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.