The days that followed moved slower than the river in winter.
Aldric remained bedridden, his strength sapped by the fever that clung to him like a shadow. Mistress Lysa visited daily, bringing bitter tonics and stern instructions, and each time she'd leave, she'd cast a knowing look at Aaron.
"He needs peace. Don't let him lift a finger," she warned.
So Aaron didn't let him.
But peace came at a price.
With Aldric confined to bed, the work of the cottage—once shared—now fell squarely on Aaron's shoulders. At first, he told himself it wouldn't be hard. After all, he was strong, trained, and used to hard labor. What difference would it make?
He found the answer the very next morning, hauling a heavy water bucket from the river and nearly dropping it halfway up the hill.
"Maybe don't fill it all the way next time," he muttered to himself, breathless as he reached the cottage.
He tried to keep everything as Aldric had left it. The firewood pile stayed stocked. The hearth stayed burning. The sword over the mantle remained untouched, though every time he passed it, Aaron looked up at the worn hilt and whispered, I've got this. Rest, old fellow.
But even as he repeated those words, he could feel the exhaustion creeping in. Not just physical, but in his bones, in his thoughts. Because the truth was—he missed him.
He missed Aldric's voice in the morning. Missed their training sessions behind the cottage, the familiar bark of orders and dry sarcasm. He missed the way Aldric always knew when to speak and when to let silence linger.
The silence now felt too heavy.
---
At Beatrice's cottage, life was no softer.
Evelyn kept her head down, slipping through her chores with quiet efficiency. She was used to thankless work, but the weight of Aldric's illness seemed to have cast a longer shadow even over their neighbor's home.
And though Beatrice never said it aloud, Evelyn could feel it—the simmering resentment that she now spent more time next door than at their hearth.
"You think helping that old man earns you anything?" Beatrice muttered once, just loud enough for Evelyn to hear. "One more mouth doesn't feed itself with good intentions."
Evelyn said nothing, only scrubbed harder.
But she kept going. Every morning, after her work was done, she would find her way to the cottage by the river. She never asked permission—she just appeared, sometimes with a fresh loaf or a basket of washed herbs, and stayed long enough to help with the wash, the cooking, or to sit by Aldric's side when Aaron needed to chop wood.
She didn't speak much at first, but her presence was constant.
Aaron noticed.
"You don't have to come every day," he said one evening as they both knelt over a pot of stew.
Evelyn looked up, brushing a stray lock of black hair from her face. "I know."
"Then why do you?"
She stirred the pot once, twice. "Because you need help. And he… he was kind to me."
Aaron watched her in the dim firelight, her face calm but serious. "You're quiet, Eve. But you're the loudest when it matters."
She blinked. "What does that mean?"
He grinned. "I'm still figuring it out."
---
Later that week, as the sun began to slip behind the hills and Aaron returned from gathering wood, he found Aldric awake, propped up against a pillow. His face looked paler than usual, but the fever had broken. His voice, though raspier, carried the edge of his old sharpness.
"You're burning yourself out," he said.
Aaron froze. "You're supposed to be resting."
"I am. But I still have eyes."
Aaron dropped the firewood near the hearth. "I'm fine."
"You're not," Aldric said flatly. "You're tired. And you're proud. Both will be your undoing."
Aaron gave a humorless chuckle. "Look who's talking."
Aldric cracked a smile. "That's fair."
The silence between them settled like an old cloak—familiar, but worn.
"I'm not used to this," Aaron admitted. "Carrying it all. I thought I could… but…"
"You're not meant to carry it alone," Aldric said gently.
Aaron looked at him then, surprised.
Aldric reached out, resting a hand briefly over Aaron's wrist. "You've got help, boy. That girl—Evelyn—she's sharp. Quiet, but sharp. And you've got strength. Just remember not all strength is in your arms."
Aaron swallowed. "You scared me, old fellow."
Aldric gave him a faint smile. "Good. A little fear keeps us human."
---
That night, as the cottage fell into quiet once more, Aaron sat at the table, head in his hands, elbows resting beside the sword that hung like memory on the wall.
And for the first time in days, he let out a long breath—and didn't feel alone.
Aldric was healing—but healing was slow.
The fever had passed, yes, but it left behind a cough that clung to his chest and a weariness that even sunlight couldn't banish. He moved from bed to chair now, sometimes managing a few steps outside, leaning heavily on the walking stick Aaron had carved for him.
But he could no longer train. Could no longer hunt. And the shelves, once stocked with dried meats and herbs, now stood nearly bare.
Aaron had counted their supplies twice. Then a third time, just to be sure. No matter how many times he measured the flour or checked the smoked fish hung from the rafters, it didn't change the truth.
They were running out of food.
He tried not to let Aldric see the weight of it, but it pressed on him constantly—when he fetched water, when he chopped wood, when he stirred watery soup at the hearth.
The cottage couldn't survive on pride.
So Aaron swallowed his and went to the village square.
There, he offered to carry firewood, to patch roofs, to lift crates at the market. He worked with his head down and hands blistered, returning home each day with only a few coins—just enough for bread, sometimes milk. It wasn't enough for both of them to eat well, but he made sure Aldric always had a full bowl.
Aaron learned quickly that hunger made you sharper. Quieter.
---
Meanwhile, Evelyn watched.
She'd seen Aaron come home later and later each day, sometimes limping, sometimes too tired to speak. She watched the way his shirt clung to his back, damp with sweat, and the way he gave Aldric a smile before disappearing into silence.
He never asked for anything.
But she saw.
One morning, she tucked two small bread rolls into a cloth. She'd saved them from her own meal—dry and hard by now, but food nonetheless. She waited for her aunt and Isolade to leave for the village well, then slipped out the back.
Aaron was chopping wood behind the cottage when she approached. He looked up, surprised but glad.
"You didn't have to come," he said, wiping his brow.
"I brought something," she said quietly, unwrapping the cloth. "I know it's not much, but…"
Before she could finish, a shrill voice cut through the air.
"EVELYN!"
Evelyn froze, her blood running cold.
Beatrice stood a few feet away, a basket on her hip, her eyes narrowed into fury. Isolade peeked from behind her, face smug.
"I should've known!" Beatrice stormed forward and yanked the cloth from Evelyn's hands, the bread tumbling to the ground. "Sneaking out like a thief! Wasting our food!"
"It was mine," Evelyn whispered, trembling.
"Nothing in this house is yours, girl!" Beatrice's voice rose. "You think you can bribe that boy? Is that it? Trying to earn favors?"
"No! I—he hasn't been eating. I just wanted—"
A sharp slap cut her off.
Aaron dropped his axe. "Enough!"
His voice was sharper than anyone had ever heard it—cold and commanding. Even Beatrice faltered.
"She wasn't stealing. She was trying to help me. You want to punish someone? Punish me."
Beatrice glared at him. "You stay out of this."
"I won't," Aaron said, stepping forward, green eyes bright with fire. "Evelyn's better than most of this village. She sees people hurting and does something. That's more than I can say for you."
Beatrice's mouth opened and shut. Then, with a sneer, she grabbed Evelyn by the arm.
"Come home. Now."
Evelyn gave Aaron one last look—a silent apology in her dark eyes—before being dragged away.
---
That night, Aaron sat beside Aldric's bed, his knuckles still white.
"She tried to feed me," he said quietly.
Aldric, still pale but clear-eyed, looked at him. "That girl has more courage than people three times her size."
"I wanted to stop it. I should've done more."
"You did what you could."
Aaron didn't answer. He just stared at the blackthorn tree outside the window, its bare limbs curled against the wind.
"Why is it," he murmured, "that the kindest people get the harshest lives?"
Aldric reached out, slow but steady, and laid a hand on his arm. "Because their kindness is a light, lad. And the world… the world always tries to snuff out light."
Aaron didn't speak again, but when he lay down that night, he made a silent promise:
He has to grow strong to protect her.