The storm had worn itself out.
Rain still tapped gently against the roof, dripping through the cracks and knotholes like it was trying to whisper a lullaby. The wind outside had calmed down to nothing more than a breeze, and inside that little cabin, the air had turned warm from the fire you kept going all night.
Gepard hadn't moved for hours.
He lay still, pale and quiet, bandaged shoulder rising and falling with every slow, uneven breath. His hair was damp with fever sweat. His coat had been folded up beside him, and the sword that never left his side was propped neatly near the wall—just in reach. You'd made sure of that.
You were asleep next to him now. Finally. After hours of soaking cloths in water, checking his temperature, wrapping up his injury with bits of spare cloth and torn fabric from your own sleeves… you'd curled up beside him and drifted off, hand still lightly resting over his.
You didn't see his fingers twitch.
You didn't notice when his lashes fluttered.
But he was waking up.
And in the quiet haze between sleep and full consciousness, memories began to drift back.
There was a tree.
A massive cedar, standing alone at the edge of some sunlit field, years ago. He was smaller then. The sword in his hand was too big and too awkward. His arms shook trying to hold it up.
''You're holding it wrong,'' his mother had said, laughing gently.
She was in armor back then—worn and scuffed, hair braided back, the way warriors wore it. She had knelt beside him and adjusted his grip with strong, warm hands.
''A sword isn't just for fighting,'' she'd told him. ''It's for protecting.''
He blinked at her.
''Protecting what? ''
''People who can't protect themselves. The ones no one looks out for. The ones too small, too tired, too afraid.''
He remembered that moment so clearly. The way the light passed through the grass. The wind that rustled the trees. Her voice.
And then—
''Promise me,'' she'd said. ''Promise that when I'm gone, you'll protect the weak. You'll be the one who stays when everyone else runs.''
He had promised.
And then, not long after, she was gone.
His throat tightened as the memory faded.
The fever hadn't fully broken, but the pain was dull now. Bearable. He slowly blinked open his eyes, wincing a little at the movement.
Everything was dim. A faint orange glow from the coals. The room smelled of damp wood and forest moss. His shoulder was wrapped—not perfectly, but well enough. A little messy, but secure. Done with care, not experience.
And there you were.
Curled up beside him, sleeping.
Your arm was still loosely draped over his. You hadn't meant to fall asleep, probably. But you'd fought exhaustion longer than most would've. There were dark smudges beneath your eyes.
Your clothes were damp from the rain. You looked like you'd been through a battlefield—
But still stayed.
He stared at you for a while, quiet.
Your breathing was slow. Calm. Like a rhythm he didn't know he needed to hear.
And for the first time in a long, long while, Gepard didn't feel like he had to keep standing tall. He didn't feel like a captain or a soldier.
He just… felt human.
''You stayed,'' he murmured, voice hoarse. He wasn't even sure if he said it out loud.
You didn't stir.
Gepard's gaze dropped to the cloth you'd used to bandage him. Torn fabric from your own clothes. There was even a small clover tucked under one knot—like you'd tried to offer something gentle along with the healing.
He let out a quiet breath. Almost a laugh. It was such a you thing to do.
His fingers moved slightly. Just enough to brush against your sleeve. Just enough to make sure this wasn't a fever dream.
It wasn't.
You were real.
And you'd stayed with him through the storm.
His heart beat strangely in his chest.
Tight. Quiet. Full.
''Wanderer…'' he whispered, still staring at you.
''What are you doing to me...? ''
He closed his eyes again. This time, not from pain. But peace.
Outside, the rain softened to a drizzle.
Inside, beside a flickering fire and an old wooden sword, a man dreamed of a promise.
And a spirit who never once left his side.