Chapter 24

*I'm getting really tired of waking up in places I'm not expecting.*

My eyes sting as I peek them open a crack- their dryness a twin to my parched mouth and throat. A quiet groan makes its way up from deep in my chest as I peer around the unfamiliar room. I'm propped up in a single bed tucked into a corner. The sheets are a cool white cotton, pulled up around me up to my chin.

Despite the foreignness of the room, I recognize the space for what it is. Even half-asleep the way I am, and with a white curtained partition blocking most of my view of the rest of the space, I instantly know I'm in an infirmary. I've spent so much of my life in and out of the hospital wing that the sharp familiar scents of antiseptic mixed with undercurrents of pine and sage is like being greeted by an old friend.

The familiar older woman who sits knitting in a wooden chair beside my bed is a welcome sight. She glances up from her work as I shift in the bed. I smile as I meet her gaze, "Mitra!"

It's hard to believe that the last time I saw this woman was only a little over two weeks ago. With everything that's happened since then, it feels like another lifetime ago that she sat with me in my rooms as I recovered.

She only blinks at me, nodding deeply as she rises from her seat and disappears behind the partition that's blocking off my bed from the rest of the room.

"She's not ignoring you on purpose, Princess."

I blink up at the elderly man who rounds the corner, taking Mitra's place. He has white tufts of hair fluffing out from his rich ocher skin. The deep lines of his face are set into a kindly smile. I don't have a ton of knowledge about the shifters, but I do know that they age almost as slowly-if not *as* slowly-as the fae do. I can't imagine how many years this man has seen to appear as weathered as he looks now. Many more years than even the Unseelie King, most likely.

"Mitra suffered an injury a while back where she isn't able to respond verbally with anyone, so it's not just you." He explains.

"I didn't realize-" I glance back to the space behind the curtain that the older woman disappeared through, Distressful for the woman I barely know has me chewing unconsciously at my lower lip, "Poor Mitra. That's horrible." I didn't think *horrible* quite conveyed how heart-rending it would be to not be able to communicate. Especially with loved ones.

The older man nods kindly, "It was certainly an adjustment for her, to be sure. But King Lothbrook has seen to it that she's received the best treatment she can. And while it's undoubtedly been a setback for her, it's not quite the tragedy you're imagining. There are other ways for her to communicate-through written word and hand languages."

I nod, though the heartache I feel for the quiet, gentle woman lingers.

"I'm Healer Orm, Princess. I'm pleased to finally have the honor of getting to meet you." He holds out a weathered hand for me to take and I grasp onto it firmly, his skin cool and dry next to mine.

"It's good to meet you as well, Healer Orm," I level him with a grateful smile, "Thank you for looking after me the way that you have been."

"It's been no trouble at all," he assures me, drawing his hand away, "It looks like your injuries are healing up nicely. How are you feeling?"

"Much better," I tell him, honestly, "I can hardly feel them anymore."

"Very good." His eyes flicker over me, thoughtfully, before he reaches behind him for a cup. He fills it with water from the adjacent pitcher, before handing it to me. I sip at it gratefully, the cool water soothing my parched throat as he slowly lowers himself into the small wooden chair Mitra had vacated.

"I hope you don't mind," he begins slowly, "but our King also briefly mentioned to me that you have been dealing with another illness as well." The inflection of his voice pitches up on the last few words-a question.

"I don't mind," I assure him, reaching up to swipe any residual droplets of water from the corner of my mouth, "It's true that I have a lingering illness-a sickness that never quite goes away."

"If you're not opposed, I'd like to hear more about your symptoms," His gray-blue eyes shine with a quiet intelligence-a confidence hard-earned from a long life, "When did your illness first begin?"

"I was born with it. The palace healers have taken to calling it sun fever," I explain quietly, running my finger over the lip of the cup, "My body goes weak much faster than others. Some days, even the simple act of walking can be exhausting," I admit slowly.

"And if I push myself too hard, my body goes through a burnout. Exhaustion usually results in fever. And when I don't take my medicine, those symptoms progress. They worsen to headaches and nausea. After that, follows nose bleeds, and bloodshot eyes. The last phase is hallucinations. I've never gone past that point, so I don't know if there's anything else."

Healer Orm hums thoughtfully under his breath, "And why do they call it Sun Fever?"

I consider his question for a moment, taking another sip of water to ease my parched throat, "Well, I'm sure you probably know that the Seelie get their energy from the sun and the Unseelie are energized by the moon. Somehow, I'm unable to get my energy from either. If anything, being out in the sun too long makes the fever come on faster."

There's a ruminative tilt of his chin, paired with the slight tightening around his mouth and almost inconspicuous glint in his eyes. Those minuscule shifts in his expression, have my heart squeezing in my chest.

"You've heard of it before," I breathe. It's not a question, but a startled, hope-riddled accusation.

He smooths out the front of his robes, deep in thought, "I'm not entirely certain. I don't want to get your hopes up. However something about what you said sounds very vaguely familiar. If I have heard of it, it was ages ago. I'll need to comb through some of my old journals and notes, and see what turns up."

His words come as such a shock that I forget how to breathe for a moment, lungs burning in my chest. I finally force myself to suck in a breath as what he's saying sinks in. No one-not even the most experienced Seelie Healers or even the historians-has *ever* known what to make of my illness. I'd given up the prospect of searching for a cure years ago.

It was only recently that I'd finally come to grips with my situation in life. I found a way to accept myself the way I am-flaws and weaknesses and all. To work around the way the courtiers and servants view me. I created ways to embrace my life being the cursed daughter of the Seelie Court and found ways to be happy living my life on the outside looking in. I learned to find joy in the things that I *can* do rather than spend my time focusing on everything that I can't.

But hearing Orm say that there may be a record of my illness, wrenches all those old hopes and fears to the surface. Those past longings hadn't been buried away as deeply as I thought they'd been. Even now, a fragmented sliver of hope needles its way into the center of my chest. Though I try to shove it out-push it as far away from me as I possibly can-it's already burrowed there.

"Youwould do that?" My voice is a breathless whisper, my fists burrowing tightly in the hospital bedding.

The lines around Orm's eyes soften, "Of course I will." He reaches across the bed, to gently pat my hand with one of his wrinkled ones, the deep hue of his skin a stark contrast to my colorless pallor. "Like I said, I can't promise anything. But I'll do what I can."

Before I can think better of it, I lean across the bed, wrapping my shaking arms around his hunched angular form, hugging him tightly with trembling arms. "*Thank you*," I whisper, voice thick with an emotion I can't even name, "You don't know what that means to me."

Orm chuckles low in his chest, gently patting my back with soft rhythmic taps, "You're very welcome, dear."

I hug him tightly for a long moment, only letting go as someone I hadn't heard approach clears their throat behind us.