"I'm right here, me Brynleigh," the gruff and beloved familiar voice said.
A faint whimper welled up in her chest. The burning sting of the gash across her shoulder was faded now, thanks to the tender attentions of Baldmar, but the lingering pain was enough to make sleep elusive.
Golden shapes danced beyond her closed eyelids. A carefully tended fire. Gamferth. He was nearby.
"Dontcha worry none, me baby," said the voice. "I ain't goin' nowhere." She nearly fancied that she could feel a hand scooping up her limp fingers and holding them. A hand thick with callouses and age, yet so tender and careful in its touch.
Several quick, anxious breaths fluttered through her chest. Her fingers flexed and closed. There was nothing but air.
Pained and weary blue eyes crept open. The starry mantle of the sky lay overhead, wind-washed and clear. A mournful breeze groaned through the hills around them. How did anything or anyone manage to sleep in this land?
A shadow moved in front of the writhing flames, blocking the light. The bent back of her fellow horseman. Prodding at the embers, keeping the fire hale as darkness pressed in around them. Where had the others gone?
Her chest ached and throbbed, though whether it was the hurt of her wound, or the fading dream of her beloved, she could not discern. A sudden need for comfort washed over her, a desperate yearning to connect to the living world, and escape the murky bewilderment of her thoughts. She reached out blindly, feeling about, until her fingers landed on the hand of the man sitting beside her. Whether she startled him or not, she did not care. Her hand wrapped around his, and without speaking, she squeezed gently.
