Night had fallen, a deep and absolute flood of darkness. In her chamber, Gisela clutched her pillow, her body trembling not with cold, but with a spent and final exhaustion. The shivering came from within, a hollow vibration where the day's rage and humiliation had burned everything away. A crushing weight pressed behind her eyes, and a sour, metallic dread sat on her tongue—the lingering taste of her own powerlessness.
She rolled from the bed, her strength utterly forsaking her. The fall to the stone floor was a dull, heavy surrender. The cold of the flags seeped into her, but it was no match for the deeper chill that had taken root in her spirit. A clammy, sickly sweat coated her skin, yet it brought no relief, only a sticky reminder of her distress.
Her head pulsed with the echo of shouted words and the phantom sting of her own slapped palm. Every thought was a labor. With a feeble, gasping effort, she began to crawl. The room swayed, not from illness, but from the sheer disorientation of a soul unmoored. Her limbs were leaden, each drag forward a monumental act of will against the crushing weight of her circumstance.
She inched toward the door, a vast and distant portal. Her numb fingers scraped against the wood, a faint, rasping sound in the overwhelming silence. Her vision blurred at the edges, narrowing to a tunnel of darkness.
"Please…" she whispered, her voice a threadbare breath against the unyielding oak. It was not a specific plea for medicine, but a raw, fundamental cry from the depths of her isolation. "Someone… help."
---
It was the vague—the sickness born of black bile and despair. Tonics existed for it, bitter brews locked away in Hilda's absent care. But here, in the consuming dark, there was no remedy, only the creeping chill and the feverish thrash of her own pulse.
A violent shudder wracked her body. Her head was a cauldron of thick, hot pressure. With the last of her strength, she slumped against the door, her forehead resting on the cold oak. A weak, gasping sob escaped her.
Then, the door opened.
Henry stood framed in the torchlight of the corridor. He had shed his armor and now wore the simple, sturdy clothes of a lord at rest: a plain, untucked white linen shirt, its sleeves rolled to the elbows, and dark brown trousers tucked into worn boots. His first thought had been of words left unsaid, of the tense silence between them. But what he saw cut through all of that.
She was curled on the stone, not in a pose of calculated distress, but in a helpless, broken heap. Her skin held a sickly, waxy pallor. Sweat matted the fiery strands of hair to her temples, and her breath came in shallow, ragged hitches. Her eyes, when they found his, were not sharp with accusation but wide and glassy with a terror that looked straight through him.
"Henry…" she slurred, her voice thick and strange.
All thought of their earlier strife vanished. In two strides he was across the threshold, dropping to his knees on the cold stone. He caught her just as her eyes rolled back and her body went limp. She fell forward against the rough linen of his shirt, her burning brow pressing against his chest. The vibrant cascade of her unbound orange hair spilled over his arm.
The heat radiating from her was alarming. He slid an arm beneath her shoulders and knees, lifting her with ease. She was frighteningly light, a bundle of fever and trembling limbs.
"GUARDS!" His shout, sharp and commanding, tore through the silent corridor. "Fetch the physician! The Queen is ill!"
He carried her back toward the bed, her head lolling against his shoulder, the reality of her vulnerability now a far greater and more immediate threat than any war of words.
---
Gisela's eyes fluttered open, the world swimming into focus slowly, painfully. A weak, pained gasp escaped her as she tried to push herself upright on the pillows.
"Ahh—"
"Be still." Henry's voice was closer than she expected. He was seated on a simple chair drawn up beside the bed. His hair was tousled, his face drawn with a fatigue that went deeper than the battlefield. His voice, when he spoke again, was low and surprisingly soft. "Gisela… why did you not tell me?"
She turned her head with effort, her gaze finding his. "A–about the vague?" A weak, brittle laugh escaped her cracked lips. "Would it have made a difference? You were not told, and still you saw no worth in me. What would knowing have changed?" Her voice was thin, shaking with both fever and a deeper hurt. "Would you have looked at me with anything but pity? Or worse, seen me as just another burden? A sickly child?"
He didn't answer immediately, his jaw tightening. A faint, sarcastic smile touched his mouth, devoid of humor. "Funny, isn't it?"
She remained silent, a fresh throb of pain pulsing behind her eyes. The quiet stretched, filled only by the crackle of the fire and her labored breathing.
"Would you ever," she began again, her voice a fragile thread, "be able to give a little affection? Would you ever grant me a chance in your heart?" She swallowed with difficulty. "I have learned to understand… to accept that I belong to you. I cannot change that. And I know we are not the first to be bound so, nor will we be the last."
The silence between them thickened, heavy with her unspoken plea and his guarded stillness.
"I will write to my father," she added, her voice still trembling but edged with a quiet resolve. "I will ask him to send Hilda to me. I need… I need someone who knows how to tend to this. Who knows how to tend to me."
She closed her eyes, the admission leaving her more than the vapour.
"Rest now," he said, his tone final, already distancing himself from the intimacy of the sickroom. "The physician will return at dawn with a tonic."