In Which Halford Prepares for War

November 9, 1168

Arydath nuzzled against Halford's back and draped her arm over his side. He normally wouldn't have minded the contact, but this couldn't have been a good sign; he had been hoping that his raspy, labored breathing wasn't keeping her awake. He waited for the sound of her snores to put his fears to rest, but the minutes dragged past and they never came. "Sorry," he choked at last, quietly enough so that he wouldn't wake her on the off-chance that she was sleeping silently.

She pressed herself even closer; his suspicions had been correct. "Halford..."

As near as she was, her voice was a distant echo. The room was an assortment of blurred shapes. Halford closed his eyes tightly, then reopened them--no change. His senses were failing him. Was this dying? He wasn't sure. He might have thought he was simply falling asleep if tasks such as breathing hadn't become so difficult. He was afraid that it had ceased to be an automatic function, and he would be at the mercy of his blood-starved lungs the moment he drifted off; he wasn't even sure how long he could keep breathing if he vowed not to sleep.

"Halford?" He didn't respond. Breaths were a struggle, and words were a war. If he didn't have to, he would not start what he lacked the strength to finish.

But no one found answers in silence like Arydath did. A faint shift of fibers against his skin told him that she had risen, and the parting graze of her arm betrayed her intention of leaving the bed. "Don't try to talk, Halford."

He didn't. He heard two faint, almost inaudible sounds that must have been her feet upon the dirt floor. The bed creaked, and her footsteps resumed, softer at first and then stronger again. He managed to lift his eyelids just enough to see her petite, shadowy figure making her way to his bedside; she was radiant even in this distorted world of darkness.

"Do you need something?" Her voice was even further away than it had been before. He wished he could hear it properly. He wished he could see her properly. He supposed he was lucky to hear and see her at all.

"Halford? Don't speak, just nod." Did he need something? He didn't think he could eat. He might have drowned himself with a cup of water. I need to breathe...

"Chil... ren." He took a few extra gasps to compensate for the air lost over the course of the word.

"The children?" Arydath repeated. "Halford, don't be ridiculous; they're fast asleep. There'll be plenty of time to see the children tomorrow." He wondered briefly if she was trying to assure herself just as much as she was him, but the very thought was exhausting. Such musings were far more draining than he ever could have guessed.

"Chil..." he rasped again, the second syllable too much for his closing throat to handle.

The urgency soon overcame her denial. She slipped her hand under the blanket and squeezed his own; he felt as if her touch had set the blood pumping again, if only for a little while. "I'll get them. Just keep breathing, all right? Promise me."

He nodded weakly as she hurried out of the room. Halford took advantage of his solitude and took as many extra breaths as he could. He had to get through these struggles before he could fight the wars. He would need the words. He had to tell his children just how much he loved them.

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