Page 68

Chapter 65

IRIS

The last ragged inhale a patient took was more horrific than any number of my nightmares.

Hawthorn Belwraith’s was the worst yet.

Falling unconscious not long after Everett Lannish, he’d agreed to the use of the Lotus Tonic in his final waking moments. With no way for him to swallow it, his husband tentatively agreed to allow me to use my Threads to flush it through his bloodstream. The veining receded, albeit slowly, but his body was too far gone.

High Healer Nora stepped between me and the empty cot. “You aren’t supposed to be here today, Iris.” She steered me away from the bed with a hand around my shoulder. “Prepare for the festivities.”

“It could have worked.” I blinked twice. “If I’d gotten to him faster.”

“Theres no way to know that.” She retrieved a piece of crisp parchment from her robes, holding it out hesitantly. “I’m half tempted to keep this to myself, so you need to promise me you will wait.”

Smoothing the paper, I rapidly read the form.

“I can examine his body?”

“His husband would only agree in the direst circumstances, but yes. You may use your Threads.”

Sun crept through the stained-glass murals of the Goddesses in the corridor, casting the marble hallway into patterns of green, gold, and blue.

“After Felfrost.” At the defeat overtaking me, she clarified. “The family wants to spend their time saying goodbye. If your theory is correct, that’s plenty of time before his essence dissipates.”

After a fortnight of experimenting and preparing a proposal, we’d presented the hypothesis to high Healer Nora. A condensed version, of course—one that focused heavily on my Threader magic combined with Aspen’s Medikai power, skimming over anything that could put us in danger if scrutinized. Though the knowing look she gave me told me she understood.

I squeezed her once. “Thank you.”

“Go home, Iris. I’ll see you at the ball.”

* * *

As soon as I stepped inside the cabin, a sour, stale stench assaulted my nostrils, turning my stomach. The moment felt charged, like the heavy stillness before a lightning strike. My gaze darted around the room, searching for anything out of place.

The decorations were perhaps in more disarray than when I’d left, but nothing seemed drastically different at first glance. Still, an unsettling silence permeated the air.

“Aspen?”

No response.

Panic ratcheted up my chest, my heart pounding as my feet moved without volition.

“Aspen!” I called again, trying to mask the terror in my voice.

The bedroom door was locked. My fists beat against the wood to no avail. Threads of power surged through me, their entirety aimed at the door. Metal flew in every direction as the hinges shattered, wood splintering across the floor.

No sign of him.

Ignoring the splinters now embedded in my skin, I bolted to the bathing chamber.

A guttural sob froze me in my tracks. I jerked toward the sound, and something in me cracked at the sight.

Aspen was slumped against the side of the bed, his head dropped between his knees, a half-full bottle of liquor dangling from his fingers. His clothes were rumpled, his thin white shirt half unbuttoned. Ice spread in every direction. How had I not slipped on it before? It radiated in cracks over the floor, climbed the windowsill, crept up the walls. Mochi’s teeth pierced Aspen’s sleeve, his whimpers mixing with the tearing fabric as he tugged.

I moved before I had time to think, dropping beside him and pulling him into me, one arm around his shoulder, the other cradling his head to my chest.

“It’s all right, it’s all right, it’s all right,” I repeated into his hair as another choked sob wracked his body. I willed my own tears to remain at bay. I wasn’t sure exactly what had happened, but Aspen—my Aspen—was in pain. So much pain I could feel it rolling off him in waves.

In the several months I’d known him, I’d never seen him truly cry. A few tears had escaped when he told me about his sister. I’d even caught an angry one slip past when we discussed my past. But it had never been like this.

“It’s…” he mumbled through sobs against my chest.

“Shh,” I murmured, sliding my hand through his hair. “It’s all right, love. It's all right. You don’t have to tell me.”

He continued shaking, tears streaming into my lap. I held him as tightly as my grip would allow, methodically combing my fingers through his hair.

“I’m sorry,” he croaked, lifting the bottle weakly before dropping it to the floor.

Shattered glass littered the ground. A large wet stain bloomed on the opposite wall. The ache in my chest deepened.

Oh, my love.

Hours or moments later—I couldn’t tell—his grip on the front of my tunic loosened.

“It’s her birthday,” he whispered, voice cracking.

I squeezed my eyes shut, inhaling sharply.

“Aurora?” I asked softly.

He nodded against my chest, sniffing, exhaling deeply. Tears still dripped past my forearm, but he didn’t seem quite as tense.

“I didn’t save her,” he choked.

“You did everything you could,” I whispered, resting my cheek atop his head. Mochi leapt up, curling around my shoulders, soft white fur and soft white hair enveloping me from every direction.

“What if I can’t save you?”

My own tears finally fell. “I’m safe. You did save me, Aspen.”

In all the ways that mattered, he had. I wasn’t sure he even realized.

For so long, I had believed succumbing to love would be my fatal flaw—allowing another to be such an integral piece of who I became. I did not need him to fight my battles for me. But it was not weakness to want him by my side. To need him, as desperately as he needed me.

He made me realize that love remains our greatest strength.

And by the Divine, was I lost to it. To the line that appeared between his brows when he concentrated. To the absent way he pet Mochi as he worked. To the frown that appeared when he tried to solve the riddles in the mortal stories. To his horror at the mention of too many sweets. To the bright blue of those ice eyes when his skin remained warm.

To eucalyptus, lavender, and juniper berries. Not the Frost Prince, or the Master of the Tundra, or the reviled heir to the most hated man in Altaerra.

Only Aspen.

His entire body quivered as the bottle rolled across the floor. His fingers twisted in my skirt. His other hand fumbled for something—the bottle, a ghost—I wasn’t sure. It landed on my pinky and clung as if that single connection could keep him afloat.

“I can’t lose you,” he sniffed. The moon had fully risen, and I had no idea how long we had sat here. Somehow, we always ended up on the floor.

“I’m not going anywhere, Aspen. I’m right here.”

I quickly wiped my cheeks.

“But I can’t… It’s not fair…” His voice faltered again, breath coming in ragged bursts as he clung to me.

Once he steadied, I swung his arm over my shoulder and used all my strength to pull us all onto the bed behind.

“I never wanted this.” His fingers twisted into the fabric of my sleeve, his forehead pressing against my sternum.

“I know, love. I know.” I whispered, grasping the hem of his tunic and pulling it over his head. His grip slackened momentarily as I tossed the garment aside. I reached down to unbutton his trousers, tugging gently. He pushed to stand for only a moment before collapsing back onto the bed, feebly kicking them off.

Mochi didn’t try to communicate, but the grief pouring down our connection was a mirror to Aspen’s.

“I hate it. All of it.” His voice cracked, his body beginning to shake again.

I murmured into his hair, my fingers grazing the back of his head in slow, steady strokes. Then, lifting him slightly, I yanked my own blouse over my head, rising off the bed for a moment to peel off my skirt with one hand while still holding him up with the other.

“I want my family back,” he whispered into the heels of his hands.

Wrapping my arms around his torso, I pressed a kiss to his bare shoulder. “I know.”

Once I managed to get him standing, I shuffled us closer to the head of the bed. He collapsed onto the mattress, but I kept a firm hold on his shoulders, anchoring him as I climbed in.

“I can’t tell them.” His head drooped, shoulders sagging further until he practically folded in on himself.

I couldn’t fix this. I wanted to siphon it all away, bury it deep into my chest and smother the grief and pain that shadowed his every step. But no matter much as I wanted to, I couldn’t steal this hurt away. All I could was sit in it with him—as he had done for me—and remind him that he didn’t have to face it alone.

He crumpled, his head and torso falling over my lap.

“I don’t want this… Why does it have to … I don’t want it…”

The words came in gasps, so quickly they bled together. Toppling out on top of each other in aching waves. There was nothing I could say to take his pain, so I stayed silent as he continued, running my fingers through his hair and whispering, “I know,” and “It’s all right,” and “I’m here” as he trembled. He needed to let it out, and all I could do was love him through it.

“You have harbored so much heartache, for so long, my love,” I placed a kiss on the crown of his head. “You do not have to carry it alone anymore.”

His breath ghosted over the skin of my thigh as he murmured the same phrase over and over.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry… I’m sorry…”

When his body finally stilled, I thought he had fallen asleep. I stretched, reaching for the blanket and pulling it over both of us as best I could.

“Will you sing?”

His voice—hoarse from crying but clearer than it had been all night—startled me.

I met his gaze for the first time since I’d found him. His irises, usually a muted grey-blue, shone almost turquoise against the red-rimmed whites of his eyes.

“Aspen, I—” I grazed my hand over his cheek, exhaling slowly as I shook my head. “I don’t sing.”

It’d been so long since I had.

“You hum…” He sniffed, his arm curling around my knee as his head dropped back onto my crossed legs. Mochi rested against the back of his neck, falling silent. “When you Thread, you hum.”

I hesitated. Just a heartbeat. Notes of songs and wisps of memories flashing through my mind.

“I suppose I do.” I relented. I wouldn’t deny him anything in this moment. “As you wish.”

Softly, I hummed, and his breathing slowed once more.

I thought he'd finally drifted off when he spoke again.

“I think we bleed the same,” he whispered hoarsely against my calf.

He was probably still drunk. I didn’t blame him for how much he’d had—we all coped in different ways. A part of me wished he had come to me instead, but that would have been hypocritical. I had done the same.

“Yes, Aspen, we are both Ethera. We?—”

He caught my hand, dragging it to rest over his chest.

“I think we bleed the same,” he repeated with unmistakable clarity.

I stared down at my palm, feeling the steady pulse of his heart beneath it. And I understood.

Our pain, our grief—the seemingly endless depth of feeling—was something we shared. He buried it so deep it was damn near impossible to see, but I recognized it. The shared Cataclysm of feeling too much.

Except, even without explanation, I knew that what he had allowed himself to feel had never included the highs. He had never permitted himself the bursting, unrestrained joy or the searing heat of passion. Had never allowed himself to experience the wonder on the other side of all of the pain—had built walls to keep those things out.

I stroked his hair, the trembling of his body subsiding as he drifted between wakefulness and sleep. Leaning down, I pressed a kiss to his hair.

“Yes, we bleed the same. Our hearts are the same. And I will carry yours when it gets too heavy.”

He murmured something I couldn’t quite catch, then fell silent, his body finally relaxing completely.

I shifted slightly, testing whether he was truly asleep. When the movement stirred nothing but the softest intake of a snore, I took a deep breath.

And then, I sang.

For the first time since leaving the Bronze Palace, I sang.

Faintly—barely more than a whisper—I recalled a melody from my childhood. A song of the Sun, burning bright and eternal, falling madly in love with a mortal boy.

I quietly sang the words I could never say while he was awake, whispering the ballad of the Sun to my boy from the woods, long after he had fallen asleep.