Decreash imperial Palace
All the time she tended to Ragaleon on his sickbed, Micah's eyes were opened to new things. Things that were always there, but she never truly saw.
On account of her supposed loyalty to the king, she decided to take on the task of seeing to his recovery.
During this time she became devastated for many reasons, one being that in the first few days, Ragaleon showed no sign of rejuvenating.
Her herbal teas were potent enough, yet they yielded little or no results, making her efforts futile.
The queen regent, Selena, made the task even more arduous. Always flitting around, like a bird that was chased from its nest. Never really offering a helping hand, only watching and passing criticism.
And so…the countdown began.
Day 1 was the toughest; Micah had to fight to revive Ragaleon from the ravine of the herbs the grandmaester had ministered to him.
With that day came chaos, and there was no orderliness. Counting down to day two, where she had to stand all day in the kitchen and watch the maids prepare varieties of herbal tea according to her instructions.
The herbal teas were bottled up and stocked in a cupboard, which was padlocked, and the keys were handed over to Micah for safekeeping.
"I have never seen anyone so invested in serving the crown."
The maids whispered among themselves, seeing how distraught Micah became; it was almost like an obsession.
Daily, Micah would sit on a chair beside his bed, reading a book; that was the only thing that kept her mind preoccupied.
Selena came most days to check on her son. She was satisfied with Micah's dedication more than anything; she was grateful but didn't spell it out. She simply watched how her daughter-in-law took care of her son.
Each day it was a relief to step into Ragaleon's chamber and see that he was still breathing. There were times she would volunteer to stay with him for the night, just so Micah could get some rest.
But Micah strongly rebuked her.
Although her eyes looked sleepy, with dark circles and eye bags framing her once delightful hazel-brown doe eyes, Micah pushed on relentlessly.
So Selena left him in her care, resorting to handling the altercations that seemed to have sprung up in court ever since Racheal declared her unborn child the next successor to the throne.
Even so, Jazell did come by…once. That day Micah was amazed to see the queen of tactics step foot into the chamber.
Jazell didn't say a word to her, only gazed upon Ragaleon for a brief moment, then took her leave.
....
The candle on a table beside Micah surrendered to time.
What once stood tall and proud now bent in quiet defeat, its spine softened by slow, relentless heat.
Wax pooled at the base of the candle, cascading down the iron holder before being dried up by the wind coming from the open windows.
Each drip marked the passage of minutes Micah did not acknowledge.
Her gaze remained engrossed in the open page before her. Her long fingers holding the book with reverent steadiness.
The candlelight gilded the sharp bridge of her nose, traced the curve of her cheekbone, and rested beneath her eyes, eyes that did not wander away from the book she was so absorbed in.
She turned a page, a smooth glide. Her lips remained immobile; the only thing that moved was her pair of hazel-brown doe eyes under those thick, long lashes.
As time passed, the candle shrank further, the flame lowering, the wick curling inward like a tired spine.
Still she read.
Her lips did not move, yet her eyes devoured each line.
She was seated on an armchair. Her spine was barely touching the chair. One arm draped along the rugged armrest, the other supporting the open book.
The posture was effortless, not slouched, not rigid. Her black wavy hair spilled freely; thick strands framed her face, cascading over her shoulders.
The green gown she was wearing was gathered at her feet, pooling down to the cold floor.
The fabric layered over itself, swallowing the base of the chair and spilling outwards, the silver-threaded embroidery traced along the hem, faintly catching what little light remained of the dying candle.
Soon the words on the pages became vague.
At first, she resisted it.
But her eyes dimmed even more, moving slower across the page, tracing the same sentence twice… then a third time.
The candle beside her guttered softly, wax slipping down its side.
Her body reclined further into the armchair, her black wavy hair slipping forward, shadowing her face. A few strands clung to her cheek as her chin dipped lower…and lower.
The book tilted.
Her fingers, once firm around it, loosened; her breathing slowed.
Her lashes fluttered once.
Twice.
Then still.
In the dim chamber, beneath the fading candlelight, Micah drifted to sleep, the unread words resting silently against her lips.
For the first time in days, her eyelids surrendered, her weak body melting away to the embrace of slumber.
The cold breeze drifted through the open window, twirling with the strands of her hair, howling through the ceilings.
Micah's chest rose and fell steadily as she allowed her senses to give way to the exhaustion she had been feeling.
But then she heard a slight noise.
Her eyes fluttered open. Her adrenaline shot up as she leaned away from the chair.
She blinked her eyes a few times to adjust to the darkness in the chamber. She had become more than a dutiful wife; she was now also a guard watching over Ragaleon like a lioness protecting her cub.
She looked around, eyes flickering to the window, then the door, which was closed, then around the room, behind the curtains, and even at the ceiling.
Only to hear the sound for the second time and realize it was a voice.
Ragaleon, who has not moved in days.
Not a word.
Not a breath strong enough to reassure the court.
Not a sign, until now.
His brow tightened. A shallow breath broke through the serenity.
A faint shift disturbed the stillness.
His fingers twitched against the linen. Slow. Uncertain. As if he was remembering how to belong to himself again.
Deep within the stillness of his unmoving body, he had not been entirely gone.
He had been fighting.
Not with sword or shield, not with the thunder of hooves beneath him, but in a place without ground, without sky. A place where time did not move forward. It only circled.
The images came broken.
A sky that was bright, the voice of his men chanting their victory song, and the wind tearing against his face.
He was shrouded in shining armor and mounted upon a black horse, leading his army.
Then… an arrow struck. From nowhere a poisonous arrow hit him, and he grunted before losing his balance and falling from the horse.
The scene replayed again in his mind….
He felt it again and again, not the pain, but the force, the violent interruption of breath, and the jolt as he fell from his horse.
Dust rising. The world tilting sideways, then darkness.
And again, the scene played out in his subconscious mind.
He was riding toward Decreash. The banners ahead flutter. The rhythm of the hooves of his horse is steady. His men flanked around him.
The fall.
Over and over, the scene replayed in merciless repetition, as though his mind refused to move beyond that moment. As though something had been left unfinished there.
He had never feared death.
It had always seemed like an old acquaintance, inevitable. He had seen it on battlefields, in the eyes of enemies and friends alike.
But now death beckoned.
The void wrapped around him, offering him so much more, no responsibility. No crown. No wars. No decisions that carried the fate of thousands, freedom.
Yet every time the darkness finally had the chance to seize him, something disturbed it.
A voice.
Not clear enough to understand, but persistent. It threaded through the darkness.
Tears he couldn't see but felt.
Warmth against his hand, and so he would fight for a moment, and death would lose its hold on him.
Then the cycle would begin again: Decreash, the arrow, the fall.
But this time, this night, his mind now at the edge of the replay, paused; something intruded.
Her face.
Lips moving in words he could not fully hear.
But what was there to return to but pain?
The war was not finished. Enemies still gathered. His body felt broken even in memory.
But then the question resurfaced.
What was it he had to go back to?
Not the throne, not Decreash, not unfinished battles.
And so, the cycle began again!
Hooves against earth.
Wind in his ears.
The road to Decreash stretched ahead in blurred determination.
Then,
The arrow.
This time he felt the poison spread. Not pain, but cold. A creeping, deliberate cold that climbed his veins and slowed everything it touched.
He fell again and again and again.
The sky spun. Voices shouted. Hands lifted him into a carriage. Wheels thundered against stone as haste was made toward the castle.
Inside the carriage, he withered.
Breathe shallowly, vision dimming. The world narrowed to a pin of light.
The cycle tightened.
It would end here. It always ended here.
But just as the darkness leaned close,
A voice broke through.
"Come back. Fight this. You can fight this!"
Micah was already by his side, holding his hand, while he was still lost in his subconscious mind. He was jerking, his breath becoming erratic, but still lost in the gorge of his mind.
On the bed, his body reacted before his mind fully followed.
Sweat gathered along his brow, slipping down the curve of his temple. His eyes twitched violently beneath closed lids, as though chasing something he refused to lose.
His hands clenched into the sheets, knuckles paling.
Micah, who was still beside him, held his hand tightly.
Every blessed day, she had been seated beside him, watching as she had every night, counting breaths, memorizing stillness, fearing the absence of both.
Just for a moment she had decided to sleep, and this happened.
At first, she thought it was a trick of exhaustion. A desperate hope inventing movement where there was none.
But then his chest heaved, once, twice.
His head shifted sharply to the side, as though resisting invisible hands pulling him down. A strained sound caught in his throat. His jaw tightened. Sweat now dampened his hairline.
"He's fighting," she whispered, though no one else was there.
In the depths of his mind, the voice returned.
"Fight!
The poison in the memory tried to root him in place. The fall tried to replay. The carriage tried to close around him.
But he pushed back.
Not with strength of body, but with will.
The abyss finally gave way; it fractured, shattering like a mirror, like images dissipating.
On the bed, his back arched slightly as breath forced its way into his lungs like fire, and then…
His eyes fluttered open.
The world was blurred by sweat and light, but it was no longer darkness.
Micah's mouth fell open, but no sound came. Her heart pounded so violently she felt dizzy. She blinked hard, almost certain that grief had finally begun to twist her senses.
But he was looking at her.
"My…my lord."
Her hand hovered near his face, afraid to touch, afraid not to.
His gaze shifted slightly, focusing on her; it was her voice he had heard, Micah's voice.
And though he looked weak, fragile, and unmistakable in his eyes.
He had chosen to live.
Micah felt her emotions swell.
His smile line, his brows, his lips… She gazed upon his face, and just by looking at him, she remembered how she had felt when she had jumped into the sea.
Unreachable, almost gone to the afterlife.
She didn't struggle; she had just let the water soak her in, swallow her whole, without a fight.
Just when she was in the chasm of possibly never returning, she felt a hand hold her, pulling her out of the water just before she had lost consciousness, only to be revived and find out Ragaleon had saved her.
The memory flashed through her head; she refused to tear her eyes from the man on the bed, who everyone had lost hope in.
Everyone has been waiting, counting on her; she had their hope on her shoulders like a burden, a burden she was tired of carrying around.
She had endured, tending to him day and night, giving it her all, and now her efforts have been crowned.
He woke up on the tenth day.