Page 117 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time
Dorian shifts, eyelids heavy. He turns his head slightly, seeking her out. “Selene…”
“I’m here,” she whispers, smoothing damp hair from his forehead.
His lips part, like he wants to say something else, but all that comes out is a breathy sigh before his eyes slide shut.
Selene watches his chest rise and fall, still too fast, too shallow. She swallows hard and grips his uninjured hand, pressing her forehead to the back of it.
“Please,” she murmurs against his skin. “Please, just hold on.”
Selene doesn’t leave Dorian’s side. She sits on the edge of the bed, stroking damp strands of hair from his face, whispering reassurances even as his fever rises. Just how hot can a person be? He shifts restlessly beneath the thin sheet, sweat beading along his temples.
She startles at the sound of hurried footsteps in the hall. The door bursts open, and Ariella strides in, a basket clutched in her arms.
Selene is on her feet in an instant. “Did you find anything?”
Ariella nods briskly and moves to the bedside table, setting the basket down. Her gaze flicks to Dorian, taking in the way his chest rises and falls too quickly. She mutters a curse. “We need to bring this fever down.”
Selene glances at the basket, then back at Ariella. “How long will Soren be?”
Ariella hesitates. “…It could be days.”
Selene’s breath catches. “Days?” she echoes, panic surging. She grips Dorian’s limp hand, as if holding him tethered to her will be enough to keep him here. “Can he even last that long?”
Ariella sets her jaw. “We arenotgoing to lose him.”
Selene exhales shakily, nodding. “What do we do?”
Ariella is already pulling a vial from her basket. “First, let’s give him something for the pain,” she says.
Selene gently eases Dorian up, supporting his fever-heavy body as Ariella uncorks the vial, the sharp scent of herbs filling the air. Selene tightens her grip around Dorian’s shoulders, lifting him against her. His head lolls onto her shoulder, his body hot and damp.
“Come on, Dorian,” Ariella murmurs, pressing the bottle to his lips. “Come on, little brother. Drink.”
At first, he resists, turning his face slightly away. Selene strokes his damp hair, voice soft. “Please. It’ll help.”
Slowly, sluggishly, he parts his lips, and Ariella tilts the liquid into his mouth. He swallows with difficulty, a faint grimace passing over his fever-flushed face.
Ariella exhales, setting the bottle aside. “That should ease him a little. Let’s dress his hand, next.”
Ariella works quickly, cleaning and dressing his hand. His fingers twitch weakly at the touch, but he doesn’t rouse. He has the look of someone who will never rise again. His pain fuses with Selene’s. She can’t set it down.
Ariella presses the back of her hand to Dorian’s forehead, frowning. “We need to keep him cool. Get fresh water and a cloth. We’ll sponge him down, make sure he drinks whenever he can.”
Selene nods, lowering Dorian back onto the pillows. The medicine seems to be working, at least a little. His fever is still raging, but his breathing is a little slower, a little steadier.
Ariella meets her gaze, voice firm. “This is going to be hard. But if we hold on, if he holds on, Soren will come back in time.”
Selene takes a deep breath and squeezes Dorian’s hand. She won’t let him slip away. She refuses.
Selene waits and watches. She tries to make him drink, to keep him cool, to talk to him. She unties his hair, letting it fall in rust-coloured waves around his shoulders. She mops his brow and plumps his pillows. The only person it brings any relief to is her. Dorian is beyond relief. Beyond everything.
Time does cruel things when someone you love is dying. It stretches unbearably, each second an eternity, yet it moves too fast, dragging Dorian closer to the edge of something final. Selene needs time to pass—she needs Soren to return with the antidote—but with every breath Dorian takes, laboured and shallow, she feels time slipping in the wrong direction, towards a point where he might be beyond saving.
Desperation drives her to locate the house’s totems of the gods. She arranges them around Dorian’s bed, her fingers trembling as she sets each one in place. Then she kneels.
Aurelius, Silver Star, guide him out of the dark. Liriel, Keeper of Waters, heal him. Vannor, Flameforger, take the heat from his skin. Veridia, Green Mother, protect him.
But it isn’t enough. It doesn’t feel like enough. So she prays to the one she doesn’t know, the nameless goddess she believes in more than all the rest. The one who brought her back.
