if i stand up, i'll break my bones
and everybody loves to see a fall unfold

The hours that Archer passes in sleep are fitful and restless, his eyes darting behind closed lids as nightmares plague him. It's a common side effect of the poison, once it's truly set in, though Blaise had never gotten that far into the sickness. He mumbles and cries out more than once, and it makes it impossible for her to rest, though she wouldn't have been able to, anyways. Fear still clenches like a vice around her heart as his fever burns hotter and she begins to picture the possibility of his death. She's surprised by how much pain the thought of it brings her, disappointed in herself for allowing him to find a home in her heart and settle in.

Love is weakness, a voice whispers in her head and she agrees, nestling her face into her knees as she waits for him to stir.

And then he does, and her stupid, stupid heart leaps and hammers hard in her chest as that bright spark of hope flares like a lighthouse in the dark. When she goes to him and speaks in that hushed, tired voice, she doesn't expect an answer. She knows he is weak, his body ravaged viciously by the poison and she is content to be near him, her face pressed against his body as an anchor to her soul. She could sleep to the sound of his steadied breathing, dream peacefully in the knowledge that he won't be taken away from her by the cruel hand of the grim reaper.

She is startled by the feeling of his hand closing around hers. How had she not seen him move? But no, she'd been too busy staring at the planes of his face, the frown creasing his brow and the twisted wince of his mouth. Without much thought, she squeezes his hand, as if she could keep him here forever with just the grip of her slender fingers. His voice breaks the silence, gravelly and harsh and a strangled cry traps itself in her throat. Her nostrils flare as he scolds her for apologizing and her jaw tightens with frustration. Her feelings are a tidal wave, a rush of sorrow beat back by her anger at him - at herself - at everything. A surge of love for a boy who would give his life for her rather than take it like a trophy to buy himself favor.

"No," she says and her eyes cast downwards, unable to meet his fever bright stare. "You're not allowed to die on me." She knows it isn't a rational request - as her knight, his duty is to put her life before his own. But as a girl, she recoils from the thought of his soul leaving this earth. The world needed more people like Archer Fairfax, and considerably less like herself.

It would be a service to the world if he let her die, but even as the thought crosses her mind, her selfishness rebels. No, she must live - and rule. She will, and he will help her.

She can feel is eyes on her, assessing her, and she isn't surprised when he scolds her again for neglecting herself. Until now, she hadn't considered the idea that she should perhaps look after her own injuries, and to be honest, she'd forgotten about them in creeping hours in which she'd prayed to too many deaf gods to spare her knight's life. He is making you weak, that sinister voice reminds her, like a thorn in her side pushing deeper and deeper. She scowls to herself, reaching up to touch the perfect slice across her face. She's surprised to find that it itches now that she's thinking about it. Already healing, stitching itself jaggedly back together.

"Scars don't," bother me, she starts to say, but is cut off by him swinging his legs over the side of the couch and struggling to sit up. His face is twisted in a grimace of pain, and she wonders if he truly knows how bad he looks, how closely he'd come to embracing death last night. She places a hand on his thigh, the other still curled in his hand. "You're still weak, Archer... The poison was strong and I'm afraid you're not quite out of the woods. " She gnaws at her lip, something she's been doing too much lately. Hesitating, she unlinks their hands, brushing the blood stained fingers across his cheek, a gentle caress before she stands and turns towards the bathroom for more supplies.

When she is alone in the bathroom, she allows herself a look in the mirror. Her face sags with exhaustion but her eyes are vivid, wild and red-rimmed. Had she been crying last night? She can't recall. The past few hours seem like a blur of waiting and worrying, hating herself and hating him for making her feel that way. She turns the water on and scrubs at her hands, soaping them up and rubbing the skin raw until the hot water starts to run clear. There's still blood caked in her fingernails, but her hands are otherwise clean.

Satisfied, still wild eyed, she grabs her medical kit and heads back to the couch, this time sitting beside him on it. As she'd expected, there is a deep red stain where his blood had leaked into the cushions during the night. She stares at it now, unable to meet his gaze, lest he see the power struggle waging war inside of her.

He is nothing to you, the voice croons, wicked as he said she was. He is a tool, a means to an end, expendable. But if that is true, why does it feel like a lie?

Why does it cause her heart to convulse, that sweet new light to curl in on itself?