Though her eyes are open, she can't think of why.

Her lids are droopy and leaden, but they're fixed above, as if glued that way. The cool air and a foamy fragrance—the distant lurching of waves—it surrounds her, muddled in her ears.

Slowly and reluctantly, Leda moves her sore hands and heavy arms to shield her face. It's wet. Soaked, even. Water? She blinks in the darkness her palms bring, closes her eyes, and blinks again. Streaks of sunlight penetrate the cracks of her fingers.

Every fibre of her body urges her to scratch her way to standing, find out where she is, but she can't muster the strength nor reassess the nightmare currently replaying like a record beneath her eyelids.

So she just lies there, in her drenched clothes, a numbing cold shooting from her back down to the heels of her feet and the lofting smell of the sea clogging her nostrils.

Her body shivers uncontrollably when she finally clambers her way upright on the patch of snow she's surrounded by. She immediately wants to grab her arms and retain the body heat currently escaping her, but it's tough to move them. It's like they've become icicles themselves. Almost like she's ended up swimming in a sea of ice...

Leda shifts her gaze right. Her surroundings are white for as far as she can see, save for the frozen water on the ocean ways ahead. Then, propped against seemingly nothing, is Orian. Leaned against his hand, his ears are flat on his head, fluffy tail wrapped around his now bare arms and sleeveless turtleneck. His jacket is nowhere to be found. He's also wearing his creepy Meisyr mask to primarily hide his eyes, but the rest of it is still chipped and ruined from their encounter with the Northern Dragon.

His mouth is the only thing revealed, and it's trembling. When Leda identifies the spade-patterned fedora rested upon his drenched pants, it takes everything she has to subdue a wheeze.

Nixon's hat.

But she doesn't see Nixon.

She can't spot Ro either.

Leda moves her mouth to shout but she only ends up emitting strangled gasps—like a fish struggling to breathe when on land. Nevertheless, it catches Orian's attention. His body jolts and he scurries to her side, keeping his injured hand motionless at his side.

"Master Leda." His shaky voice is smothered in relief. "Thank goodness. Are you all right? Please tell me you are."

Leda feels almost like a baby, how wordless her lips flap for awhile.

"Ro... wh-where i-is..."

"Master Ro is fine," Orian assures her. "He's still unconscious but I'm afraid his condition is extremely dire. I gave him my coat to keep him warm but it isn't working. We need to find him a doctor, and fast, or else—"

She grasps at the first thing she can: the soaked fabric of his thighs. Orian's words lodge themselves in his throat. His mouth collapses into the shape of an 'o'.

They're both wet. Did he swim them out here? Have they shipwrecked? And where are those two Hearts? Countless questions swim around in Leda's mind. But when she grapples the fabric even further, Orian seems to catch on to the one that's firing like police sirens in her head.

He can clearly see what she's fixated on—the fedora he'd knocked onto the snow on his way over.

Leda's eyes begin to blur.

"N-Nixon," she rasps. "H-how about..."

Orian's solemnity doesn't disappear. His lips cave inwards.

"His body, at least," she snaps, her lungs caving on her. She raises her head to meet his eyes beneath the holes in his mask. "Y-you had to have at least saved his—"

"I barely had enough time to grab you and Ro in time to teleport into the sea and swim us to this shore."

Leda's shoulders grow limp, but Orian can't suppress his whimper.

A heavy silence pools over them. Even the waves from behind have stopped churning. All Leda can hear is static.

"Rh-Rhett." Stop. "Can't he..." Don't be so pathetic. "Can't he do what he did to me? We can go back to Meisyr, and—"

Using his undamaged and exposed arm, Orian brings her close, burying her face into his shoulder. "I-If only I shook her off and came to your side sooner," he murmurs, his pointed nails digging into her back from his vice, but heartfelt grip. "Sorry. I'm so sorry, Master."

Maybe it only was a minute before she stopped being able to repress the choked sobs threatening to pass her quivering lips.

What Rhett did for her was a rarity in itself. She can't rely on it to save her ass. She never has, so why was she so convinced that it would now—in this fantastical world?

She got there in time. If she'd just run straight for the control room regardless of her injuries. If she'd just left the first time Ro told her to...

She could've got Nixon out of there.

If, if, if.

If's are unforgiving. They gave you so much hope, when in truth, you've never had any since the beginning.

Leda squeezes Orian back, but there's no warmth that seeps through. She can't feel the heat she'd thought she'd feel. He's freezing, quaking within her arms. He jumped into the sea, outran those frightening Hearts, gave Ro his jacket—all to save them.

Someone like her.

Knowing that somehow makes Leda sob harder than she wants to.

She's grieved so many times in her life one would think she'd get used to it. But every single time it's too much to make sense of. It comes in suffocating heaps. It presses so hard against her shoulders, sinking her into the dirt and ravishing her mental state like an incessant hurricane.

She hasn't cried in front of anybody since her mother died of an illness. She lashed out and screamed. Performed prayers from a wide scale of religions as if that would somehow bring her back. She'd brought so much trouble to her father and Khenan. But when her father succumbed to dirty business to put food on the table and got shot. Even when Khenan was wronged by the police...

Death waits for no one. It cares for no one.

Even in Annadia that cold truth is the same.

♥♦♣♠

DAY 43: HEARTS

She doesn't know when she'd fallen, but she awakes to the smell of something burning.

Her eyelids fly open in an instant. Hazy swirls of grey dance across her vision, but they aren't clouds. What hovers above her isn't the limitless sky, either, but rather, a ceiling.

It isn't long before she comes to terms with the fact that she's lying in a bed. It's fluffy—comfy. And she's wrapped as snug as a caterpillar in its cocoon beneath the warmth of multiple blankets. Even without moving, she can feel the bandages wrapped tightly from her neck down to her toes. Her tattered clothes are no longer on her, either. Instead, they're plopped at the far edge of the bed.

Leda sneaks a glance underneath the blanket.

Pink and red cotton. Pyjamas.

Someone's changed her.

"A pinch of salt doesn't do it, eh? Stupid scripts ne'er get it right."

The grouchy hiss piques her attention.

Yelps and huffs follow, as if they're blowing incessantly to rid themselves of newfound pain.

Leda elevates herself to rest against the headrest. Aches and grimaces stricken her as she does. But when she's up, she swiftly surveys the rather cramped room surrounding her before eyes fall onto the being currently posted by the kitchen.

The old man has a head of white hair that fades into purple at the tips and small circular glasses resting on at the bridge of his nose. Debris fall like rain from above him. When Leda cranes her neck to identify why, her jaw drops dramatically.

There's a huge hole. Smack dab in the middle of the ceiling.

The man reaches his stubby fingers onto the counter only to raise a thin tree branch. His wrist flicks.

One, two, three.

Then, Leda's surrounded by colour.

The smoke that has gathered in the room is consumed by a twinkling blue. Crumbled cement strewn across the ground are doused in wisps of red and violet. The smoke disappears out the hole in the ceiling, as if carried away by a gust of wind. In its place, the debris levitate. They soar high in the air only to be pieced back together like a jigsaw puzzle, leaving the once gaping hole in the wall completely renewed.

Other items scattered around the room are gathered as well. They travel through the air in cheery movements. Rags dust the cabinets. Brooms glide along the mosaic floors. It's almost as if she's in some kind of Beauty and the Beast remake, watching all the menial house equipment take on animated characters.

Everything is alive.

Everything is sparkling.

Until, it isn't.

Like the flicker of a light switch, it stops. Everything drops to the ground, crashing and making Leda wince. It's not until she hears a shout of excitement that her head flits up. The old man's face is contorted with awe. He stumbles to set the stick behind his ear, manoeuvring around the littered items until finally popping his face inches from hers.

"You've finally open your eyes, eh?" The skin beside his eyebrow crinkles. His pale aquamarine eyes frantically scrutinize every inch of her. "Was a day not enough for you?"

A day? Leda wants to speak, but she can't get the words to surface. Panic ripples through her but she can't move. She's locked in place.

The old man is patient. But his proximity and piercing eyes—Heart, eyes—instigate a reaction she doesn't realize she's capable of.

Leda's palms fling forward and she shoves him away. He produces a grunt and flings back.

Disregarding the jolts of pain that follows, she hurls the blankets previously suffocating her and jumps to the floor. The action probably isn't the best because as soon as they connect with the ground, like a snap of a twig, she collapses onto her knees. Leda grapples at the floor, barely surfacing the strength to lift herself to her feet.

A house? Why is she here? Where's Orian and Ro?

Her stomach lurches. Nausea bubbles up to her throat. A migraine hammers so relentlessly in her mind she wants to vomit here and now. But there's nothing in her stomach to expunge.

"That was close. I've really picked up a rowdy one, haven't I?"

Leda hoists her torso upwards with the support of the rough wall behind her. Just then, the man pokes his head over the bed. He's smiling from ear to ear.

"Young miss, you should take it easy."

"Where the hell did you take them?"

Leda doesn't even mind the burning ache that fills her neck when she screams. Her jaw tightens to the point where she feels her teeth will shatter. She forces herself off the ground, pathetically grasping one of the books off the nearby shelf.

"Where are they? Tell me right now or else I'll—" What, her mind chides. It shuts her right up. Hit him with a frickin' book?

The world spins behind her eyelids. Her arms begin to tremble.

She tries again, voice hoarse, "If you don't tell me—"

"Now, now."

As soon as his fingers make contact with her shoulders, her body becomes ice. Though he's popped himself in her vicinity for the second time, she can't move a muscle. Her erratic thoughts hush to nothing. She can even feel her heartbeat begin to lull.

He's doing something to her.

"Your wounds are terrible as is," he says, lowly chuckling as he does. Even when he lets go, whatever he's done isn't dispelled. "Not to mention you've also succumbed to horrible frostnip. All of you have."

He calmly strides towards the bed Leda was lying in moments prior, hands crossed behind his back. He doesn't have to raise a finger for it to happen—for the bed to magically remake itself, in such a pristine condition it doesn't look like someone's laid in it at all.

Leda wants to speak but she doesn't know what to say.

A steaming mug floats in from the kitchen, one which the old man gratefully receives. He flashes her another brilliant smile.

"But for you to have gotten so worked up... I guess those two must mean a lot to you."

Like a wave, all the emotions—adrenaline—that had built up crashes into her. It's heavy; she wants to push it all away. To the calm he'd graced her with before.

He assists a still shaky Leda to her feet, ushering her onto the bed. Even when she hesitates to receive the warm mug from him, his sweet smile merely expands. It's nothing like the insanity-driven ones those Heart's had shown on the ship. It's more kind—welcoming.

A human's smile.

"Are you new to Straeh?" It comes out like a question, but Leda knows he's asking to be polite. He settles onto the stool behind him, pushing a strand of purplish white hair that had fallen from its slicked state. "You should know better than to go without proper clothing, let alone wet ones."

Leda cautiously stares at the brown liquid in the mug. But her gut is still rising and falling, leaving her too nauseous. Too confused.

"They're all right." He meets Leda's widened eyes with another rich chuckle. "They're tucked away in the room just behind us. I deemed it suitable to give a lady her own room."

"Why...?" The word tumbles past Leda's lips.

He simply grins. As if he doesn't require a reason.

Leda swallows, raking him carefully with her eyes. It's obvious he's a Heart but there isn't a shred of evil he has to offer. He's harmless. As if everything she's witnessed was all a nightmare. But with the proof of her wounds and what looks like bruises covering every inch of her brown skin—not to mention her weakened state—it can't be.

"You should drink up," he says as Leda inhales the chocolaty aroma. "It'll make you feel better." He pauses, as if in thought. "Or kill you. Whichever comes first."

It slips from her fingers at once, her jaw plummeting. But it doesn't hit the ground. Once again, he's used it. The strange spell that causes it to float back up in the same direction it's fallen and into her hands.

With a boisterous laugh, he runs his fingers through the backside of his hair. "See, I've never been too great with medicine concoctions! I always seem to add to many healing herbs or poisonous plants, but I decided to give it another shot because I wanted to help you feel better. But, maybe you shouldn't drink it after all. I wouldn't want to you die on me after I saved you, ha ha."

He flicks his finger and the mug is removed from Leda's grip. It hovers over the the plant potted by the door and is emptied into it. The plant immediately withers and bursts into flames.

The old man's reaction is quite comical. Emitting a yelp of surprise, he lurches to his feet and vigorously shakes the pot. The fire scorches stronger—brighter. Then, using the stick he's tucked like a pencil behind his ear, he flicks his wrists. Icicles instantly trickle across the plant until consuming it entirely. Steam erupts, and the fire is gone. In its place, a beautiful ice sculpture glistens under the room's light.

Calmly, the man returns the stick behind his ear. He does it with such a fluid movement—as if he's been doing it his entire life.

"You keep gawking, but have you never seen magic before?"

Leda sheepishly closes her mouth, more so at his grin. He caught her staring? Well, he isn't wrong. Be it Orian, Ro, or anyone else, she's never seen them really use magic before. Much less on this kind of open scale.

Leda fixes her eyes on the skinny branch. "Is that..."

"A wand? But of course." He chuckles before proudly cradling it. "But, it isn't rare, miss. Everyone in Straeh is a wizard."

She doesn't even care that her jaw's slipped. Again. "No way."

"We manipulate magic and use it to our disposal," he chortles, merrily. "You weren't aware?"

"I mean, I knew magic existed here... but wizards?" She pauses. "You did say wizards, right? Like Harry Potter—Hogwarts... That kind of wizard, wizard?"

Although the man is initially puzzled by Leda's questions, he appears glad that she's loosened up. Deep down, she knows she shouldn't have. There is still the chance that he's an enemy. Nonetheless, it's most likely due to the fact that this old man has been so friendly since she woke up. He even provided her shelter and warm clothes and hospitality.

He's nothing like those demons she previously encountered.

"I wouldn't mind answering whatever questions you have, miss," he says out of nowhere. He stands a little straighter, reaching for his fluffy moustache. "But shouldn't you be a little more concerned?"

His odd dip in demeanour takes Leda off guard.

"Concerned?"

"About your friend." He sucks in a tentative breath. "I'm afraid that guy's a goner."

Her stomach lurches with so much force she's knocked onto her feet. "That guy?" She's overwhelmed with sudden fury. "What did you do with—"

"I haven't done anything." He doesn't have to work his magic to make Leda stiff to her toes. "I couldn't and can't, even if I tried. How he's still hanging onto life is a mystery even a wizard like me can't place. Not with that condition—those organs."

Leda's grabbed his collar in a heartbeat, bunching it in her fists. He's referring to Ro. "What the hell are you talking about?"

For a moment, his countenance shifts to one of pity. As if he can't believe she's unaware.

Aware of what? her mind bellows. She already knows Ro's been fighting an illness. She's used to those incurable black spots attacking his skin and flesh.

But his condition wasn't all that saddening. He still retained much more skin and flesh than his people—the royal family.

Leda's eyes bulge when a thought fills her head.

But why?

Why was he the only one not affected by the illness? The rest of the royal family couldn't even move and yet he roamed around with such elegance and grace. Most of his citizens had already lost the majority of their skin and hair and yet his features were so silky and full of life.

Her knees buckle from their weight.

Like an invisible mask.

"It must've taken all the strength he had to keep that glamour spell on for so long," he answers Leda's thoughts, breaking free of her hold without any difficulty.

Her heart pulsates with a queasy pace. He guides her towards the back room, caressing his moustache with a sigh.

"It shouldn't have gotten rid of the pain, though. Just imagining how excruciating it is to stand let alone walk in that condition..."

He shudders as he carefully rotates the knob to the back room.

"It takes years off a life; that sight." He spares Leda a weak glance. "Miss, you must've not been aware, therefore I must warn you. If you're not prone to lots of blood, bone, or flesh I highly suggest you don't look."

But even as he pushes open the door and it creaks against its hinges, she does.

She looks.

And even with just a glance she ends up almost barfing all over the floor.