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The night air trickled in through a slit in the window. A chill seeped through the room and fluttered the curtains quietly, like wraiths in the dark. Silence occupied the night beyond the glass, but within it, the frantic rustle of bedsheets tugged to break it.
Despite the cold, Harrow’s forehead glistened with a thin layer of sweat. Her face contorted, creased around small traces of dried up paint. She breathed heavily, her teeth grinding against each other as her mind did not give her rest.
The bone construct towered above her. Its blade-like arms dripped with hot crimson as she stared up into its lifeless, empty sockets. She could feel herself shaking, her legs jittering threateningly under her as she fought to keep her strength. The construct’s jaw didn’t move, but her mind conjured up vile mockeries in a crackling voice.
“Nonagesimus…” It took a step towards her and Harrow struggled to back away from it. “Taker of lives. Taker of souls.” It swang out with its rough bone blade, and the necromancer winced as she threw herself out of the way. “Were two hundred not enough for you? Did you long for one more?”
Tears threatened to trickle out of her bloodshot eyes, but Harrow fought to stand and keep her focus. The bone construct appeared larger every time she looked at it, and the crumbling walls that enclosed them felt fuzzy and out of focus. The shaking ground sent ripples of needles through her calves.
The construct’s cackles dizzied her. She felt powerless but nevertheless strained to do something. With a pained body, she threw out bony knuckles, tearing them off of herself. Her head throbbed as she struggled to raise the skeletons, feeling blood running out of her nostrils. It tasted bitter, and putrid.
“Your body is a grave, Nonagesimus,” the construct laughed. “You take lives to sustain your own. How shameful.”
Panicked breaths rocked her chest as she forced the skeletons at the construct. Their feeble bones clinked uselessly off of its body.
“Two hundred and one souls,” its head tilted far to the side as it regarded her. Its socket clicked repeatedly, each click sending forth bubbling blood through its agape jaw. “And you still are not enough.”
Harrow’s eyes widened. Her vision was blurry with tears and she could feel her lips trembling. The skeletons she had conjured turned towards her, their empty sockets dripping thick, curdling blood. She backed away, but it was no use. Her back hit the crumbling wall and it gave way behind her. Before she could react, she was plummeting through the air, colours flickering past her eyes.
Harrow woke with a gasp. Her chest was heaving against the bedding and her knuckles were white from gripping the blanket. She could barely see out into the room in the darkness and she tried to rest back down onto the pillow.
She closed her eyes, trying to slow her breathing, but her chest was instead rocked with quiet sobs. She fought against them, stifling them, but the ache in her heart would not ease and instead tugged at her throat as though it tried to suffocate her. Every gasp of air was shaky. She thought about letting the tightness in her lungs win.
In her spiralling thoughts, it took her a moment to notice the slow movement around her waist. Something came to rest on her twitching rib cage, tenderly wrapping itself around her.
She almost froze at the physical contact, her breaths stilling, but she did not dare open her eyes. Her sobs dissipated into nervous shakes that travelled down her arms to her hands. Her fingers nearly clattered against each other, until the warmth encircling her reached out and held her hand.
The grip was gentle. She could have pulled away. Instead she shut her eyes tighter against this foreign feeling of touch. The chill of the night seemed distant now and she dared relax for just a moment. The tightness in her chest eased, and the thoughts of her nightmares were at least bearable.
She had no idea what to do with the hand clasped around hers. The feeling of intertwining fingers could have filled her with rage, but not now. She dared not move, just in case they disappeared, and she would not feel their warmth again. But they stayed, and their touch slowly caressed the back of her hand - it was a slow, rhythmic pattern that she eased into, feeling her breaths slow down to copy it. She longed for it to never stop.
As her panic died down, she felt the presence behind her inch closer, and if she strained hard enough she might have even heard a content sigh escape its chest. The silence of the room might have even filled with the quiet breathing of someone pressed against her, but she dared not wish for more. She just revelled into the thought that she was not alone, despite everything, letting her thoughts be carried away like they were heaved up into the familiar arms that held her.
She let her head sink into the pillow, feeling sleep take her once more.
The morning light trickled in under the curtains and Harrow blinked her eyes open slowly. Her hair was ruffled as she sat up, rubbing her face. Her memory of the night was fuzzy, but she felt oddly warm.
She looked to her side with just a lingering trace of hope. A hope that everything had all been a bad dream, and that all she had to do was turn to see Gideon sleeping soundly next to her.
But there was only one dent in her pillow.