Page 47 of Bridget & Gabe Are Not Okay

Sir Hurst and the others found them in the end. They’d been turned around by the dense woodland, the captain clearly regretting ever letting the king out of his sight and determined never to do so again.

Once they’d regrouped, the party had to make camp under the stars rather than seeking out more comfortable lodgings. There were too many of them to impose on the tiny nearby village, and it was too far to travel to the next viable option. Of course, because life was cruelly on schedule, Bridget got her monthly bleed the second she dismounted from her horse.

No bathtub by the hearth to ease into, no featherbed. Just the tinctures she’d carefully packed away in her bag and whatever comfort could be eked out from a cot by a campfire. She’d dealt with this before on the road, but she and Neilhad become quite the experts at carefully planning their infrequent stays at inns so that she could avoid discomfort as much as possible. It hadn’t felt appropriate to say “Might we schedule this series of quests of national political importance so that I can cramp in a bath in peace?” but she was kicking herself now for not engineeringsomeway to avoid this fate.

Master Buchanan came across her standing with one hand on a tree, breathing deeply through the waves of pain, and took charge. He disappeared for a short while, and then came back to guide her into the first tent that had been pitched, directing her toward a surprisingly comfy cot stacked with blankets. They must have lit a fire at some point, because he sent for an attendant with a flask of wine and a pan full of hot coals to warm her before leaving her to suffer in peace.

It was a particularly bad month. She felt sharply nauseated by the pain, which radiated up her back, down her legs, until it felt like her kneecaps were being ground to powder. It didn’t help that she was already bruised from her encounter with the boar. Gwen came to visit her, sat next to her for a while talking softly to her about Arthur’s kitten. She’d done this for Bridget before, and Bridget had never grown used to it—being taken care of by the very person she felt bound to protect. Cool fingers on her forehead, an arm around her back as she was helped into bed, like she was something delicate and important; Gwen reading aloud to her from whichever book she was halfway through. Kisses on her temple and raspberry leaf tea left within arm’s reach.

Eventually Gwen had to leave, called to a meeting to discuss their next stop. Bridget drank some wine far too quickly, almost vomited it back up, and then managed to fall into an uneasy sleep.

When she awoke, Arthur was lying on a cot on the other side of the tent, a wet rag draped over his forehead.

“Hello,” he said hoarsely. “Don’t mind me. I’ll just be over here suffering differently. Parallel dying.”

“What’s wrong with you?” Bridget said, turning over onto her side and then regretting the movement.

“Oh, where do I start, how long do you have, et cetera, et cetera.”

“Funny.”

Arthur moved the rag so that one eye was peeking out. “Just the usual. Inexplicable feverishness, lungs hurt, legs tired. Happens every now and then since my head-bashing, for seemingly no reason. The Wizard thinks it’s because I had those infections. Messed up something in me, permanently. Physician says my humors are too soggy. What’s wrong with you?”

“The usual,” Bridget said.

“And what’s that?”

“Womb’s trying to kill me.”

“That’s nice of it.” Arthur pulled the rag back over his eyes. “Doesn’t seem like good design, does it?”

Bridget winced through a stab of pain, and then unclenched her fingers with great and conscious effort. “Nope.”

“I mean, why do we even feel pain at all? I suppose it’s so we don’t constantly run into sharp objects, but there must be a better way.” He sighed. “Anyway. I’ll leave you to sleep.”

Suddenly desperate for distraction, Bridget said, “Physicians tell me the womb wanders around causing problems unless you fall pregnant. A baby pins it in one place.”

“Well,obviously, that’s the only rational explanation. Which genius thought of that?”

“Hippocrates. And Plato, I think.”

Arthur waved his hand half-heartedly. “They’ll say anything for attention.”

She was surprised to find him easy company these days. He’d been like an excitable puppy when Bridget had first met him, constantly on the move, practically bursting out of his skin; she hadn’t really known how to talk to him then, other than to weather his constant barrage of jokes and too-friendly asides with stoicism, but he was easier to coexist with now. Not that she’d tell him that.I like you better now that life has beaten you down a little. Not the sort of thing people liked to hear.

“What have you got?” Arthur said, gesturing toward the flask in her hand.

“Wine.”

“Oh, wine. We go way back. What sort of wine? Describe it to me. I’ll live vicariously through you.”

“Tastes like… alcohol.”

Arthur’s gesturing hand flopped sadly, its life force extinguished. “They put alcohol in absolutely everything that’s meant to be good for you. All the medicines. And you know, I really do think sometimes that I could try it again one of these days and it would be… fine.”

“Right.”

“But then,” Arthur said, debating with himself, “when you’ve figured out how to crack on without something, why risk it? It was never the wine I needed anyway. It was…escape. Escape from all the feelings. An excuse to be my worst and grandest self. Do stop me anytime, or I’ll just keep going forever.”