Chapter 13: Silent Mending
The jasmine scent hung thick and sweet in Luna’s moonlit bedchamber, a cloying counterpoint to the lingering medicinal tang of Agnes’s feverfew paste. Luna’s eyelids felt like lead weights glued shut. She peeled them open, blinking against the soft glow filtering through the silvery drapes. Weakness washed over her, a bone-deep exhaustion that made lifting a finger feel like hauling stone. Her mouth was desert-dry.
"Agnes?" Her voice scraped, a whisper lost in the heavy air.
A blur of black hair and pale skin instantly filled her vision. Agnes perched on the edge of the bed, cool fingers brushing sweat-damp curls from Luna’s forehead. "Right here, you daft, reckless wonder. Two days you've been out. Scared ten years off me." Relief softened Agnes’s usually sharp tone, but worry still pinched the corners of her bright blue eyes. She offered a cup of lukewarm moonpetal tea, guiding the rim to Luna’s cracked lips. "Sip. Slowly."
Luna managed a few swallows, the cool liquid a small miracle. Her gaze drifted past Agnes, scanning the room. The obsidian bottle was gone from the nightstand. The air felt… lighter, somehow. Less charged with impending doom. But the silence pressed in, heavy with absence. "Aiden?" The name felt fragile on her tongue.
Agnes stiffened, her hand tightening slightly on the cup. "Gone. Like I told him to be. Where he belongs – not stressing my patient." She tried for her usual dry sarcasm, but it landed flat. Protective walls slammed back into place.
"He was here?" Luna pushed, ignoring the tremor in her own voice. She remembered flashes. Green eyes wide with panic. The searing cold of the void, then… warmth? A fleeting, impossible warmth? "When I… when it happened."
"He brought you back," Agnes admitted grudgingly, setting the cup down. "Carried you. Panicked like a lost lamb. Then I kicked him out. Permanently." She smoothed the coverlet with unnecessary force. "Your job is to rest. Not dredge up emotionally complicated warlock-knights and the cosmic disasters they drag in."
But Luna wasn’t listening. A fragment of memory surfaced, sharp and clear: those green eyes filled with raw, unguarded terror for her. The feeling lingered, a phantom warmth against the pervasive chill of her exhaustion. "I need to see him, Agnes."
Agnes stared at her. "Luna, no. Absolutely not. You look like you’d blow over in a stiff breeze. Seeing him… it’ll be stress you can’t handle. He’s chaos. You’re recuperation."
"Please." Luna pushed herself up a fraction on the pillows, the small effort stealing her breath. Her amber eyes, though shadowed with fatigue, held a stubborn glint Agnes knew too well. "I saw… something. When I was under. I need to… ask him." It wasn't entirely a lie. She had seen his fear. But mostly, she just needed to see him. To know he was real. That the bottle had worked. That the desperate gamble hadn't just been another step towards oblivion. "I need to know the Void is contained. Securely."
Agnes sighed, a long, weary sound that spoke volumes. She pinched the bridge of her nose. "The Void is bottled and locked in the deepest vault, triple-warded. I handled that. You don't need Blackwood for confirmation." She met Luna’s unwavering gaze. The stubbornness was back, flickering even through the profound weakness. Agnes recognized the look – the same one Luna got when she was about to attempt a spell far beyond her current capacity. "Damn it, Luna."
"Please." The word was barely a breath this time, laced with exhaustion and a vulnerability that cracked Agnes’s resolve. Luna rarely pleaded.
Agnes stood abruptly, pacing a tight circle on the thick rug. "Fine. Fine. But he sits in the corner. He speaks only when spoken to. He doesn’t make you laugh, cry, or exert yourself magically. If your pulse spikes even once, he’s out. And I’m staying right here." Her blue eyes narrowed. "And if he causes one single setback in your recovery, I’m stuffing that bottle of void energy down his throat myself. Understood?"
A ghost of a smile touched Luna’s lips. "Understood."
---
The air inside Snare’s Pub was thick with pipe smoke, spilled ale, and the low thrum of after-hunt bragging. Agnes wrinkled her nose, scanning the dim interior. She spotted him instantly. Not at a table boasting, but slumped alone at the very end of the scarred wooden bar. Aiden Blackwood. His broad shoulders seemed to carry the weight of the sagging ceiling. A half-empty tumbler of something amber sat ignored beside his folded arms, his forehead resting on them. His red hair was dull, tousled as if he’d run his hands through it a thousand times. The faint glow of his runes pulsed sluggishly under the stained leather of his jacket sleeves, muted echoes of his turmoil.
Agnes approached, her footsteps silent on the sawdust floor. She rapped sharply on the bar next to his elbow.
He jolted upright, blinking blearily. Green eyes, bloodshot and shadowed, focused on her. Recognition dawned, followed by a flash of panic. "Agnes? Is she—?"
"She's awake," Agnes cut in, her voice clipped. "Fever broke. Weak as a newborn griffin, but lucid." She saw the desperate hope flare in his eyes and ruthlessly tamped it down. "She's asking for you."
Aiden froze. The hope warred with confusion and a heavy dose of guilt. "She… is?"
"Against my better judgment and with a list of conditions longer than the Unseelie Accords," Agnes stated flatly. She leaned closer, lowering her voice to a razor's edge. "Listen carefully, Blackwood. She is fragile. Magically scorched. One wrong word, one stressful thought, could set her back days. You walk in there like you’re marching to a tavern brawl, breathing heavy and radiating ‘complicated feelings’, and I will end you. Slowly. With library paste."
Aiden swallowed hard, the lines of tension around his eyes deepening. "What does she need?"
"Right now? Someone to sit quietly. Fetch water. Make sure she doesn't try to get up and catalogue the bloody curtains." Agnes paused, watching him. The usual arrogant confidence was stripped bare, replaced by a raw, anxious exhaustion that mirrored Luna’s. It was unnerving. "She needs watching. Constant. I have a library falling apart after that Lexicon tantrum, wards to reinforce, and patrons who think ‘temporarily closed’ is merely a suggestion. I can't be glued to her bedside every second."
Understanding dawned on Aiden’s face. He straightened, pushing the untouched drink away. "You want me to… watch her?"
"Temporarily," Agnes stressed, the word laden with threat. "As a favour. To her. Not you. You sit. You are quiet. You are unobtrusive. You do exactly what I say regarding her care. And the second she shows any sign of distress, you leave. Immediately. No arguments. No lingering looks."
"Done." The word came out instantly, hoarse but firm. He was already standing, shoving a few coins towards the uninterested bartender. "Whatever you need, Agnes. Just… lead the way."
---
The walk back to the Arcane Library was silent. Aiden kept a step behind Agnes, his gaze fixed ahead, the haunted look replaced by a focused intensity. The towering, damaged library came into view, its usual hum of magic replaced by an unsettling quiet. A section of the roof near the entrance was visibly cracked, scorch marks licking up the ancient stonework where the Lexicon had breached the wards. Piles of rubble and displaced books were still scattered near the main hall.
Agnes led him not to the main doors, but around the side to a smaller, less imposing entrance. "Servants' stairs," she muttered, pushing open a heavy, unadorned door. "Less… public."
They ascended in silence, the air growing cooler, smelling of dust and old paper instead of ale. Agnes stopped outside Luna's bedchamber door. She turned to Aiden, her blue eyes like chips of ice. "Remember the rules. Quiet. Calm. Non-stressful. Break them, and you'll wish the Void had gotten you." She opened the door without knocking.
Luna lay propped against the pillows, looking impossibly small. Her gold-brown skin had lost its feverish flush but was still pale. Dark circles bruised the skin beneath her closed eyes. But her eyes opened as they entered, finding Aiden instantly. That flicker of awareness was back, sharper now.
Agnes moved efficiently to the bedside. "Brought the watchdog," she announced dryly, adjusting a pillow. "Try not to bore him to death with the intricacies of thread counts." She shot Aiden a final warning glance. "I'll be in the West Wing, trying to persuade the History section it doesn't need to relocate to the garden. Tea's there. Water’s there. Don't make me regret this." She swept out, closing the door with a decisive click.
Silence descended, thick and awkward. The only sounds were Luna’s slightly laboured breathing and the distant, muffled thump-thump-thump of Agnes presumably shifting fallen bookshelves.
Aiden stood rigidly just inside the door, suddenly feeling colossal and clumsy in the serene space. He cleared his throat. "You… look better." It sounded pathetically inadequate.
A faint, wry smile touched Luna’s lips. "Liar." Her voice was still weak, but the familiar dry edge was there, buried deep. "Agnes tell you to stand sentry by the door? You can… sit." She gestured weakly towards a low, cushioned chair Agnes had clearly dragged close to the bed.
He moved slowly, lowering himself into the chair like it might shatter. The scent of jasmine and herbs intensified. Up close, the network of fine veins at her temples, the stark vulnerability, hit him harder. The runes on his arms prickled faintly, reacting to his roiling emotions. "The bottle," he started, needing confirmation. "It's secure? The vault?"
Luna nodded slightly. "Agnes… triple-warded it. Said it felt… hungry." Her gaze drifted to his arms, where the faint lines glowed softly under his rolled-up sleeves. A visible shudder ran through her. "It was… cold. So deep. Like falling… forever." She closed her eyes for a moment, gathering strength. When she opened them, they held a question he wasn't ready for. "Why didn't you tell me? About the Covenant leash? Before?"
Aiden looked away, his knuckles whitening where he gripped the armrest. How to explain five years of enforced silence, of dangerous missions, of the slow, insidious corruption the Void brought? The fear of dragging her into it? The pride that stopped him from admitting he was shackled? "It… wasn't safe. For you to know. For anyone." He met her gaze again, the guilt raw. "I never meant… Luna, I never meant for you to touch it. To risk yourself like that."
"It was devouring you," she stated simply. A fact. "Piece by piece. I could feel it… pulling." Her hand twitched on the coverlet, as if instinctively wanting to reach out and confirm the absence of that chill. She didn't, her strength failing. Her eyes drifted shut again, exhaustion winning. "Stupid… knight," she murmured, the words slurring slightly. "Always… needing… rescue."
Aiden leaned forward slightly, the chair creaking. He saw the faint tremor in her fingers resting on the blanket. Against Agnes's explicit orders, against his own better judgment, he slowly, carefully, extended his hand. Not touching her. Just hovering, palm up, a silent offer near her own. Her fingers twitched again. Then, with infinite slowness, the very tip of her index finger brushed against the warm skin of his palm, just below the faintly glowing runes.
A spark, not magic, but pure, electric connection. Five years of silence, anger, and longing collapsed into that single point of contact. Her skin was cool, fragile. He held utterly still, barely breathing.
Her finger curled weakly, resting lightly against his palm. Her breathing deepened, evening out. She didn't open her eyes. "Don't… hover," she breathed. "Sit… properly. You're… looming."
Aiden slowly, carefully, closed his fingers, not gripping, just loosely cradling her fingertip in his palm. The warmth of her touch seeped into him, chasing away a chill he hadn’t realized was still there. He sank back properly into the chair, his thumb moving in the smallest, unconscious circle on the back of her finger. "Not hovering," he murmured, his voice rough. "Just… sitting guard."
Luna didn't answer. She was asleep, a faint, almost peaceful expression smoothing her brow, her finger still resting trustingly in his hand. Aiden watched her, the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest beneath the coverlet, the freckles dusted across her nose. The fragile connection of their hands felt like the only anchor in a world that had tilted violently. Agnes’s warnings echoed, but the frantic edge of his guilt had dulled, replaced by a fierce, protective stillness.
Hours passed. Agnes slipped in once, checked Luna’s pulse, shot Aiden a piercing look, noted their joined hands without comment, and slipped out again. The distant thump-thump of her work continued. As Luna slept, Aiden watched the light shift in the room, the moonlit hues deepening. He noticed the fine tremor had left her hand. Carefully, reluctantly, he withdrew his own, tucking it back at his side, the ghost of her touch lingering.
When he was certain she was deeply asleep, he stood, stretching stiff muscles. He couldn't just sit. He needed to do something. He slipped silently from the room, closing the door without a sound. The muffled thumping from the West Wing was louder in the corridor. He followed the sound.
He found Agnes in the devastated History section. Shelves lay toppled like fallen dominos. Ancient tomes were scattered, some singed, others spilling parchment across the cracked marble floor. Agnes, sleeves rolled up, hair escaping its usual neat knot, was trying to lever a heavy oak shelving unit upright using a long iron pry bar. Straining muscles stood out in her neck. It wasn't budging.
Without a word, Aiden stepped forward. He braced himself, gripped the top of the shelf, and pushed. Agnes shot him a startled look, then adjusted her grip. Wood groaned. Stone scraped. With a final heave, the shelf slammed upright, scattering dust motes in the dim light.
Agnes leaned against it, breathing hard, wiping sweat from her brow with her forearm. She looked at Aiden, then at the chaos surrounding them. She didn't thank him. Just nodded towards a pile of leather-bound volumes half-buried under debris. "Start there. Sort salvageable from kindling. Carefully. Some of those grimoires bite back."