fumbling fingers grabbed the keys at her hip and shakily put them in the lock of the building, and the resulting click let out another wave of pain. As she swung open the door to the building and climbed the steps with effort, she attempted to school her features into a picture of tiredness, trying to wipe her pain away for the sake of Oliver.

As she raised her hand to knock on the apartment door, she paused, glancing down at her watch. It read four bells, far too early for Oliver to be awake. She took her keys and inserted them one by one into the corresponding locks, her vision blurred and cloudy.

As she swung open the door, she was greeted with a sleeping boy on the lap of a stranger. Vera blinked, and then she recognized the stranger as Misha, his head tipped back on the seat of the armchair. She must have been worse than she thought. Vera tried to shut the door quietly, and as she toed to her room, she nearly fell. She grabbed purchase on the wall, and she walked unsteadily to her room. Her head was screaming in pain, and she felt her eyes start to water. She shut her room door and collapsed in her bed, praying to her Saints that this would be over quickly.

Vera woke with a gasp as she tasted death on her tongue. She looked around for a moment, sitting up, her surroundings blurry. She was in her room, and she was safe. The awful nightmare she had was just a nightmare.

She swung her legs out of bed, her head throbbing but far better than before. Vera checked the watch still strapped to her wrist: 2 bells. She'd been sleeping for nearly ten hours.

She opened the door to her room, and bumped into Misha. There was an awkward dance between them as Vera tried to move out of his way, but ended up moving in it, and they sort of tripped on each other, stuttering apologies, until finally Vera managed to get to the bathroom.

She tried not to feel spiteful as Misha walked into his borrowed room. After all, he was watching Oliver.

Vera washed her face, using the floral soap she had bought at Little Ravka, and stepped out refreshed. As she went into the main room of the apartment, she saw Oliver, playing with a piece of paper.

"Hi, Vera," Oliver said as she sat next to him on the floor rug.

"Hi," she said. "Sorry I slept so late."

"That's okay," he said, still fumbling with the paper.

"What's that you have there?"

After a moment, Oliver proudly held up the paper. "It's a boat."

Vera peered at the misshapen crumple, unable to find the shape, but keeping an act up for the sake of him. "Oh, I see it. How did you make it?"

"Misha taught me." After a pause, he said, "I don't see the boat. I wonder what I did wrong."

Vera picked up another piece of paper lying on the floor, this one also a boat, but the creases much smoother and neater.

"That's Misha's," Oliver said, still focused on his own boat.

As she turned Misha's boat over in her hands, Vera remembered Father teaching her these very folds.

"Look," he had said, showing her a crisp boat that seemed to have come like magic from his fingers.

Vera, a nine year old, before she had known about her inevitable death, had gasped in delight, unable to keep the childish breath escaping her lips. "How did you do that?"

Father, smiling, had taught Vera how to transform the paper, and soon enough, after many messed up pieces lying at her feet, Vera had been able to make a paper boat.

"It's called paper making," Father had said. He had known many crafts, from stars to sheep, teaching Vera each and every one of them to satisfy her curiosity and quell her headaches.

Vera now twisted the boat around, each twitch of her fingers accompanied by nostalgia. After a moment, she was startled by soft footsteps, and turned to see Misha, taking a seat in the armchair.

Vera hated how uncomfortable she felt in her own home. It was true, Oliver would be safe, though to be honest, Vera barely knew Misha, and she certainly didn't trust him.

The pathetic thing was she trusted Kaz's word. That bastard may be a horrible person who used cruel methods to get what he wanted, but he wasn't a liar, and if he said Oliver would be very safe with Misha, then Oliver would probably be very safe with Misha. And that was more than what Vera could give her brother.

Vera turned back around, choosing to focus on Oliver. Then she sighed and looked at Misha again. "I know that you're here to help, but I hate having this uncomfortable balance between us. This is my home, and I really want this to be my refuge." There was a pause, the silence thick, and then Misha responded.

"Are you asking me to leave?"

Oliver had abandoned his boat and was looking at Vera sadly.

Taking a deep breath, she went on. "No. I'm just asking if we can fix this," she gestured to the space in between them metaphorically, "whatever it is. I'm not asking you to be my friend. I just want us to be able to speak to each other without cringing or apologizing, because I can't deal with it."

Vera cringed on the inside anyway. She met Misha's gaze boldly, and was relieved when he nodded.

"Okay," he said, hesitating. "I think we can do that."

There was an awkward silence, exactly what Vera was trying to avoid, so tangible she felt she could bottle it and save it for her headaches, but it was broken with Oliver's voice.

"I'm hungry."

Vera bit back a laugh at the obvious change it conversation, and though Oliver was young, she gave him a grateful look for ending the unnerving quiet, even if it was his stomach's doing.

She stood and made for the little kitchen in the corner, and as she opened a drawer to fetch a snack, her head starting pulsing again, heavier than it usually did.

Shutting the drawer with more force than necessary, Vera gripped the smooth edge of the counter, her back to Oliver and Misha so they wouldn't see the pain contorting her features. She let out a breath slowly, but the ache didn't lessen. If anything, it increased. Vera braced herself fully on the counter, and as her weight leaned on it, the pain in her head increased tenfold. A small, tight gasp escaped her, and Vera prayed to her Saints she wasn't having another episode, not even a full day after the previous one.

But of course, prayers were rarely answered when the one asking needed the most, and Vera tried and failed to maintain conscious as she slid to the ground in waves of pain and agony, her vision spotting black, the last thing she heard being Oliver's distressed voice.