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A rooster somewhere nearby announced loudly that it was morning. The lethargy that only a sleepless night could bring had swept over her and rendered her unwilling to move.

Val lay in bed, the scratchy blankets and, in contrast, a soft pillow, begging her to stay. But although it was still night inside, it was morning beyond the barn's walls. The others would wake - expecting her and Marat to do their fair share of work.

Marat.

She felt for the candle that had gone out sometime last night. Her hands found melted wax with no wick to speak of. She brought herself to her feet with great effort, feeling her way toward the door. Cracking it open, the blinding morning sun had burst through.

As her eyes adjusted, she felt her way to Marat. She whispered his name in hopes he’d fallen asleep; she didn’t want to disturb him too suddenly after the night's events. There was no response.

He was slumped forward against the chains and did not respond when she tapped his shoulder. She felt how damp his shirt had been with sweat and something else. Her fingers were slippery with it when she withdrew her hand.

Blood, everywhere.

He’d thrashed against the wooden post, fighting his restraints. His back had gotten grated by its rough and uneven cut, and crimson ran to the floor.

“Gods…” She tugged at the ropes that allowed her to slack the chains. As they fell, Marat collapsed forward and onto his side. “Please, no…”

There were so many open wounds. Pulling a blanket off the bed, she tucked it under his side and rolled him on his stomach.

The light slid right across his face. He was pale, even more so than before. His closed eyes were visibly rimmed with fine red veins. Thick eyelashes were stuck together in places with dirt and something else - probably sweat. The bags under his eyes were dark and discolored.

They had not yet been this way half a year ago. The age ran along his forehead, at the corners of his eyes, and from his nose to the corners of his mouth, but it was hard to tell that with his beard. She looked at him closer than ever before, trying to gauge the extent of the damage the last year had done.

He was so peaceful then. The images of the night before contrasted with the room's quiet now. Were he alive or not, it would be better than it’d been that night.

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She thought she saw him breathing and decided that perhaps she should leave him there to rest.

Val grabbed the pillow from the bed and stuffed it under his head. She covered him with a blanket and gathered her things - quietly leaving the barn.

As she closed the door gingerly behind her and turned to go, she was faced with Amir only a few feet away. He was looking at her, the first time he had looked at her since…

His eyes were not kind.

He was dressed in work clothes, surely on his way to the fields. His lips were thin and tensed. His brows furrowed. His eyes did not drop from hers but to scan her disheveled hair.

She saw the words brew inside him before they ever came out.

“That’s it then.” He said, his words tense and resolute. “I’d been just days since I told you I loved you. Days. Valeria.”

“It isn’t…”

“It ‘isn’t like that,’ is it??” His voice was raised. “How many times are you going to say those words? How many times are you going to deny it and still sleep in his bed? Huh?!”

“You don’t understand…” she said quietly. This must have been the way that Marat looked at her. Naive, only seeing the surface. Ignorant to the turbulent currents below.

“I understand enough.” He stared her down, and as intended, it had hurt. It hurt deep. But, maybe this was indeed for the best. Not because of what the farmer’s wife had said. Not because she was broken. But he would never understand.

Val told them that Marat was ill. The farmer’s wife had gone to pack him a basket of food and a carafe of milk, but Val said it was best that she take it. No one questioned her.

When she walked in, he’d been awake and on the cot, wrapped in blankets. His skin was damp, and he turned away from the light when she opened the door. She set the basket down and sat on the edge of the bed.

“Thank you,” he said, and she heard in his voice that he was shivering. She placed a hand over the blankets; his entire body was trembling beneath.

“I don’t know what to say.” She admitted.

“You don’t have to say anything. You’ve done enough. And I am grateful.”

“You… don’t seem well.” It was a silly thing of her to say. But she did not know if she would find him dead or alive. She did not know what came next.

“I hear her still. But, far away. My body craves her.” He confessed, an arm extending from the blanket for a moment to wipe the drops of sweat out of his eyes. “But I do not feel that it is not my own.”

“I hope, ” she said, “that when this is done, you can tell me more about what happened. About what she is.”

“I owe you that.”

They sat a minute before he spoke again.

“Valeria?”

“Yes?”

“I think... My brother is dead.”

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