Morgwyn of High Crags stared out the window at the moon that was two days past full. She counted back to the new moon, when she had arrived, and wondered how anyone could survive a fever for that long. True, he had not entirely been fevered for the past fortnight. The day before the full moon he had been actually lucid enough to take some food and walk about the compound. But since she had arrived, she had been the one in command.
To be truly fair, this was not entirely a bad thing. In the score of years since she had taken command of a mercenary company she had become a find commanding officer. She knew what needed to be done, she knew how to find out who was best suited to do it, she knew when to do it herself and when to let well enough alone. The command staff and the soldiers were pleasantly surprised. But she was taking over for a commander who had been ten years at his post. That was something she would not have been comfortable with at any point in her life. Much less given that the man who was ill, the man whose command she had relieved, was her husband.
Her husband both in name and in fact, though the marriage had taken place over a sennight and the consummation had been just public enough that no one could counter it. After the wedding had taken place he had been returned to his exile on the other side of the country, literally. It still made her doubly obligated to buttress the man’s forces when her king had asked, both by the ties of soldiers under the same rule and by the ties of a wife to her husband. She was most definitely not comfortable with the fact, and she hoped that when either his fever broke or… well. She hoped that she would be able to place someone else in command and go home. For now, though, she stared at the moon.
"Aisling…?" She sighed. He had been rambling when the fever reached its highest point. This, however, was not a name familiar to her. "Aisling? Where are you?" The man cast around on the bed, as though searching. "Aisling… the nurse says you are dead, and the child with you… but no, that can’t be true."
Morgwyn turned slowly. Brandt had been married once, she knew that much about his past. Aisling... had she been his wife? "Brandt…"
"Aisling?" She sighed. He was going to fall out of bed if he kept that up. "Aisling, where are you? There’s so much blood."
Morgwyn walked quietly over to the bed, gently pushing the man back down. "Shhh. Brandt, it’s all right. There’s no blood. It’s all right."
He looked up at her and she knew he wasn’t seeing her, but ghosts. "Aisling... my love." He sounded so relieved, so happy by such a little thing as her presence. "There you are."
Morwgyn allowed her hands to be taken and clutched as though she were the last living soldier on a battlefield of corpses. All of the bedding, she noticed, was soaked in sweat. "Here I am," she said more shakily than she had intended. Freeing one hand, she reached out and tugged the bellpull that hung by the bed.
"The baby? Little Fiona? How is she?" He was still tossing and turning a little, but he’d largely quieted down.
"She’s fine. She’s with the wet-nurse and the midwife." She held up her free hand to forestall the servant’s entrance, and said in a whisper that she knew would carry. "Bring clean linens and a bowl with some cool water, please. And a cloth."
Brandt mumbled a little while longer, but she didn’t understand any of it. His anxiety quieted, he seemed now to be lapsing back into sleep. Whether or not he would wake up yet remained to be seen. The bed linens came, and she enlisted the help of the servants to relocate the sick man to a chair while she changed the bed. She also changed the dressings on his leg and bathed the wound that had reduced him to the fever. Ironically enough, the wound itself seemed to be recovering as the fever continued. She sighed, and tucked the man back into bed.
"You know," she said conversationally even though she knew she wouldn’t get an answer. "You are the most stubborn man I have ever met. Any other soldier would have given it up for a bad job and died by now. Yet here we are, a fortnight after you took fever, and you’re still alive. And as long as you remain so I have to oversee your recovery, dubious as it may be, and your command."
Morgwyn sighed, soaking the cloth in the bowl of cold water and gently bathing the man’s face and neck. "And, damn you and your settled ways, I find myself actually loath to leave. It’s been a long time since I’ve commanded anything more than my home guard. And …" she paused, wondering whether or not to say what she was thinking. Well, he was sleeping, he wouldn’t hear in any case. "I remember what being under your command was like. I find I no longer feel the blinding, irrational hatred of you that I felt when I was … feh. Ten years younger or more."
She looked out the window and spoke to the moon. It was less uncomfortable than speaking to the sleeping man, whether or not he could hear her. "I’m tired, Brandt. I’m tired of fighting. I never thought I would be, but I am. I’m tired of hating, of fighting, of carrying grudges till the weight of them topples me over. And between what I have become and what you have become, I find I can no longer feel anything for you but a grudging respect and …" she stopped it there.
The moon had moved an entire fingerlength and was nearly out of the frame of the window when Brandt began to shake and shiver in his bed. Morgwyn was standing by the window again, and she turned abruptly at the sound. "Oh hell…" she said softly. She’d seen this before. It was usually immediately after these wracking spasms that the soldier died, or lived.
The man writhed, his face twisted and contorted and pale as a nightmare. The woman stayed far enough away that she wouldn’t get hit by his flailing, but close enough that she could prevent disaster if it looked like it was going to occur. She could almost see the sweat pouring off of him. His eyes burned hectic blue, seeing nothing. "Damn you, Brandt," she said softly. "If you die I will summon demons from the nether planes to haunt you for the rest of your existence." For a moment she even believed she could.
It was finally over when the moon had passed beyond the frame of the window. He lay so still in the bed that she actually had to lean over him to see whether or not she was alive… but he didn’t radiate the heat that he had before. She smiled slightly, for the first time in several days, as she reached again for the bowl of water.
"Well," she said softly as she wiped the grime and sweat off his face yet again. "It looks like you decided to live after all." The relief in her voice surprised even her, and she remained silent for the rest of her vigil that night.

-

-

Morgwyn’s custom was, at dawn, to ascend to the parapet and watch the sunrise with the morning guard. This time, though, she was surprised to find no guard waiting there. She swore, turning to go back down. "I’m going to flay whoever stayed too late at the inn last night."
She nearly ran full tilt into the tightly-wrapped man who had limped out behind her. "You’ll have to flay me first, for it was I who gave the order for the sentry to stand down." Brandt smiled weakly, still pale and sunken-eyed. "I thought that two old warhorses could stand watch well enough alone."
She snorted as she turned back to watch the sunrise. "One old warhorse. You should be in bed."
He chuckled weakly as he stepped up beside her. "So said the healer. I slipped out when he wasn’t looking." Morgwyn rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t help but chuckle as well. She remembered doing similar, a long time ago, when it had been more necessary.
The sun was beginning to rise. Morgwyn squinted against it, thinking. Finally she decided she was too old to be coy. "Who was Aisling?"
She caught a glimpse of Brandt stiffening slightly out of the corner of her eye before he sighed, slumping over as though tired. "My wife. Long ago."
"And she died in childbirth." He nodded. Morgwyn wondered what that must have been like, and then abruptly decided not to. She’d had enough of pain in her life without inviting anyone else’s.
And then again… "I am sorry," she said slowly, knowing the words had to be inadequate. "It must have been terrible, for you to still carry it after…" all these years, she thought, but she just let it trail off. She didn’t want him to think she was attempting to set a time proscription on grieving.
Brandt made no response for a long time. Then, as the sun slowly ascended above the horizon, he stared at it for a little while. "Will you be returning to High Crags, now that I am soon to be declared fit to command?"
Morgwyn snickered wryly. "You mean, now that you are fit enough to browbeat the healers into declaring you fit to command." She thought about it. Thought about the journey back, and what she would do when she got there. "No… I think I will be remaining here. If only to protect the healers from your stubbornness," she smiled slightly.
"Of course," he nodded, chuckling and masking a look of surprise behind the act of wrapping himself further in his fur-lined cloak. Morgwyn stared sourly at it before shivering and stepping closer to the edge of the parapet.
"That cloak will match your hair in a year’s time," she said, noting the gray wolf pelt that lined the inside. Brandt took the slight against his age with a chuckle and a shrug.
"Better to be old than the alternative." After a moment he stepped up behind her and almost belligerently drew her into the folds of his cloak and, more hesitantly, into a slight embrace. Morgwyn stood as apart as she could, thinking, before finally settling into his arms. They both seemed more relieved for it.
"I think…" he said slowly, his breath a warm puff of air against her cheek, "the king… and the queen…"
"Your sister," Morgwyn retorted.
"… are wiser than I thought."
They were silent for a little while.
"She’s your sister."