The force of my entry knocks the door off it's rusty hinges. “Wyatt?” The small pause before he answers is almost more than I can handle. Dark thoughts rush through my head in the moments between my frantic call and his response.

“I'm fine.” He cries from further in the house, but his voice is trembling.

Rounding the corner into our bedroom I find him sprawled on the floor, his legs twisted underneath him. “Gods above, are you alright?” It's all I can do to keep from shouting.

“No. Yes,” He groans “I don't know.”

I reach down to help him up “Let me--

“No!” He shouts at me. “No.” More calmly this time. “I'm sorry. Just let me lay here a minute.”

Awkward seconds pass as we both stare at each other, trying to figure out who's will is stronger. His legs are bent in a way that must be painful, but I'm sure he knows what's best. Finally Ranger catches up to us and storms through the doorway, huffing and whining, somehow at the same time.

“Easy, friend.” I manage to get my arms wrapped around his chest before he can step on Wyatt. No doubt Ranger's attempts to help would involve enthusiastically licking and stepping all over my husband, which I'm sure he doesn't need at this exact second.

The initial stress of the situation eases, so I sit down next to the straw mat that serves as our bed and take in the situation. I lost count of how many times I've seen him wince in pain. I've seen his leg give out on him in the past, forcing him to grab onto whatever nearby object he could steady himself with. He stopped coming with me to fish nearly a year ago. But I've never seen this.

“Your back?” I ask, even though I know it is. How could it be anything else?

He only sighs in response, and so we sit in silence.

He told me when they sent him home that nothing had even happened, that he just fell one day while readying his armor, and he simply never recovered. They gave him time to rest, and the doctors tried all manner of concoctions, but the ones that took away the pain took away his mind as well. Some made him sleep near days on end, and others did nothing at all. That was five years ago, before we realized he'd never sit a horse again, or be able to run, or... Gods know what else.

They had granted us land, not much of it, in compensation for his injury. His commander made the case that a fall from his horse during battle just a few weeks prior to the incident had been what caused the injury. It was his incredible strength, they said, that had kept him from collapsing until then.

Whoever his commander plead the case to, they must have known he was telling the truth. The Long War may have made my husband the last son of a last son, but his family has been well know for unusual strength for as long as anyone alive can remember. Giant people, well fed, broad in shoulder and narrow in hip. The family has done nothing else but serve as guardsmen and warriors for generations.

I can tell that he's thinking about the same thing I am, but I decide not to press him. “What can I do to help?” I ask gently, hoping that he will let me.

“There's nothing.” He says, clearly dejected. “I just need to wait for it to stop hurting long enough to roll over, then I'll drag myself to bed and wait.”

The way he says “wait” makes me unsure if he means waiting to get better, or something else. Has this happened before when I was away? Living together, you get in a routine, and the little things you remember to hide about yourself at first soon become forgotten. Chewing your fingernails, and things like that.

When he came home, I would hear him say something from another room, and at first I thought he was talking to me, so I would ask him to repeat himself. The answer was always “Nothing,” or “Never mind,” and eventually I realized he was talking to himself.

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As time went on, he would forget to hide it when he was close enough for me to hear. Little phrases like “Should have been there,” and “Killed them all,” soon became a daily occurrence. It made me worried, and I tried to figure out if there was anything I could do, but after a few hundred times of hearing the same answer, I just stopped asking. Anymore, I barely notice it.

Ranger squirms in my arms and nuzzles my hand, snapping me back to the moment, and bringing my husband out of whatever dark place he was exploring in his mind.

“You should take him with you today.” He says, although I haven't told him my plans yet.

Daily life doesn't change much around here. He knows the rabbits aren't ready yet, and we haven't got enough food to feel secure. The only other option is for me to leave for the day, head towards town, and hope there's fish in the river.

“I will.” I let Ranger go and he gently approaches Wyatt, licking him. “With any luck the fish will be running.” They're empty words trying to bridge the silence that seems to be creeping in again. “When I'm in town I can stop by Sir Atlee's home, see how he's doing. Maybe he can stop by to visit for the evening.”

More silence, and my husbands face ever so slightly falls. I shouldn't have suggested it. Sir Atlee came home a few years after my husband did. Of course he wasn't a “sir” when he left, but whatever glory my husband regrets missing, Sir Atlee apparently found it. Rich would be an over statement, but he was well off, with a young family, living in a comfortable home, and with a name that most people in the region knew. To my husband though, he was just a long time friend from childhood.

Wyatt finally starts to sit up, slowly, painfully, until he's leaning against the wall. “Another time. Next week perhaps.” He says, though I've heard that answer a number of times before.

“Wonderful.” I'm sure my feigned enthusiasm is painfully obvious.

A few minutes later my husband has shifted himself across the floor and into bed. He convinces me that he will be alright without me, and sends me on my way with a kiss. I would stay if I could, but leaving means hope for the future. Staying doesn't.

Ranger, blissfully unaware of such concerns, waddles along next to me as we make our way to town, occasionally stopping to bark at leaves as they skitter across the path. Town is only a few miles away, and before I know it I'm walking through the copse of trees bordering the river that flows through town. A crow quarks from somewhere above and takes flight. I can hear the rough beating of it's wings. The air cools as I approach the river, until I can just barely hear it's soft lullaby playing along the rocks. Another crow flits through the trees, cawing.

I can smell the cooking fires from town. It's a good sign. Why light fires if there's no fish. Today will be fine, I tell myself as I round the final curve in the road. The fish will be there, I can fill my baskets, and be home before dark.

But darkness is all I see as the river comes into view. Hundreds, maybe thousands of crows swarm along the bank, cawing and squabbling with each other. In their mouths, ripped to pieces, are all the fish I need to survive the winter. The smell hits me as I get farther away from the soft scent of the pine trees. Dead fish, rotting in the sun. So many that I don't have the numbers to count them with. Their speckled bodies litter the shore in a thick layer. In the water, I can see river lions making circles with their mouths hanging open, scooping up the dying fish coming from upstream.

Above the commotion there's a slight fog. A haze, really. Smoke. Not smoke from the fires like I thought, but a thin cloud of smoke dimming the sun, coming from somewhere in the forest beyond. The site is more than I can take, and I fall to my knees. Ranger comes to a stop and sits down next to me. “I don't know what to do.” I confide in him, but he just wags his tail as I lean into him. I can feel tears welling up in my eyes as I bury my face into his fur.