It was the sound of harried footsteps from down the hall that made Murtagh lift his head from the storybook in his lap. It wasn't that he particularly cared about whatever business dealings the staff had to tend to — his father's estate was large enough that he was accustomed to the sounds of the scurrying servants, darting in and out of bedrooms and kitchens, making sure everything was in prim and pristine condition. Morzan's keen and cruel eyes never missed a thing, and punishment was swift and harsh if he was displeased or convinced someone was slacking. There was a natural order, an ebb and flow that Murtagh had come to expect day-to-day in this intimidating place.

More often than not, he was enthralled in his books, enchanted by the colorful pictures that threw Morzan into a fit when he saw them. (Murtagh had taken to reading in the servants' quarters in the basement, or under his bed, where his father rarely ever ventured or thought to look.) But Morzan had left in a hurry some days ago, and Murtagh had boldly taken this day, this moment, to sit in the Tapestry Room and attempt to read the book in his hands.

The room, or rather hall, itself was certainly nicer than the stiff floorboards of his quarters, or the noisy, crowded spaces belonging to the servants. There was a grand splendor to the estate, meticulously designed and crafted by Morzan himself. But the grey stones seemed less dreary here in this particular room. Perhaps because, especially today, it was sunny out, and the light streamed in through the large windows that lined the long hallway, providing a semblance of warmth about the room that it usually lacked. Not to mention the roaring fire that Murtagh sat in front of, which crackled and hissed, with flames almost as tall as he. The soft carpet was carefully cleaned and cared for, so much so that Murtagh knew better than to wear shoes here and track in dirt or dust.

But it was the armchair that Murtagh had been looking forward to most. His mother had read this same book of fairytales to him once or twice before, pulling him off his feet and into her lap as she sat in the same chair he did now. It was one of the few maternal memories he had. As Murtagh curled his small legs into the cushion, laying his head on the arm, he could almost smell his mother's perfume, a gentle lilac that reminded him of a pretty spring day, of warm arms wrapped around his shoulders as she buried her face in his neck.

So, he would never be quite sure what it was about this particular set of rushed footsteps that caught his attention. Perhaps, because he knew he might be in trouble if Morzan were to find him here, was the reason he had looked up. He had instinctively assumed a servant was coming to say Morzan was back, and Murtagh would have to scurry for the safety of his room, putting distance between himself and his father. He could not hear what was whispered from one servant to another. All he could register were the stunned, anxious gasps as the man who had rushed into the room left with two of the female kitchen staff at his heels.

Murtagh waited a beat, then slid out of the chair, curious, and followed them.

He climbed the winding staircase, one hand reaching for the rail and the other gripping his book to his chest. When he reached the landing of the second floor, he followed the hushed whispers with trepidation, realizing that there was a small crowd outside of his mother's bedroom. He hesitated, suddenly frightened. They were definitely not supposed to be here. Father would be angry at them if he found out. Murtagh whimpered at the memory of Morzan's last fit, the blinding pain that had split his back open from shoulder to hip just months ago. Murtagh didn't know what had hurt him more: the sword cutting him, the fact that his father had done such a thing to him, or the fact that, when he had woken up from feverish dreams, his mother had already disappeared, only returning a few days ago, where she had promptly locked herself in her room. She had not even come to see him. Had not even bothered to let her only child know that she had returned.

Murtagh eased his way forward, fear making him anxious. No one realized he was there and, as he approached, he began to pick up on some of the conversations.

"What do you think happened to her?"

"Morzan happened, that's what?"

"I tell you, she's probably better off dead."

"She couldn't have picked a worse time to die. How the bloody hell are we supposed to deal with Morzan when he returns to find that his wife is gone?"

"How can you say such a thing? What about her son?"

"A spitting image of his father, if you ask me. He'll turn out just as bad, you'll see. I bet he's—"

The man speaking sputtered in surprise when Murtagh pushed through his legs, unable to fully comprehend what was being said about him or why. So, he decided to see for himself. The chatter grew quiet, until it was completely still, as the staff recognized Murtagh's presence. When he made it through, he saw that they were staring at his mother, asleep in bed. She was lying on her back, her hands folded across her stomach. Her skin was porcelain smooth, her lips faded and pale just like her cheeks.

He looked up and into the faces of one of the maid's he wasn't particularly fond of. She was older, with saggy, watery eyes that made him uncomfortable whenever they landed on him. Her voice was rough and displeasing to the ears as well, which made it unbearable when she scolded him. "When's mama waking up?" he asked her.

The woman looked at the other servants as though hoping they would step in and help, but none did. She crouched down so that she was at his height, plastering on a faux-sympathetic smile that made Murtagh take a step back. She didn't seem to notice. "Your mother is not feeling well, Young Master," the woman explained. "She is…resting."

"Is she sick?"

"…In a way, yes."

Murtagh turned his head and gazed at the still figure of his mother. If she were sick, why would the servants crowd her so much? "Have you tried giving her warm broth? I always get that when I'm sick."

"We'll try it when she wakes, Master Murtagh," another maid said, a much younger one with a slow smile and weary eyes. But she was nice to Murtagh when she could afford to be, sneaking him spare treats and goodies when no one else was looking. She had not left his side while he clung to life and was the most constant companion he had here at the estate. "Why don't you go back downstairs and read for a little while? I'll come join you so we can continue to practice your letters. Would you like that?"

Murtagh's eyes brightened, ignoring the woman's suggestion as it gave way to his new idea. "I know! I can read to mama!" Before anyone could stop him, he was running over and climbing up on the bed. There was a collective stillness that Murtagh did not register as he settled in at his mother's side. He flipped to the very first page. He couldn't quite read yet, but he liked to tell the stories based on his interpretations of the pictures.

No one stopped him as he flipped from page to page, unaware as his mother's skin went from pale to blue, growing colder with each passing moment. He did not notice that she did not wake, assuming she was continuing to get her rest. And he did not stop reading until a messenger from the capital was brought to the room. Although the next three words he uttered were not meant for Murtagh's ears, the young boy heard them regardless. And while he did not quite understand, in that moment, how his life would change, he felt an unsettling chill as he registered his father's name.

"Morzan is dead."

There was a collective gasp around the room, stunned faces and mouths dropped open. Then people began to whisper excitedly, already trading rumors and gossip as they tried to imagine what could have happened to the presumably untouchable Morzan, first and last of the Forsworn. Almost immediately, Murtagh was forgotten by all except the two female maids, who looked at him with pity. The maid Murtagh didn't like shook her head before narrowing her beady eyes at him.

"That's a cursed child if I ever saw one."

…

"Murtagh? Murtagh!"

His eyes flew open at the sound of distress in Hal's voice, his fingers reaching for the sword beside him, his body — already tense from his dream — instinctively braced itself for a fight that didn't exist. He blinked at the quiet, as still and unchanging as it had been when he had laid down to try and find a semblance of sleep.

He was lying on his back, Hal's hand on his chest from having shook him awake. Her face hovered over his, her brows pinched with concern. And he understood then that it was nothing more than his nightmares inconveniencing them. He could not fathom why it was that he was being repeatedly forced to relive the moment his mother died, but he wished he knew how to break the pattern of his dreams.

Understanding there was no immediate threat to their safety, he let out a long stream of air in frustration and exhaustion. Hal's smile was pained in empathy. "I would've tried to wake you sooner, but by the time I realized —"

"It's all right," he said quickly, cutting off her unnecessary apology. "I'm all right." He sat up slowly, and Hal inched back to give him space, her expression tell him that she was unconvinced. He shivered as a sudden and sharp wind cut through him, and he could see the raised skin on Hal's exposed hands, her blanket wrapped securely around her shoulders. "Where's Thorn?" he asked, realizing that their source of heat was gone. And his mind was quiet and empty, the connection too strained to be present.

"I sent him to find something for himself to eat," Hal said dismissively, deftly looking away from him, busying herself with the edge of the blanket they shared, a sorry bit of protection from the cold, hard earth they were forced to sleep on.

Murtagh frowned, confused. And then it began to register that it was growing light out, and that Thorn was searching for food because he had eaten dinner hours ago.

"Dammit all, Hal," he swore.

"Don't start. You were tired; you've hardly been sleeping as of late."

"I told you to wake me so that we could switch shifts."

"And you slept through the night. You're exhausted, rider. Besides, I don't mind staying up. I don't tire like I used to — you know this."

She said the last part quietly, her voice bitter and ashamed. Murtagh let his head drop a bit and sighed. "I know," he said gently. "But I don't want you pushing yourself for my sake. You still have to take care of yourself, Hal."

She didn't respond and she didn't meet his gaze, and something in her silence was loud enough that he leaned forward, taking her hands in his. "Unless there's another reason you're avoiding sleep," he offered, and she grew stiff.

He waited patiently as he knew to do while she gathered her thoughts. Still refusing to look at him, she said with trepidation, "I'm afraid to dream. I'm afraid of what I might see."

"You think your nightmares will return?"

"Yes. But not just my nightmares. The memories. The good ones. The things I tell myself I want to see, so that I don't forget. But then when I have to wake up and remember…" She finally raised her head, her eyes bloodshot from unshed tears. "I don't want to forget. I don't want to look back years from now and not remember his voice or wit. But right now, it still hurts to do so; and I can't…I can't bear it."

Murtagh didn't have a response for that. Not that he could speak if he did, as his throat had grown uncomfortably tight as he tried to fight back his own emotions. He pulled her hands towards his lips and kissed them, wishing he could do or say more. But like an idiot, the only response he thought of was, "Your hands are getting cold."

"It is rather unlucky that we landed here on the cusps of winter."

"Aye," he agreed, surprisingly eager for the change of subject. "We will have to find shelter and clothing before it's too late," he added, eying her thin garments of Illium. "Once we are in the thick of it, we will not last long without proper provisions. We can't rely solely on Thorn for warmth."

"Invidia and Blödhgarm said we should avoid cities and towns as much as possible. How will we get what we need?"

"I will figure something out."

Hal looked like she wanted to speak, but instead nodded her head and said, "Okay."

A silence fell between them, uncomfortable and heavy, before Murtagh, desperate to break it, asked, "Are you hungry? I can hunt us something to eat."

"Oh. I suppose —"

"All right, you wait here, get us a fire going. I'll be back." And before she could respond, before he had even finished speaking, he jumped to his feet, grabbing Zar'roc for protection, and Hal's bow and arrows for the hunt. And he rushed into the Spine without looking back. Because if he had, it would have been impossible for Hal to miss the tears that had been building as they finally began to fall.

…

For so long, Hal had committed to heart that there was strength in silence. In the wake of her grief as a child, she had harbored that notion, buried everything so far deep within herself that she had lost sight of it altogether. And that had been fine, because neither she nor anyone else questioned it. Her denial, her own self-imposed blindness, had become her new normal. She had accepted that and, in turn, had falsely believed she had accepted her fate and her loss.

Then she had met Murtagh. She met someone who had also learned to internalize their pain and had accepted a different kind of fate and loss. In meeting him, in talking with him, she felt that tethering of kindred hearts and minds, the realization that she could tell someone her struggles and wishes, and they could truly understand what she spoke of. That connection became precious to her. That connection became a bond, which in turn led to a friendship, which blossomed into a romance, a love unlike anything she could have imagined for herself.

But now, waiting for Murtagh and Thorn to return, Hal felt that bond being tested. She began to fear that perhaps the strain of what had happened on Uden and on Illium had become too much. That maybe their bond had been false. Everything just felt wrong, like they were only going through the motions. Not to mention her growing concern that she felt like she was failing Murtagh, counting off all the things she should've done differently:

She shouldn't have let him steer the conversation away from his dreams.

She shouldn't have let him walk away.

She shouldn't have brought up her own fears and nightmares. Because of course he would use that to deflect out of his concern for her. His need to put her first above all, even himself.

Hal kneeled on the edge of the narrow river they had camped by, patting her face dry after having washed it in the frigid waters. She had no idea what to do about anything. Murtagh, Thea, her own strange humanness (or lack thereof). She was so far out of her element that, for the first time in years, she had no ideas to contribute. She didn't know what they needed aside from what the elves had said or what Murtagh told her. And all she could do was follow the instructions given to her, unable to offer anything more. And she knew that Murtagh would bear this weight on his own otherwise, and he was slowly crumbling from the pressure.

It was Thorn who returned first, his presence a welcome sight as Hal stood, shivering in her thin garments. The fire she had started was already no match for the increasingly dropping temperatures of the Spine.

The large dragon folded himself back into the same spot he had been in before, several trees broken and knocked over from his weight on top of them. It was fortunate that she and Murtagh were so adept that they also knew how to hide from potential trackers, as Thorn's markings were glaringly obvious in a wood with such haunting stillness. But Murtagh has also insisted that the Spine received very little foot traffic, so it was more of a precaution than anything.

He folded his wings in, looking rather sated. Are you cold? Come, sit by me.

Relieved, Hal rushed to his side, curling up against his stomach. Even for the hour or two he had been gone, his warmth was greatly missed. Thank you, Hal said, snuggling in close.

Do not think to mention it. I'm just glad I can be of use.

Ah, yes. At least one of us is.

Thorn was quiet a moment, then said, He still will not speak to you.

It was a comment, not a question, but still she answered. No, he won't. And I do not have the heart to pry the truth out of him when I see how much pain he is in. But speaking from experience for the both of us, it will do him no good to keep all these feelings locked away.

Perhaps you must treat him as he did you and push, even if it makes you both uncomfortable.

I thought about it…but is it too soon? Yes, he pushed me, but I had been holding on to things for years. It's only been a month. I don't even think I've quite…made sense of this mess that we're in. And all I can think is that Denu would know what to do and what to say, and he's not…

She stopped herself. She couldn't even say it. Saying his name alone, even in the confines of her mind, was like a dagger being twisted inside her chest. The emotions felt too raw, still too heavy.

I miss the old one, Thorn said, his eyes downcast in sadness.

I miss him too, Hal said, her lower lip trembling as her eyes began to burn. But she let her tears run hot down her face, forcing herself to do this much. To acknowledge her hurt and her grief so that she did not repeat how she handled loss. Denu deserved this much. It's so strange, but I always believed he would live forever, even though I knew it was impossible for him to do so. He was such a fixture in my life when I needed it most, that I couldn't imagine being without him. It seems unnatural in hindsight, but he was my whole world. Every decision or thought I had, he was the center of. And now, I wake up and he's gone. I sleep, and I dream, and I remember, and I hold on to those moments when I can, because when I wake, I must lose him all over again. And the worst part is that the world will continue on. And I know I must too. But how can I? How can I possibly be expected to continue on when someone who was so constant is suddenly absent? It makes losing him all the more cruel.

Thorn curled tighter around her, as though wrapping her in a comforting embrace. I admit that this is my first experience with loss. But I feel much of what you have described. Denu showed me kindness and was one of the first humans to do so, even when he was wary of me. He made me and my rider feel safe and loved. It pains me that I will not have those moments with him again after having such a short amount of time to truly appreciate them.

Hal's resolve crumbled, and she let out a sob before quickly clamping her hand over her mouth. But Thorn's words rang true, and it was this that hurt the most: for every moment where she would look for him, expect his voice, wait for his reply and ask for his opinion, and she would find nothing but memories and air. And the thought of moving through a world that could be so unforgiving and confusing and frightening without that comfort nearby was unbearable. She had endured it with her parents, experiencing her monthly bleeding, falling in love, illnesses, and more, all on her own. And now the stretch of the rest of her life, however long it may be, lay before her, and the people who had raised her were all gone. And there was a bitter loneliness, a fear of the unknown that stood by her side instead.

Thorn laid his head down beside her, and Hal let her head fall on top of his, her tears splashing onto his scales. They were both silent for a moment, neither knowing what to say, and figuring it was best to say nothing at all. But the comfort of being together made the pain somewhat more bearable in that moment.

Thank you, Thorn, Hal said after several minutes. For listening, and for being there for both me and Murtagh. I know this is all just as hard on you as it is us, but I don't know how we would have made it this far if not for your guidance and support.

I would do anything for my rider, he said, his voice light from her praise. And I would do anything for you, not just as Murtagh's mate, but as my friend as well.

Good, I'm glad, Hal said. Because she wanted the satisfaction of having earned Thorn's trust and friendship on her own merits. And please know that you are welcome to come to me for anything, at any time. You should not have to bear this burden alone either. He snorted an affirmative, a puff of steam — as Murtagh had told her it was called — rolling from his nostrils and floating into the cold air until it vanished from view.

Much later, Murtagh finally returned. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes dangerously red and puffy that it seemed improbable that he could even see out of them at the moment. Hal stared, stunned, as he acted as though nothing was amiss.

"Game is starting to become scarce," was all he said by way of greeting, sitting opposite her with two fat birds in his hands. "We will have to remain diligent about catching what we can when we see it."

"Aye," Hal responded, distracted and hardly listening. He had been crying, and quite a bit. She didn't know if she should say something or wait until he was ready. But what did ready look like? Was she herself even prepared to broach the weight of all they were carrying? Because it was not just Murtagh's feelings she would have to confront, but her own. And the thought of doing so made her unsteady with self-doubt.

"What's wrong, iet dunei? Is everything okay?"

It took her a moment to realize that Murtagh was talking to her. Then it took her another moment to realize that he was asking her if she was okay. She wanted to throw herself at him and also smack him. Despite her concerns, she did not know how to approach the various issues at hand. It was so overwhelming that she knew if she started to speak, it would all come tumbling out in a rush and she'd be unable to stop herself. She was so unaccustomed to being on this side of things. He so easily and tenderly would do everything to make sure she was okay that she was realizing that she had yet to do the same for him. The shame of that realization made her face burn.

She lifted her head, finding his gaze. His hands were still, the birds he was defeathering momentarily forgotten. Hal did not have the words or the courage, and, therefore, knew that this was not the time. He would find some way to deflect, to quickly ease her worries without addressing the matter at hand. And she would let him, because she didn't feel brave enough just yet.

Instead, Hal rose to her feet, stepping away from the warmth of having Thorn at her back and into the frightfully chill air of the morning. Murtagh watched her carefully as she sat down beside him. She pulled one of the birds towards her, shooting him a quick smile, and said, "Here, I'll help you."

He did not protest or speak. He just watched her for a moment as she busied herself beside him, their shoulders touching as she worked. Ever so faintly, he smiled at her before turning back to his catch. They continued in silence, nothing but the crackling fire and sharp winds to disrupt them. But Hal felt a small semblance of contentedness at the mind-numbing task. As well as a humble gratefulness to Murtagh and Thorn for their presence.

As if reading her mind, Murtagh's hand reached out, and he slid his fingers smoothly through hers, his grip firm and reassuring. Hal looked up at him, saw the pain in his eyes, and was glad she had not pushed. This, she knew, had been enough. Enough for them both. At least for now.

"I love you," she reminded him, realizing that it had been some time since she said the words. And she wanted to make sure she told him as much as possible, whenever she could, so that he would never doubt it, even in moments of hardship. The words still felt new and unfamiliar, especially in this place that was not her home. She felt a different kind of exposure, being vulnerable away from her village. Her safety net. But her words were true all the same, and she did not want him to think anything had changed just because of what happened. She did not want her mind, out of pain, to trick her into believing her feelings for him had changed just because of what happened.

His expression softened, and he bowed his head towards hers, taking a moment to regain his composure. Once he did, he looked at her with his whole heart in his eyes. "And I love you," he said. "With all that I am."

And for now, they were both content to leave it at that.

…

She worries for you, you know.

Murtagh, quietly shaping pieces of stone he had found into arrowheads for Hal to replace the ones he had used, paused, but did not look up as Thorn's voice entered his mind. He sighed resolutely, his hair falling into his eyes as he continued to work. I know, although I do not mean for her to.

She worries because she loves you, nothing more. Why will you not talk to her?

I do not wish to burden her any more than she already is. It is not fair to her.

It is also not fair to assume that she cannot handle it. You and I both know she will worry regardless. But don't you think you are adding to her stress by saying nothing at all?

That gave Murtagh pause, and he looked over at Thorn, curious. Has she said something to you?

More or less. She is hurting, that much is clear. But I also sense a bit of loneliness. This place is foreign to her. It is a lot to take in, and she must do so away from the only home she has ever known. Much like when she was a child.

Murtagh looked over at Hal, who was leaning against Thorn's side, her blanket wrapped tightly around her. Her head had fallen forward a bit, but she slept soundly. He had insisted on taking first watch so that she could not force herself to stay awake through the night any longer. And he was glad he had. She had fallen asleep quickly and, so far, slept soundly.

But she is not the only one I sense has been lonely since we left Illium, Thorn added, his tone plain.

Murtagh's smirk was wry. Is that so?

I cannot understand why you insist on isolating yourself from us. Least of all me.

I just…I need the space. Everything is happening so fast and I'm just trying to get my bearings so I can figure out what needs to be done before this blows up in our faces any more than it already has.

And you think Hal and I would not be able to assist? You think us useless?

You know I don't.

Then stop treating us like we are. Despite how harsh his words felt, Thorn made sure to deliver them gently and empathetically. You do not have to fear what I will think — you know that so long as I believe you are acting of sound mind, I will follow you. And I believe Hal will too. But you have to remember to let her in. You are doing her a greater disservice by shutting her out. None of us can afford to go through this alone. And all of us should know better by now than to try and do so.

Murtagh frowned, guilt beginning to creep up his spine. He dared not question Thorn, but he wasn't ready to face his emotional distance. He had never let his feelings consume him. Even in his self-imposed exile, he'd kept them in check. Even when he was falling in love with Hal, he kept them in check. Murtagh did not know himself without a wall around his heart. Hal hadn't brought it down. He had just happily made space for her and told himself it was the same thing. But the torrents pushing against it now threatened to destroy them entirely. And he did not know if he could do any of this if he let himself fall apart now. Above all else, he had to protect Hal. Even if it was from himself.

Murtagh watched her for a moment, studying the familiar features he had long ago memorized. He had come so close to losing this. To losing her. And the reminder of that, the tangible fear he had felt cradling a body with no heartbeat, caused him to reach out to grace the skin of her cheeks, warm from Thorn and the fire. It was the barest of touches, and yet Hal still began to wake, her eyes fluttering.

"Is it time to switch shifts, rider?"

There was a low husk to her voice, laced with the exhaustion she claimed to not have felt. He softly said, "No, not yet. Go back to sleep, Hal."

He knew then she was tired when she didn't even muster up an argument or insistence against his request. Instead — as he sat back, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her into his chest — she settled herself in comfortably before falling back asleep. The weight that had been burying him alive since they fled Illium and hid themselves in the Spine found him yet again. The weight that he spent most of his time awake hiding from Hal (and doing a poor job at that): they could not stay here much longer. Hal would not complain, but he knew the cold was dragging her down further into despair. It was exacerbating everyone's misery and they were not equipped to deal with it. They needed to keep hidden, he needed to keep Hal safe. But they also needed proper shelter. The odds of finding a location that could do all three —

Just like that, the answer struck him with a moment of clarity so strong and sudden that he nearly gasped out loud. Then he immediately hesitated. It would be risky, he knew. Possibly dangerous, if memory served correctly. And, more importantly, Murtagh dreaded what he might face when he returned.

But in that moment of questioning, Hal let out a quiet sigh and snuggled deeper into his chest. He watched her, content when she remained asleep without any signs of nightmares. It took Murtagh a moment to realize he was smiling, his throat thick with emotion. He closed his eyes, burying his face in her hair. He gingerly kissed the top of her head, struck once more with how the simplest of gestures carried so much weight. Keep themselves hidden, keep Hal safe. If he could do that much then maybe, just maybe, he could salvage this sense of failure that haunted him when he thought of Denu and the people they had left behind.

They sat like that for the rest of the night, Murtagh eventually lulled to sleep himself instead of waking Hal. Thorn watched them for a bit, making sure they were sound and comfortable. And then he too closed his eyes and joined them.