Page 45 of A Rising Hope (The Freckled Fate #3)

45

FINNLEAH

I fluffed the feather-stuffed pillow for the hundredth time, nestling on the small mat on the ground near a loudly snoring Priya.

“Fifteen minutes, Finnleah,” I whispered to myself. I didn’t bother changing, dirty boots still on as I pulled the dusty sheet closer to my chest, fisting the fabric so tight it would surely rip. Nausea recoiled through me.

The bright morning light outside didn’t help either. The first rays of sunlight landed on my body through the shattered window of Xentar’s abandoned cottage. I shut my eyes, forcing them to stay closed, even as vile terror tore through me, slashing my entire being to pieces.

I wanted to sleep, to be lulled again into the dark abyss. But sleep didn’t come without a price. Visions and horrors and terror lunged at me from every corner of my mind.

The truth was, I had grown to despise the gift of Seers the most. An awful, inadequate gift. It had brought nothing but pain and agony to me and now it was set to ensure I would die alongside it.

Fuck that.

I should’ve let Insanaria take all that magic from me, after all. At least then I would’ve died, no longer haunted by my magic.

Gods, I truly was crumbling apart.

Where was that valiant assassin, that fearless machine? What happened to that brave and courageous anger that fought for my survival? Had it too been exhausted to the brim?

Had I reached my limit? Had the callous fortress I built around my heart for so many years crumbled into dust, only to leave me defenseless in the face of the enemy?

I rubbed the middle of my palm where a burn mark would usually appear, a phantom sting sending shivers down my bones. My entire body refused to drift to sleep, avoiding it like it was the worst torture, the most terrifying thing I had ever felt.

I ran my hand across my back, scratching the old, deep scars from the ruthless whips in the Rock Quarries.

Gods, I have grown weak , I scoffed. My mind drifted to the memories of other days, of much different times. Only a couple years back, I was thrown into the Rock Quarries, unsure I would ever see another day. Unsure if I wanted to see another day. Days where thoughts of hope and the future meant upcoming death.

And here I was now afraid to fucking sleep.

Yes, I’ve grown feeble . I snapped at myself.

My eyelids trembled, and I held them closed tight, choking on the tight knot in the back of my throat.

Perhaps I had been born weak, and I had grown callous, fighting against fate again and again, clawing for my survival.

Born to love, bred to fight.

But so fucking be it.

I was a survivor.

I would endure. Against all odds.

I was Finnleah, Daughter of the Dead. And I would never yield.

I’d sleep today. And I would sleep tomorrow. And each day after.

I would stand and face my haunted dreams with my eyes wide open, so whatever world, whatever cursed place my mind would wander to, would know that I would not fall. I would withstand it all.

And then I would burn it all to the ground.

I stayed motionless, forcing my mind to lose itself to sleep.

A second later and the soul-rendering terror swallowed me entirely. I watched spikes as thick as my arm pierce Gideon again and again, shredding his body piece by piece. I watched creatures of claws and teeth feast on the bodies of people I knew. My voice became raspy from the silent screams that erupted from me as I watched people of all ages die.

I coughed, choking on the bile burning in my throat as I sat up, shaking.

Awake. I was awake. I scratched the red stinging burn of my vision mark on my unsteady palm. Cold sweat rolled down my back. My skin paled, and I felt lightheaded.

The sounds of the village being rebuilt, happening outside and the sun blazing high above meant that time had passed, and I had slept.

I was awake. And I was alive.

And I fucking slept.

Even though the horrors and the nightmares made my eyes burn with tears, I slept.

Priya grumbled, rolling over as she slowly recovered from the toll her body had taken from killing all the creatures.

I was victorious, and yet my heart was full of dread. My eyes lingered on the broken glass, watching a little moth climb its sharp pointed end, scavenging for shade or food.

I just needed a single fleeting sign from him. Anything. Anything.

“Please be alive, Gideon,” I whispered to myself, fighting the despair that was like tar covering my soul. “Please. Please , I beg you, stay alive.”

A chill breeze brushed my clammy skin, and I hoped it’d carry my words to him.

A small boat had been loaded with provisions, polished and waiting for its adventure. Marching through the village, I chewed on a piece of dried fish. Everyone was busy at work. Bodies of the monsters burned, smoke billowing up to the small clouds above before getting scattered by the wind. I was dressed in freshly washed and cleaned leathers, daggers, knives, and a crossbow on my back. Nicks and cuts stitched and mended. My face washed and hair braided as I winded through the crowds.

Priya was already at the beach, settling down in the boat. Her commanding snarls the only warning needed for the terrified mages to scatter away.

I held the map tight underneath my arm. A gift from Frederick De Villiar, who was similar to Viyak, wounded by alive.

A silver compass hung down my neck on a long chain, a terrible replacement for Tuluma’s necklace I had given up, but much more useful for the journey ahead.

“Heading out?” Xentar caught up with my step.

“Yep.” I nodded.

“Give her hell.” He patted me on my shoulder before getting called by the crowd near him. Every mage, old and young, was busy at work recovering the little normalcy they had. Each group responsible for something as their magic restored their homes.

I reached the edge of the island, heading for the steep steps carved in the cliff that led to the beach, when someone called out my name. I turned to see a beautiful young lady. Her charcoaled hair was down, pinned on the sides by small red roses, so deep in color. Gusts of ocean wind ruffled the long, flowy skirts of her worn white dress.

“Hi, can I help you?” I looked at her again, so familiar and yet I couldn’t quite place her name.

“I am just supposed to give this to you,” she mumbled, running up to me on bare feet. Our eyes met and a little chill ran down my skin. I knew her. A feeling so certain.

How did I know her?

She handed me a simple letter, unsealed, and a few stems of blossoming, beautiful wildflowers, the type that Gideon had gifted me so many times before. My forehead creased with deep lines; my brows bunched together. I opened the letter. There was only one paper in it, folded in half.

“What is this?” I raised my brow in question. But she was gone.

I twisted on my feet, looking around, but it was as if the girl had dissolved into thin air, carried away by the seashore winds.

My heart drummed against my chest as I opened the paper, recognizing the handwriting immediately.

My hand covered my mouth, and I dropped the wildflowers to the ground as I read Gideon’s message written with a deep, dark red ink reminiscent of blood.

So, Finnleah, Daughter of the Dead, have you won the war yet? I am getting bored waiting.

P.S. - Is it too late to ask what your favorite color is?

I am simply dying to know.

There was no doubt in my entire body that it was him. None.

There was no other person in this world that would, given the only opportunity to write to his wife, choose to write the most useless, obnoxious, arrogant words.

I wasn’t sure how he did it.

But he was alive.

He was alive.

And for the first time in forever, I could fully breathe.

His measly couple of sentences were all the reassurance I so desperately needed.

“Fucker! I am going to find you and make you pay for this!” I shouted from the edge of the cliff at the top of my lungs, laughing through my tears of relief as I dropped to my knees. “This is all you give me?!” I yelled to the winds and roaring ocean as I shook the letter. “Prick! How about something useful?” I cried out, and for a second, I could feel his wicked laugh echo in the winds.