As soon as they were out of earshot, Leta pressed, “What is it?”

Daelen paused before her, rubbing his chin. “How long ago did he sustain the injury?”

“Just over six weeks ago.”

He nodded, then lifted his eyebrows at her. “And walking still produces a 7 pain level? Even exaggerated that’s…” He shifted his lips thoughtfully. “Concerning…”

“It is,” Leta agreed quickly. “But I also lowered his dosage of painkillers. And he’s moving much more than last week.”

“That’s good to hear,” Daelen said, though he didn’t look any more relieved. “Any progress is something worth celebrating. But at this point…” His voice faded off until he asked suddenly, “You said you weren’t able to treat the wound until a few days after the incident?”

“Right. That’s why the wounds are so severe.”

“It’s possible that the damage from that initial period is more permanent than I’d hoped,” he admitted, his tone growing more quiet. “And what of his mental state? He seems…agitated?”

“Oh — he’s always like that,” Leta assured quickly. “Trust me.”

Daelen spared her a short smile, but it soon swept from his face. “And the hallucinations?”

“They’ve — well, he’s still having them,” Leta admitted.

“That,” Daelen sighed, “is what I was afraid of.”

He took to pacing around her, full of thought. “In my experience, in these kinds of situations, the physical state can be held back from full recovery by mental or emotional barriers. If a patient doesn’t believe they can recover, if they don’t want to recover, if there’s a significant stress getting in the way of their recovery, that takes a physical toll. I can see it in your patient clearly. Even when he’s speaking to you, he doesn’t always seem like he’s entirely present. I’m afraid that until he’s able to reign in these ‘nightmares’ as you say, he may not be able to truly recover.”

He paused, and looked at her directly. “Leta, I’m — I’m afraid he may never walk without support again.”

But that was hardly part of the plan, thought Leta at once, as if correcting him. Visions of Fiearius sprinting up the Dionysian’s ramp passed through her mind.

She found she couldn’t speak; she said nothing. Was this, she wondered, how her patients felt when she talked to them back in the clinic? Did her bedside manner hurt as badly as this?

Daelen studied her face, terrible worry in his eyes. “There are options,” he went on gently, composed as always. “First and foremost, he’ll need a psychiatrist. Perhaps someone who knows about these ARC treatments.”

“No one knows about the ARC treatments,” said Leta at once, sounding more impatient than she would have liked. “That’s the problem. They’re Society experiments; no one outside the Society knows anything about the program.”

Daelen went on mildly, as if he hadn’t heard her. “Then, our next step will be finding him a specialist. He needs a someone with experience in muscular recon–”

“How would we get a specialist, Daelen?” Leta interrupted hotly, her voice straining with despair.  “A specialist from a Society institution, you mean. He can’t just walk into a hospital, he’s a wanted fugitive.” She shook her head, feeling exasperated, exhausted, and most of all, scared. She’d spent six weeks with Fiearius in the infirmary, and it may have been for nothing.

Daelen went to reply, but Leta raised her hand sharply.

“Look, I’m all he’s got,” she said, her voice shaking. “So that’s going to have to be enough.”

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

He hadn’t meant to overhear. He wished that he hadn’t. But as Leta and Daelen argued quietly in the hallway, Fiearius could not stop himself from tilting his head in their direction and listening as their hurried voices carried his way.

What he heard made him freeze in place.

So he really wasn’t getting better then. The news did not shock him: in fact, he felt like nodding along in agreement. Even as he sat on that crate, watching people trudging along the snowy docks just outside, he could feel his sickness creeping in on him. He was learning to cope. The visions and reality were more easily separated. But if Daelen was right and they were keeping him from walking…

But that prognosis wasn’t what was making him want to sink to the floor in defeat. The part that truly got to him, that made his stomach clench in discomfort and shame burn behind his eyes, was the sinking despair in Leta’s voice.

She had been trying so hard to make him well. The past month and a half, she’d dedicated her existence to helping him. And yet he failed her over and over and would keep failing her until he could rein in this mania.

It was that thought that made him unable to just sit there by himself any longer.

Planting his cane against the Beacon’s metal floor, he painfully pushed himself back to his feet, wincing as he did. He didn’t know where he was going, but he started walking nonetheless, deeper into the ship’s maze of halls and stairways. It was a slow trek and he found himself clutching the walls for support as his feet lead the way.

He eased himself down a set of stairs until he finally stopped, of all places, in the brig. It was a long hallway of cells, all of them empty save for one.

Steadying one hand against the wall, Fiearius eased toward the chamber that held Dez. A pane of thick clear glass separated them. Inside, Dez sat lounged against the back wall.

He raised his eyes toward Fiearius expectantly, like he knew it was only a matter of time before he arrived here. Fiearius hadn’t seen him since he’d affronted him in the infirmary over two weeks ago.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. At last, words fell from Fiearius’ mouth before he could consider them.

“Why did you help me escape from Satieri?”

Dez blinked his eyes, his expression stoic. “Because you weren’t supposed to be there.”

It was about as unsatisfying of an answer as Fiearius could have received. He tiredly put his hand to his forehead. “I really wasn’t looking for your Ridellian ‘path of the dov’ha’ bullshit, Dez,” he groaned.

“It’s not bullshit,” Dez said simply, coming to his feet. He stepped closer to the glass. “And that wasn’t what I meant. Do you remember the night you left Satieri?” he asked suddenly, taking Fiearius by surprise. “The night you fled, once and for all. When you asked me to come with you?”

Fiearius snorted indignantly. “How could I forget? You left me a damn reminder on my face.” He pointed to the thick scar across his brow and down his cheek

Dez’s brow creased in mild thought. “If it’s any consolation, I think it makes your face less forgettable.”

“It’s not,” Fiearius growled. “Get to the point.”

“When you asked me to leave,” said Dez, “I should have said yes.”

At that, Fiearius froze. In all his years of knowing Desophyles, he had never shown an ounce of remorse or regret. For anything. He was unfeeling, and he simply did not operate that way.

Dez continued, “It took time to realize, but I understand now. To the Society, we’re all disposable. You. Me. Aela, Denarian, my brothers, may the dov’ha claim their souls. It’s always been that way. But seeing your life about to be tossed away, I knew. I knew there was another option. I knew that we, you and I. We can fight back. That’s why I helped you escape.”

Fiearius simply gaped at him. Then, he barked a single-note laugh. “Yeah, Dez, you and me can take down a centuries-old institution, absolutely. You’re fucking insane, you know that? Insane and, frankly, wrong. You can’t fight them. That other option you discovered? Is to run.”

“For you, yes. For me, yes. But for us.” He lifted his brows. “Do you realize the power you have embedded in your wrist? You are their Verdant, Fiearius, whether they want you to be or not. You have more influence than you believe. And I. I have worked closely with the Council for four years. I can teach you how to use it.”

Fiearius scoffed indignantly. “You’re an idiot.”

“You’re a coward.”

Fiearius’ glare narrowed on him before he finally rolled his eyes and looked away. But as much as he wanted to leave the brig, his feet didn’t move. There was a reason he came down here. It was in the back of his mind, nagging. He just wasn’t ready to admit it to himself.

After a careful pause, Dez asked, “Why are you down here, Fiearius?”

Fiearius shut his eyes and told himself to walk away. To go back upstairs. But then he thought of the infirmary, the walking lessons. Leta’s utter defeat. His worried brother.

“You were right,” Fiearius grunted, opening his eyes. “For once. About what you said a few weeks ago. They’re not going away. The…nightmares, hallucinations, whatever they are. I can fight them off, but…they’re still there. I can’t do this anymore.”

Dez did not look at all surprised in the slightest. He nodded along, even when Fiearius stared him straight in the eye and said, “I don’t trust you. And this changes nothing between us. And I’m not fucking help you fight the Society. But…if you’re sure it works. If you’re sure Flush will fix this….” He took a deep breath. “I’ll take it.”

Snow crunched underfoot as Leta walked along the ship docks, leading Fiearius at her side. It was his very first walk outdoors in the winter air, and his arm looped around Leta’s so he could balance his weight, his other hand propped up on a cane. Possibly it was the slowest she’d ever walked in her life, and every few steps, he winced or inhaled a pained breath, but nonetheless — seeing Fiearius anywhere but the infirmary was making Leta’s heart stir with real, actual hope.

Progress.

And there was another reason her heart felt lighter: she had more help now. Daelen, one of her oldest friends from Vescent, had arrived an hour earlier via passenger vessel. Now, he walked along Fiearius’ other side. Leta kept stealing glances at him, hardly able to believe she had a familiar face here with her. When she left, she thought she’d never see him again.

“So how was the trip here?” asked Leta, her arm tightened around Fiearius’ as they took another step forward gingerly. “How difficult was it to get through Vescentian border control?”

“Not the worst security I’ve experienced,” Daelen mused. “Though certainly a lot different than the last time I ventured off-world. They made me answer so many questions about the patient I was visiting, I’m almost sure I broke confidentiality.” He glanced back at Fiearius and smiled kindly. “Don’t worry, I lied.”

Fiearius lifted his brows in vague interest.“‘Preciate it. And thanks for comin’ out here at all. Don’t know how she managed to convince you.”

“Wasn’t that difficult actually,” Daelen claimed with a laugh. “I’ve been looking for a reason to leave Vescent for a while now. And what better reason than to help an old friend?”

“See, not everyone finds me as insufferable as you do, Fiear,” Leta added. She slowed on the edge of the docks. “Let’s stop here for a second. How do you feel?”

“Like a ninety-seven year old man,” Fiearius grumbled, glaring down at his cane, though he didn’t protest taking a break.

“At least you’re outside, yes?” said Daelen, his voice cheerful. Leta had always liked that about him: even back in med school, he found being optimistic much easier than she ever did. “Must be nice to get fresh air after being on the ship so long.”

Naturally, Fiearius cast him a look of disbelief. “Nice? It’s fucking freezing out here. How could anyone actually choose to live on this planet?”

“Hey, what’re you talking about?” Leta swept her hand toward the tall snowy evergreens. “Look at this place. I think it’s beautiful.”

“I think you’ve got a few screws loose.”

At that, Daelen chuckled and started to drift forward once more. “You know, when Leta described to me her situation, she failed to mention half the challenge would be listening to you two bicker.”

Leta sent Fiearius a pointed look, to which he smirked.

“Sorry,” she said to Daelen, grinning sheepishly as she fell into step beside him. “Tell us more about Vescent. How’s home?”

“Well, let’s see. It’s approaching summer now so the weather’s turning up,” Daelen replied conversationally. “They finally built a bridge across the West Ciene Canal which has made my commute vastly more enjoyable. I’ve been visiting the clinic a lot recently. They still miss you. No one’s managed to beat your suturing record yet.”

“Of course not,” said Leta, lifting her chin with pride. “I doubt anyone has beaten my whisky-shot record, either.”

“Never,” Daelen agreed, laughing. But soon his laughter faded and he drew his brow together in thought.

“There’s — there’s been a lot of strange things happening in the past few months, though,” he went on, his tone growing more serious. “Ever since the Society opened up a few new departments. They’re really settling in now that they’ve gained control of the parliament. People have started disappearing.” He glanced at Leta apologetically. “Well…even more than before. And curiously, the news has said nothing of it…”

Fiearius grunted. “Sounds like you’ve got your own little Internal Affairs formin’.”

“Yes, I think that was one,” Daelen remarked, casting him a slightly confused look before pressing on, “People are starting to get scared. I’m sure you remember walking along the bayside on a spring night and finding the whole city out there doing the same?” Leta nodded. “Nowadays, it’s dead. The city shuts down when the sun sets. One of my patients was just telling me last week that he’s begun taking the trains home even though it’s just a ten minute walk and a lovely one at that. It’s worrisome.”

“That’s not the Vescent I remember,” said Leta, feeling quietly horrified. She shifted her shoulders, unsettled. “Daelen, you haven’t … you haven’t seen my dad around, have you?”

“Not in a long while, no,” Daelen admitted, frowning at her. “Right after you left, he came by my office a few times to see if I’d heard from you, but I haven’t seen him personally since. He was publicly supporting a few of the Society candidates for election a couple months ago, but he’s disappeared from the public eye as far as I can tell.”

“That’s — well, that’s good, I suppose.” Leta sighed, her breath turning white in the air. “Good that you haven’t seen him, that means he’s off-planet or in hiding. The Society must want him dead now, thanks to me.”

“Thanks to me, you mean,” Fiearius put in, half-sarcastic, half-apologetic. Leta looked over at him in surprise, but he went on to Daelen, “So that’s why you up and left? Abandon ship before it sinks?”

Daelen grimaced. “Somewhat. Though there are a few…well…personal reasons too,” he admitted sheepishly.

“Personal?” said Leta quickly. “What’s the matter? Is Rosietta alright?”

“Oh no, she’s fine,” he assured her at once, waving her off. “Better than ever even. I’m sure she’s quite content traveling with her new southern artist lover.”

“With her what?” said Leta, balking in surprise. She’d met Rosietta Orsada a handful of times and always found the woman pleasant and friendly; always with her arm around Daelen, always smiling up at him fondly.

Fiearius nudged Leta, looking confused. “Girlfriend?” he whispered.

“Wife,” Leta clarified.

“Ex,” Daelen corrected with a sigh. “The divorce was finalized about a month ago. Like I said…I was looking for a reason to get out for a bit.”

Fiearius grimaced in understanding. “Yeah I bet. Gotta fill that void somehow…”

Daelen nodded in agreement, but then suddenly threw Fiearius a more curious look. “You were married? Or are? Sorry, I noticed the–what is the word for that again? The Ridellian matrimonial mark. On your palm.”

Fiearius released his grip on Leta’s arm to glance down at the crudely drawn circle that seemed to be painted on his skin. Leta had noticed the mark before and assumed it was just another tattoo. But apparently, it symbolized marriage.

The realization gave her pause.

“Chi’tauri. And yeah. I was,” Fiearius confirmed, though he said nothing else. He dropped his hand and quickly circled his arm around Leta’s once more. Daelen seemed to take the hint.

“Well let’s just say your message couldn’t have come at a better time, Leta,” he went on breezily, brushing over the awkward pause.

They reached the outside of the Beacon and started up its long ramp, Leta’s arm still closed around Fiearius’ as they trekked up the angled floor carefully. Now that they had completed their entire walk on real terrain and made it all the way into the warm cargo bay, Leta swept out a hand in victory.

“What do you think, Dr. Orsada?” she asked, pointing at Fiearius’ legs. He was still leaning half of his weight on her, but he’d walked nearly the entire way, and for that, she was eager to ask, “What’s the prognosis on our patient here? Am I a miracle worker or what?”

Daelen glanced at Fiearius’ legs, then forced a cheerful smile. “Well let’s see, how do you feel, Mr. Soliveré? On a scale of one to ten, describe your pain level?”

Fiearius blinked at him. “Just call me Fiearius, thanks. And uh, I don’t know. Seven?”

“I see,” said Daelen, his tone mild and unreadable. “So moderate to severe, then?”

“Yeah. I guess.”

Daelen nodded, then gestured toward a crate against the wall. “Well why don’t you take a break and have a seat over here for a while?” Completely ignoring Fiearius’ look of suspicion, he went on, “Enjoy the fresh air a little longer, it’ll be good for you.”

Fiearius agreeably lowered to the crate, but not without throwing a look of questioning toward Leta. She had no opportunity to assure him, however, because Daelen met her eyes and gestured pointedly toward the hallway.

Leta walked with him, already sensing something was off, something was on his mind. Daelen didn’t look merely thoughtful, he looked worried.

Each step forward was excruciating. It stole the breath out of his lungs. It wasn’t just his legs — his back tinged with soreness, his hips ached. Leta was right: he really needed to move more.

“Halfway there,” she said at his side.

Painfully out of breath, Fiearius couldn’t help but mutter, “Oh for fuck’s sake — “

“We can take a break.”

Fiearius snapped, “No. No. Let’s just — get this over with.”

Hours later, or so it felt like, Fiearius’ hands gripped the edge of the counter. Pain lifted from his feet as he leaned all of his weight on it. Then, he let out a crazed, breathless laugh.

“And to think, I used to dominate track races in high school. Just look at me now. A whole day to walk twenty feet.”

“You’ll get back there,” Leta assured him, her voice relieved. “It just takes time. And hey — you’ve earned this.”

Using the sharp edge of the counter, Leta propped up the bottle of beer and handed it over with a flourish. Fiearius snatched it out of her hand and glared, but then he took a long, achingly cold swig and his eyes closed in utter satisfaction. Motivation, indeed.

He lowered the bottle and released a long sigh. “So. You’re an expert in teaching basic locomotion, huh?”

“Actually, no,” said Leta, crossing her arms and leaning her hip against the counter. “But a good friend of mine is. Daelen Orsada — we were lab partners through med school. He’s got a lot of experience in physical therapy. He’s agreed to fly out here and lend a hand as well as coaching me in the meantime. Between the two of us, you’re bound to get back on your feet eventually.”

“Another doctor? One is enough, thanks,” he sighed, as Leta smirked. “And since when are you so optimistic?”

“Well, the way I figure, things can’t possibly get much worse around here,” she noted, and then reached for the other beer and took it for herself.

He laughed in agreement. “That bad out there huh?”

“Things are better, I suppose,” she mused, tilting the bottle against her mouth for a drink. “Cyrus is doing really well. He’s really coming into his own as the Dionysian’s new captain.”

“Hey, I’m not dead yet,” Fiearius grumbled. “Still my ship. And you got loverboy all checked in with Carthians, yeah?”

“Corra and Finn took him there two nights ago, yes.”

Fiearius couldn’t help but notice Leta took a much longer, indulgent drink at the mention of Ren. And she didn’t elaborate.

“Well, great,” he said after a moment’s pause. “Maybe we’ll both get back on our feet.”

“That’s the idea,” Leta agreed quietly. “So — how’s it feel to be out of that bed?”

Taking curious note of the sudden change of subject, Fiearius took a deep breath and looked down at his legs, still sending throbbing pain up every nerve.

“Kinda like I’d prefer you to amputate right about now.” He cracked a smirk. “But less so than before. So I guess that’s progress.”

“That is progress,” said Leta, genuine relief touching her voice, and Fiearius thought perhaps she was deciding to spare him her clinical questioning for once. But then she said, to his shock, “And how about the nightmares? Still having them?”

He lowered his beer and balked. “Nightmares? How’d you — ?”

“I saw you,” Leta admitted quietly, looking apologetic. “I saw you thrashing in your sleep.”

He considered the visions, memories, hallucinations, whatever they were, and he realized he could still see the dark alleyway in the corners of his vision, closing in on him. Hastily, he clamped his eyes shut and answered, “Yeah. Yeah, they’re still there.”

“What’re they about, exactly?”

Fiearius slowly opened his eyes to find the infirmary still the infirmary and let out a sigh of relief. Before it could come back, he forced himself to focus on Leta, repeating her words in his head thrice before he was able to answer.

“Satieri, mostly,” he muttered at last. “Internal Affairs jobs. Some mine. Some…not mine.” He fell quiet, recalling the images of blood-splattered walls and fresh corpses.

“But they feel real,” he added suddenly. “All of them. The ones I remember. And the ones — planted there, I guess? I forget where I am. And when I am. Who I am…” He furrowed his brow and looked down at his hands. “One moment you’re here and the next, it’s another life. For a while there, I couldn’t get back to the right one…I got so caught up in the others, I just…couldn’t see the way out. But. It’s getting easier now. To differentiate. I think, anyway…”

Leta went quiet, regarding him closely — too closely — with a frown on her face.

Fiearius recognized that look. It was the look she gave right before she prodded him with a needle or pushed medicine on him.

“Lemme guess,” he muttered, “you gonna go write that in your doctor diary now?”

“What? No.” Leta bristled. But then she admitted, “Not when you’re here, anyway,” and grinned.

He shook his head, taking a longer drink. A comfortable silence fell between them until Leta lowered her bottle and said abruptly, “Can I ask you something?”

“Since when do you need my permission?”

“Why did you agree to help me?” she asked, her lips tugging toward a frown. “All those months ago. Why’d you agree to go to the Baltimore?”

Well, he hadn’t been expecting that. And he wasn’t sure he had an answer — at least not one he felt entirely comfortable giving. Perhaps stalling for time, he took another long swig from the cold bottle in his hand before he finally spoke. “Because I know what it feels like losing everything to the Society. And maybe I just wanted to win for once.”

She faltered for a moment. Then she pressed, “So — did we? Do you think we won?”

Suddenly, she didn’t look quite like the Leta he knew: sadness struck her face, her eyes reflecting the artificial lights overhead, as she leveled him a long, piercing stare.

Guilt stirred in his chest. It certainly didn’t look like they’d won. A month after the Baltimore and the Dionysian was still in as dire a situation as it had been before.

Somehow, he mustered a smirk. “We’re all still alive, ain’t we? That’s somethin’. And you got your boyfriend back.”

“Fiance,” she muttered dully. Then she averted her eyes to the side. “Well, not anymore. We — ended things the other night.”

The bottle of beer in his hand paused mid-way to his mouth. Shock passed through him — not unpleasantly so, but not happily, either, when he saw the emptiness in her face.

“Well — shit,” was all he could say at first. “You okay?”

She shrugged, and a sigh passed through her lips, heavy enough to stir the hair on her forehead. “What I wanted was to get him out of there alive, and we did that. But I never thought — I mean, this is just not what I expected for us.”

The air shifted between them. He felt suddenly odd. What was the right answer to a statement like that? Especially all things considered.

Half to fill the silence and half because his curiosity got the better of his tongue, he provided her an uneasy, lopsided smirk and asked, “Hope that’s not my fault…?”

To his relief, she shook her head, looking surprised. “No. It’s not. I never even told him about — ” Her eyes flashed up to his, then looked away. “Any of it. With everything else going on, it seemed less important.”

This was the closest either of them had come to acknowledging what had happened, or didn’t happen, That One Night. They’d both been quietly ignoring the fact that Leta had been in his bed, though the memory had crept into Fiearius’ consciousness on more than one occasion — like when she brushed alongside him unexpectedly, or when her eyes blazed with fire, or when her face flushed pink as she yelled at him. It was not easy to forget how close they’d been.

To hide the rather incriminating thoughts in his head, Fiearius spoke over them, feigning concern. “So just to clarify, I don’t need to worry about him dropping by to beat the shit out of me?”

Leta rolled her eyes, snorting. “Very funny. No, he ended it because of me. Something about not liking who I’ve become or something,” she muttered, and then grabbed for her beer again, rather urgently.

“Well it’s his loss,” said Fiearius fervently. Another silence unfolded as Leta drank slowly, her eyes averted. Determined to stomp it out, he asked jokingly, “So you’re single now, huh? No wonder you weren’t around yesterday. Too many dates lined up?”

He was glad to hear her laughter ring around the room. “What? No. Seriously? It’s been like a day. Although Finn has been asking me out for awhile,” she noted, sounding both amused and irritated, “so I suppose that option is on the table. For me to ignore.”

Despite himself, Fiearius laughed. “Ignore? Why? Thought you liked him.”

“I tolerate him,” Leta corrected. She looked puzzled. “What makes you think I like him?”

“You told him about the whole, y’know — “ he waved his hand vaguely at her, “dying thing. When you were sick. He knew before anyone else. I don’t mind or anything,” he added quickly. “Just figured you guys had a special bond or somethin’.”

Leta looked quite wonderfully thunderstruck. “Bond? No, no — no. No. No.” She paused, and then added, for good measure, “No. He found out I was sick only accidentally. He read a note I had lying in the infirmary that had my diagnosis on it. I didn’t tell him.” After a moment, in a much different voice, she pressed quietly, “You really thought I told Finn and not you?”

Fiearius was feeling suddenly very foolish, and particularly exposed. “Well … yeah … “

“Really?” Leta looked like she was biting back a knowing smile with difficulty.

He wanted her to stop. “Whatever, it’s not unreasonable,” he muttered, quickly draining the rest of his beer. He let out a sigh and thudded the bottle back to the counter, where it looked particularly wrong beside all the medical tools.

“You know,” he muttered, almost accusingly, “most doctors don’t give their patients alcohol.”

Leta shrugged one shoulder in a tired sort of way. “I guess I’m not most doctors.”

“Nah,” he agreed, casting her a smirk. “You’re really not.”

She smiled slightly, shaking her head. “C’mon. Let’s walk you back.”

Dripping water hollows out stone — not through force, but through persistence.

Fiearius stared at the words on the wrinkled page, completely unsure what he had just read. So he read them again. And once more. Still, nothing.

Fiearius had confessed to his brother the day before that he’d been having trouble focusing and staying in the present moment. Time was slipping away from him. His surroundings made little sense.

Cyrus hadn’t been able to conjure a real solution to the problem, but he had handed him a small red book entitled The Little Book of Ancient Wisdom. “Maybe you just need something to exercise your mind,” he’d suggested. “This should do it.”

So far, Fiearius had managed to get through about twenty pages of quotes from authors long dead and the only thing it had done was make him feel like he was back in school and failing terribly. As if he didn’t already have problems reading, the phrases seemed to go in one ear and out the other. Frustrated, he moved onto the next one which read, “Not to unlearn what you have learned is the most necessary kind of learning.”

Feeling like the book had now taken to mocking him, he snapped it shut and pushed it aside. Heaving a sigh, he leaned back against the pillows and looked up at the ceiling lights flickering above him.

It was quiet this morning in the infirmary. He hadn’t seen anyone since the night before when Cy had brought him dinner. Richelle had dropped off his breakfast before he woke up and he could only guess it was Finn that had come by after to rearrange the eggs into a lewd shape. But for the most part, he’d been alone. He hadn’t even seen Leta since before they’d left to Carthis nearly two days ago.

Though he couldn’t blame her. She was probably tending to Ren now that they were on Carthis. Naturally, he’d be on the backburner. But it was fine. He was getting better, wasn’t he? And besides, this wasn’t exactly the kind of place girls like her should hang out. There was no telling what could happen. Or who might saunter around the corner of the dark, shady alley, a knife in his hand and malice in his eyes.

Fiearius gripped the knife tighter and looked back at the streetlamp overhead, just barely casting a sliver of light onto his black-cloaked figure as it buzzed incessantly. Gods, it was loud. And getting louder. So loud it began to hurt his ears. But no, it wasn’t the buzzing that was filling the alley, was it? It was the scream. The scream he desperately tried to quell, clapping his hand over his mouth as he dug the knife deeper into the man’s chest.

And then it was the buzzing again. Just the buzzing as he stared down at a corpse he barely recognized, blood still pooling out below him. Fiearius glanced up to find another figure standing in the light at the end of the alley. He knew it should be Dez, but it wasn’t Dez. The figure was faceless and shouted something unintelligible.

“Jowan Tardi, age 46,” Fiearius responded without hesitation. “Knife-wound to the chest. Discovered dead in the alley behind 896 Gordy Way, October 9th, 1860.”

Behind him, a door, unattached to any wall, swung open and the clicking of shoes on pavement met his ears. Turning, he watched emptily as Leta marched towards him, her step full of purpose.

When she reached him, she put her hand on his blood-soaked arm.

“Fiearius?”

And suddenly Fiearius blinked his eyes, the nightmare came crashing down and realization flooded his senses: he was in an infirmary. On a ship. His ship, the Dionysian. Which was on Carthis. In 1861. Cold sweat touched his skin and suddenly Leta was standing beside him, her head tilted at him curiously.

For a moment, she was all pale lines and emerald green eyes. He blinked her back into focus.

“Are you alright?” Soft skin — the palm of  her hand — touched his forehead. “You look pale. How’re you feeling?”

“I’m fine,” he grumbled, though he didn’t brush her away until a second later.

She noticed the book at his side. She picked it up, turning it over in her hands. “Have you been reading?”

“Sort of,” he muttered. “Did you know water dripping is like a force of persistence?” She glanced at him, puzzled. “Yeah I didn’t get it either. By the way, this is what Cy does when you ask him to look after me for a day: gives me books with useless sayings. Possibly the first time I’ve ever missed your treatment plan.”

Leta abruptly put the book back down and looked up at him.

“Well good, because it’s back on now. It’s time to get moving again, captain.”

Fiearius raised his eyebrows, unsure if he even wanted to know what that meant.

“You’re going to walk,” said Leta briskly. “Get out of that bed and really walk. It’s been too long. Here, I even brought you some motivation.”

Leta crossed toward the counter and pulled something out of her knapsack. With a soft thud of glass meeting counter, she placed two dark bottles atop the surface in his line of vision.

Beer. She’d actually brought beer. He hadn’t been near it in over a month and he could practically feel his mouth watering.

But then his eyes moved back to Leta and eyed her skeptically. “Are you trying to bribe me?”

“Yes,” Leta said bluntly. “Yes I am.”

He shook his head in disapproval, but then he noticed the particular shining, inviting label on those bottles. Thra’ki Brew, the best from Satieri.

“Hang on. How’d you know my favorite beer?”

Leta lifted her shoulders in an all-too-innocent shrug. “If you want one, all you have to do is walk from the bed, to this counter. And then you can have a beer.”

Possibly she didn’t realize how much she was asking. The wounds behind his knees had closed, but the injury was far from healed. She was asking him to scale a mountain, or move the Dionysian using only his hands. He gaped at her.

“You sure you don’t want to give me alcohol before you make me do this?”

Leta joined him at his side, grasping his arm to help him ease down. Groaning, he shifted his legs to the edge of the bed, inch by inch. Palms flat against the mattress, he gingerly lowered his bare feet onto the cold metal floor, wincing at first only at the temperature. But then pain gripped his entire bottom half and he could hardly breathe.

“This — this ain’t happenin’, kiddo,” he informed her. “Not today…”

Naturally, Leta persisted.

“I know it hurts. A lot. I can see it. But you have to do this, just a little each day, starting now. If you don’t, your gait parameters will suffer. That means when you are fully healed, you still won’t walk correctly or efficiently. And you want to be able to run again, don’t you?” she said earnestly. “And strut and swagger around like you used to? And dance with women in bars? And sprint off to escape in the Dionysian?”

Fiearius stared at her. Her shining eyes were so sincerely hopeful in this moment, it was almost hard to look at her. “You are a cruel monster, you know that?” he growled, before readying himself to try again. As he started to lower himself once more, he sighed, “The things I’ll do for a beer…”

Leta caught his forearm, her fingers closing around his tightly just as his feet found the floor.