Dawn arrived like a soft ember among the still-sleeping rooftops, tinting the mossy tiles of the inner courtyard with amber. The river still ran deep, and sometimes a thin layer of snow covered the small inner courtyard. In Lena's house, the morning air smelled of damp earth and old wood. Swallows were just beginning their dance when a thin figure slowly rose from a corner by the threshold.
Dyan had woken before the sun, as was now his custom. Sleep offered him no refuge. His nights were plagued by nothingness: by shapeless echoes, by faces he didn't remember but that hurt just the same, by distorted voices. The world still reached him blurred, covered by that gray haze that fogged his eyes, and every step was a reminder: he was broken.
He leaned against the courtyard wall, his fingers seeking the cold outline of the stone. He took a first step, clumsy. Then another. His hand slipped slightly when he found a crack in the wall, and he almost fell. His right thigh trembled with a dull ache. He took a deep breath, clenched his teeth, and continued.
The journey was short, just a few meters from the door to the vine that climbed the sunniest corner of the wall. But for him, it was a titanic traverse. He walked glued to the wall like a shipwrecked man clinging to a piece of wood, guiding himself by touch, letting his fingers mark the way.
Some mornings he made it. Others he didn't.
When he failed, he would fall to his knees on the ground. Sometimes he would bite his lips, stifling a desperate cry, sometimes he would hit the ground with clenched fists until his hands were filled with dirt and shame. And other times, he simply remained there, leaning against the wall, looking up at a sky he couldn't fully see, breathing as if it pained him to be alive. Burning tears ran down his face; he believed that at least this shame he endured in solitude, hidden from everything and everyone. Sometimes he clung to his bandaged hand, which burned like hell, and he felt the heat and the pain in his skin, in his muscle, in his soul.
From the second floor, Lena watched him from behind the half-open curtain. She didn't call him. She didn't go down. She didn't interrupt him. She watched him as one watches a wounded bird trying to fly with still broken wings. Each fall pained her too, but she had learned not to interfere, not immediately. She knew that if she did, Dyan would not try again the next day.
He didn't know she saw him cry, fall face down on the ground, cling to his wounded arm with tears in his eyes.
Lena had discovered an unexpected, uncomfortable tenderness within herself. Also fear. She feared that hope. She feared the day he would look at her without that haze in his eyes, and ask about what he had lost, about what they had done to him. Because he still didn't know everything. He still didn't understand.
That dawn, Dyan reached the vine.
He stopped there, leaning his forehead against the wall. He breathed with difficulty, his legs trembling, his lips parched. But he didn't fall. He remained standing for a long minute. Lena, from above, felt something slowly opening in her chest, like a seed after a storm. A part of her wished to go down and hug him. Another, older and hardened, forbade her.
In the courtyard, Dyan exhaled slowly. Every fiber of his body ached, every step reminded him how far he still was from his former strength. But he was still standing. He resisted with all he had left, guided by a duty etched into his soul like an old wound. Sometimes that duty was the only thing that pushed him forward, the only thing that kept him clinging to the wall instead of letting himself fall. However, with the same force that propelled him, a dull, persistent fear also arose: the fear that after this battle would come another, and another… that each victory would tear a piece of him until nothing was left.
He had to become stronger. More than ever. He couldn't live this despair again.
"Come inside," Lena's calm voice said from the doorway. "The morning is cold. Let's have breakfast together."
She had made noise as she came out, so as not to startle him. Dyan turned to her, and nodded, with the dry tear tracks marked on his skin. His smile was weak, a trembling mask of someone trying to appear what he no longer felt.
"I'm coming…" he said, reaching for the wall with his hand for support as he slowly advanced. "I'm on my way."
Lena said nothing more. She waited for him in silence, like one who respects the honor of a wounded warrior returning.
In the kitchen, the aroma of breakfast began to fill the air: eggs golden in butter, bacon sizzling in the pan, and bread warming by the stove. Lena served two plates. When Dyan sat down, she wet a cloth and gently wiped his hands, stained with dirt and dried blood.
"After you eat, I'll change your bandages. Is that okay?"
"Yes… of course," he replied, lowering his head. It weighed too heavily on him to depend on her.
Lena took care to bring him the plate, place the cup in his hand, leave the fork just within his reach. Dyan accepted her help, but each small gesture seemed to strip away a part of his dignity. His eyebrows furrowed with each stumble, each mistake, each clumsiness. Eating had become a difficult task instead of an enjoyment.
He took the cup of milk, trying to lift it. But his fingers, still numb and clumsy, didn't respond with precision. The cup slipped from his grasp and fell sideways, spilling its contents onto the table. The liquid quickly ran, soaking his bandage before he could do anything, seeping between the boards to the floor.
"No…" he murmured, gasping, his face pale with contained rage. He tried to wipe it with his other hand, without success.
"It's okay," Lena said, quickly getting up. "Don't worry, I'll clean it."
Her urgent steps in the kitchen did not alleviate the tension in Dyan's chest. On the contrary, they amplified it. He brought his damp hand to his heart, clutching the fabric of his tunic tightly. His hand trembled. His breathing became irregular.
When Lena returned with a cloth, she found him agitated. He looked up at her, his eyes overflowing.
"I'm sorry…" he whispered. "Forgive me. Please…"
Lena stopped. She put the cloth aside and approached him. With both hands, she took his face and wiped his tears with her thumbs, as a mother, a sister, a friend, all at the same time, would do.
"Shh… it's okay. It's just milk. It doesn't matter."
But it did matter. It mattered to him.
Dyan's hand was still on his chest, trembling with helplessness. He pulled at his own tunic so hard that he seemed to want to tear his soul. Tears now ran unchecked, and a sob broke his breath.
"Thank you…" he murmured. "Thank you for staying…"
Then he broke.
The knot in his throat completely gave way. He cried with the fragility of someone who had held too much for too long. He cried as only someone who has lost even the notion of himself can cry.
Lena hugged him. She hugged him for all the times she saw him falter in the courtyard and didn't go down. For all the tears she silently collected from her window. She hugged him because, even the strongest, the most feared, the most powerful… need someone to hold them.
Her fingers sank into Dyan's long, silver hair. She gently pulled him against her chest, letting him cry there, safe.
"You're not alone," she whispered, holding him close. "I told you I would take care of you until the end."
"I don't want to… be a burden," he said between sobs, his forehead buried in her stomach, barely held up by her hands.
Lena looked at him with pain. Where was the mage who tore the sky with lightning? Where was the boy who made the north tremble with his power? There was nothing left but a wounded young man, shrunken inside, lost in his own ruin.
And she knew that the fear she had felt days ago was unfounded. Dyan's true power was not in his magic, but in his soul, and that soul was now naked before her. She could no longer fear him. She could only accompany him.
"You're not," she told him firmly. "No matter how long it takes. I will stay by your side. I promise you."
Lena's words were a balm. Dyan did not respond immediately, but clung to her embrace as if his life depended on it.
Mornings advanced…
The scent of freshly baked bread filled the kitchen. Lena had risen early, as always, to prepare breakfast. The warmth of the oven comforted her hands, still cold from the morning dew, but it couldn't warm her chest. Every day, since Dyan awoke from his long lethargy, had been another step on an uncertain path, made of new routines and uncomfortable silences.
She poured the herbal tea with automatic movements. The earthenware cups vibrated softly when she placed them on the table. The bread crackled as she broke it, and the butter slowly melted under the heat. Everything was in its place, except herself.
She heard Dyan's footsteps before she saw him. They were slow, dragging, as if each movement cost him a battle. When he entered the dining room, he paused for a few seconds in the doorway, taking a deep breath. Lena pretended not to notice, so as not to hurt his pride.
"Good morning," he said, in a low voice, still hoarse from the effort of the dawn.
"Good morning," she replied softly, without turning immediately. "Did you sleep at all after your… walk?"
Dyan let out a short snort. It wasn't exactly a laugh, nor a complaint. Lena looked at him out of the corner of her eye as he sat down. It pained her to see his hunched body, his trembling hands as he took the cup, the way he fumbled the edge of the table with his fingers to ensure his position.
But it pained her more not knowing how to help.
"You have mud on your elbows," she said, trying to sound light.
He looked down, or so she thought. His eyes, though open, still saw only shadows.
"I fell. Three times."
She nodded with a small gesture, breaking off a piece of bread for him. She placed it next to his plate, without offering it directly.
"I suppose that's a record," she tried to joke, though her voice came out more bitter than she expected.
Silence returned, heavy. Lena took a sip of tea, feigning normalcy. But inside, she felt the turmoil. She wanted to tell him that she admired him for continuing to try, for getting up even when the world had knocked him down so many times. She wanted to hug him. She wanted to scream that he couldn't carry all that alone, that she was scared too.
But instead, she handed him a handkerchief.
"Wipe your face, you look like a beggar."
Dyan obeyed in silence. Then he murmured, almost imperceptibly: "Thank you for not saying anything this morning."
Lena looked at him more closely. His face was still that of a boy, but in his gestures there was something old, broken, something she didn't know how to mend.
"I saw you cry, Dyan," she finally said, in a low voice, without judgment. "And it's okay to cry. But promise me you won't stop walking."
He swallowed. He tensed. And then he nodded, once, with effort.
Then, for the first time in weeks, Lena smiled sincerely.
"Good. Because tomorrow, you're making the bread."
"The bread?"
"Yes," she replied, drinking another sip of tea. "I'm tired of cooking for you. Besides, that way you'll learn not to fall when you walk around the kitchen."
The sound that escaped Dyan was a weak laugh, but real.
"A letter arrived for you."
Dyan looked for Lena. "From whom? I wasn't expecting anything…"
"It has Her Majesty's seal. I suppose they haven't forgotten you."
The mage smiled, but he couldn't help but feel the weight of uncertainty.
At dusk, Dyan sat with effort at the small desk Lena had prepared for him. The room smelled of warm wood and melted wax. An oil lamp flickered softly, casting shadows that danced on the walls. A small brazier kept the air warm, though the cold seemed to have settled in his bones since the battle.
On the desk rested a letter, still closed, with the wax seal intact. He took it clumsily, fumbling the edges. He caressed the surface of the envelope with his fingers, recognizing the texture, the indentation of the seal… and the invisible weight of its meaning.
It wasn't just a message. It was a sign. Of life, of presence. That someone, somewhere, had remembered him. He wanted to believe that his actions had not gone unnoticed. That his effort, his pain, his struggle, had left a mark on the world.
He carefully broke the seal. He strained his eyes, in vain. His eyes only caught gray smudges among orange flashes, distorted by the lamp's light. He slowly took the sheet from the envelope and spread it on the desk. The scent of fresh ink still lingered, faint but clear. He slid his fingertips over the paper, feeling the grooves of the writing, like a mute relief.
He turned it. Once, twice. Perhaps it was upside down. He tried again. He identified some letters, some familiar shapes. But his mind couldn't string them together. There were no words. Only strokes. Only emptiness. One more barrier between him and the world.
He tried to read. Again. Again. But the words remained just an indentation on the surface. A language that slipped through his fingers.
He brought his hands to his head, clenching his teeth, and succumbed to frustration. He didn't scream. He didn't cry. He just clenched his fists over his skull and held back the rage that burned in his chest.
From the doorway, Lena watched him. Her hair was still damp, fresh from her bath. Steam still covered her skin, giving her a fragile, almost ghostly air. But her eyes, filled with sadness, were too human.
"Do you want me to read it for you?" she asked softly, her voice laden with a sorrow she didn't want to disguise.
She entered the room without waiting for an answer, approaching with slow steps, and circled behind him. She leaned slightly over him, careful not to touch him too much.
"I know I shouldn't read something so personal… but seeing you like this hurts me, Dyan."
He raised his face to her, searching for her through the fog of his blindness. He guessed her silhouette more by the warmth of her proximity than by what he could see.
"No," he murmured in a muffled voice. "I'm tired. I can't do any more today."
There was a silence. Lena held him with her gaze, contained.
"Then come," she said sweetly. "The water is warm. You need a bath."
Dyan looked down, ashamed. "You don't have to. Just… just tell me how to get there. I'll manage."
"As you wish…" she replied softly, but she didn't let go.
She gently took his hand and helped him to his feet. They left the room together, walking slowly down the hallway. The letter remained on the desk, open, the words waiting for eyes that could read them.
Steam rose slowly from the wooden tub, seeping through the half-open windows and enveloping the bathroom in a diffused, warm veil. Lena had arranged everything carefully: the lavender soap she usually used, a clean towel, dry clothes, and a basket for damp garments. She rubbed her hands nervously as she waited for Dyan to enter.
He arrived slowly, leaning one hand on the hallway wall and the other on the doorframe. His hair was disheveled, his shirt wrinkled, and a somber air of defeat still hung from his shoulders.
"I can do it myself," he said softly, without conviction.
Lena nodded, without arguing. But she approached anyway, delicately, taking his hand to guide him to the edge of the tub. Dyan let himself be led. The warmth of his skin permeated her fingers, and that proximity—harmless but palpable—made Lena hold her breath for an instant.
"Here's the edge," she whispered, guiding his hand to the damp wood. "Careful, it's warm but the steam might make you dizzy."
Dyan nodded. He took a deep breath, as if preparing for battle, and began to take off his shirt. His movements were clumsy, imprecise. When he tried to unbutton the last button, his fingers didn't respond.
"Damn it…" he murmured, frustrated.
Lena approached in silence and with a calm gesture placed her hands over his. "Let me."
There was no protest. Only a tight, almost ashamed nod. She looked down as she carefully unbuttoned his shirt, feeling Dyan's held breath, the rigidity of his body, the contained modesty between them like a taut rope. When she removed the garment, he instinctively covered himself with his arms.
His torso was marked by recent scars: some still reddish, others already healed. The taut skin over atrophied muscles spoke of effort, of pain, of a body that had not yet completely given up.
"I'm going to help you get in," she said, without looking him in the eyes.
She stood beside him, firm, and he leaned clumsily, fumbling for the edge. Slowly he lowered one foot, then the other. The water drew a sigh from him, half relief, half discomfort.
Lena knelt beside the tub. She said nothing. She just took a soft sponge and submerged it in the water, then began to pass it over his shoulders in circular motions. Dyan tensed his muscles at first, but then he let her.
"Does it bother you?" she asked softly.
"No… Just… I feel useless."
"You're alive. That's no small thing."
The silence that followed was long. The only sound was the water moving softly against the edges of the tub.
"Lena," he said, his voice breaking. "I don't want you to see me like this."
"Like what? Alive? Tired? Human?"
Her words were not rhetorical. There was tenderness in them, but also firmness. "You don't have to prove anything to me, Dyan. Not now."
He lowered his head, drops falling from his chin into the water. He rubbed his eyes as if he could still cry.
Lena submerged the sponge again, gently wiped his neck, and then left the sponge floating on the water. She placed a hand on his shoulder. "I can wait outside if you prefer. But if you need me, I'll be one step away."
Dyan nodded without looking at her. Lena stood up in silence, left the towel hanging nearby, and left the bathroom with her heart pounding in her throat. She closed the door slowly, without making a sound.
She leaned her back against the hallway wall, breathing deeply. At that moment she didn't know if it was him who was rebuilding himself… or also her.