Until the Bitter End

2: The Silver Platter

In a way, it was almost like falling asleep.

It drew him in, slow and gradual, pulling him along by the hand into a gentle warmth. The genius thing about sleep was that often, it was impossible to tell when it came over you to begin with, and it was even more unpredictable when it came upon you suddenly. It possessed the aspect of groggy fadedness, guiding you beyond the veil. Perhaps it would have been reassuring, if he weren't so hyper-aware that death was haunting his heels. He hadn't the energy to care all too much anymore.

He woke up from certain death five months ago, bundled under the warm blankets of the local doctor, feverish and almost frost-bitten. It was impossible to say that he remembered it clearly. He remembered bits and pieces, fragments of waking up and choking down broth that unsettled his stomach with how bitter the concoction was. He remembered fits of fever and restless nights, tossing off the covers because he was too hot one moment only to become too cold the next.

By the time he was aware and awake enough to speak, he was too tired to be afraid. And maybe that was a mistake.

Regardless, when he was asked his name, he didn't have the energy to salvage a fake one from his catalog of secrecy anymore.

"Affogato Cookie," he breathed, his eyes already drifting closed. Exhaustion weighed down on him, muting the bitter tang of medicinal compounds that he only vaguely recognized.

When the day came that he was awake and well enough to be more mentally aware, he found himself cursed by a heart-wrenching paranoia. Often after his recovery, he'd look toward the local Watchers, praying that they hadn't heard his name—and if they had, he prayed that they didn't recognize what it meant. It was difficult to play it off as nothing more than a name like any other when he knew, in his heart of hearts, that the King was hunting him down.

It was only when the Watchers themselves began addressing him by name, without a spark of recognition in their lazy eyes, that Affogato finally allowed himself to breathe. Snowfall Village, apparently, was so far away that they were ignorant of the court and even more ignorant to accusations of treason and insurrection. Or perhaps, with the force of the blizzard, he was simply assumed to be dead.

For now, it was impossible to put to words why his body prickled with unease when the doctor spoke.

"Affogato Cookie," he echoed, as if tasting the name on his tongue. "Affogato Cookie... peculiar name. You should be well enough to get up out of bed by next week."

Affogato nodded, slowly, eyes fluttering open and then closed again. He struggled to listen past that, fading in and out of consciousness, vaguely registering something about a physical recovery period, but not much else. A small wave of annoyance prickled in his chest.

"I would like," he finally said, quietly, "to fall asleep right now, if you wouldn't mind."

For a moment, it was silent. Perhaps his frustration slipped into his tone of voice, or perhaps the doctor didn't expect the declaration to come out of nowhere. He was beginning to think—for some reason—that he made some kind of mistake. But wasn't it understandable for an unwell cookie to desire rest?

"All right, then," the doctor said, his voice creaking with age. "I'll be around. Call me if you need anything."

Affogato's body unwound, going slack. He grunted in acknowledgment, letting the medicine drag him away.

In a way, it was almost like dying, which was like falling asleep in the first place.

-

Snowfall Village was a dot on the map in the corner of the kingdom, nestled right in the crook of the far edge of The Silver Platter and the uncharted, inhospitable mountains that lay beyond. The paths that led to it were long-abandoned and overrun by snow, save several desperately-salvaged roads marked by scarlet flags. They sat atop metal poles that climbed dozens of feet into the air, billowing in the wind, trying to escort travelers to the forgotten village drowning in snow in the middle of nowhere. It was like the remnants of civilization were calling for help, and nobody wanted to answer. The pass ascending the plateau was too long and dangerous for anyone not escorted by Watchers to travel, and Snowfall Village was simply too far out of the way for members of the court to bother with.