Sea sick

If this was what dying felt like, I owed the gods an apology. I'd spent the last hour sprawled on the wretched little cot in my cabin, staring at the ceiling as it swayed and spun in endless, mocking circles.

My stomach was a traitor. My head was pounding. My bones felt like they'd liquefied and were sloshing with the rhythm of the cursed sea.

Royalty, I reminded myself. I was born for courts, battlefields, and banquets, not for being hurled back and forth in a wooden box by an angry ocean.

Why had I agreed to this? Why had I not insisted on teleportation, or a royal barge with enchanted stabilizers, or simply ruling by decree from my bed at home?

A new wave hit the hull, and the floor bucked under me. I closed my eyes, praying for oblivion, or at least for the world to stop moving.

My pride was the only thing holding me together now—pride, and the sheer horror of being found in this state by anyone, let alone Lyra.

A soft knock on the door, gentle, almost apologetic. I wanted to answer with an imperious "Go away!" but my tongue was thick, my voice lost somewhere in the pit of my misery.

Another knock. I considered pretending to be dead.

The door creaked open. Heavy boots on the wooden floor, a rattle of something clinking—a plate, maybe, or a pile of armor.

I barely managed to roll onto my side, peering through a curtain of white hair to see Lyra standing in the doorway.

She looked annoyingly alive, infuriatingly unbothered by the swaying ship. In one hand she carried a tray loaded with food, in the other a small bottle of something that could only be medicine.

I wondered if she'd stolen it from the ship's cook, or bullied it out of a sailor with threats of violence.

Lyra surveyed the scene—me, limp and half-wrapped in a blanket, glaring at her with the force of a dying star—and had the audacity to grin.

"Damn, Princess," she said. "I thought you were supposed to be unbreakable. Don't tell me the ocean's the thing that finally did you in."

I closed my eyes again. "If you're here to mock me, at least do it quietly. Or better yet, leave me to die in peace."

She laughed, setting the tray down on the narrow desk. "If you were dying, I'd be the first to know. You'd be yelling orders with your last breath. Lucky for you, I brought you something that should help."

I cracked an eye open. "If it's poison, do us both a favor and make it quick."

She held up the bottle. "Sorry to disappoint. It's seasickness medicine. The captain said even the toughest warriors have trouble with their first crossing."

I tried to sit up, but the motion set the room spinning, and I flopped back down with a groan. "Magic's useless. Dignity's a distant memory. Wonderful."

Lyra moved to the bedside, uncorking the bottle and pouring a small dose into a cup. She knelt, all casual confidence, her tattooed arms braced on the mattress as she leaned over me.

She smelled of sea salt and leather and something warm, almost like sunlight—a sharp, comforting contrast to the sour tang of the cabin.

"Up you get, Princess," she said, sliding an arm under my shoulders with terrifying ease. "Let's get you sitting."

"I don't need—" I began, but as soon as I tried to push myself up, the world turned sideways, and I slid right off the cot, graceless as a sack of potatoes.

Lyra's reflexes were ridiculous. She caught me before I hit the floor, strong hands gripping my waist and hauling me upright.

I found myself pressed against her chest, breathing in her heat, my face only inches from her neck. For a second, I forgot all about the nausea.

Her skin was warm, and her heartbeat thundered against my cheek. I could feel the muscle in her arms, the steadiness of her grip—how easy it would be for her to just pick me up and carry me out, pride be damned.

"Careful," she murmured, her breath tickling my ear. "We don't want the crew thinking the princess can't handle a little motion."

I tried to shove her away, mortified and furious. "Let go of me. I can do it myself."

She held on, her grin infuriatingly gentle. "I'm sure you could. But let's not add a concussion to your troubles."

I was so close to her I could count the freckles on her nose, the faint scar across her jaw, the wicked curve of her mouth. My heart hammered, and I was too dizzy to blame the sea.

With agonizing slowness, she eased me back onto the cot, arranging the pillows so I could sit semi-upright. I glared at her, but she just handed me the medicine. "Here. Drink this."

I eyed the cup suspiciously. "If I throw up on you, it's your fault."

She laughed. "Wouldn't be the worst thing that's happened to me on a boat. Drink up."

I swallowed the medicine in one go, grimacing at the taste. It was vile—bitter, with an aftertaste like licorice and regret.

But it settled in my stomach with a slow, spreading warmth, the nausea receding just enough that I could almost imagine feeling human again.

Lyra perched on the edge of the bed, her presence steadying. She reached for the tray, uncovering a plate of bread, cheese, and what looked like surprisingly edible roast chicken. The smell alone made my stomach turn and growl at the same time.

"Try eating something," she said, tearing a piece of bread and holding it out. "It'll help."

I shot her a glare that could have cracked granite, but she didn't flinch. "You really don't know when to quit, do you?"

"Not when it comes to keeping you alive," she shot back. "Or when there's a chance to see you try and act normal."

I snatched the bread, took a tiny bite, and waited. When my stomach didn't immediately rebel, I risked another. Lyra watched, her eyes glinting with amusement and something softer, almost proud.

"See? Not so bad."

"Don't gloat. If you start gloating, I swear I'll—"

"You'll what?" She leaned in, voice low, teasing. "Call me names? Stab me with a bread knife? Collapse in my arms again?"

My cheeks burned. "If you weren't so damn persistent, none of this would be happening."

She offered a piece of chicken next, holding it up like I was some delicate creature in need of hand-feeding. "Persistent is one word for it."

Against my better judgment, I let her feed me—one bite, then another, until I had to admit I was feeling almost alive. The warmth from the medicine spread through me, taking the worst of the sickness with it.

"Thank you," I muttered, voice so soft I barely recognized it.

She blinked, surprised. "What was that?"

"Don't make me say it again."

Lyra grinned, that crooked, wicked smile that had always driven me mad. "Careful, Princess. If you start being nice to me, I'll start thinking you like me."

I rolled my eyes, forcing myself to sit a little straighter. "Let's not get carried away."

She handed me the cup of water next, her fingers brushing mine. The touch was quick, but it left my skin tingling, my mind racing with thoughts I had no business thinking. I drank, grateful for something to do with my hands.

"Feeling better?" she asked, genuine concern in her voice.

I nodded, refusing to meet her eyes. "A little."

She leaned back, arms crossed, studying me. "You know, you could have just asked for help."

I shot her a withering look. "I don't ask for help. Especially not from you."

Her laugh was softer now, almost affectionate. "I know. But you're not as untouchable as you think."

The silence stretched, full of all the things we weren't saying. I watched the candle flicker, listened to the creak of the ship, the distant voices on deck.

For a moment, I let myself just…exist. No titles. No duties. Just me, Lyra, and the endless rolling sea.

She stood, gathering the empty dishes. "Rest. If you need me, I'll be outside."

I nodded, letting my head fall back against the pillow. As the door closed behind her, I closed my eyes, feeling the warmth of her hands lingering long after she was gone.

I hated being weak, hated needing anyone. But for once, I was glad it was her.