In From the Cold

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The living dead feels no cold. Fist frozen to the hilt, she drags her unsheathed sword up mountains, through snowstorms, looking but not seeing. Ice wind makes her squint. Tears make her blind. Something muddies up her head and besides that she is hollow. Weightless atop frozen ponds that crack without splintering. Drifting. Panting. Waiting for the plunge that never comes. Nothing comes.

. . .

"Praise Halone, she yet lives!"

"Pray speak to us, miss."

"What of all this blood? Could it be—?"

"— the passing adventurer who slew all those ogres, then stalked away without a word..."

"The one with the dead-eyed smile."

"Miss? Miss! I believe she is waking up."

"Wait, I know her. This is the ward of House Fortemps."

"Should we take her into the city? By the Fury, she's ice cold!"

"Someone send for House Fortemps."

"Those traitors?"

"Whoa! Miss, fear not! You collapsed and—"

"Aiee!"

"Get ahold of yourself!"

"What is the meaning of this? Perchance she bashed her head?"

"Such volatility is— argh!"

"For a missus half dead, she sure swings hard..."

"Don't just stand there! Help us hold her down!"

"Oof!"

"Godsdamned bitch—!"

"That's enough."

Everything slowed.

"She's with me, and she means you no trouble. Get off of her. Now."

It all quieted.

"You have five seconds."

Through the Gates of Judgement a grim wind howled, and darkness crept up from the abyss.

"One..."

. . .

Liborette woke in the bathtub with hot water burbling in her ears.

"There you are." Fray squeezed the sponge over head again. Rivulets trickled from her chin into the lukewarm water at her shoulders. "You were mumbling in your sleep again."

"Sorry." Her voice came out a wispy croak.

"If you must, apologise for nearly dropping dead in the snow."

She was sorry, yes— to be alive. To be naked in an unfamiliar bathroom, with sensation in every finger and toe. To have a nose stuffed with snot, a mouth that fell open to compensate, and lungs greedy for every breath. Her stomach gnashed. She'd throw up but it'd only be spittle again.

"Are you warm enough now? We've long since cleaned up the blood. Not much of it was yours." Fray leaned back, sat cross-legged on the floor. She looked out of place indoors and at eye level, but not uncomfortable. Like a weed that would sprout anywhere, whether you willed it or not. The look in her eyes said, damn right. I'll flower, too. She wrung the sponge empty and asked, "what were you hunting?"

"Something... anything that could kill me."

"Then you picked the wrong quarry. Come. Let's eat."

Fray lifted her from the tub into a giant towel. To get out the door, she had to unlatch the bolt, turn the key, and kick aside the chair jammed under the knob. She carried her dripping wet down a dark hallway into another locked room. As she was set down on the edge of the bed, she realised this was the Cloud Nine inn. There was the long table, wood worn smooth by many hands. There was the unlit hearth. When Fray pulled her hair out of her face, into a knot atop her head, she looked up and saw the chandelier with no candles in it.

"No one will bother us here," said Fray. "We'll stay until you feel like a person again."

She towelled her dry, grabbing her by the wrist, the ankle, whatever. Somehow, despite her nakedness, Liborette did not mind being manhandled and fussed over. Fray looked at her the way one looks in a mirror: with little interest and even less surprise. Fray was gentler with her armpit, where something bit between armour plates when she raised her sword. It tickled. She stared at the ceiling and did not laugh.

In bygone days, Haurchefant did this for her. It was their routine to share a bath; for him to wash, dry, and dress her; then fall into bed, as deeply asleep as they were truly in love. But, never again... Never...

"Stop that." Fray poked right where she was most ticklish. "Stop thinking."

"If that is your wish, pray toss me back in the snow where I belong."

"You foolish girl." She was laughing, wrapping her in quilts so tightly she could not move. "There are means to quiet your mind that have nothing to do with wasting away. I'll teach you."

"... will it hurt?" A hopeful question.

"Of course," came the warm answer. "But not tonight."

Fray headed for the door, leaving Liborette to wiggle uselessly in her cotton cocoon. "Wait!"

"Hush. Lie still."

Against all instinct she calmed, and Fray turned the key in the lock.

"We'll discuss it over dinner."

. . .

"Fray? Is that really you?"

"Aye."

"I thought you were dead!"

"Do I look dead to you?'

"Well, you—"

"I'm here for food. The order for room 212."

"Says here... Liborette Iudicium?"

"That's the one."

"Why's that name so familiar?"

"The soup, good ser."

"Aye, aye. Don't get cross with me now like your lad Sidguru."

"Who?"

"..."

"We'll take a roll of bread, too."

. . .

Dinner was served behind a barricaded door. Even when snowy boots trampled down the hall or drunken laughter rattled up through the floorboards, they felt perfectly alone. Something like safety thawed the tension in her core, just enough to sink her into Fray's lap. They sat on the floor by the fire, angled to warm their feet and keep an eye on the blessedly empty room.

"Lucky you. Today the tavern made your favourite." Fray stirred the soup just under her chin, letting the steam clear her stuffed nose and entice her dry mouth.

It was Haurchefant upon whom she relied to point out her favourites. Fray withdrew the bowl before it caught her tears.

"Look at the fire, Liborette. The flames and the shadows they cast. The hearth in silhouette. It's warm, isn't it?"

"It is." Her voice shook.

"As are these quilts. Soft, too. On every side, you're surrounded by something gentle." That included Fray's voice hovering above her head. "Focus on that."

"I-I can't."

"Yet you are." She offered the first spoonful. "Now blow."

Stewed carrots and beef broth, slightly scalding, highly familiar. It slid past the grief wedged in her throat and warmed her belly. Fray took a moment to pat her there, through layers of quilts. Heat sprung to her cheeks, too, and burned hotter at her next words.

"Good girl, that's it."

For every bite, Fray praised her, and she was hungrier for that than she ever was for food. His death starved her of praise. Of guidance. Set her adrift with no loving smile to moor her. Fray was not the smiling type— however her eyes, piercing as they were, betrayed a certain warmth. In her touch there was fondness, knowing. Liborette had not spoken one word in a week, not since her comrades stormed the Vault, but conversation came easily with Fray.

Somehow it was all wrong. Too selfish, totally unearned. Beneath the blankets, she dug her nails into her arm.

"Enough of that." Busy soaking a chunk of bread in the soup, Fray could only nudge her with her elbow. "Now is not the time for pain. Come, eat."

"Is... Is there no food for you?"

"Here you are half-dead and still fretting over someone else. Open up. You know the bread is the best part."

And it was. Fluffy and soggy, flavourful and filling. When Fray pushed the morsel past her lips she got a taste of her gauntlet, too. A little zing of death.

"Um..." In her recklessness she began mid-chew but paused now to swallow, to gather her words. All that she meant to say blurted out as, "can we please kill things together?"

"Yes." Fray hugged her from behind. "We'll kill a great many things. Never mind how you ruined your sword in the snow, or lost your shield somewhere in the mountains... I'll lend you my weapon. Teach you to use it, too."

"But will it hurt?"

"I promise you pain and power in equal measure."

"It needs to hurt."

"Patience, little one. If you're so eager, go to sleep and let the nightmares take you."

New fear shot through her. Were she not so tightly swaddled, she would— she would—

"Hush. I'm here to help with that, too."

. . .

"It's all in the breath."

"I can't."

"You can. Breathe into my hand. Let me feel you fill your lungs. Yes... Now slowly out..."

A deep sigh.

"Feels good, doesn't it?"

"Yes, but..."

"Stop wondering if you deserve it. You need it and that's enough."

"I... I feel tired, Fray."

"I know."

"But I cannot... If I try to..."

"Each time you close your eyes, you see it."

A nod.

"Look for something else then, something deeper within. Follow the sound of my voice."

Once upon a time, Haurchefant held her at midnight and sang lullabies from his childhood. They were all his mother had left him. Different images haunted her then. Sobs wracked her body so painfully, she feared she would die in his arms. A cruel irony, it was, that now she could not bear the memory of him dead in hers.

"You're not listening, Liborette."

"Sorry."

"Make it up to me."

"I will."

"Don't just say it— do it."

"I..."

"Close your eyes. We're going somewhere dark."

. . .

In darkness pain surges into power. It brings thrills of violence, spurs acts of instinct. She fights hard and she fights dirty. Trip your opponent. Mash his eyes with your thumbs. She forgets her body and becomes her sword. When bloodied, she bludgeons back.

Fray lets her die just to get a taste. Kill and let yourself be killed, she says, for a moment at most. It is that moment she craves. The living dead feels most alive.