When day ten dawned mottled and misty, Lena woke to discover her spirits simply could not be roused. What was the point? So much struggle and worry and his eyes had not yet opened. Fortunately for them, she thought, he was unbelievably resilient. She found scars on him that had nothing to do with his fall, indications that this was not his first brush with death, thought it may very well be his last. And it was becoming harder to ignore the face that was familiar and yet strange. She had only glimpsed him in passing and in the confrontation that led to his arrest.
Lena sat up in bed. Her room joined his, the only partition a single thin sheet. Sometimes, in the darkest reaches of sleep, she thought she heard his breathing. Often she started awake in a panic, swearing that he had exclaimed in pain, and, throwing on a dressing gown, rushed through the doorway to see… nothing. The same. The unchanged. It was embarrassing. The constant stress was driving her mad, or at least unbalancing her humors to the point where she hallucinated his voice in sleep.

Sighing, she rubbed at her eyes with the heels of her hand, roughly, like a punishment, enjoying the little prickles of pain in her cheeks. Feeling more tired and bedraggled than usual, she slid into a loose cotton gown and tied a dressing gown over that, shuffling barefoot into the patient’s room. He slept, as he always did, on his back. She repeated their usual one-sided dance, sidling up to his bedside and dandling her finger in front of his nose. Breath, faint but warm, washed over her skin. It seemed vigorous, if a little labored, and Lena scolded herself for the pang of disappointment that tightened her stomach. If only he would die. She had tried her best… the swelling in his leg would not go down. The fever gripped him. Silently, she cursed whatever unnatural force kept him like this. It wasn’t fair to her… it wasn’t fair to him, either.

Silvia slipped into the room. At once, Lena smelled the strong, country tea, but unlike other days it did nothing to please her. She stared down at him, half-unseeing, relaxing her eyes to keep from sharpening his features into anything recognizably frightening. Whenever she strode through the Order’s gallery, none of the paintings hanging there made her shudder like his. It was the icy gaze, rendered so uncannily, so truly, that Lena actually felt it freeze her flesh. She hated that Ezio kept those paintings. Was it a reminder, she wondered, of the sacrifices they all made? Work hard, stay focused on the cause, or the country will fall to murderers and thieves like these?

“He looks better,” Silvia murmured. Even she sounded downtrodden.

“I don’t know what to do, Silvia.” Lena kept her hand in front of his face, transfixed by the even spurts of breath that came and went… the tiny stream of life that bound her like a chain. So long as he breathed, she could not leave. “All but one of his wounds shows signs of mending… yet his fever… What have I missed? What am I not seeing?”

“Calm yourself,” Silvia said gently. She crossed the dry, cool floorboards and pushed the mug of tea into Lena’s hands. Her thin fingers lifted, mussing Lena’s hair affectionately. “Go outside. Walk in the grass. Feel the sun on your face. I will watch him until you feel at peace again.”

“No.” Lena shook her head. “I should work. He needs new bandages. There is still one tea I’ve yet to try…”

“Stop… Stop.” It was mesmerizing, the way she combed her hair. Gently, like a mother… “Go. He will wait and I will wait with him.”