He swayed.
A hand caught him—firm, warm, steady against the curve of his waist. Elias. His grip was neither harsh nor hesitant, but certain. Protective.
"Don't," Elias said, voice low. "Just stay still a moment."
August didn't protest, but his spine stiffened at the gentleness. He hated this—being seen like this. Reduced to breath and sweat and trembling knees. No sword in hand. No sharp tongue. Just... flesh. Mortal. Fragile.
He closed his eyes.
The silence between them felt like the soft hush of snow falling in an old garden—private, untouched. Only the faint echo of water dripping into the basin, and the sound of August's breath slowly steadying.
The room held it's breath.
Shards of fruit glistened across the polished floor. Honey clung in amber drops to broken bread. A silver goblet rolled gently to a stop near the base of the writing desk, its rim glinting in the flickering candlelight.
And in the midst of it all—Elias stood still, August limp in his arms.
For a moment, nothing moved. Only the quiet sound of August's shallow breathing, warm against Elias's neck.
Then, slow and deliberate, Elias stepped forward.
The soft rush of fabric followed his stride. His boots left faint prints in the sticky lemon water scattered across the marble tiles. The tray lay abandoned at the door like a casualty. Servants had already begun to move—three young maids knelt near the spill, working quickly, their linen aprons soaking up the mess.
Not one of them spoke.
The closest maid glanced up briefly—just long enough to see the pale-haired figure cradled in Elias's arms. She startled, lowering her eyes at once and bowing her head in silent apology, as if her gaze had intruded on something sacred.
Elias didn't falter.
His grip on August tightened slightly as he carried him across the room, each step slow, deliberate—like moving through water. August's arms had gone limp, save for one trembling hand curled faintly at Elias's collarbone. His hair was damp, skin too cold, yet his breath still came in fragile rhythm.
"Miss," Elias murmured to one of the maids as he passed. "Fresh lemon water. No milk, no spice. And something soft—fruit jelly or plain broth. Something he won't refuse."
The maid nodded quickly, rising to her feet without a word and slipping from the chamber with quiet speed.
Another dipped her cloth again into the water bucket and kept scrubbing.
Elias turned toward the bed.
The covers were still drawn back from earlier—wrinkled and slightly damp with sweat. Gently, he lowered August down onto the mattress. The younger man stirred faintly, eyes fluttering open just enough to see the ceiling above him before falling half-lidded again.
He didn't speak.
His breath quivered.
Elias knelt beside him again, careful to adjust the pillow beneath his head, brushing aside the silvery strands clinging to August's brow.
"It's alright," Elias whispered. "You're back in bed."
August made no reply—but his hand moved, slowly, as if searching for something.
Elias caught it.
Their fingers barely touched, but the contact was enough.
A breath passed between them—soft, fragile, real.
Behind them, the distant sound of water being wrung from cloth filled the silence. One maid gently swept a trail of crushed sweet potato from the base of the armoire. The scent of honey and lemon still lingered faintly in the air.
But the room itself had changed.
It wasn't just a chamber anymore.
It was a sanctuary of brief stillness, where nothing else mattered but the figure in Elias's arms—and the way he refused to let go.
August lay beneath the linen covers, propped slightly against the pillows, his body shrouded in stillness.
The candlelight carved shadows beneath his eyes—bruised hollows like violet smudges against his pale skin. His lips were bloodless, and the fine bones of his face stood out in sharper angles than before. The sickness had leeched the warmth from him, leaving behind something ghostly. Fragile. Almost unreal.
He didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
His long lashes remained lowered, and though his breathing had steadied, each rise and fall of his chest felt hard-won. He wasn't asleep. Just…quiet. Worn. Like a porcelain figure set too long in cold wind.
Elias sat beside the bed in a straight-backed chair, one hand resting on the hilt of the dagger at his thigh, the other on his knee. He hadn't removed his coat. Hadn't moved in what felt like hours.
His gaze stayed fixed on August.
Unblinking. Grim.
There was something terrifying in his stillness—shoulders squared, jaw tense, the green of his eyes sharp in the low light. Though he said nothing, the air around him seemed to hum with silent threat. As if anything—anyone—who dared come close to August would not leave breathing.
And yet beneath that tension, there was something heartbreakingly human.
Protective.
Fierce.
The two maids kept to their task near the far wall, scrubbing the polished floor with quiet precision. The scent of lemon and rosemary filled the room. They dared not speak, nor glance toward the bed. One of them, the smaller girl with dark curls, paused now and then to wring out her cloth, stealing quick glances at Elias's motionless form before turning quickly back to her work.
It was unnerving.
A young man that tall, that broad, with such a storm in his silence.
August turned his head slightly on the pillow then—just enough to see him.
His gaze drifted up to Elias. Hollow. Heavy-lidded. But still August. Still with that proud line to his mouth, still trying not to show how weak he truly felt.
"…You look like a war ghost," he murmured, his voice low and rasping.
Elias finally moved—just his brow, lifting slightly.
"I'll be whatever keeps you safe," he said.
August's eyes fluttered shut again.
Not because he was tired. But because it was too much.
The tenderness beneath that statement. The unwavering presence at his side.
And the terrible, beautiful weight of being loved like that.
The door creaked open.
The older maid stepped in, her posture precise and composed, a silver tray balanced in her hands. On it sat a delicate glass—thin-stemmed, rimmed with gold, the kind only nobles used. Pale lemon slices floated in the cool water, faint condensation glistening along the sides.
Without a word, she approached and set it gently on the table beside the bed.
The other two maids had already finished with the floor, their buckets emptied and cloths folded in silence. They bowed slightly and began to retreat, skirts brushing over marble.
Elias didn't look at them.
His attention never left August.
"Drink," he said quietly, his voice deeper than usual. Not a command, but close.
August stirred. Slowly, his pale fingers reached out—trembling slightly—and curled around the glass. The cold met his skin like snow. He lifted it with care, the weight of it unexpected. The thin crystal trembled between his fingers as if even the glass could feel how close it was to shattering.
He took a small sip. The citrus was sharp, biting into his tongue with a cool freshness. It shocked something awake in him.
Another sip.
Then another.
In his mind, a quiet thought rose:
If I can just drink this... if I can just hold it steady and finish it... then maybe I won't need anyone to look after me.
The rim of the glass touched his lips again. He drank more slowly this time, as if he could pull something from it. Strength. Dignity. Control.
A hollow hope, maybe.
But he wanted to believe it.
He wanted to believe that something as simple as lemon water could revive what this illness had drained.
That he could rise and speak and move as he once had, without Elias's constant watch, without those unreadable green eyes tracking his every breath.
But as the last sip slipped past his lips, his hand faltered. Just slightly.
The glass tilted.
Elias's hand was there in an instant—steadying it, steadying him.
Not a word passed between them.
August let him.
Just this once.