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Ged stretches, and yawns. It is barely evening, and yet he is tired enough that it could’ve been midnight. He sits at the table, as Tenar moves around the room. Tehanu is outside, maybe playing in the piles of autumn leaves, or roaming around as she likes to do. The oaks are still brown, and the firs green, but all other trees have started shedding their dressings before winter comes.

The world’s wind blows, the wind which has its own name, the wind of Gont, the wind of Re Albi. To turn it away, he thinks absentmindedly, you’d have to exclude all other winds, exclude the wind that blows over Oak Farm, and Ten Alders village, exclude the wind coming from the west and the north. Once he could have done it, easily. Now he doesn’t have a chance, though he still knows all the right words by heart.

The feeling of loss gets lighter once spoken. He has discovered that, and made good use of it since that day. Since Tenar drew it out of him, waited it out of him, revealing another life entirely. She comes up behind him, rubbing his shoulder, rousing him. He leans back, head resting on her stomach. She runs her fingers through his hair. 

“I am tired,” he says aloud. Strange. He hasn’t done much today. Mending clothes, milking the goats. Cooking. “And cold,” he adds, after mentally examining himself. 

“Put your hands on my neck,” she says, smiling. “I’m warm enough for the both of us.”

He stands up and does as she says. Her pale neck under his dark hands.

She is warm, as she often is in the evening. She wears many layers, and rips them off as often as she puts them back on. “That happens to women when they don’t bleed anymore,” she’d explained to him once. At that point he had already been told of the monthly doings of women, its purpose, and how it stops around Tenar’s age.

It is strange to him, how they’ve both grown old. He never thought he would get old, never counted on ageing.

It is strange to him, how little he knew, how little he still knows of the world. He runs his hands over her neck, and her face. She sighs, smiling. Her warm skin, his cold hands. Equilibrium, he thinks, chuckling, because that is not at all what the word means. He likes the freedom of misusing it, even just internally doing so. He runs his palms over Tenar’s face. He runs his fingers through her hair. He can’t quite make himself go to bed, despite the weight of his limbs, the weight of his eyelids. 

“Go lay down,” Tenar says, as if she heard him. “I’ll join you soon, when Tehanu is back inside.”

He nods, hugging her for a moment before disappearing behind the half wall.

***

The next morning he awakens late, and dizzy. Tenar has already gone from the bed. He feels heavy, his skin sticky and awkwardly fitted.

His mind isn’t as clear as it usually is.

A vague headache lingers around him. Almost out of habit he scans his body, for wounds, something out of the ordinary, but he finds nothing. Only scars, running like seams over his skin, most of them pale and old. He seems to be whole, in one piece.

Slowly he shifts to sitting, then he shuffles to sit on the edge of the bed. Dizziness. He stands up, trailing a hand along the wall as he walks to the doorway. Then, into the big room. Tenar comes towards him from the lit fire, her hands ashy.

She tells him good morning and he nods, wordless. Words aren’t coming to him. She goes closer, he looks at her and thinks of nothing. She stops in front of him, studying him, hands steady on her lower back. 

“Are you alright?”

A question which used to fill him with profound fear. It doesn’t anymore. He squints at her, around the room. He shrugs. 

“I feel… strange.” His words come slow, but not halting. 

He rubs his temple, hoping that’ll make the headache go away. He isn’t clenching his teeth, or tensing his shoulders. That used to give him headaches. But he isn’t tense.

Tenar puts a hand on his arm. Then she touches his forehead instead, with the back of her hand. Her skin feels cool against his, sea waves or a breeze. 

“Come sit down,” she says, leading him back to the bed. He follows without much protest, though he can’t help but try to hinder her, asking why and mumbling that he’s thirsty. 

“I’ll get you water.”

He is too tired to stop her. Why am I so tired? What is this?

He feels fuzzy. Diffused and translucent. He can’t quite keep focused. He is starting to get unnerved, not being present is never good, not being able to stay vigilant of his surroundings. Even now, that habit lingers. The feeling that there will be consequences, if he doesn’t remain observant, the feeling that something will go wrong. When Tenar returns she tells him:

“You’ve got a fever. It might be best that you stay in bed today.”

He drinks deeply from the mug and frowns at her. 

“I don’t get sick,” he says. “I never get sick.”

She laughs then, taking the mug from his hand and gently pushing on his shoulder to make him lie down. He doesn’t fight her. 

“Well, there’s a first time for everything,” she replies simply. 

From beneath the covers he grabs her hand, surprised by how cold it feels, he shakes his head. Mild vertigo, twisting the room around him. He reiterates, thinking she hasn’t understood him. 

“I never get sick, Tenar. Never.” 

She just nods, smiling. He lays his head back down and lets go of her hand, feeling robbed of willpower. Not in the way which used to disgust him, not in the way which he has always hated. Now, it seems to him peaceful. I’ll stay here. I can just stay here a while.

He watches as Tenar goes into the big room, he listens to her steps and feels as if he is already drifting back towards sleep. She returns with a comb and a thin leather band. 

“Sit up for me, will you? Only a little while.”

With effort, he does so. She sits behind him, and starts running her fingers through his hair. Gentle, as she always is.

He isn’t tenderheaded anymore. He hasn’t been tenderheaded since he was a child. Still, he used to flinch when Tenar treaded her fingers through his hair, and flinch at the feeling of the comb. Before he could learn to avoid startling she had already adapted, gentler still, so that he can barely feel her tugging. She combs his hair.

He sits, closing his eyes. I never used to get sick. The comb scratching his scalp feels like sunlight and hearth fire. He shivers. 

“Do you have a headache?” she asks, and he nods. 

The comb on his scalp. Then by his temples. He sighs, a small whine. Not from pain. She puts the comb down and scratches his head with her fingers. His temples, his hair. Perfect amount of pressure, enough to be a blessing, a spell of safety, somehow seeming more real to him now than any of those he used to cast. She rubs his hairline, his face, until he is lost in the sensation, lost in her hands, nearly falling forward, lax.

How easily she does it, how easily she reveals a new comfort, with power enough to make him ache all over remembering the days when he couldn’t even imagine such a thing. He remembers tugging on his hair, desperately trying to gather himself, back in Hort Town. The first thing he had noticed was that he had a headache. Then, that there was dust in his mouth.

He feels Tenar start braiding, starting above his forehead and weaving in more strands as she keeps on. He hasn’t learned that one yet. She has taught him the usual braid, the one with three strands, as well as the four part braid, but he doesn’t know the woven ones yet. Her fingernails against his scalp. She hums as she braids. Then, she ties it off and rubs his back. 

“I’ll bring in more water for you,” she whispers softly close to his ear. “Go back to sleep, Ged.”

And, as easily as if she were a wizard, using his true name to command him, he does as she says. He is asleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow. 

***

It is worse when he awakens. He awakens confused, where am I? For a moment he doesn’t know, he searches for some sign but the walls are bare, and he can’t quite sit up. He blinks, fumbling to grab hold of something, finding only a handful of bedding. The headache is worse now.

Must be Ogion’s house. Where- Why not the alcove? He ponders this for a moment, frowning up at the ceiling. He can’t quite make the pieces fit together. No. Someone… Little pyre sleeps in the alcove. I sleep here. He nods to himself, but the movement brings dizziness, a muffled moan slips from him.

He tries to sit up. His body is heavy, limbs strangely numbed. Now, half sitting, he can see the green pitcher. It stands on the floor next to the bed, along with a clay mug. Good. There’s water. His mouth is dry. Alright.

He forces himself upright. Then closer to the edge of the bed.

He is shivering. The air around him is cold, sharp. Ought to make a fire. Ought to...

He loses track of thought. His head is swimming with something outside of himself, something inside him, something which is not himself. He feels naked, invaded, vulnerable. He grits his teeth. Alone. For a moment he feels the urge, like a pulse through his right palm, the urge to reach for the staff. But even like this he knows that all of that is over. He has no staff, now.

He puts his palms to the bed and lowers himself to the floor. This strange weakness, seeming to him disgustingly familiar. It feels like all those times before, and it brings them closer, puts them up against his skin like a cold mist.

He holds the pitcher with both hands, trying and failing to keep a clear line of sight from the spout to the mug. A bit of water on the floor, who cares? Would be a waste. He pours it, carefully. Always be grateful of water when you have it. May not always be the case. He takes the mug and drinks. It is cold in his mouth, soft and marvellous. At least, his hands aren’t shaking. What is it about me that keeps… putting me back here? Weak and reaching for water? The beginning of a laugh, a drop of water or spittle in the wrong place, he coughs and sputters. The humour is lost.

His chest aches, he coughs. Tearing and deep. He stops for a moment, swallowing, gasping, gathering. Gathering himself.

He takes another drink of water, slowly. When it is emptied he puts the mug down again. He puts the mug down. His arm falls to his side. He feels as if he can’t move. He can’t move, limbs too heavy.

Like in those dreams, the ones he has every so often, he struggles to lift his legs, just one step more, snow whips against him, he needs to get to a village on the other side of the island before sundown and he has gravely underestimated the distance, or overestimated his own endurance. Soon he will not be able to keep on anymore, he will fall without being able to get back up again. He blinks slowly, seeing the room around him, the darkness of Ogion’s house.

It is unnerving. Unnerving how real the thought of snow seems to him, he has to get himself warm but he can’t move. He shudders, sudden nausea, the headache growing. Where am I, really? He looks around, willing himself to focus, failing. He is cold.

Steps coming closer, he strains to get up, get up, his hand wants to reach for the staff he left behind. He can’t focus. He can’t get up. Tenar in the doorway. Tenar. He gazes blearily at her. She comes closer, saying something he can’t quite hear, probably asking why he is on the floor, why something, why anything. He can’t sort out his thoughts to answer her. She hoists him up, arm over his back. 

“I’m fine. Got water,” he says hoarsely. And then, “I’m sorry. I spilled some.”

“You could’ve called for me,” she says gently. “I would’ve helped you.”

He nods. She lays him down on the bed, but doesn’t draw the covers over him. She stands watching him, affection on her face. At least she doesn’t look worried. 

“I am tired,” he mumbles. “I am cold.”

The words feel so familiar. He ponders that for a while, as she puts the bedding over him. 

“You’re burning up,” she tells him. “Have some more water, will you?”

He nods, she gives him the mug.

He didn’t see her fill it. Can’t catch up. She moves so quickly. Strange.

He feels terrible, his whole body, and he can’t figure out why. He drinks. Cold water. Soothing.

Only healed wounds this time, he repeats, knowing to have checked. Didn’t I check? Healed, all healed.

He reaches out, with the mug in his hand, it seems too heavy for his wrist. Then it is gone. His hand drops empty to his side. Someone whispers his name, and he finds his eyes closed, his body heavy and head swimming, awareness weak then gone. 

***

“I’ll sleep in the alcove with you tonight,” she tells Tehanu, “Hawk has a fever.”

Not that it will make much of a difference, she thinks. Our child is warm as one fevered.

But you don’t sleep in a sick man’s bed. It is entirely his own. You might sit awake beside it, or make yourself another nest next to it, or comfort any way you can while awake. You do not sleep in a sick man’s bed.

Ged sleeps through most of the first day. Tenar is glad of it. She’d thought he might be a restless sickling, the kind which tosses and turns, but so far it has been calmer than she feared. Most of her effort goes towards reassuring Tehanu, she isn’t openly anxious but Tenar can tell that she does not like this, doesn’t like Ged being laid out sick. “We don’t have to worry so early,” she tells her, “let’s wait at least a day or two, hm?” Tehanu gives a sullen nod. She lingers in the doorway while Tenar feels Ged’s forehead, trying to approximate the fever. Not high enough to worry.

The child watches as Tenar listens to the sick man’s breathing. His skin is hot, and he sleeps like one struck dead, completely still, breathing shallow. He really is too thin, Tenar decides, watching him. And I guess he won’t be eating much until this clears up. Though, she reminds herself, he has always been thin. Always been slight, and not too tall, not even tall enough for her to remark on, she who was raised by only women. His voice, of course, had seemed to her strange in its depth. Only afterwards did she notice men were oftentimes taller than women. Though, Thar was taller than many of the men I’ve met.

Her eyes roam, over his soft curls, his fine mouth, his hawk’s nose. Even then, way back when, back when he looked a strong healthy youth, it was a slender sort of strength. And more so, more so slender the longer I kept him in my labyrinth, she thinks, and finds that she is smiling looking at him. How long has she stood here watching him sleep, smiling, reminiscing on times which weren’t at all so good while they lasted? It is almost embarrassing, how easy it would be to stay this way all day.

But that won’t do. There is a home to be kept, a garden to tend to, goats and sheep. And before that, that which comes above all other obligations, a child to be fed. She turns, going back into the main room, followed by Tehanu. It is a lovely set of obligations, those of the farmer’s wives of Earthsea. However tough they may be. Farmer’s widow, now. At least there is a beloved man around, someone to call her by name. And my birdlet, my wild child, my Therru.

***

She shouldn’t have been surprised. Of course the night would be worse, she thinks, woken by whines coming from the inner room. With Ged, with all people, of course the night is harder. So she gets up, almost silently, and lights an oil lamp. Usually she saves on the oil, but this, she thinks, this has to be some sort of an exception.

She finds him just where she left him, in the bed, under the bedding. Whining, mumbling. As she gets closer he reaches out his hands, they’re quivering, she sets down the lamp to free her own. His skin is aflame with heat. Now she can make out words, words between the weak moans which don’t quite sound like sobs. 

“Tenar,” he pleads, making her chest ache for him, “I’m. I must be… I’m hurt.”

She sits down and stokes his face, but the fear in his eyes doesn’t give way. 

“I can’t. I can’t find…” He gazes up at her, lips parting, then tensing to show his teeth. His face is hard and intense. “I have to. To find it.”

“Find what?” 

For a moment it seems as if he hasn’t heard what she said, again he repeats, I have to find it. He clutches her hands tightly. 

“The wound,” he mumbles. “I have to find the wound, Tenar.” He draws breath shakily, hitching. “I can’t find it. I have to.”

“It is alright,” she says. “There is no wound. You are alright.” He shakes his head, grimacing. “You’re safe, Ged. I’ll keep you safe.”

“I’m not- I’m not well,” he says, as if it just dawned on him. He drops her hands. 

She nods, filling the mug with water. Then she moves next to him and props him up, so his head rests on her shoulder.

He is light in her arms, and trembling. She helps him drink, and he lets her. She eases him back down onto the bed, freeing her hands, refilling the mug. 

“Is there enough?” he mumbles. 

Again, she helps him drink until the mug is empty. He turns his head, reaching around her weakly, trying to bring her closer. It shouldn’t hurt to see him like this, she thinks. It is only a cold. He’ll fight it off, easy as anything. 

“Is there enough?”

“Enough of what?”

“Water.”

His tone is grave, quiet. Barely concealed tension, she can hear it now, now that she has finally learned to read his voice. Oh, dear boy, what life have you lived to keep such fears?

She knows the answer. She knows, though they don’t speak of it as often anymore, as often as they did when his tongue finally loosened. Don’t be sorry. Not for me, either, he had said, and yet… She remembers his face in the labyrinth. Beaten, a mummy’s face, his bloody mouth. Is there enough water?

Enough to give me something to drink?

Her stomach twists with old well worn guilt. 

“There is, Ged. There is enough water. More than enough.”

He nods, seeming to calm for a moment. His breaths are slightly quicker than usual, his voice hoarse when he speaks.

Ought to get him to eat something, anything. His head is growing heavy on her shoulder, his limbs starting to go limp. 

“I have to find it,” Ged says again. “There’s. I have to close it.” He takes a deep breath. “I have to find it. Won’t be good, if I don’t find it.”

He makes a gesture with his hand, but it is a meaningless one. He looks up at her, as if he just explained something, as if she must know now, know what he needs her to do. He seems afraid, tense and trembling.

It is startling, to see him scared, to see his fear so openly. Stranger still, that this would cause it. Either it is his face that is too dull, or the gaze too bright. His eyes are glossy. 

“I’ll find it for you,” she whispers. 

“Please,” he replies, weak voiced. 

When she lays him down his eyelids are shut, his breathing deepened slightly, his mouth halfway open. Tenar leaves to get a towel, to soak with water, to cool him. 

***

He drifts, and the worst part is that he doesn’t know where reality lies. Which way to go, where… Where to go.

He drifts, and for moments at a time he is sure someone is trying to tell him something, for moments at a time he is certain there is a way for him to follow, somewhere he has to go. His body aches, but he can’t find the wound. And if he can’t find it, then… But there must be a wound.

No wizardry left to pour into it. I’ll have to find another way. Another way. He has to find it.

He drifts back towards Ogion’s house, towards the dark room. For moments at a time he is certain that is where he is, but everything seems to him so strange that those moments are short, and not much of a comfort. There’s some part of it, some part of it which can’t be real.

He dreams, and in the dream he is burning up from the inside, he is lying in Ogion’s house, in the dark inner room, and there is another person next to him. He is lying in the dark inner room, and Ogion is there with him, he quivers and shakes, Ogion holds him in his arms and strokes his hair. But that can’t be right. Because Ogion is gone, now. And he has been gone for some time. He has to remind himself. Some part of it all must be a trick.

Tenar holds his head up and gives him water, and that is how he finds himself in the labyrinth. Of course, he thinks at first, that’s it. That is the aching all through him. But I know how it ends, he thinks then. I remember it. I shouldn’t know how it ends, not if. If I’m not done with it.

Tenar gives him freshwater, and he wonders if there is enough, or if they are running out. He wonders if he should tell her to steer towards port, only to find he doesn’t know which direction that would be, east maybe, only to find he cannot form words, and then she is gone, or he is, taken somewhere far away. He is drowning in heat and sweat, he is shivering with cold.

His head is swimming, and he is sure that he’s floating on the surface of a great sea, torn between wave and froth, though not that same sea which he used to know so well. His head aches, dull and all encompassing. He thinks that there should be dust all around him, and maybe that is the ache in his throat, in his lungs. It must be, the way each breath is a tearing in his chest. He doesn’t have the energy to stop himself from thinking of what that means. Because Ogion’s house was never dusty. Never, not once.

So he must be somewhere else. Alone.

There is someone else with him, sometimes it is Estarriol, other times Tenar, but that means nothing. How many times hasn’t he imagined before, or dreamt? It is a trick. A sick comfort which will only make everything worse, afterwards. When he wakes up.

I have to save myself. No one else will. He must find the wound, because if he doesn’t. If he doesn’t then that’s it, all over, done with.

It is uncomfortable how scared that makes him. It is unnerving, as most things are, the heat, the cold. His dry mouth. The ache. He doesn’t know where reality lies. In Hort Town with the headache, and the dust, or in the snow on Osskil. He is horribly tired, but more so scared, I have to wake up, I have to- He can’t remember. He can’t remember what it is he has to do, someone is telling him, but he can’t make sense of the words.

You’re burning up. But he’s freezing, shivering. He is drifting, and at the same time sure that he’s getting no closer. 

***

He is awake again. He thinks that he is awake again, and he is drifting, alone, in Lookfar. He wants to go back to the dream he had, so badly his breath catches in his throat, for it was a wonderful one. But he can’t, if he does, then… It won’t be good, if he drifts off.

It doesn’t matter if he’s disappointed. He has to stay awake. Focus.

He can’t lift his head. Lookfar lurches violently up and down, and Ged thinks that he ought to say a couple of words to her, to calm the rough sea, but his throat is too dry to form the sounds. The sky above is bright, aching behind his eyes, the sun burning hot.

Do I have any water? He can’t remember. He can’t remember where he is, or where he’s going, what happened, why. East or west? Lebannen. Is he- alright? Yes, he is. He is king, as he was supposed to be. I knew he would be, and he is. A small comfort.

Ged is in Lookfar and he’s aching, his muscles and the inside of his chest. The depth of his ribcage. He can’t think. He can’t lift his head. Dizzy and nauseous. Where is the wound? Where is the sickness coming from?

Sickness. He uses the word allegorically, as he has done all his life, to mean weakness outside of his control, to mean the heaviness of his limbs, the slowness of his mind. There must be a source. Something to… something to do. Something to be done. But I can’t even lift my head.

He can’t move. Can’t sit up enough to find the waterskin. Is there any water? There is nothing I can do. With a tremble he realises that he is afraid. He gives some kind of a sob, it sounds to him terribly hollow, small and empty. I can’t. His breath hitches, he hates the feeling of powerlessness, and hates more so how it makes him so scared. He sobs, unable to keep it in.

Above him he sees stars. Night sky, shifting and strange. How long? Night already. He doesn’t recognise the constellations, and he can’t tell whether they are even moving. A shuddering in the hull, maybe running aground. Where am I? Aground. Land? Or a sandbar?

There is a sudden sharp coldness over his forehead. Someone saying his name. He drifts closer to someone he recognises, and he strains against it, stay awake, he hears himself cry. Oh, and it is never good, when sudden calm and comfort surrounds him, it never lasts. He blinks, and Tenar runs her hands over his face. Her palms feel like ice. 

“You’re not here,” he says, but she tips a mouthful of water into him and he swallows. 

It is all so strange, he feels unbelievably heavy, yet he is floating, too. She gives him water, and holds him up. I have to wake up.

He doesn’t know where he is, and seeing Tenar can’t be good, she is a radiant apparition with a face like werelight, and hands like being saved, can’t be good when he is dreaming of freshwater as if it is life itself, won’t be good when he wakes up again. Tenar slowly lowers his head down. Everything spins around him. 

“You’re back on Gont,” he tells her, but he doesn’t receive any reply. “I’m not.”

She’s not here. For a moment she turns, saying something, and then Tehanu is there beside her. Now, he really doesn’t know what to think. He can’t place it, I shouldn’t know her yet, that happens afterwards, after I return to Gont.

After I’m already dead. After he has crossed the mountains and seen the day break.

But there she is, and he recognises her. She shouldn’t have to see this, he decides, as he holds his breath to keep from whining. Tenar places one hand on his forehead, and the other on Tehanu’s. What is she doing?

Her eyes are those of a wizard. Clear and focused. Don’t. No spells, don’t put them on me, don’t. She says something, looking at him, then to Tehanu. I don’t know. I don’t understand.

Ged shuts his eyes. For a moment nothing changes. Nothing at all. Something wet covers his face. Oh. I can’t keep the boat watertight anymore. He is sinking, and the worst part is that he can’t find it in himself to do anything about it. He is breathing water. It feels no different than breathing air. There is chilled water on his skin, his neck and hands, south reach, or west.

Oh, for years he has thought he was not scared of dying, he’s questioned and reasserted its truth, and he has been wrong. How he misses the times where he felt nothing, no fear, only dull emptiness at the thought of death. How he misses the times when he did not care!

He was wrong, he is scared, overwhelmingly so. Not now, not after everything, after- He doesn’t know what he means. He reaches out, something to grab, anything, falling, pull me up. He finds a hand, grasping his. For a moment he almost weeps with relief, but the hand is made of cold water, and so is the one brushing his cheek. Freezing, or burning, he’ll be swallowed. He doesn’t know how long he will have the strength to fight it. 

***

When Ged next knows where he is, he is running through the swells of an ocean.

He is wet past his knees, his clothing is heavy, yet he feels no sensation of cold, only the stiffness freezing water brings. He is running, to escape, he has to outrun them, or else, if they catch up, then. The world around him is strange, he doesn’t know where he is, where to go.

He is carrying a child. Arms wrapped tightly around the small body, it clings to him, its head heavy on his shoulder. It is warm, its arms are around his neck and its legs around his waist. The child must be scared now, he thinks, and the thought itself hurts him. He tries to pick up pace. The water isn’t getting deeper, or more shallow. He runs with water to his knees, and his legs are too stiff to move quickly enough, he can’t get enough strength. It is my child, he thinks, trying to sort out this mess of vague perceptions and blank nothingness, I have to.

He trips and gets back up. He is tired. I have to keep her safe. He can’t figure out how.

He runs, and that is all he knows how to do. He doesn’t know what is behind him, or in front, doesn’t know where he is, and he can’t see clearly. He looks around, for some place to hide, but there is nothing, and he can’t see the horizon. He can see darkness, sea froth, mist.

His breaths come fast, tearing into his lungs. He hears nothing but the breaking waves. He doesn’t know where to go. What to do. He runs, and nothing changes, it is all the same.

The child clutches his hair in her hands. He holds her tightly. I can’t go on. I can’t go on. He walks, and no amount of effort can make him start running again.

He is freezing. The child is warm. Her head heavy on his shoulder. He thinks that he will faint, and his face will end up under the surface, he hopes that she will keep running and leave him behind, maybe then she can get away. Maybe then they’ll be satisfied, having killed him. Her head is heavy on his shoulder.

For a moment he stops, and thinks with sudden clarity, I could call for Kalessin.

He keeps walking. I’ll call for Kalessin. He will come. She is my daughter, but she is his daughter too. He keeps walking, limbs heavy. He can barely lift his legs anymore.

I’ll call for Kalessin.

But he can’t remember how to say the words. 

***

Tenar sits on the edge of the bed and mends a stocking, keeping an eye on the sick man under the covers. I won’t lose sleep over this, she decided the evening before. It is only a cold, he’ll be back on his feet not two weeks from now. And still she sits awake at the edge of the bed, watching Ged sleep. Instead of going to bed herself, she sits awake mending the stocking by the light of the oil lamp. And if she finishes that, then there is still Tehanu’s brown skirt to sew a patch on, and a few of her own shirts, not to mention all of Ged’s tunics with worn holes at the elbow.

Ought to get him to eat more. He’s wearing out his clothes from the inside. During the last two days she has gotten some lukewarm broth into him, and nothing else. It is still better than nothing. She decides to try again with the broth when he next wakes up. Though, for the most part it isn’t really waking.

When Ged is awake he whines and shies away from touch, his eyes flit over the walls as if he isn’t seeing them, he looks through her more often than at her. Even now, asleep, he trembles. Shivers run through his body in waves. He quivers and his teeth clatter.

At least I know what is happening. At least it isn’t some illness without a cause, or something to do with wizardry, at least I know what to do. She has tried to cool him down. The fever won’t break. She has no choice but to let it run its course.

The stocking is mended, she picks up Tehanu’s skirt and threads a needle. Maybe I could mend it without a patch. But she already has the fabric cut out, and it will look better this way. Not an invisible mend, but near enough. She starts whip stitching around the edge. Ged moans in his sleep. He turns his head to one side, then sharply to the other. Then he starts mumbling. She shifts closer, to hear if he is calling for her, to hear what he’s saying. At first she can’t make out any words. But then, the name comes. 

“Kalessin!” 

He says it clearly and with a certain emphasis, in his hoarse cracked voice. She gives a surprised burst of laughter. Dreaming of dragons, is he? She chuckles, wishing Ged could tell her about it. Though, it doesn’t seem like a nice dream, with the way he’s turning his head. Good thing he isn’t thrashing, or hurting himself somehow. Tehanu appears in the doorway, then comes closer. 

“Hi, pet,” Tenar says, rubbing her arm. “Couldn’t you sleep?”

Tehanu doesn’t reply, gazing down at Ged steadily. She doesn’t seem as anxious anymore, having seemingly accepted that sickness will live in her house a while. Tenar can only see the burned side of her face, the blind bird’s eye, which sometimes seems not at all so blind.

Ged mumbles, turning his head to one side and the other. Tenar puts a hand on his shoulder, rubbing slowly back and forth. 

“What is he saying?”

“I don’t know. He’s dreaming,” Tenar replies. “He called for Kalessin earlier. Your father, you know.”

Still the child doesn’t take her eyes off Ged. I wonder what she sees… I wonder if I’ll ever know what she sees, or what she is thinking. That thoughtful expression. 

“But he is my father,” she says. 

“He is,” Tenar confirms. “But Kalessin is your father, too. You’ve got some dragon in you.”

Tehanu nods, watching him. Then she puts her arms around Tenar for a moment, and walks back to the alcove before Tenar can say anything.

She sits unmoving with a hand on Ged’s shoulder. He moans and gasps, as if in pain. Oddly, this worries her less than if he were lying as still as he usually is. Maybe irrationally so. It is nice to hear him, to see him move, rather than being left in complete absence of sound and movement. His eyebrows are furrowed, forming a deep crease above his nose. She feels the heat of his skin through his tunic.

It has only been two days since the first night. He will be fine. 

“Don’t make me worry,” she says aloud. 

But she knows that he doesn’t hear her speak. 

***

When her mother has gone to sleep she gets up, climbing over her, to go into the inner room. The house is silent, other than the whining wind outside.

Her father is sick now, but he won’t be forever. She was scared before she knew that, before she knew that it will pass. She stands close by, then climbs onto the bed and under the covers, resting her head on his chest.

The sickness is inside him, but he is burning it out. Like that one glorious time her mother had gotten angry and red, throwing sparks all about like one of the flying ones, in that way her father is now a fire, driving away the mosquitoes in him. She basks in the heat and the flame, finally he is properly warm, she curls up next to him.

Her father, who is called Hawk even though his name is Ged, told her once that he could not fly, that he could only walk. But now, he is flying on strong small wings. His mouth and nose are one, hooked and sharp, and he is carrying her in his talons. She lays her arm over his waist in the other reality, the one that is hers.

Ged is calling for Kalessin, but Kalessin flies on the other wind. He will not come.

Ged cries out in his sleep, cries out with the voice of a bird. He is trying to protect me, Tehanu thinks, and further, she thinks that he is doing a good job at it. She rubs her face against his ribcage. He will keep me safe. She sleeps for a while in the warmth, under the covers. She doesn’t dream much, not anymore. Sleep is a cave full of furs, she thinks when she is awake again. The image is a nice one, and she decides to keep it in her memory. Then she gets up to go back to Tenar.

Ged makes a noise like a creaking door. She stops to watch him. His face scrunches up, he breathes in harshly. When he speaks his jaw tenses, so that his mouth barely opens with the words. 

“Wait,” he says, in the other words, in her words. The sounds are halting and strange in his voice, but it is still her language. 

“I have… a question, for you.”

He is speaking to a dragon, a flying one with coils of black scales, but it is not in the room with them. It is somewhere else, above the sea. It is in her father’s dream. The dragon cocks its head, and snorts. 

“Ask it.”

“I…” 

Ged turns his head. His eyebrows furrow. He is scared, Tehanu thinks. 

“I can’t… remember,” he says in that same hitching voice, as if every word is made of water which will pour into his lungs if he doesn’t spit it out. He whimpers. “I can’t remember the question.”

The dragon laughs then, for a moment it wears the face of a man, Tehanu backs until she is pressed against the wall.

She doesn’t recognise the man. She only recognises his expression. Cruel. But then he is gone, and only the dragon remains. 

“I have the answer,” it says. 

“Tell it to me. Please.”

“Because you did not try well enough,” the dragon hisses. 

Ged shakes his head. “No,” he whispers. “No.” Tehanu steps closer, she puts a hand on her father’s forehead. It is warm. 

“Sleep,” she says, using the true words. “Stop dreaming, Ged.”

When he has gone silent, she returns to the alcove to sleep next to her mother until morning. 

***

He is sweaty and cold at the same time. His clothing soaked, himself wracked and shaking.

He is weak, too much blood lost, but the ache is everywhere, so where is the wound? The ache is everywhere. He can’t turn over. He can’t lift his arms.

Too late. It’s too late. He thinks that he sobs. No, no, please. In a way he is angry rather than scared. In another, he is terrified.

Not again, I just got back, I just got myself out of it, why again, no! The ache is constant. Maybe worsening, or swelling like waves. He can’t tell anymore. He can’t tell if it’s getting worse. He is sure that it isn’t getting better.

He thinks that this might be the end, how many times hasn’t he been sure of that before, how many times hasn’t he been wrong? But I must do something. Or else…

He drifts back towards Ogion’s house, but it is empty and full of darkness, and the wind whining outside sounds just like any other wind. It sounds just like the wind of Osskil, or Selidor, or any other island. Or the wind of the open sea. If I’ve drifted that far. No way to know.

He can’t see any constellations. Must be cloudy. Or fogged over. He feels fogged over. Unending lightheadedness, unending pain.

It isn’t too bad. What is worrying is that he can’t find its source. If I could find it…

He wants to call out for someone, but he has learned long ago that it is useless. And further, has learned that hearing his own voice will be painful, and hearing the names of those he would love to cry out for will be more painful still. It would be torturous.

Because for a moment, he would really believe that they will come rescue him.

He is shivering uncontrollably. His teeth clatter. He is cold and horribly tired. It aches. It all aches. He blinks, seeing nothing. Dizziness and vertigo. Like falling from a height. Soon he won’t be able to keep his eyes open anymore. Hopefully I wake up again. He can’t know it surely. His eyelids are growing heavier. He can’t stay awake. His eyelids drop closed, and he quickly sinks into quiet dark. 

***

It is the fifth day when Tenar can’t keep from worrying any longer. No sign of bettering, no sign of anything other than illness, gripping Ged tightly with its claws and talons.

He is warmer than Tehanu. She has tried all methods she knows, and still the fever won’t break. She is fed up at it, at the illness, and in a way fed up with Ged for making her worry. And with herself.

Many times over the past few days, she has found herself thinking that it would be great to be able to ask him for his opinion, to discuss with him what she ought to do. But even when awake, it is like he is somewhere else, fevered and away. I can make decisions on my own. I’m not put out just because he is.

She doesn’t understand why he is so frightened, why that is the one constant. He clings to the fear as if it is a lantern. She thinks she has managed to calm Tehanu, through explaining and making sure most things are as usual. Water, cold cloths. Unrelenting heat.

It is the fifth day when she waits by the side of their bed, sitting cross legged on the floor, waiting for Ged to rouse. She spins yarn while she waits, the fine even strands which once gave her the nickname Goha. I have to ask him, before I go get someone. I can’t just bring a stranger into our house, even if it is a witch or a wizard. Even if it is for his sake.

She waits by the side of their bed. Ged tosses and turns, sometimes whining, other times silent. Even in sleep, he trembles, with terrible violent shivering. It is worse when he cries. And there is nothing she can do. Once she had managed to rouse him, thinking that would make it stop, the quiet leaking. But it continued, Ged had looked at her in that deep anguish which she thought had left his face for good, he had hiccuped questions she couldn’t answer. “Why,” he had sobbed, “why’s the core of me all… weak?” She had replied with meaningless comforts, telling him it was alright, to go back to sleep, that he didn’t have to cry. When he had calmed slightly and shut his eyes she heard him mumble, “Never used to be soft in the middle before.” And that was that.

She waits, spinning, at times removing the towel on his forehead and drenching it in fresh cool water. Yesterday, Tehanu had asked her why Ged uses other words when asleep. The language I know, she had said. He is just dreaming, Tenar had replied, explaining that just like dragons, wizards use the Old Speech. But he doesn’t speak it well, Tehanu had said.

After a while, the silence is broken by a gasp, and Ged’s hands clench around the sheets. Tenar gets up from the floor and sits on the edge of the bed, she runs a hand over the sick man’s face. 

“There you are. There you are now, look. Look at me. Come to me, Ged.”

She speaks quietly, with some sternness in her voice. He winces, looking up at her. Scared, always so scared. But I can’t let him slip away. He grimaces, teeth showing. 

“Tenar?” he whispers. 

“Yes. Come to me now, Ged. I want to speak to you.”

He nods, seeming to try to collect himself. He swallows and for a moment he looks almost as steady as usual, other than the greyness of his skin and the glossy fogginess of his eyes. He looks up at her, gaze seeming to carry an odd depth. The tension around his mouth, as if he is in pain and trying to hide it. She forces herself to be direct. 

“You are sick,” she says, “I am getting worried. Would you let me bring over someone, someone to help you?”

He looks as if he hasn’t understood the question. 

“Maybe a witch,” she continues, “or I could go to port and ask if they’ve a wizard.”

A flinch, in an instant his composure breaks, he shakes his head. 

“No, don’t- don’t. D-don’t do. Do that,” he stammers. “Don’t let any… anyone…”

There are tears in his eyes, she takes his hand, he whines and shakes his head. His skin is hot like an ember. 

“Please don’t,” he begs, voice desperate in a way which feels to her like a knife going into her chest. “Please. Don’t let them… do anything. To- to me.” He whimpers, and his hand in hers trembles. "Don’t let them near me!”

And Tenar thinks suddenly of Spark. When he was six years old, and sick with a pox.

He had looked at her just this way, pleading with her not to bring someone, not to get the witch, or anyone. He would allow no one to touch him, except for her. Because he thought that they would hurt him. With sinking realisation, she thinks, of course. That’s it.

That is the kind of fear she is seeing. Not the greater one, which would never show on his face, the one she knows to turn him to stone, but instead something smaller, and in a way more perilous. It is a child’s fear.

Oh, she thinks, feeling stupid, I need to be gentle with him. She puts her hand on his cheek, looking into his eyes. Meeting the fear and confusion head on. 

“Alright,” she says, “I won’t. I’ll keep them out.”

“Will you?” he sobs, clinging to her hand. 

“I’ll keep them all out! I’ll keep you safe, Ged.” She brushes a strand of hair from his face. “Dear, dearest… I’ll be here. I’m here! You’re alright.”

“It… it hurts.” A shaky breath. “I’m cold.”

He sniffles. For a moment they are both silent. Well, bringing a wizard is out of the question.

She sighs, and chuckles softly. If he lets this kill him, I’ll be furious. She removes the towel from his face, before leaning forward and kissing his forehead, ablaze and damp with sweat.

When she is still close she hears him whisper:

“Ogion is dead, is he not?”

“He is,” she replies, fighting to keep her voice steady. “He is, dear.”

And Ged only nods, before closing his eyes again. She sits still, until she knows by his breathing that he is asleep.

***

He waits for an answer. Tenar’s cool breath on his skin. 

“He is,” she replies then, voice strange. “He is, dear.”

I knew it. He nods, ignoring the vertigo. It is nearly constant, anyway.

'If Ogion really is dead, then some part of it all must be a lie. Some part of it must be his own desperate imaginings. A sting of pain, he shuts his eyes. Just like every other time. This time, it felt so real. He let himself hope.

But I am never at home. Never with him, with my… A shudder. I never knew how to call for him.

And here, there is a strange gap in awareness, a time during which he is nowhere, a time when nothing happens to him. He awakens. He is lying beached, in a boat he doesn’t know, a boat which is not Lookfar. He is lying beached, and he doesn’t know where, even when he sits up he doesn’t recognise the island, nor the ones on the far horizon. It is halfway dusky, and he hopes it is the darkness of sunset, that he’ll be able to see the constellations. Then, maybe… then, at least, he could tell north from south. And he would know if he is in the south reach or not.

But I haven’t recognised the constellations in a long time.

He sits down by the shore, feet in the surf. He waits. He waits for the dark to give way. There is aching within him, somewhere. I ought to find the wound. It is dull, now. Dull, the milling pain. Good, or bad? He ought to find the wound. Ought to search his body for it, systematically since the pain doesn’t lead him anywhere. It is all over, too diffuse to find. He sits, unmoving.

There is no source. Increasingly, he is convinced of it. No source I can find.

He longs to drift back to Ogion’s house, but he wouldn’t actually be there. No matter how much he wants it, neither Ogion nor himself would be there. I will miss you. I will miss your return, the response. He trembles, and tears spill down his cheeks. As is our way of things. He thinks that he trembles, he thinks that tears spill down his cheeks. Cold runnels.

If only he was not alone, if only there was someone to speak to. If only the sea was not so cold. He shivers. How did I get here? He can’t remember. He can’t remember anything. The boat isn’t Lookfar. He shudders. So Selidor was not a dream. The hole in the world.

The wound… Still, it aches. He can’t find it. There is no source. 

***

Tehanu lies awake. She is trying to figure something out. Because now, there is unease in her house. She does not like it.

Her mother dreams of fire and vast skies. Her father has not dreamt tonight, but before… She stood in the doorway, in the afternoon. Please don’t, her father cried, and she turned and ran silently from the house, bare feet noiseless against the floor. She does not like it. He should not be afraid.

She doesn’t understand why he doesn’t just fight it off, the sickness, as she knows he can. But he isn’t burning it out, he is only burning. It is wrong. She knows he can burn it out. But he isn’t doing it. She rolls over, looking at her mother’s face in the moonlight. She can see the sunset dream layered underneath her cheekbones. She would be happier if I helped him. She frowns, and turns to her back. For a moment, she is still.

Then she gets up and goes to the inner room. She will have to ask him, first, before she does anything. She puts a hand on his forehead, as she has seen her mother do. Once, her mother felt with both her hands, one palm on his forehead and one on Tehanu’s. “He is warmer than you,” she had said. He is warmer. She stands motionless, waiting for Ged to open his eyes. He does. He stirs, and makes noises, before his eyes lock on hers. 

“I have a question for you,” she whispers, speaking in her own tongue. 

He nods, slowly. He is confused, she thinks. And frightened. Not of me. She recognises when someone is afraid of her, and she knows that her father is not. 

“Ask it,” he says, in that halting way. 

As if every word is difficult. 

“I can help you,” she tells him. “Do you want me to help you?”

He opens his mouth and shuts it again. He swallows. She watches him. 

“I… don’t know.”

He drifts, head rolling back slightly under her hand, but she pulls him back. She forces him awake, watching. He blinks, frowning and furrowing his brows. He looks around the room, seeing only darkness before his eyes settle back on her face. 

“I can help you,” she says again.

“Yes,” he replies slowly. “I think… you can.”

He nods again and wets his lips. His hand reaches up, and she gives over her own, the singed one.

He rubs his thumb over the back of it. She likes the warmth. Slowly his grip is growing weaker. His eyelids drift closed. 

“Go ahead,” he mumbles, hitching the words out. “My daughter… I… trust you.”

“Yes,” she says. “I will.”

He drops her hand, asleep. She waits for a while longer, not knowing what she can do, knowing only that she will do it.

He trusts me. I will help him. She runs her hand over his face. He does not stir. 

“Ged,” she says, and he does not stir. “Be well,” she continues, in her own language. “You have been sick for long enough. Be well, Ged.”

She stops, wondering if she ought to say something more. She chews on the inside of her lip. She thinks of what her mother says in the evening, she leans in closer and kisses her father’s cheek. 

“Sleep well,” she says.

***

Calm swells of an ocean. He doesn’t know if he is warm or cold. Most of all, he is tired. I should wake up. I have to wake up. I ought to…

But drifting away feels as safe as anything. It is as if he knows he will not see the wall, as if he knows he will not even dream about it. Dragons do not dream about the wall, he thinks, as if it means anything. As if it is terribly important. It is a great thing. Remember it.

He feels as though he sinks down into something soft, a warm marsh, through the heather brush and the soil. I’ll just rest my eyes for a bit. He feels as if he breathes deeply for the first time in days. He yawns. He sinks deeper, and it feels good. He leans his head back, feeling the movement. The way his spine adjusts to it.

He has been away for a long time. He feels as if he has been away for a long time. Away from home, away from the people he knows… And it is true. Always, he has done only what he had to do. Only what I must do. A long time now. It is nice to be still. It is nice to do nothing, to breathe deeply. I’ve thought of this before, he decides, though he can’t remember when.

For a moment he is gone, and when he returns there is someone next to him. For a moment he knows it is Ogion, and in the next he knows it is not.

It must be Tenar, he thinks, though he doesn’t want to open his eyes to check. But it must be Tenar. She is taking care of me often, these days. He breathes deeply. Tenar, the way he softens just thinking her name. It must be Tenar, what hands other than hers could be so steady, brushing strands of hair from his face?

I’ll have to remember to thank her. He decides to sleep for a while, and it is anything but difficult to do so. 

***

As she gets through the door, coming in from the garden, she hears his voice.  

“Tenar!”

She hurries through the room, why is he shouting? He is lying in the bed, elbows propping him up slightly, sweaty and breathing fast.

His gaze flits around wildly. And yet, she notices as she gets closer, there is a kind of clarity in his eyes. 

“Tenar,” he mumbles. 

“I’m here. What is it?”

He lies back and reaches out his hand to meet hers. He clasps her hand, has it gone, the fever? and she sits down next to him.

She presses her palm to his cheek, to make sure, and it really is so, the fever has broken. Oh, dearest, there you are!

“I dreamt,” he whispers, voice harsh and cracked. 

She runs her hand over his face. She nods. 

“I… I was falling. I called for you.”

“I heard.”

He looks up at her, surprise overtaken by that boyish smile, and then he laughs. A short one, full of vitality like a spring morning. That certain way, the way he looks at her as if he is discovering a new curious wonder. He rubs his thumb over the back of her hand. 

“Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

He grins. Oh, what a joy to see him again. 

“I could eat. Yes.”

She sits unmoving and watches him. He looks pale, his hands still tremble, but at least he is here.

He is looking straight at her. She strokes his face, his hairline. Good thing I braided his hair in time. Tossing and turning so much, it would’ve been a birds nest by now. He looks up at her, that look of complete trust. How easy it would be, to stay this way all day long. 

“I’ll go get you something to eat.”

After she has returned with thin porridge, and helped him sit up halfway, she watches him eat. The careful way he handles the spoon. At times his hands seem strangely timid, though she knows their strength, though she has seen them do all kinds of work, seen them handle all kinds of tools. It is a joy to watch him. When he is finished he meets her eyes. 

“Where have I been?” he asks. “How long?”

“Six days,” she replies. “It was only a fever, they can make you confused. Or give you strange dreams.”

He hums, nodding. He looks at his hands. That slight tension between his eyebrows, around his mouth. 

“I did dream,” he mumbles. 

Ged swallows, the tension remains and for a few moments Tenar thinks he will tell her of what he dreamt, she sits silent.

So does he. His eyes flit back and forth, as if he is trying hard to figure something out, but then his features soften, he looks back at her. 

“How… How has it been, here?”

She smiles at his concern. 

“Oh, good. Only good things. Rainy…” She thinks of what to say. “Tehanu was troubled about it. About you. She didn’t say so, but I could tell.” She chuckles. “I’ve worried too.”

Ged nods once, saying nothing. He shuts his eyes, long enough that she thinks he may have fallen back asleep, but then he opens them again. His gaze meets hers, sharp and steady. 

“I dreamt about her,” he says. “About Tehanu.”

Tenar doesn’t reply, waiting for him to continue. He drops his gaze. The wind whines outside. Might be time to put more wood on the fire.

Ged runs his palms over the covers, methodically back and forth. His breaths are slower now that the fever has gone. 

“I think Ogion was right,” he says suddenly, without looking up. “He must’ve been right, about her. They will fear her, is that not what he said?”

“It is.”

“Well, people have feared you, and me. But there is something special about her.”

He speaks with certainty, how I’ve missed his sureness, she glances at him and he meets her eyes. He opens his mouth slightly, the way he does when reaching for words. 

“Not only because the dragon called her daughter,” he mumbles. “It… Whatever it is, it concerns her. Only her.”

Tenar swallows, nodding. She has thought that herself, many times. It is a relief to hear it spoken. To know that he, too, has known this of their daughter. She is something which can’t be nailed down, something that’ll never be bound. 

“I don’t know what she will be,” Tenar says. “But it’ll be something powerful.”

“Yes. Do you…” he begins, trailing off, watching her. He leans his head to the side slightly, as if she could ask the question for him. He takes a deep breath and presses his lips together. His brows furrow. “Do you worry about her?”

“Oh,” she breathes, knowing that question means that he worries. She never thought he worried about Tehanu. “Of course I do. Yes. Yes, I worry.”

She laughs, his expression is somber and deathly serious. 

“Though, I’ve worried about all my children. I think that is a part of it… of having one.”

“Maybe,” he agrees. “At least… when it’s done this way.”

She nods, reaching out to squeeze his hand, knowing just what he means. He presses her hand to his cheek, one of those simple childish gestures which she had never expected of him. In his childhood, a child drowning in the river was of little importance. In his childhood, every parent thought they knew what their child would become. Worry means care, she thinks. I was cared for, in a way. A strange and sickly way.

Ged was not cared for in the slightest. He brings his lips to her palm. 

“It is better this way,” he whispers, and she can tell from his voice that he is half asleep.

***

He awakens gently, with a throbbing headache. Oh, good morning world. It isn’t a kind awakening. But it is a familiar one, it is one he recognises.

He knows where he is. For the first time in how long? Only six days? he knows just where in the world he is. Re Albi. The old mage’s house. Ogion’s house. Tehanu strolls past the half wall and stops, watching him. 

“Hello,” he croaks, throat sore. 

“Hello. Do you want water?”

He chuckles.

“Please.”

Quickly, she is gone. He is alone. What did she do?

The memories are partially gone, or foggy, partially so clear they almost cut into him. Shards of glass. He remembers using the Old Speech. The words felt like string wrapped tight around his throat. He remembers his daughter.

There was something terribly important… someone told him something. Someone told him to remember. But he has forgotten what it was, what he was supposed to do with it. I’ll have to ask Tenar. Maybe it was she who told me something. He recalls the feeling, frightfully important, something…

Tehanu returns with a mug in one hand and a bucket in the other. She sets the bucket down on the floor with a heavy thump. Then she squats and plunges the mug under the surface, bringing it up full. She hands it to him and he drinks. It hurts to swallow. But, when he next speaks, his voice is softer. 

“Thank you.” He pauses. “Did you tell me anything important lately?”

Tehanu leans her head to the side. 

“I only say important things.”

“Yes, I know. I meant…” He thinks of how to rephrase it. “Did you ask me to remember anything? Something special.”

She shakes her head. What was it she did?

He remembers her hand, the singed one, he remembers it vividly. The way dim light fell upon it, the way it cast a shadow.

She had asked him something… He had said yes. He had told her to go ahead. But with what? What did she do? He can’t decide if it is important or not. If he ought to ask. Before he can do so, Tehanu speaks. 

“I helped you,” she whispers. 

And Ged remembers. Her hand. Go ahead, he had said. I trust you, he had said.

The words had been like string wrapped tight around his throat. But he had meant them, and he had been right to say them. He knows now, it was the right thing. Tehanu comes closer. She runs her hand over his face, almost absentmindedly. 

“You’re not warm anymore,” she says quietly. 

He shakes his head. No vertigo. Only a headache. Only the completely usual kind of pain. 

“I’m not. Thank you. I think I needed the help.”

She grins, he smiles back. 

“I’ll run and get Tenar,” she says. 

***

He is sitting up in bed when she comes in. She brings with her more porridge. Soon enough, he will get more filling things, but you have to start slowly.

When she has given him the bowl she brings out a comb from her pocket and sits down beside him. They sit in silence, as he eats, and she works to undo the tangles. At first she does not untie the braid, only combing the tuft by the end of it. She watches the strands of white and silver and black, watches them part for the wooden teeth of the comb. She loosens the leather tie, surprised it has stayed in place all this time. She runs her fingers through his hair. 

“I’d like to go somewhere,” Ged says. “When I’m well.”

She runs the comb through his hair, working from the bottom up. It is soft under her hands, and longer than her hair ever was. 

“Where would you want to go?”

“To shore. Somewhere… where I can see the horizon.” He speaks slowly, thoughtfully. “I want to stand in the surf. I could bring Tehanu. I could carry her most of the way, if it’s too far for her to walk.”

“We could all go together,” Tenar replies. “Over a day or two.”

He nods. She feels the movement by how the strands slip over her palms. 

“We could. When I am well.”

“Yes. When you are well.”

***

They share a bed again. She falls asleep to his lips on her forehead. She awakens in his arms.

The rain whips against the roof and walls. The wind fills the house with sound. She stays completely still, keeping her breathing slow. Steady arms wrapped around her, that childish feeling of safety, as if she is very small, in a house far away. Somewhere with a bright hearth fire. Ged sighs. 

“I’m alright,” he whispers. 

“You are," she replies softly. 

She feels him stiffen, then relax. A deep chuckle. 

“You’re awake,” he says, sounding a bit embarrassed. 

“I am.”

He runs his hand over her face, slow and lingering. His rough palms, finally they are no warmer than normal.

He presses his cheek to her forehead. A deep sighing breath. 

“You know…” he begins, hesitating. “I was scared. Really.”

“I saw.”

“Mm. Good. Or, I mean… I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It is alright.”

“Thank you. For… for everything. Thank you.”

He runs his fingers through her hair. Slow, lingering. To stay here all day… She chuckles.

Any moment now Tehanu will run in and say one of the goats got out. That would be perfect, she thinks. But the house remains quiet. 

“You’ve really never had a fever before?” she asks. 

He is silent, then he sighs. 

“Not… not like this. Only when. Only when there has been a reason.”

She waits. He is quiet. For a long time, he is quiet. When he speaks again it is a whisper. 

“When you lose blood… there’s a kind of cold that comes into you. Similar to a fever, only… I didn’t know that. Purging your wizardry is the same. Overspending your power. And… the confusion.”

“So… you thought…”

“That it was like the times before.”

She nods. That’s it. She presses her face into his neck. He laughs, still a bit hoarse. Of course.

You’re not here, he had said. You’re back on Gont, I’m not. Of course. 

“I’m glad you fear it again,” she says, knowing there was a time when he did not, a time when he did not at all. 

“Fear what? Oh. Yes.” He kisses her forehead. “So am I.”

***