Page 176 of War

I guess it’s been more than just meat that I’ve been turning down lately.

“I don’t know, this hummus just tastes really good.”

Immediately, War strides out of the tent long enough for me to hear him barking out orders for more hummus.

War comes back inside. Grabbing a nearby pitcher, he fills up a glass of water.

“I’m going to bring a doctor over,” he says, handing the water to me.

“No,” I say too quickly, grabbing the warlord’s forearm. I accidentally smear a little hummus on it in the process. Whoops.

His brows come together as he stares at my grip on his arm.

His eyes rise to mine, and he looks suspicious. “What are you not telling me, wife?”

I shake my head. “I just don’t like doctors.”

Is that really it though? There’s been a ball of worry in the pit of my stomach. Something isn’t right, but I don’t really want to know what that something is. Not yet. This all might simply resolve itself.

“Sometimes, Miriam, we must endure things we do not enjoy. I’m sending for a doctor.”

“Please don’t, War,” I say. “It’s just the flu. Humans get it all the time. It’ll be gone in a few days.”

Just then, one of the horsemen’s men comes in with more hummus.

The rider sets the platter down on War’s table, then leaves.

“Your body is sick, wife. Don’t pretend otherwise. I should have been more vigilant with you because it’s clear you’re not eating as you should. And I know you’ve been more fatigued than usual lately.”

He’s noticed? I should probably be concerned that he’s been somehow keeping tabs on me, but instead I’m oddly touched that he’s been so aware of my existence.

I’m fucked in the head.

War continues. “And that’s not to mention the fact that only this morning you were physically sick.”

“I feel better now.” Sort of. I mean, I’m still nauseous, and the sweltering heat today is doing nothing to help it, but still, I feel well enough to eat and move around a little.

The horseman gives me a long-suffering look. “We may have been apart for some time, wife, but make no mistake, I won’t let you die. Not by the blade and not by illness either.”

I exhale. “A doctor won’t be able to do anything other than tell me to rest and drink lots of fluids.”

War doesn’t look nearly so convinced.

“Please, I promise you, I’m not dying,” I insist, drinking down the cup of water he gave me.

Behind me, the tent flaps rustle, and one of his phobos riders steps inside. “My Lord, we need to talk to you about”—the rider’s eyes flick to me, and he doesn’t quite manage to hide his surprise—“the next raid.”

“Not now,” War says, refilling my glass of water. He only has eyes for me, and it feels embarrassingly good to be the center of his world.

“Go,” I say. “I’m fine.”

War’s jaw tightens subtly. “You’re not.”

“Iam,” I insist.

“And the undead?” he asks accusingly.

I get his unspoken meaning. He sent away all of his zombies. If he leaves, there will be no one to guard me.

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