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Weak candlelight flickers across the darkness of the hold, a low moan cutting across the sound of the waves and the creaking of the planks. Scarce whispers. The clink of chains. The smell is that of stale hay and dampness and too many unwashed bodies crowded into too little space.
Iorveth blinks, shaking off the cobwebs of his feverish, troubled sleep just as fast. The wound across his ribs is infected and just breathing hurts. The change in its pattern is subtle, but Isengrim's fingers carding through his hair immediately become still.
"How are you feeling?"
Iorveth turns his head to look at him and lets out a quiet hiss with the sudden stab of pain.
"Be still." Isengrim's hand steadies him, fingers of his other hand skimming across Iorveth's brow under the pretense of checking his temperature, and it takes Iorveth a moment to notice the motion isn't accompanied by the sound of manacles.
"Your bindings--"
"Hush," Isengrim leans in close, drops his voice to barely a whisper. "I've managed to slip them off."
Realization hits Iorveth like a mace to the chest, and he has to swallow because his mouth is suddenly too dry. His eyes flick around, taking in the rest of the ship's hold. His fellow officers, their ragged clothes, their terrible scars, their hopeless eyes. Laughing Mairwen missing three fingers, her beautiful face a mess of bruises. Talbryn, so valiant and courteous, with crude, bloodied rags wrapped around his head and torso, held by soft-spoken, clever Angus. Gaena is staring blankly ahead like nothing can touch her anymore, shadows like bruises under her eyes.
There is nothing left for them, but even so, they will do their duty to the last. Iorveth closes his eyes, his fingers wrapping around Isengrim's wrist.
"I suppose it is goodbye then," he manages, and his voice doesn't even crack. "We will overpower the guard at the next change and then you can make a run for it."
Isengrim's grip on his shoulder grows painfully tight, but his voice is tighter still. "Let me see yours now." Those long fingers slide along Iorveth's wrist, Isengrim's thumb brushing lightly against the thin skin over the bone where the manacle has left angry red marks.
There isn't enough time, and they both know it. It took Isengrim almost two days to get his own off. By the time the sun rises again, they will be in Dillingen.
"Go," Iorveth tells him. A single tear that is not his own falls onto the corner of his mouth, tastes like an ocean of broken hopes.
"How could I?" The words are more felt than heard against his temple, and Iorveth swallows down a sound that burns in his chest like dragon fire, pricks his eyes, and makes his lip tremble before he bites down on it with a vengeance. The weight of the grief and regret that settles on his chest feels like he's being buried alive.
This isn't goodbye. It is so much worse.