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It isn’t unusual for prisoners to come to Sigewinne’s infirmary in the middle of the night. It’s actually becoming quite usual under this warden’s hand; convicts getting into petty squabbles that end in broken bones, the sick becoming sicker after not earning enough coupons to purchase a meal, not to mention the cold season is upon them. It seems the only thing she can do about it is ensure she is available at any and all hours of the day, and the warden has at least the decency to allow prisoners to break curfew in order to see her.
Which is why, when Sigewinne hears approaching footsteps in the middle of the night, she isn’t surprised.
“Miss Sigewinne?” Avril’s shy voice floats into the infirmary as the young woman steps inside, wringing her hands together.
“Oh, Avril, good evening.” Sigewinne moves toward her, concerned. Avril isn’t much taller than Sigewinne, a young woman in her early twenties, but in this moment Avril seems much, much smaller. “Is everything okay?”
“I’m sorry,” says Avril, “I, I lied to the Gardes about being sick so I could come and see you—the boy in the room next to me, I know it’s none of my business, but… I think he’s in heat, and upset, and, I didn’t know what to do.”
Oh. Oh, no. “I see,” Sigewinne says, “thank you, Avril, I’ll go check on him. Why don’t you stay here for a bit and rest? I won’t tell anyone the real reason you’ve come here; as far as the Gardes are concerned, you’ve a touch of a stomachache.”
Avril nods, brightening. “Thank you, Miss Sigewinne! Please, look after him. He seems so scared…”
Sigewinne thanks her one more time, directs her to a patient cot to rest and then hurries off.
Of course, the Gardes don’t question why she’s out past curfew. She is a nurse, and needed where she is needed, and even if the Gardes were ordered by the warden to demand information from her, she doubts many if any would follow through. It’s nighttime, and the Gardes are overworked, exhausted, and always looking for elbows of rebellion to jab into the warden’s side.
Sigewinne hurries past them, nodding to at least acknowledge them, and takes the elevator down.
The room beside Avril’s has been locked, but Sigewinne had a master key minted for herself years ago following a conversation with Neuvillette about prisoner safety. Whether the current warden or any warden come before him knows of this is nobody’s business.
Sigewinne knocks, and when there's no response she announces her arrival and lets herself inside.
The clotting scent of fear and agony is nearly putrid. So overwhelming, in fact, that it takes until after the door has shut behind her for Sigewinne to hear the low growling permeating from the furthermost corner of the room, away from the barren bed and splintery desk. Sigewinne’s chest aches as she turns, and the candlelight makes the shadows swing.
And there's the boy Avril mentioned, a lithe figure with lots of dark hair, and thick gauze wrapped tightly around his neck, chest, forearms and hands.
Sigewinne’s stomach drops to her heels.
“Oh, you’re the new convict,” Sigewinne whispers, “from that case…”
That horrible, terrible case. It’s still raining in the over world from what she understands. Wriothesley, the truest victim in all of this, crushes himself into the wall with his sole blanket curled around his shoulders and his pillow clutched to his chest, trying to cram himself into the smallest corner possible. Trying to hide, trying to disappear.
Sigewinne moves in, pausing to set her candlestick on the desk before approaching. “Oh, you poor thing. You must have been on suppressants before this; it’s alright, you’re—”
Wriothesley swipes at her. It’s okay; it wouldn’t be the first time a startled prisoner slashed her hand or cut her cheek, and she most certainly wouldn’t take it personally. Much less from someone who survived the things that Wriothesley has survived, seen the things he’s seen.
But the swipe doesn’t come. Sigewinne blinks, and Wriothesely’s hand is close to her face without contact, trembling, and she meets his eyes over his bandaged knuckles. Fevered, scared, disoriented— hurt. It isn’t the kind of look a fifteen year old should wear. Sigewinne has never seen this expression on another human teenager before.
Wriothesley lowers his trembling hand, slowly, and the growl in the back of his throat wrenches into a choked breath as he stares at her. Sigewinne slowly reaches out her own hand.
“It’s okay,” Sigewinne whispers, very, very gently. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
He watches her hand with rapt attention, but he neither bares his teeth nor growls again, nor does he raise his hand. His scent burns her sinuses, hot, defensive, sharp, but she knows he isn’t how the warden described him. She knows he isn’t dangerous.
Don’t hurt me. Don’t hurt me.
“I’m not going to hurt you, Wriothesley,” Sigewinne whispers again, earnest, “I promise.”
Her fingertips brush the hair covering his face. He jerks, startled, but it doesn’t reflect in his scent. He was surprised; not frightened. Sigewinne moves slowly, kneeling, scooting closer—and she spreads her fingers against the top of his scalp.
Wriothesley stares at her. Sigewinne stares back, pressing as much sincerely into her scent as she can.
Then, Wriothesley’s eyes slip shut, and he leans his head into Sigewinne’s hand with a tiny, shuddering sigh.
Relief stampedes through Sigewinne’s chest, and she feels her face move with an involuntary smile. It’s fragile. Wriothesley does not trust her yet, and she can feel the tension roll off of him, curdling like oversteamed milk. But she can reach him now.
“There we go,” Sigewinne murmurs, gently stroking his hair in careful, measured sweeps. “Shh, it’s alright. I’m just going to take a quick look at your injuries to make sure none of the stitches tore, alright?” Wriothesley tenses up under her hand, arms twisting around his stomach. “You don’t have to move,” Sigewinne assures him, “and I won’t touch you anywhere you aren’t okay with. Just take a deep breath for me and hold still, okay?”
Wriothesley’s attempted deep breath is nothing more than a sputtering inhale through his teeth, but it gives Sigewinne the chance to Look at his skin beneath the bandages, the organs beneath the skin. The wounds closest to his throat are inflamed, as expected, but the infection should be staved so long as he keeps up with his antibiotics; some nerve damage in his hands, but further treatment will have to wait until he’s regained his full strength; and then…
Her hand stills against his head.
“Oh,” Sigewinne says.
His wounds are healing nicely. None of his organs were majorly affected in the attack, and for that he was very lucky. But the organs in his stomach—specifically the Omegan organs that should be flowing healthily, especially if he’s in heat—something is… wrong. Twisted-up, misshapen, swollen.
“Oh,” Sigewinne breathes, “you poor thing, it’s no wonder you’re in so much pain. Here, just hold on a moment; I’m going to bring you some extra blankets, alright?” The warden won’t be pleased to hear it, but what does he know about medicine, care, decency? “I promise I will be right back, Wriothesley.”
Wriothesley shoves his face into the side of his pillow and sucks in another one of those desperate gasps, only this time it ends on a half-stifled whimper that has Sigewinne on her feet and out the door in no time.
Avril is still in the infirmary where Sigewinne allowed her to stay. She tells Avril that she is welcome to return to her room, that the situation is being taken care of, and thanks her again for speaking out about Wriothesley. Once Avril has gone and Sigewinne has armed herself with a satchel full of bottled waters and an armload of blankets, she hurries back to Wriothesley’s room.
The boy has not moved an inch since she left, though he’s hiding his whimpers with less success by the moment. Sigewinne locks the door behind her and takes a knee by his side, unfurling the topmost blanket and spreading it over him. Wriothesley jumps, lifting his head to stare at her with wide, dazed eyes.
“You can take these,” Sigewinne says, “they’re from the infirmary, but I wash them with a scent blocker, so they shouldn’t upset you.”
Wriothesley’s gaze flickers cautiously between her and the blankets, before eventually landing on her. She smiles and gives him one big nod of what she hopes is reassurance.
“No one’s going to punish you for it,” she says. “I’m not trying to bribe you or trick you, either. I can even leave for now if that’s what you’d prefer.”
Wriothesley’s hand snaps out, though, like before, but it isn’t to strike at her. For a moment, she’d dare say he was reaching for her. But he catches himself, draws his arm back to his chest and ducks his head.
That’s okay. “Then I won’t go anywhere,” Sigewinne confirms. “Is it okay if I check on your temperature? You’re awfully flushed…”
Wriothesley stays tense under her hand, thinly restrained fear and nervous trills in the base of his throat. Sigewinne feels his head, his temples, his cheeks… the fever is far more intense than she’s known a healthy heat to rise, but knowing what she does about the state of his omegan tract, it’s only to be expected.
He doesn’t fuss with the blankets much, either, barricading them between himself and the rest of the room. He’s lethargic, moving sluggishly, watching her constantly. She urges him to drink some water, and when he finally curls himself up and lies still, soaks her handkerchief to settle across his burning forehead. He’s small, even by teenage-human standards. Covered in bandages, still-healing stitches fresh enough to bead blood when stretched, she hasn’t a clue how he’s expected to earn enough coupons to feed himself.
How is he supposed to recover, alone in a damp environment, injured and unwell, with a reputation that leads many to be wary of his presence?
She shakes herself out of it, because now isn’t the time, and wills her scent to calm. Calm, steady— still, and peaceful. This is what he needs. He needs someone who can reliably assure him it will be okay, and as much as she hopes he’ll find his own people soon enough, she’d gladly be that person for the whole of his sentence if need be.
“I’ll stay with you tonight,” Sigewinne tells him. “I need to tell my assistant not to expect me back, but please know I will return. Are you going to be okay?”
Wriothesley’s nod is minuscule, but he’d probably respond affirmatively even if he wasn’t okay, so she makes haste all the same.
By the time Sigewinne returns, Wriothesley has fallen into a restless slumber, overstressed and exhausted with his brow burned hot with fever. The sleep is shallow, so much so she fears the smallest sound will wake him, but he stays blissfully asleep while she tucks herself against the wall across from him and unpacks her new supplies.
The blankets seem to have comforted him, fists clenching and unclenching against them even in his sleep. He’s in pain, still, and she doesn’t like that, but he’s resting. She douses the handkerchief in fresh water and drapes it back over his forehead, and prepares another cool towel to settle across his inflamed scent glands.
She’ll have to read up more on this type of heat.
For now, she tucks her legs beneath her and cracks open what reading material she has, an encyclopedia of herbs that Neuvillette gifted her. She knows it by heart, but it never hurts to freshen up. Wriothesley’s scent hangs sourly around her, but he is sleeping. If he sleeps, there's the chance he will wake up feeling better.
Sigewinne reads, pausing every chapter to freshen the handkerchief on Wriothesley’s face and wipe tiny beads of sweat from his flushed, boiling cheeks. The fever hasn’t gone anywhere, for better or worse. She should be relieved, but he still smells so scared and so hurt that she can’t bring herself to it. She keeps her distance, gives him space. Reads her book.
Chapter by chapter; page turn, page turn. Wriothesley tosses a little, clawing at the blankets around him until he seems to remember what they are, and settles back to sleep. Sigewinne waits until his breathing has settled before she finds the handkerchief amongst the tangles and presses it back to his temples. Page turn, page turn. Wriothesley’s breath hitches fiercely as he digs his fists into his lower stomach, brow furrowed, scent spiking like hardened bits of icicle. Sigewinne scoots just close enough to reach, petting his hair until he’s slipped under again.
Page turn. Another chapter done. Wriothesley’s scent stays high-strung and sharp, without another frantic spike. Sigewinne gets through another chapter.
Across from her, Wriothesley shifts, and his head comes up from his pillow. He’s awake, but disoriented, confused. Sigewinne opts to stay quiet lest she startle him. The last time this happened he rolled over and went right back to sleep; his poor immune system needs sleep if it’s to pull him through this.
Wriothesley shifts around some more, but instead of laying down again he inches toward her, tentative. The fear in his scent is rampant, and he’s trembling as he moves, so she keeps reading. She refuses to startle him. He’s been through more than enough fear for one lifetime.
She turns a page quietly, while Wriothesley shimmies against the wall toward her, closer, dragging his collection of blankets with him.
Then, when he’s close enough that she can feel the heat rolling off of him, Wriothesley collapses into her side. He’s so limp that it startles her, and Sigewinne immediately drops her book to catch his lolling head. Her hands cup his cheeks, his skin flushed deep with the beginning of a heat rash creeping down his neck, disappearing beneath the slew of bandages.
“Wriothesley?” Sigewinne presses, pushing his hair from out of his face to try and find his gaze. “Are you okay?”
Wriothesley nods, though, dazed as he is, and shimmies out of her touch to curl around her hip instead, tucking his knees into his chest and burrowing his face into her leg. His babyhairs are plastered to his face with sweat, the back of his neck drenched. He smells sickly, weak.
And then beneath that there's… a smell she hasn’t smelled before—the chill of a blizzard; ice clinging to the gutter; peppermint candies, prickly and sweet; and smelting iron, red-hot metal and anvils and sparks flying.
It’s his scent, she realizes. Wriothesley smells like mint, like snow, like silver. This is the first time she’s smelled him beneath the overpowering stench of fear and pain.
Sigewinne’s hand finds his hair, close to the back of his neck. She keeps her touch far away from his scent glands and instead focuses on detangling the knots that have gathered in his sweaty hair. Wriothesley presses closer, shaking so terribly he’s practically vibrating with uncertainty, but she draws her fingers gently over his scalp and he answers with the smallest, most precious little chirp she’s ever heard.
It’s likely the closest he’ll come to purring until he’s been given the time to rest and to heal.
“Aw,” Sigewinne whispers, and she can hear the smile in her voice even if it doesn’t show on her face, “you could have just said you wanted the company; I would have come to you so you didn’t destroy your nest…”
The nest doesn’t seem to be a big concern anymore, though. Wriothesley is quickly falling asleep, and Sigewinne reaches for the water bottle at her opposite side, pours a splash into a thimble and helps him lift his head enough to drink. His fever is dreadful and he’s struggling to hold his head on his own, but he drinks, doesn’t choke, and flops against her again after Sigewinne is satisfied.
“I just assumed you’ve been on suppressants,” says Sigewinne, screwing the cap back on the water bottle to set aside for later, “but suppressants would have never worked for you, would they? That fever of yours has gotten so high.”
Wriothesley does not answer. Judging by his breathing, he’s either a moment away from sleep or already deep beneath it, and her heart is settled to know he feels safe enough to sleep in her presence, by her side. She finds a single gray hair in his fringe, silver in the warm candlelight, and strokes it away from his feverish face.
“Some of the inmates think you’re scary, but you’re really very gentle, aren’t you?” Sigewinne says, thoughtful. “You’ve just never had the chance…”
Wriothesley manages to take one deep, controlled breath, and when he lets it go he shakes his head. Sigewinne keeps petting his hair to soothe him. From the sounds of it, even breathing is putting strain on his system.
That scar underneath his eye is old, too. How old, she wonders, if he’s only fifteen?
He never even had a chance.
“You know,” Sigewinne tells him, “none of it is your fault.”
Wriothesley stops breathing.
“I know you never wanted to hurt anybody,” Sigewinne goes on anyway, easing her fingers through his sweaty hair. “Your siblings—you were their protector the whole time, weren’t you?” Stroking his hair, she finds that gray hair again, and tucks it back with the rest of his locks. “I’m sure they came to you with a lot of things. They probably told you everything they were ever upset about and you told them it’d be okay, didn’t you? You broke them up when they fought, you were happiest when they were happy… and in the end, you were their hero, too, weren’t you? But I’m sure you always were, even before everything happened. Their big brother.”
Wriothesley has started to breathe again, but only in small, gasping hitches that don’t sound much like breaths at all.
“You protected everyone you could, Wriothesley,” Sigewinne says, “and it isn’t your fault. I think they would all be very proud of you.” Sad for him, too, but she couldn’t possibly say that. She shakes herself, tucks his hair behind his ear and says softly, “But it’s okay to miss them.”
Wriothesley’s fingers curl into a fistful of the blankets up against her knee. The tremor in his breath has extended to his shoulders, his arms, his hands— Sigewinne leans down to hug him, as much as it can be called a hug at this angle. Humans need hugs. Especially teenage humans. Especially when they’re hurt.
She waits until he’s asleep before pulling away.
Stroking his hair. Wiping sweat from his face.
Stroking his hair.
Neuvillette left his shoes outside the door of Wriothesley’s chambers again. The habit itself makes Sigewinne smile a little; she likes that Neuvillette can let his guard down with Wriothesley, every much as Wriothesley can let his guard down around him. Hypocritical workaholics they may be, they challenge each other well.
Sigewinne knocks twice with the backs of her knuckles, and when Neuvillette quietly calls, “Come in,” she pushes the door in silently and steps into the room with her mug of tea.
The scene that awaits her is the scene she expected: Neuvillette has leaned himself against the headboard with a book in-hand, his other hand buried in Wriothesley’s hair while Wriothesley curls around him, fast asleep. Blankets heaped and skewed, the distant note of sickness hanging in the air, Wriothesley’s peppermint-winter-metalwork scent and Neuvillette’s clearwater-parchment-ink. Both their scents are comforting and familiar, even if Wriothesley’s carries a twinge of illness and Neuvillette’s a note of concern.
“Monsieur Neuvillette,” Sigewinne greets, catching the door with her heel and easing it into frame behind her. “How is he?”
“Miss Sigewinne,” Neuvillette greets in return, a relaxed smile on his face. “He’s alright. He assured me the worst has passed, but he always says as much when he doesn’t want me to worry. I will believe it when I see it.”
“Yes, that sounds like His Grace alright. Well, in his defense, it is the fourth day. His worst symptoms usually run their course on the third.” She approaches, and holds the mug toward Neuvillette expectantly. “I have some prepared for him downstairs, but I assumed you’d like a spot of tea in the meantime while he slept.”
“Ah, thank you, Miss Sigewinne.” Neuvillette leaves the book on the bedside table, trading it for the mug. “That was very thoughtful.”
Pleased, Sigewinne smiles. “It’s the least I can do. I’m sure Wriothesley will be wanting some himself when he’s awake, but for now it’s far better for him to rest. Did he have any appetite yesterday?”
“None at all.”
Poor Wriothesley. “Mm, I figured as much… that’s pretty typical for the third day of his heat, though. The third day is always the worst.”
Neuvillette nods thoughtfully and cards his fingers through Wriothesley’s graying hair. “And there's still no suppressant on the market that can take this from him?
“Nor off the market, I’m afraid, and not for lack of searching. He’s tried a lot of brands before, but it seems the only thing they do is trigger heats and intensify the symptoms.”
Neuvillette’s fingers wrap around Wriothesley’s upper arm and squeeze, and Sigewinne can’t blame him for feeling uneasy. He doesn’t know it the way she knows it, but it’s objectively upsetting, the concept of Wriothesley being in even more pain.
“You’re well within your right not to answer this question if you feel it would be a breach of privacy,” says Neuvillette, “or if you would simply prefer Wriothesley to answer himself. But those… people, that raised him. Did they force him to take suppressants?”
“Are you asking if that could have hindered the healthy development of his heat cycle?” Sigewinne asks. Neuvillette nods. “Well, then my answer will have to be yes and then no. He had tried several brands of suppressants, even before his time in Meropide, but he must’ve been born with this kind of cycle.”
Wriothesley’s parents had forced several brands on him growing up (under the pretense of acting for his own benefit, for his own good, those vile people), and when Wriothesley first arrived in Meropide the previous warden prescribed a non-negotiable brand of suppressants. (Just once, and only once, because the suppressants triggered the most excruciating heat Wriothesley has ever had, and Sigewinne never felt so close to losing her head as she did during those two weeks.) That information is too personal for her to share with Neuvillette as a third party—as a doctor, no less—but Neuvillette isn’t asking for that.
Neuvillette sighs. “Then there's nothing to reverse, either, then.”
“Not that I’m aware of. I haven’t met another Omega with this kind of cycle before; I wish there was more I could do for him.”
That scar underneath Wriothesley’s eye never faded, and he’s scored an impressive repertoire of gray hairs for himself through the years. More scars, more grief, more guilt; but also more life, more friends, more purpose.
Neuvillette reaches for her hand. “You do more for him than you realize, Sigewinne, and I doubt he would approve if he heard you talking like that.”
“Talkin’ like wha’?” Wriothesley grouses, his voice so slurred and clotted with sleep it’s nearly ineligible.
Neuvillette laughs. “I do believe that’s as half-asleep as I’ve ever heard you.” He strokes Wriothesley’s hair as he stirs, features softening when Wriothesley blinks his eyes open and looks around. “How are you feeling?”
“Mmn.” Wriothesley clears his scratchy throat. “Achy, n’ too warm, but. Not as bad.”
“I’m happy to hear that.” Neuvillette’s smile makes his eyes crinkle, and he makes an attempt to smooth Wriothesley’s inconsolable hair. “You must have the most atrocious bedhead I have ever seen.”
Wriothesley buries his face in Neuvillette’s leg. “And I suppose you just wake up lookin’ like that, huh?”
“Essentially yes. Oh—Sigewinne is here, though I’m certain you’ve noticed.”
“Good morning, Wriothesley!” Sigewinne chirps, skipping over to his side of the bed. Wriothesley twists around to follow her with his gaze. “I didn’t even have to threaten to sedate you this time, you started your leave as soon as you realized you were going into pre-heat.”
Wriothesley ruffles her hair with a kind of aggressive fondness that makes it stick up everywhere. “I worked through it one time.”
“And it was a terrible time,” says Sigewinne, nodding solemnly, “and I’m sure you should tell Neuvillette all about it to ensure it never happens again.”
“You worked through it?” Neuvillette sounds almost comically distraught, but the height of it in his scent is less comical.
“Not totally,” says Wriothesley. “Thought I’d try a fun new brand of suppressants right before some important reorganization. In hindsight, my bad, but I couldn’t exactly leave the Gardes to handle the lot of it by themselves. We were needing to replace an entire pipeline that corroded; it was no walk in the park.”
“You worked through it,” Neuvillette stresses again.
Wriothesley reaches up to squeeze the side of Neuvillette’s neck by their bondmark, his scent airy and cool. “Yep, and it was stupid, and I was so miserable by the end of it that I can’t imagine ever doing it again.”
“He was out for two weeks,” says Sigewinne. “His fever was so high at times I nearly shipped him up to the surface, if just to be away from the damp air. But it was alright in the end. And never again.”
“Never again,” Wriothesley assures.
Neuvillette does some more of that long-suffering sighing, but the stress slips out of his shoulders as soon as Wriothesley starts to purr. He always was weak to that, Sigewinne’s realized, not that she can imagine anyone responding differently to their partner. “Speaking of fevers,” Neuvillette says, his hand sliding to rest over Wriothesley’s forehead, “it seems yours has gone down some.”
“Feels like it,” Wriothesley agrees, snuggling back into the blankets. “Sorry, Sigewinne—I’m probably gonna sleep some more. Migraine’s rearin’ its head again.”
“Oh, don’t worry about keeping me company,” Sigewinne says, waving her hands. “I only came to check on you both, please rest for as long as you need. The rest of the Fortress is running smoothly in the meantime.”
Wriothesley’s chuckle is airy, and a smidge too tight. She really should be going so that he can rest. “Got it, got it. Thank you, Sigewinne.”
Sigewinne nods to him, then to Neuvillette, and starts to turn away.
“Hey, Sigewinne—”
And Wriothesley catches her by the hand. She turns to face him, and… it isn’t the same teenager she met that night in the dark corner of his room, scared out of his mind, sick and alone. Wriothesley hasn’t been that person in years. But it is still him, his earnest kindness and that fierce protective streak that misfortune and grief did nothing to temper. He holds his people close to his chest. Holds them safe.
“I mean that,” Wriothesley tells her seriously, squeezing her fingers. “Really, Sigewinne, thank you.”
She understands. Her free hand comes to settle over his involuntarily, like it’s got a heart of its own. The smile comes just as easily. “Well, Your Grace,” says Sigewinne, “of course. I know I’ve told you before, there's no need to thank me. But you’re welcome all the same.”
Wriothesley smiles back at her, lopsided and tired and satisfied, and Sigewinne steals the opportunity to ruffle his hair aggressively until Neuvillette’s attempt to stifle his chuckle fails, and Sigewinne flees before Wriothesley can accuse her of sabotage.
The room behind her smells like freshly fallen snow and comfort and warmth, free from fear, free from loneliness. That scared and lonely teenager has found himself a home, and there are precious few things she cherishes more than being a part of it.