“I–I see.”

Tenth nodded, drawing in a sharp breath through clenched teeth. With every effort to keep his voice even and his tone devoid of emotion, he still couldn’t hide the slight stutter of poorly masked anguish. The sound of running water nearby, usually – supposedly – calm and peaceful, roared in his ears like a drum. Liraeth didn’t wish to order him. Liraeth wished nothing of him. Liraeth had no need for him.

Gathering wood for the fire was a meticulous, well-practiced task. He set about it in what was intended to be a familiar way, but soon felt every scratch of dry timber on his palms, every splinter digging into his skin, every bit of weight pulling on his exhausted muscles, and then the water – always the water – rushed past so fast, so loud, he could barely hear his own thoughts. He wasn’t supposed to think, not during such a task. Not during any task. His mind wasn’t meant to wonder towards the creaking sounds of tree branches, the rustling of wind in the leaves, the uneven ground pressing against the soles of his boots, and the water…

Calloused palms scraped red, eyes focused on the slightest hint of smoke emerging from the pile, sparks flying sideways, catching, spreading, so impossibly bright, so fast in changing their shapes, playing tricks on his vision, tinted dark with tiredness and lack of sleep. Still, it needed to get dimmer, or else he was about to start tearing his hair out of his head. The water flowed on and on, steady, vibrant, colorful lines, broken circles, twirling whirlpools of incessant noise.

He sat on the grass by the fire, feeling shaky and sick. The scent of smoke broke back memories still fresh, a violent assault on the senses, a scraping, scratching, cutting feeling in his lungs, drawing a cough out of him. Even his own voice was suddenly too much. At least in Liraeth’s presence there was something to match it. A set of footsteps to echo his own. A presence to focus on, to draw his attention from the wind, and the lights, and the water – gods, that water – that whistled, whispered, whisked away the smallest, quietest, briefest of whines he’s ever allowed himself to let out.

He clasped his hands over his ears, palms pressed flat against them, so tight he could hear the blood flowing through them, but it sounded just like that damned water, and he still smelled and tasted smoke, but he only had two hands. The fire shone through even as he shut his eyes tight, a snap of orange with a dash of reds and yellows.

It felt like he’d been awake for too long.

When footsteps broke through the onslaught of noise, dimmed only slightly by the hands still covering his ears, Tenth’s first instinct was to report on his task, to let Liraeth know the fire was done. He opened his mouth but built his tongue on the well-practiced line. It hadn’t been an order.

“Should be enough for the night,” he said instead, nodding at the firewood he’d collected. His voice came out strained. He braced himself before lowering his hands in case Liraeth responded. His headache was back – not as sharp as when he tried to remember whatever it was that destroyed the castle, not as quick to appear, not as… Unnatural. The water hissed and sliced the shore so vehemently, it only made sense that it’d cut through his skull eventually, too. His shoulders shook. He waited for it to pass, even knowing that it wouldn’t. There was nothing else for him to do.