the evil eye: a talisman or amulet, designed in the shape of an eye, that indicates spiritual protection against evil spirits or malicious intent.
...
"There's nothing wrong with your husband."
That was the first thing you heard from Healer Lyonel of your small village after he had changed the bandages on your husband's legs. Your beloved's body was covered with the warmest blanket you could find — one you had snuggled under during the winter. Now only his leg was sticking out from under it, the limb straightened by the wooden sticks you searched frantically for in the woods after one of the villagers shouted orders at you.
You were still thankful he did, for the sight of your husband's body — beaten, dirty, bloodied and still (oh gods so still) — froze you to the depths of your soul. Your hands trembled even now, two days later, and your knees only looked worse from when you fell to your knees after the village men came through your doors at night, dripping wet from the storm, and carrying your husband on their shoulders.
You nodded at the healer slowly, noticing your hair slipping from the bun. You were still wearing clothes from that night, your hair dirty and eyes bloodshot. The house was a mess, you only let yourself be next to the fire to cook some broth for a short time, for every sound in the bedroom made you sprint through the kitchen. Back to his side.
Yet he remained unconscious.
"He should be awake any moment now, girl," Healer Lyonel signed tiredly, most likely he was done with you knocking at his doors every hour because his breathing hitched differently. "If not, then the trauma must be too heavy on his soul and you should..." he trailed off when a sob tore through your body. His hand on your shoulder only made you hide your face in your hair.
The trauma. Yes, you understood.
That night, when you snapped out of your panic, you finally asked the villagers what happened to your beloved.
The looks they exchanged made your heart drop then. And until now no one was able to retrieve it from where you hid it beneath the bones.
"'ear, miss, ye do't—" one of the men started awkwardly, before trailing off nervously.
"Tell me," you grabbed his hand, eyes wide and agitated. "Please, kind sir. What atrocity befell my husband for him to be like this," you didn't even notice how your fingers were tightening on the man's arm, to the point of your nails biting through the wet fabric. "I need to know, I— I can pay, just please— "
He tore his arm away with a pained hiss, and you almost followed after him, like a hound on a hunt.
Then the other one, the young blond, finally decided to be upfront with you, "We do not know, miss. We found him on the edge of the forest. We suspect someone..." he avoided your face. "hurt him... badly, miss. Very badly. I've never seen such cruelty done to a man... and my pa served in the army but this—"
"—but the burns!" you interrupted him so loudly he took a step back. "How could someone do this to him on such a rainy day and without any evidence?! There must have been someone or something with him, where you found him—!"
"We suspect he ran away from the coast, at least taking the footprints into account," the oldest man interfered with a thoughtful hum. "Maybe someone kidnapped him and took him on their ship? He escaped by jumping into the water and... swam to the shore? Well, the burns are still... I mean—"
"No fella would do sucha thing so close to the village—"
"And the raiders?" asked the blond fearfully, interrupting the one whose arm bled from your nails. "That would explain the cuts and beatings, right? I mean, who else would torture—"
"Hush!" the oldest slapped him and only then did they all look down on you. Your vision went dark and you blindly sat down on the chair heavily. Your breaths were coming in slowly, yet your lungs pulsed in pain.
In the background, you could hear the healer thanking the men and ushering them out of your small house — the clink of coin lost to your senses.
"My dear," you heard all of a sudden and jerked to the right. The healer stood before you, a pitying look on his face. "I must leave for the night but fear not. We did all we could for your man. The trauma is indeed great but the strong shall persevere," he glanced towards the bedroom, where you could see his silhouette.
His whole body was bandaged, and the cuts and bruises on his face required him to only have his eyes, mouth and part of the nose on display. The broken bones and burned flesh on his form were hidden beneath the layers.
His eyes were closed and despite the bruises and slits marring his face, he looked peaceful. He laid still in your bed as if tomorrow he would stretch with a yawn, kiss you on the cheek and go chop some wood before breakfast.
If you tried hard enough you could pretend it all a nightmare.
"The Gods see your care for him and will answer your prayers. But remember to take care of yourself as well, child."
You nodded only and felt your form slump when the doors shut after Healer Lyonel with force.
You couldn't pass the threshold to the bedroom that night. You knelt at the door, watching his chest go up and down. The right side of his face was lying placidly on the old pillow towards you and you obsessively watched his eyelid. If it fluttered you would hold your breath in fear and anticipation.
What would he do, what would he say after seeing his body? Would he remember how it happened, who hurt him?
You prayed he wouldn't know a thing. You prayed his mind free of terrors that already scared him enough.
After hours or minutes or days of nervous fidgeting, you found yourself kneeling at the bed, arms folded next to his arm. Your hand delicately laid upon his bandaged wrist, as if he were made from the thinness of glass. The sight of his battered form (tortured tortured tortured they said ) was engraved into your brain and you had to fight with yourself not to weep bitterly.
What world would let such a crime prevail? What Gods would let such a thing happen and leave the perpetrators unpunished?
You bend down to the medallion on your neck, silver and stamped with a shape of a burning heart. You kissed it and prayed to whatever gods would listen; for protection, for kindness, for health.
Why him? O Gods, why him?
/
The cottage you lived in, one your father build with your husband as a wedding gift, stood north of a small village. You lived almost in the woods, safer beneath the tree's crown than the King's.
At first, you feared the raiders or the animals hungry for your possessions but with time found the seclusion concealing. Only a few villagers and Healer Lyonel knew your location, for since the death of your mother, you needed space more than ever.
Your father visited whenever his legs let him. At first, you were adamant about him being the one going back and forth. However, after his barn burned down and he was forced to retire completely, relying on the villagers' help and unpaid debts from the past, he made it clear how much he preferred spending time at your cottage.
Despite your solitude, you still made sure to keep the connections to the village and towns in Riverlands but with time the visits you made to your distant cousins and in-laws became sporadic. Your husband never pushed you, always understanding and supportive.
You missed his laugh. His warmth.
Now his body ran hot with a raging fever that made him thrash every few hours. You whispered into his bandaged cheek and held him down as gently as you could but he was stronger even in sickness.
Yet you stayed at his side, a single pillow underneath your knees and hands stroking his head in comfort. Sometimes you would sing a tune, one you heard while doing laundry at the creek with the girls. It was for your own anxiety as was for his. You hoped you could reach him, sway him away from the depths of his sickness.
You felt powerless, hanging above the cliff's edge with his beating heart in your hand, the wind slashing at you from every direction, threatening to take him away. Just as it was with your mother.
The cough that suddenly overtook him alerted you. You hummed softly, adjusting the blankets back to his chin.
"You need to sweat it out, my love," you whispered apologetically at his pained groan. "I know. Just a little more and it will all be over. I am here beside you."
You bent down, rebellious stands of your hair escaped the braid and brushed over his face as you kissed his cheek. He took a deep breath as if struck, before relaxing with a low rumble.
"I am right here, love. I await at your side."
A rebellious tear ran down your nose and onto his cheek.
"Come back to me. Please, come back."
Don't leave me.
You laid your head on the mattress, sobs quieting before you drifted off.
The candles fluttered in the dark bedroom, shadows dancing on the walls, flames shining against a deep violet eye.
/
A heavy veil of cold encompassed you and the less you moved — the less the iciness bit your skin, the less your knees hurt. Your eyes slid open before closing again, your vision swimming as did your consciousness.
A rustle of fabric made your spine snap and you threw yourself onto your legs.
"Har—?"
You fell back, your elbows hitting the woody floor, keeping your head from slamming into the nightstand. You looked up but the candles have long burned through and you couldn't see anything in the dark bedroom.
"What is it? Are you up? I can't s—"
You gasped as a hand grabbed you by the neck, hold shaky and weak, yet the attack caught you so unguard you let it press you into the floor.
You heard his rapid, heavy breathing as if he couldn't catch it. You felt his knees on the sides of your stomach, clearly fighting dizziness if the way he swayed above you was any indication.
Your husband never raised his hands on you, despite the stories he shared of his own upbringing with an apathetic mother and cruel father — you knew what the common discipline of the household looked like yourself, for before your wedding your friends shared with hushed voices the horrors of the first night and the price for rebellious behaviour.
But you knew you had nothing to fear since the moment your veil was lifted and a nervous smile welcomed you during your wedding.
You never feared your husband after seeing him then and promised yourself that you never shall.
You swallowed, the grip on your neck loosening the more his silhouette staggered, and fought to calm down.
Slowly you raised your hand and touched his fingers at your throat. They shook underneath you and you caressed them.
"It's okay, you are safe," you whispered to the darkness. "You are home, we found you. There is nothing here that can harm you."
You heard him mumble under his breath, fever wrecking his mind. Tenderly, you hushed him and raised your knees so that you could catch him in case he fell back.
"It's alright," you said, hands slipping up his elbows and reaching for his face, and he flinched when your hand brushed against his right cheek. The skin was hot to the touch; you noted how it was much cooler than before and smiled in relief.
"I will help you to bed. You need to rest, alright?" you said and started peeling his palm away from your neck. At the lack of resistance, you raised, pushing him away delicately.
He was fighting for his breath, shaking but tense, as if ready to fight to the last drop of blood.
"Shhh," you wrapped your arms underneath his arms and tried to tug him up but he was much heavier than you suspected. You grunted from the effort and tried again, stepping back when he threw his arms at you again.
Easily you sidestepped his attempts, but in the thick darkness, it resulted in you bumping against the furniture. You cursed quietly and heaved, raising him by the waist. His head was laying on your shoulder and his legs struggled to support his weight as you almost threw him onto the bed, careful not to damage the sticks holding his foot straight.
You arranged his legs and laid him down carefully before sitting on the bed, hands massaging your temples.
You looked over at him, asleep yet jerky and agitated.
You prayed to any God that would listen — for his health, for his being, for his peace.
You laid down on the edge of the bed, barely having any room, and watched his raising and falling chest.
/
On the next day, you returned from the kitchen, a warm bowl of broth in your hand, and you almost fell in the doorway. Your hand went to your mouth as you gasped.
He sat in the bed, his left arm (one that did not suffer the burns) supporting his weight. His eye widened at you too, and you shook away the strange hesitation that overtook you and crossed the room towards him. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, feeling his sharp intake of breath and the muscles pulling taunt.
"My love," you whispered wetly, face hidden in the crook of his neck. "Oh, finally. Finally, you're awake. I thought—" you swallowed any unpleasant thoughts and smiled, your hands running down his back softly. Through the shirt, you felt his warmth and moving chest. Alive alive alive—
You shook your head, "It doesn't matter now. I'm just... so happy," you raised up, hands resting on his upper chest lightly. You looked him in the eye and saw it widen, as if struck. Only now you noticed he hadn't taken a single breath since you hugged him.
He moved slightly away on the bed and you gasped.
"Gods, I truly— I'm so sorry! I just rushed at you and... Ugh, Healer said I should give you time and here I am..." you hurriedly left the bed, murmuring to yourself.
You remembered about the broth and took it from the table where you'd left it earlier.
"I brought you something to eat, nothing heavy now," you started approaching him slowly and sat on the edge of the bed, giving him space. "In two days, Healer will come to check up on you and change the bandages. He said he would get a maester from the town if the wounds open so don't worry. Then— Oh, let me help you," you said, noticing his shaky hands.
You took the bowl from his knees and raised the spoon to his mouth after checking the temperature with your tongue. He threw you an offended glare, almost disgusted, but you brushed it off. Your mind was whirling as if struck by lightning, the energy that was seeping from you as did your tears now returned and made you want to carry the world.
"Also, the villagers that carried you here promised to inform Ronald that you won't be helping him for some time so do not worry about that as well," when he refused to open his mouth you pushed the spoon inside, not halting your monologue. "I asked them not to be scaremongers and keep everything to themselves. What else? Ach, Healer managed to deliver some wood from father for us so we don't have to leave the cottage for some time. He said it would help you recover much faster. Oh, and— "
You rambled on and on as he ate, throwing you glances constantly but you did not address it. You were content without the answers, as he always was scarce with words.
At his silent perusal of your clothes and face, you blushed a little, remembering the state of your hair and garments that were still dirty and unkempt.
His grumpy facade also did not surprise you, as he was always like that when sick—the thought of being weakened by his own body an offence he could not swallow. That's why you always filled his gloomy silences with rattle about town gossip or the newest commissions.
The spring was coming, you thought to yourself cheerfully. The storm was behind you.
When the soup was finished you breathed in, catching your breath for the first time in minutes. You smiled, eyeing his seated form. He watched you carefully, eye dark strangely and you reached out to check his fever.
He tried to catch your wrist but you smacked it away.
"Now, now, I need to check. Don't be a child," you huffed and laughed at his glare. You touched his forehead and saw him open his mouth, enraged. "Hmm, I see your fever really is down, since you have the energy to be so rude," you said, flicking him on the nose.
"I will—" he croaked in a furious voice before a range of dry coughs made him double down painfully. You clasped his back and delicately patted him, bringing a cup to his lips. He gulped it down without hesitation, droplets of water running down his chin and neck, which you carefully dried with a napkin.
When he calmed down, exhaustion set itself into his body, making his movements even more sluggish as he fought against sleep.
You laid him down, unresponsive to his protests, and caressed his face.
"Sleep for now," you whispered, his lone eye struggling to stay open, trained on you. "You leaned closer, your hair brushing against his neck and he took a large breath, recognition passing his face and mouth falling open with sudden clarity. "I will be right with you, my love. When you awake, I will make some tea with honey and some porridge. But now you need to sleep. Alright?" At that, his whole silhouette relaxed slowly and eye closed.
Under an uncontrollable impulse, you laid a kiss on his nose, before straightening and taking the bowl to the kitchen, humming softly.
Throughout the next two days, you took care of him meticulously, whether it was during his fussy sleep and turning, or angry glaring whenever you came into the bedroom.
You tried to find the perfect middle with how much you observed his every move in search of pain, and how relaxed you appeared to feign normalcy.
You chattered to yourself, about anything and everything, making an effort to engage him but every time he would open his mouth with a disgusted mien, a fit of coughs attacked him. And so you settled on prattling while doing the chores and helping him eat. He was adamant about you touching him too much so you respected this border. You tried as hard as you could not to mention the scars and wounds, to not let your eyes trace them, instead taking the topics to the mundane tasks and your own plans for the day.
With time he started to await your chaotic chatter. In the morning, while making breakfast and humming to yourself, you would return to the bedroom with him already ready for the day, seating upright and watching you closely. At night, whenever you stopped your rambling while knitting, focused on untangling a rebellious loop, he would open his eye with a harsh expression, almost as if he himself was mad at his inability to fall asleep without your voice. When you teased him about it he turned towards the wall so you ceased.
When the healer came in a day later than anticipated, you were wrought tight with nervousness, and you could tell he noticed. He watched your pacing with a raised eyebrow, mouth twisted in irritation.
When heavy knocking came upon your doors, you flew to them, not noticing the ruthless light in your husband's eye as he reached for his boots under the bed, a slightly healed hand closing around the handle of a blade.
You laughed only at the panicked mien of the healer, his apologetic and almost humble appearance making you forget all the hours of nervous pacing you did while waiting for him.
"He is awake, Healer. In the bedroom," you said softly, awaiting his joy. Only to be met with a fearful twitch of his features, which made you pause. "Everything alright?" you asked lowly, but he only shook his head with a forced smile.
"Of course not! I shall quickly check the situation and..."
He trailed off when met with your husband's stiff form in the bed, his back straight and chin raised high in arrogance that was foreign to you. It made you both stop in the doorway, as if in the presence of someone —
The healer quickly laughed, voice higher than ever, "It is my utmost pleasure to see you well. I knew your wife would be the best person to take care of you," he said, his eyes cutting to you anxiously before returning to your husband's inquiring tilt of the head. "She has always been loyal and loving, a dutiful ally of a woman."
You could not tell if the praises were for you or himself. Your eyebrows furrowed with visible confusion, the healer you had known since your birth behaving like a stranger.
You looked to your husband for clues as to whether it was your imagination, when you caught his intense gaze; he seemed to be appraising you, calculating in a way that made goosebumps rise on your arms. But then he blinked and the strange connection faded as well.
You massaged your temples, stress probably taking its toll on you finally, when your husband nodded mutely at the healer.
Healer Lyonel laughed with relief and approached the bed slowly. You moved to follow when he stopped you in your tracks.
"Thank you, my dear. I will take it from here," he addressed you with confidence and something akin to pomposity. "Close the door, will you?"
You opened your mouth to refuse but the older man already turned his back on you with an air of finality.
You swallowed your pride, your husband's health and well-being more important than your ego, and did as instructed. Through the crack of the closing doors, your eyes met a striking violet one that you never noticed before.