Imogen's head pounded. When was the last time she'd had water? When was the last time Feall breathed?
She was filling with doubt. This was her fault.
The winter sun was glaring over the Gelynian mountains. Imogen balanced behind Jaron in the saddle. Feall was draped over her horse- his mount bolted at the first sign of blood, likely never to be seen again.
The hours after Feall fell prey to the blade all bled into a single moment. Imogen remembered screaming for help in her heart, but couldn't manage even a murmur. She remembered Jaron loading her onto his horse. She remembered a heated exchange regarding Calenda's whereabouts. She remembered riding through the bloody valley until dawn hit.
They'd agreed to meet back at Whiterune to better discuss their current predicament.
And possibly purchase a coffin.
She'd wrapped her cloak around Feall, but when they paused to see if he was still breathing, his skin was still cold to the touch. It was getting hard to focus again. The trees blurred into a single dark line.
Breathe, Imogen, and you'll be able to recount the events.
Don't breathe, Imogen, you'll be able to ignore the last few hours.
There was a saying that warned all those who heard it not to cry over spilled milk. The past would have to remain in the past.
And yet, a new acrid taste lingered at the back of Imogen's throat. This was all her fault.
Jaron's cheeks were holly red against his tired face. The color drained from his lips. He was always so full of life- so full of color. But not anymore. Now he bore the weight of a friend taking death's hand.
What if Feall never returned to the world of the living?
She could ignore her soaked boots with that thought on her mind.
"Mott," Imogen called. She forced herself to spew as many words as she could in the most elegant way possible. "How much longer till we can find a healer?"
"We are only a few hours from Whiterune, I think," answered Mott. "We could make the ride if we galloped."
A hard ride through the snow was difficult enough with one rider; let alone two. Everyone was depending on her to make the right choice. She'd made the wrong choice once before in risking everything for Calenda.
But she learned from her impatience. She ignored the fierce pleadings in her heart to take Jaron and make a break for Whiterune. If she ran, perhaps Feall would survive. It could save his life.
Or end it.
Feall didn't move. The wound had left him paralyzed.
Barely conscious.
Imogen shut her eyes against the never ending view of black needle trees and bone white snow. She wondered if Jaron could hear her heart hammering against her ribs. His heartbeat was strong. Firm and steady.
Mott tried to coax words out of her, but Imogen refused. She thought of nothing but keeping track of Jaron's breathing and the beat of his pulse. It kept her sane. Their hearts beat in tune, and so long as he was calm, Imogen could do the same.
When the morning sun glared off the snow, Imogen only ducked her head. She couldn't bear the sight of glimmering pines while she cradled against Jaron's curling back.
Not while she had the consequences of her impatience riding face down a little bit ahead of her.
Jaron had always been willing to risk his life when needed. Both he and Imogen were no strangers to death. They'd escaped from its clutches numerous times before.
It was different now.
It was different now that it was a friend caught in between staying and going. Feall couldn't move. He was growing paler and paler with each passing hour.
Pins and needles nipped at her thigh. Jaron's weight pressed against her as he leaned away from the biting pines. In a way, she was grateful for the short, sharp prickles. They served as a reminder that she hadn't frozen through.
"Imogen," said Mott, his voice softer than the fresh fallen snow. "Do you need me to-?"
Out of the question. Imogen shook her head. "I can do it," she insisted.
"When we get to the King's Highway, Imp, the ride becomes smoother and we'll reach the city," Jaron gestured to a hill covered in white. "I've used the highway once before."
"I haven't heard Imp in ages," Imogen mused over the nickname.
She didn't take much notice when the snowy path turned to slick cobblestone. It was late mid-morning. People on large horses and people tucked into bright sleighs crossed up and down.
Nobody paid any attention to a dirty girl on a dirty horse surrounded by dirty men.
Imogen glanced at every sleigh in sight. Some had bells, some were colored like bright summer birds. Others were plain and worn, likely handed down from generations ago. Babies were bundled in white coats detailed in scarlet.
When Jaron was no longer tight with anxiety, she'd tell him all about the sleighs they passed. About all the bouncing children with their runny noses and excited eyes.
They were a welcome distraction, even if they only worked for a moment or two.
Despite the recent storms, the air was clear and bright. Truly, they were attempting to hide in plain sight. Among the sleighs and bells, it was entirely possible that they could get away with it. Too many things lingered on her mind.
Feall's condition wouldn't have been so frightening if he'd made noise. Nothing came from him, save for the shallow breaths often drowned out by the sound of trotting horses.
He was silent.
Silent and lingering. His soul was confused by what it wanted to do.
Imogen felt bile rise in her throat. She did not want to let somebody die draped on a saddle. She did not want to carry a corpse into Whiterune.
People spoke to her, but she ignored them.
Jaron held both of her hands with one of his own.
The memories they'd created together were bursting at the seams of her tear filled eyes. She'd never met anyone who'd be the friend Jaron was to her.
Would he forgive her if Feall died? It always seemed that Jaron knew a little bit more about the people around him than they wanted to admit.
Together they dismounted, and Mott pulled Feall from the saddle and draped his unconscious form over his shoulders.
Not a single friendly face smiled back at them. Nobody offered to lead the third, leftover horse to a stable to be picked up when Feall was no longer fighting for his life.
Despite being in a city so full of people, Imogen felt almost completely alone.
Mott was there with her; she and Jaron weren't alone. There was one ally. 'One is better than none' was what her mother used to say.
"Ah, sir, can you- oh," Mott began, trying to get the attention of a short young man in a three pointed hat.
However, instead of being met with a man's face, they were scowled at by a dirty girl. Her impish face twisted into a scowl.
"Whaddyatrynadosteponmeh?" The imp snapped, the words bleeding into one.
"We need a-," Imogen began, but the imp only scowled harder.
"T'ain't me who dunnit."
"That's not what we-"
"An' I ant throwing me friends under the old donkey cart. No siree, not me."
"But-"
"I ant got no money."
"We don't want money!" Mott barked, his patience clearly worn as thin as his hair. "We need a healer!"
The imp cracked a smile. One of her back teeth was chipped beyond repair. "Why didn't you say so? I know a plenty, but depends on what you need," said the imp. Her vocabulary improved with Mott's mere request and the unintelligible accent cleared. Imogen narrowed her eyes as the dirty girl continued. "I can help best I can."
A little imp now turned into a little friend. Imogen frowned. They'd had too many run-ins with people pretending to be friends. "My friend was struck with a blade."
"We fear he doesn't have much longer to live," Mott explained. "We were told that perhaps we could find a healer, but here we still are."
"Ah," the imp rubbed her nose. "Everybody here deals a little in blood and bones. There's an apotho on every street. Look for the signs."
"What s-"
She pointed at a distant building, "See the sign? I mean, I could also find one of the traveling apothos for you."
"Really?" Imogen perked up, tightening her grip on Jaron's hand. "You'd do that for us?"
The imp held up her thumb and forefinger, and rubbed them together.
For a price, yes, the imp would get help.
Imogen declined, but thanked the imp for pointing out the apothecary's sign.
"Don't worry, I'm not serious. I can find you help," The imp took off her three pointed hat and bowed. "It'll be best to have more eyes looking for somebody to help. I can take the east side of the city if you take the west?"
"How can you find us again?" Mott arched an eyebrow.
The imp shrugged, "I have my ways. I'll see you as soon as I find somebody."
And then, Imogen, Jaron, and Mott were back where they started. Waiting for help and lost in a foreign, soggy city. Imogen took the reins of one of the horses, and walked to the nearest apothecary's shop.
But upon looking at Feall's wound and sniffing the blood oozing from the soaked clothes protecting it, the apothecary slammed the door in their face.
As did the next.
And the next.
And the next.
They passed through street after street, looking for the telltale sign. They were greeted by bonesetters, poisoners, plague specialists, and even a few fish sickness doctors, though Imogen had no idea what the fish plague was.
Each time, they always shut them out. There was no kindness in their eyes after they'd investigated Feall's wound.
"We have to keep knocking," Imogen told herself. "We have to."
Her mantra grew weaker and weaker each time a door swung shut. Feall was running out of time, and there was nothing she could do about it.
What could she do? What could she do to keep him comfortable? To guarantee that he would be warm no matter how his wound reacted to the ever passing minutes.
Even in Gelyn, the safest place was a church.
Imogen forced herself to take a deep breath and look around herself. They were surrounded by buildings in a circle. A mosaic of far off glass twinkled several streets down.
A cathedral. A cathedral was safer than the streets.
"I don't-," Imogen swallowed hard. "He won't make it without a miracle."
Jaron narrowed his eyes, and shook his head. "I refuse to believe that, Imogen. I refuse."
"I'm trying to reconcile myself with the worst case scenario."
"How odd. . ." said Mott. "I thought I was the resident pessimist."
She hung her head. No witty retort waited on her tongue. All she knew was exhaustion. All she remembered was frustration. They should've dragged Tobias along. They shouldn't have been so kind to the phantom bandits. They should've let Calenda go for the sake of a nation.
"Try one last door," Mott gestured to a lone, leaning building. A rickety sign hung from a horizontal pole outside. "One more door while I search for a priest."
"Do you promise to come back as soon as you can?"
He held up his hand and nodded.
By the time Imogen had balanced Feall on the open saddle so she could lead the way, every bone in her body was screaming for relief. She deserved rest. Jaron deserved rest, he'd fought for so long in his life, and he'd fought and would soon lose a friend. He needed a-
Absolutely not. No rest for the wicked young kings who tormented their cooks. No rest for soldiers fighting for the cause of peace. Imogen straightened her cloak about her and pressed on. The scent of cooked spices burst through the barely standing walls.
They could not see her crown, but that didn't matter. Imogen was through with taking no for an answer. She would be treated as a queen.
She raised her fist, and pounded against the leaning door. Her bones rattled with each knock. The house quivered beneath her fist. For a moment, she thought she heard a window shattering to pieces.
Fall down house. No matter what happened, Imogen would not move until she found a healer for somebody who'd served the Carthyan crown with loyalty.
Behind her, the horse shuffled its feet. Imogen shot a glare at the beast. She waited a few more moments, and resumed pounding at the door. "I know you're in there!" She shouted.
The door swung inwards; Imogen nearly knocked on the apothecary's tree-trunk nose.
"My, my," said the man, "for somebody needing help you're not very appreciative."
Not very appreciative.
Tears punched at Imogen's eyes. They throttled her lungs. Not very appreciative for a young woman wearing a heavy title, who'd battled snow, singing bandits, her impatience.
Her face began to burn and she dragged her sleeve across her snot filled nose. The apothecary opened the door for them. That was more than enough. Imogen apologized between strained hiccups of both despair and joy.
"Speak to my wife again and-," Jaron stepped in front of Imogen, but she held onto his sleeve.
"My- my friend was sliced with a blade," Imogen choked out. The apothecary's shop was blurry. "I don't- we- he-"
"Take a deep breath," the apothecary wrapped his shawl about himself.
"We just- he won't make it without a miracle cure."
The tears began to flow freely. They carved trails down Imogen's dirty face. Her eyebrows pressed together until her muscles began to grow sore.
"I have no miracle cures," said the apothecary as he walked to Feall. The twisted expression on his face gave Imogen her answer. There'd be no saving Feall in this shop. The apothecary clicked his tongue, "But I have a table. It'd be, ah, it'd be a better place to lie than keeping him draped over a horse."
Imogen's hands were heavy. Too heavy to help carry Feall into the shop.
Not even the comfort of the apothecary's shop, so much like her own room of herbs and pestles, could warm her. The apothecary and Jaron laid Feall on a cloth covered table. Imogen watched him. Watched as a stranger laid a friend down like she'd lain broken birds in shallow graves.
With trembling hands, Imogen reached for Jaron, and stood beside him. He hid her from view.
And she wept.
"Could be infection, miss," the apothecary murmured. "I'll make a tincture to ease the pain. For a price, that is, sorry miss. Times are hard."
Red hot anger momentarily shattered the mourning black she felt so strongly.
"That's all you can do?" Jaron snapped. "Can you even tell us how severe the wound is? By the Saints, I'll fix this myself if one of you-," he swallowed the biting words when Imogen squeezed his side.
The apothecary put his hands on his hips, "Fine. If you're so insistent on doing this yourself, without my help, you can look for a pair of ingredients for a-"
Imogen knew what he wanted before he asked, fished for the purse at her belt, and slammed a gold coin on the table.
"Ah, that'll do. You can try to find thistle and bark. But stock's been out for months. That's why your friend breathes his last on this very table. Isn't my fault. It's a poisoned wound."
"Where can I-," Imogen stopped herself when the man held out a hand. She stomped out a curse, and slapped another coin in the man's hand. "Where?"
The apothecary held the coin up to his eye, "Try looking at Barnellie's first. It's right across the circle. But you haven't got much time. Perhaps five minutes with your husband at most."
"That's enough time!" She called through her tears. The apothecary complained behind her as she crashed through his shop, but his words fell on ears of stone. There was nothing more important to Imogen than finding those herbs.
Thistle and bark. Thistle and bark.
She skipped the steps entirely, shooting off onto the cobblestone street without looking for passing walkers. Jaron was still in the shop with Feall and the were only a few steps. She could feel the thistle in her hands. Her feet pounded against the stone, jolting her insides with each leap.
Where was the girl in the tricorn hat? Hadn't she promised she'd help?
It didn't matter, there was an opportunity to save Feall.
But when she collided into a crimson cloak, her ray of hope was jolted out of its frame and shattered on the steps.
Apples rolled in every direction. Fat, red apples brighter than their owner's cape. They were spots of color against snow and stone. Everything blurred together as a sob forced Imogen to curl into herself. She needed to straighten out, behave like a queen. Bits and pieces of her body were beginning to grow numb the longer she worried about Feall, Calenda, and the mess she'd made.
She could use that to her advantage.
Forcing herself back up, Imogen reached for an apple, and stared right at the girl across from her.
The face peeking out beneath the hood went pale. Imogen wiped her nose, and handed an apple to the girl. She didn't take the apple at first. Instead, the girl inched backwards.
Trying to flee like she'd seen a ghost.
A new desire to scream ruptured Imogen's silent tears. She should've abandoned the apples. Should've let the stranger in front of her clean up the mess on her own. But she stayed. And this girl was repaying her with the same hostility as the rest of Whiterune. Feall would wither and die because Imogen paused at the wrong moment.
By the Saints, Imogen wished her tears would stop.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make a mess," she whispered. "I wasn't looking."
The girl, once so intent on escape, leaned for an apple too. She remained quiet and kept glancing at Imogen. Those glances were too wild. Too afraid. Imogen stopped looking at the girl. The unease from the stranger only added to Imogen's wretched shaking hands.
"Are you hurt?" Asked the girl. Her brows had furrowed together as if speaking to Imogen was a gamble. "Didn't realize apples were so cruel."
Imogen said nothing, and pressed her palms to her eyes.
"They didn't hurt you now, did they?"
Shut up, stranger. She changed her mind. Now she didn't want to talk to anyone. Imogen reached for an apple, and then another, helping the girl before her race to pick them up.
"I take that it's not the apples then. Thought I'd found a friend who hated apples to the point of tears like me," the girl continued. "Probably worse than apples."
"I needed- I needed something," Imogen coughed, not bothering to wipe the snot from her upper lip at this point.
"Help a poor girl with her apples? I'll help you in return." The girl was smiling a tight-lipped smile.
But when Imogen looked at her face, the girl's smile fell into a faint grimace. She drew her hand back. The girl was crouching, almost looking for a place to run. This girl, surrounded in red, was the first stranger not to run or toss out a biting word.
No, no, don't go.
Imogen fought to keep her breath even. "Please, please stay. Do you have thistle? Thistle and bark? My friend's been poisoned- we were attacked and-"
"Poison? What kind? A little birdy told me you'd be around here," The girl asked. She pulled her dirty red hood a little bit back from her face.
"I don't- I don't know. I haven't been able to find a clear answer."
So the imp had helped after all. She'd sent somebody else who was more interested in Imogen's situation than anybody else so far.
Bit by bit, the apples were returning to their basket. Imogen finally dabbed at her eyes. She'd been a fool to trade time to fix her mess for a mad flight through the square. She needed to return. She needed to be held accountable.
Words started spilling from her lips as she described how horrific it was to look at Jaron and acknowledge that Imogen was responsible for the death of his friend.
To look into the face of a living corpse that used to be a grinning ally.
Beside her, the girl was relaxing again. The tension in the air eased each time Imogen spoke. There was nothing to hide in this present moment. Imogen didn't care for any backstories or reputations.
Only Feall's survival mattered.
She was no stranger to death. Imogen had come face to face with the call of leaving life behind. But now that it was Feall waiting to meet his fate and not her, she couldn't find any more courage. It was impossible to watch other people make their own choices.
A good queen would've stayed by her subject's side.
And yet, there Imogen was, picking up apples for a stranger because she was too afraid of facing the consequences of her actions.
With the apples nestled back into their basket, the girl in the red cloak sat back on her heels, tossed back her hood, and tapped her lip. "Thistle and bark'll do no good in that situation."
"He lies in the apothecary's," Imogen hung her head. "I don't want to see him die."
The girl jumped to her feet, the apple basket threatening to spill again. She held out a hand to Imogen, "Death's frightening when it happens to somebody else. Sounds like that friend of yours needs a rest."
"Are you joking about death to me?"
"Not really. If I'm right, your friend suffers from swellfish poisoning. If he can keep warm and keep breathing for a day, he'll wake," the girl handed Imogen an apple, and offered her elbow.
Fresh tears spilled as Imogen linked arms with the girl. Whether tears of anxiety or relief, she wasn't sure. "The apothecary told me he had five minutes. Five minutes that I've spent with you, a stranger."
The girl scoffed, "And I'll take it he's the one who told you to look for thistle and bark."
". . .Yes, yes he did."
"Figured. What a wood nose, always looking to make a coin whenever he can."
Imogen wiped her nose and watched the girl march up to the door, and knock. There was something familiar in her face. But only to the point of annoyance, like swearing you'd spoken with a person before when in reality you'd only ever seen them once or twice at market.
The apothecary opened the door, and held out his hand for payment. Without a word, the girl in the red cloak set a fat apple in his open palm. "Suppose that'll cover my expenses from last time?" She said.
"No, but it'll keep me from kicking you out while you ruin my business," the apothecary groaned.
"Business?" Imogen asked. She held onto her arms, almost grateful for a momentary distraction from Feall's current condition.
She now had something to pour her faith into, and that would have to be enough for the next few hours.
The girl's words about surviving swellfish poisoning had to be true.
Imogen stopped in the doorway. Jaron was waiting in the calm and quiet, but she stayed, too worried about drowning in regret to take hold of the hands that could save her.
"The place across the street he sent you to belongs to him," said the girl, setting her basket and cloak on the counter. The apothecary flicked his fingers before turning to another task. "Easy way to make money." She added.
Why couldn't she stop crying? Imogen's eyes were swollen. They burned in the warmth of the apothecary's. Count to ten. Look at the details of the room. Anything to remain calm. The girl gathered her black hair at the nape of her neck, and tied it back. She gestured to the cloth covered table.
"I'm sorry, what did you say?" Imogen asked, her voice growing tight.
"Yes, yes, that's the foreigner," said the apothecary. "Taking up my table."
From her place in the corner of the room, Imogen gazed at Jaron where he sat in the corner, staring at the ceiling. Among the gold herbs and yellow gourds, Jaron looked peaceful. His hands were tucked over his stomach. If Imogen reached out to tuck a bushel of holly and dried wheat into his hair, he'd trick winter spirits into thinking he was one of their own.
How could he be looking at her that way? She'd killed his friend by running too fast.
The girl motioned for Imogen to stand beside her, and touched the length of her finger to Feall's nose. "Ah," she cracked a smirk, "Old bugger's still alive."
"Do you know him?" Imogen asked, biting down hard on her cheek as she waited for an answer.
Perhaps it would be easier if she revealed who she was.
Perhaps he'd die even faster.
Imogen frowned. She'd rushed to action before. Better to keep their identity quiet, and pray that nobody in Whiterune had seen the king of Carthya before.
"No, no, but I punched somebody who looked like him once," the girl explained.
"Did he deserve it? The man you punched?" Imogen asked. After the girl moved her finger away, Imogen mimicked the same motion. She could feel Feall's faint breathing against her skin.
"Yes and no. You won't need me around for the next few hours, you can check on him yourself."
Check on him herself. Imogen blinked at Feall's moon-white face. She'd be left alone again, waiting for Mott and waiting for a miracle. Amarinda would've stayed with a stranger and a dying friend.
No, that was too much to ask.
Did she even know this girl's name?
"You're leaving?" Imogen mumbled, sliding onto the bench near the table.
"Errands to run, a cranky prince wants a basket of apples," the girl shrugged. She held up Feall's hand, "You'll want to rub his hands and keep the fire warm. A blanket for him would be nice. Just keep him warm. Tell a story or two to keep his soul wanting to stay. Shouldn't be too hard, everybody gets scared of swellfish poisoning. And don't let our wood nosed friend sell you anything. Muskrat and I will be here tomorrow morning to check in."
"Muskrat?"
"My little birdy. She has a tendency to get too dirty and stick that hat of hers in business where it shouldn't be."
"Tell me your name," Imogen asked. "I'm-"
"Ah, ah, names hold too much power. Best keep it a secret this far north."
"Why did you help me?"
The girl waved her hand, and reached for her cloak, "Trying to gain favor with the Saints. Knew about swellfish poisoning enough to help you. Felt guilty because I ran into you. Think of a reason you like, and that's why."
Imogen crossed the room, reached for Jaron's hand, and began to rub it. She barely managed to muster a few words of gratitude before her throat thickened with tears again. The wood floor thumped. Four fat apples sat by Imogen's elbow.
The girl had left.