Alaric held Loma's hand while she lay unconscious in her bed.
The tie that normally bound his hair had slipped out, and the brown strands hung disheveled against his jaw. His skin was hot, kissed by a fever that had grown from overextending himself.
His forehead rested on the edge of the mattress, where it had fallen of its own accord after the last time he'd given Loma an infusion of his spirit. He could still spare a few precious drops more, he just needed a moment to gather it.
Alaric turned his face so he could look at the woman who'd been the center of his world from the moment he first saw her. The lamp on her bedside table painted her with the same gold that melted in her eyes whenever they loved each other right here in this bed, but now her eyes were closed. He'd left the curtains open so she could see the moon dancing over the top of her favorite hawthorn tree just the way she liked it, if only she would open them again.
But she wouldn't.
