The Squire
The morning air crept in through the loose shutters, crisp and cool, carrying the faint scent of damp leaves and wood smoke. Tomas eased the latch back into place and pressed his hand against the wood, trying to warm it. He wasn’t used to mornings this chilly, though the villagers had warned him the valley turned sharp as autumn deepened.
His lord hadn’t stirred.
He lay curled on his right side, facing the wall, the blanket pulled tight around his shoulders. His left hand was tucked close to his chest, his body hunched inward, like a wounded animal guarding itself. Tomas couldn’t tell if he was truly asleep or just too worn down to move.
The dragons kept their word. They lifted the curse and worked patiently to mend his lord’s wounds. But the ritual had left him hollow, as if whatever tethered him to the world had slipped loose, leaving him drifting, too weary to find his way back.
He eased across the room, setting the kettle to warm on the fire, careful not to let the iron clang against the stone. His lord hadn’t taken much the day before—a little broth, half a cup of water, and then nothing. He’d stayed huddled beneath the covers, shivering even with the fire going.
Tomas sat on the stool by the hearth, whittling at a scrap of wood with his small knife. The carving turned out crooked, but it didn’t matter. He wasn’t making anything this time—just keeping his hands busy, the sound of the blade against wood cutting through the silence.
After a while, he heard movement. A shift of the blanket. The low, muffled sound of a breath drawn too deep and held. Tomas glanced over without lifting his head, speaking low, without urgency.
“My lord?”
No answer. Just the faint rustle of cloth as he tucked his head further into the pillow.
Tomas didn’t push. Some mornings were like this—slow, uncertain. There were days when his lord woke suddenly, gasping for breath, eyes wide with confusion—and worse days when he didn’t seem to know where he was, or who Tomas was.
But this wasn’t one of those mornings. This was one of the quiet ones.
Tomas kept working at the carving, tracing rough lines without much purpose. Sometimes it helped just to talk, even if it was just to the fire.
“Bit of a chill last night,” he said, keeping his tone conversational. “Windows were fogged up this morning. Should clear up by midday.”
He didn’t look back at the bed. His lord didn’t like being watched, especially on mornings when the world still seemed too heavy to carry.
“The old man with the dogs—Wren, I think—he said the river’s running slow. Took one of the pups down there and nearly got stuck in the mud. He’s the one with the spotted mutt, remember?”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a faint movement—just a small shift, the blanket slipping from his shoulder. Tomas set the wood and knife aside, moving closer as he reached to pull the blanket back up, careful not to touch him directly.
It hurt to see his lord like this—so easily startled, as if the slightest movement might splinter him apart. Sometimes the healers had to coax him for a while before he’d let them tend to his injuries. But if this fragile balance was what his lord needed, Tomas would hold to it.
While tucking the blanket in, he said softly, “I’ll have some porridge ready soon. Could mix in a little honey. Might make it go down easier.”
A faint nod followed. Easy to miss, but he caught it—and took it for agreement.
Encouraged, he kept talking. “The harvest festival’s coming up soon. That weaver with the long braid—she’s been dyeing yarn all week. Said the sheep near the hills are looking scruffy with their coats coming in. Might be a good year for wool.”
His lord stayed silent, but his breathing had settled, less ragged now.
Tomas took the steaming kettle from the fire, pouring hot water over the oats he’d soaked the night before. The smell of honey and grain filled the room, adding a warmth the fire couldn’t quite reach. He stirred with care, letting it sit and thicken.
Then he reached into his pocket and drew out the vial—a mild draught, meant to ease the mind when it wouldn’t settle. He hadn’t used it in a few days. But this morning, he thought better of it. Just a few drops, stirred in gently.
When the bowl was ready, he carried it over and set it on the small table beside the bed. He didn’t expect him to reach for it—not today.
Instead, he set the spoon down and moved to the cot. “My lord,” he said gently as he leaned over to catch his gaze. “We need to sit up a bit.”
He didn’t move. His eyes were half-open, staring at the far wall without focus. Tomas hesitated, then placed a light hand on his shoulder.
“Just a little, my lord,” he coaxed. “I’ll help.”
Tomas slipped his arm behind his lord’s back and lifted, avoiding any jolt to the bandaged leg. His head tipped forward as he rose, as if too weary to hold it up.
“Easy, my lord,” Tomas murmured, keeping a hand on his shoulder as he propped the pillows, guiding him to rest against them. His lord’s breathing remained shallow, his left hand clutching the blanket. His right side curled inward, almost protectively, as he settled into the upright position.
Tomas paused, giving his lord time to adjust. Then he picked up the bowl and sat down on the edge of the bed. “Just a little porridge,” he said, keeping his voice calm. “I’ll hold it steady.”
He didn’t respond, but he didn’t resist either. After a moment, Tomas scooped a small spoonful and held it close.
“It’s warm,” Tomas said, almost like a promise. “Take your time.”
His lord opened his mouth, just enough for the first bite. It wasn’t much—just a mouthful—but Tomas felt a flicker of relief that he didn’t turn away.
“There we go.” Tomas scooped another spoonful, waiting for the slight nod before offering it.
By the third bite, his hand had loosened its grip on the blanket. Tomas noticed how his lord’s breathing seemed lighter, less strained. He didn’t push, only waited—letting him decide when to take the next bite.
When they reached halfway, his head tilted back, his eyes drifting shut. Tomas lowered the spoon and set the bowl aside. “That’s enough for now,” he said, no louder than before.
His lord remained quiet, but his fingers twitched against the fabric, like he wanted to pull the blanket closer. Tomas took it as a good sign, keeping a steady hand on his shoulder while reaching back to adjust the pillows, making sure they were set comfortably.
Then he guided him down, gentle and slow, making sure the empty sleeve didn’t catch or twist as he settled. His lord curled to the right, drawing the blanket close as if to shield himself, and Tomas eased it into place without startling him.
Tomas lingered at the bedside, then said quietly, “You did good, my lord.”
He didn’t expect a response—just the steady, even breaths as his lord remained still. He turned away and returned to his place by the hearth, picking up the scrap of wood and small knife as he sat.
The fire’s glow softened the edges of the shadows. After a while, he glanced back toward the bed—noticed how sleep had softened the lines of his lord’s face, just a little—and hoped that when he woke again, he might manage a few more bites.
He didn’t know how long it would take. But Tomas could wait—he had stood by his side when he was dying, and he would do the same to see him living again.
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The Keeper