Bitter Sweet Reunion

Stirring from my slumber, I found myself alone on the sprawling bed. Orryn was once again engrossed in his work at the cluttered desk, the scratching of his quill against parchment filling the silence of the tent. However, the tense crease of frustration that had etched itself into his forehead the previous night was absent. Instead, his movements were deliberate, enthusiastic even, his quill flying across the paper with a fervor as if he was struck by a sudden surge of inspiration.

Any moment he was not attending to me, he was found laboring away at his desk, consumed by the myriad of tasks that came with his mantle of leadership. It was expected, leading a formidable resistance like The Ivory Thorns wasn't a task for the faint-hearted. It required tireless dedication and countless hours of toil, leaving precious little room for personal time.

As I mulled over this, a nagging question floated to the surface of my thoughts. 'Why is he always by my side?' Considering his mountain of responsibilities, I was baffled by his unwavering presence. Surely he had more pressing tasks than spending time with me. A pang of guilt gnawed at me, leaving me wondering how I could convey my concern to him.

Lost in the whirlwind of my thoughts, I was oblivious to his movements until he appeared directly in front of me. A gasp tore from my throat, startled by his unexpected invasion of my personal space.

"Whoa there," Orryn's voice was calm as he grabbed my arms to steady me. "I didnt mean to scare you. I thought you saw me.

A rush of warmth spread across my cheeks, a surge of embarrassment washing over me for reacting so fearfully in his presence. The last thing I wanted was to be seen as weak, yet all I seemed to have shown him so far was my vulnerability. It sparked a fierce determination within me, I needed to grow stronger, for myself and for those around me, to alleviate the burden of protection that they bore for my sake.

"Are you hungry?" His question floated through the air as he dropped to his knees before me, positioning himself closer to my face.

I shook my head in response, the idea of consuming any more food inconceivable. Having eaten twice yesterday, an unusual occurrence in itself, my stomach felt stretched to its limits. After enduring the persistent gnaw of hunger for so long, it had constricted in size, making it impossible to ingest more without feeling sick.

Growing up on the unforgiving streets, food was a rare and precious commodity. Our meals were meager, often consisting of whatever we could forage or leftovers that a few empathetic souls deigned to share with my brothers and me. This perpetual state of starvation had forged my resilience, teaching me to endure with scant nourishment.

But the prison introduced me to an entirely new form of hunger, one that gnawed not just at my stomach, but also at my spirit. It was a relentless torment that nibbled away at my resolve each passing day. It was the cruel price I paid for survival in that desolate place.

Let me know if you change your mind, His voice softened, a warm smile gracing his handsome features. An inexplicable flutter stirred within me at his proximity, causing my heart to thrum erratically against my rib cage. My cheeks flamed, my palms became clammy and an odd sensation spiraled in my stomach, igniting a flicker of concern.

'Am I falling ill?' I puzzled over the strange symptoms, raising a hand to my forehead in an instinctual gesture to check my temperature. 'I dont feel feverish.'

"Are you feeling okay?" His voice cut through my internal debate, a cool hand lightly touching the side of my neck, his face etched with worry. "Do I need to get the doctor?"

His question leaves me startled; I shake my head, more in surprise than negation. Doctors were mythic beings in my world, heard of in hushed whispers but never seen in the grim reality of my existence. Yet, I knew, with certainty, that I was okay. This peculiar sensation was not discomforting, it didn't scream of illness or pain. Rather, it was peculiarly pleasant, a sensation that, though novel, didn't evoke fear beyond the initial shock.

As I shake my head again, he withdraws his hand, yet his gaze remains riddled with concern. I find my heart surging with warmth towards this man before me, the kindness he embodied by caring for a stranger like me seemed unfathomable. His actions defied the commonplace cruelties of the world I had known.

"He'll be here later, regardless, to remove the implant from your neck," Orryn states, compelling me to raise a hand and trace the faint, rigid scar on my neck, a constant reminder of my captive status. It would have slipped my mind, were it not for his reminder. "He can examine you then."

His next words arrive in a soft-spoken tone, "Flora wants to see you. She has come by four times since sunrise." Panic surges within me at the thought of my frail state being laid bare before her. "I don't think I can hold her off any longer, especially now that she's heard about the attack."

Desperate attempts to regulate my frantic heartbeat commence as Orryn cradles my face in his hands, his thumb drawing soothing lines against my skin. "Do not worry. She'll be okay," He reassures.

Despite the overwhelming uncertainty, I nod in agreement, endeavoring to convince myself of his words. I longed to see Flora, yet the dread of her witnessing my diminished state was formidable. Would she still hold affection for this tattered, pitiful version of the girl she once knew?

A soft voice, belonging to Fleya, intrudes through the tent door, "Brother... Is she awake yet?" The unexpected interruption has me smoothing down my clothes in a futile attempt to present myself better. But there was no hiding the painful truth, bruises marring my skin, gashes crusted over with peeling scabs.

"Yes, she is," Orryn calls back to his sister, the sentence barely complete when the curtain of the tent rustles, and she stumbles in, eager and anxious.

The moment Fleya comes into view, a powerful, instinctive force takes over me. I rise swiftly, Orryn stepping back quickly to avoid getting knocked over. Fleya stood at the tent's entrance, her eyes glistening with unshed tears that soon spill over, trailing down her cheeks. Her tentative steps morph into a determined stride as she sees me rise to meet her. My arms instinctively open, ready to welcome her as she launches herself into me. The collision of our bodies reverberates through my frail frame, yet, the discomfort is insignificant compared to the joy of holding her again.

I glance up to see Orryn standing a few steps away, his gaze on us softened, a tender look etched in his eyes. I offer him a grateful smile, realizing my earlier objections about this reunion had been misplaced. As I pull Fleya tighter against me, a wave of relief washes over me, erasing the gnawing fear that had plagued me during our separation.

"I..i m-missed you so much," She stammers into my chest, her tears seeping into the fabric of my shirt. "I feared the worst."

'As did I,' I think to myself. The honest truth was, without Orryn, I doubted I would have survived another week in captivity. My body, battered and weak, had been stretched to its limits by the incessant torment. Yet, the joy of this moment, the warmth of the sun on my face, the tickle of grass under my bare feet, made the struggle worth it.

"Nadya?" Fleya's voice shakes me from my thoughts. Her eyes, round and innocent, peer up at me, filled with confusion. "Why...why aren't you saying anything? Do you... do you hate me because I got you in trouble?"

"Fleya," Orryn interjects gently, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. "She can't talk..."

The room plunges into a silence so profound it feels physical, broken only by Fleya's soft gasp of surprise. Her wide eyes dart between Orryn and me, searching for a sign of falsehood, an indication that this was all just a cruel joke. But when none comes, her shoulders slump, her eyes brimming with fresh tears.

"What... what do you mean?" Her voice is shaky, laced with a heartbreaking mix of disbelief and fear. "Why can't she talk?"

Orryn kneels beside her, maintaining eye contact as he delicately weaves together the right words. "When Nadya was...in captivity, they did something to her. She wasn't treated well. She...she's healing, Fleya, but it's going to take time. She lost her voice due to trauma."

I watch as Fleya digests this new, devastating information. She glances up at me, the raw hurt evident in her teary gaze. It takes all of my willpower not to crumble under that look, to stay strong for her. I reach out, gently brushing away her tears with my thumb. I can't say the words, but I hope my eyes convey my message.

'I'm here, Fleya. And I'm not going anywhere.'