Page 21 of Dalla’s Royal Guards (Second Chance #3)

Thirteen

Nasser felt as if his bones had melted. He was surprised that he could build a fire, much less arrange the stones so they could use them for seats. A glance at Musad told him that his brother was probably feeling the same. He reached up and tried to smooth his hair down.

“Yours looks just as bad,” Musad said.

“Do you think she is alright?”

Musad looked up from where he was making their simple dinner and stared toward the pool area where Dalla had disappeared a half-hour before. He didn’t want to admit that he was worried she was having second thoughts—or worse, full-blown regret—about what had happened earlier.

“Can one of you help me, please?”

Nasser was out of his makeshift seat the second he heard her voice.

Musad also rose to his feet, but remained where he was near the fire when Nasser started forward.

Nasser squeezed through the narrow opening and frowned when he noticed a wooden chest the size of a small cooler.

Thick rope handles hung from the side. The rope on one side had broken.

“I don’t remember it being this heavy,” she huffed. “Either I over packed, or you and Musad melted my bones to mush.”

Nasser grinned, bright and sudden, as she echoed his thoughts perfectly.

His eyes drank in her faux-admonishing expression, her lips twitching with suppressed amusement, and relief swept through him.

He reached down and grabbed the rope pieces.

The passage was too narrow to carry the chest in front of him. He would need to either drag it or?—

“I’ve got this end,” she said.

“It is heavy. What’s in it?” he asked.

“Memories,” she said.

He gave her a nod but didn’t respond. His mind balked at her finding answers that would take her away.

He tried to counter it with more reasonable thoughts, but he couldn’t seem to help the fear that had been rising frequently since he’d met her.

He hoped he would settle once he and Musad brought her home with them.

Musad was waiting for them when they re-entered the main cavern. “I’ll take that.”

Dalla relinquished her hold on the rope. Nasser and Musad followed her as she walked over to the fire and sat down on a stone seat that he had erected earlier. They placed the chest next to her.

“Dinner is ready,” Musad murmured.

Dalla smiled her appreciation. “I’m famished.”

Musad handed a pouch of the steaming freeze-dried food to Dalla and another one to Nasser. Nasser grinned when his stomach growled.

The aroma of chicken, pasta, and vegetables rose when he opened the pouch and inhaled deeply. He needed to remember to let Christophe and Natalie know that the new meals they were selling were restaurant quality.

“It is amazing how something this good can be made with just boiled water,” Dalla reflected, holding up the pouch and studying the image. “Runa would love this as much as I do. Neither of us enjoyed cooking, and nobody enjoyed eating when we did.”

Musad chuckled. “Fortunately, both Nasser and I are excellent cooks. Our father loved to cook and encouraged us as young boys to help him.”

“He said it relaxed him. He also said it was an important lesson in discipline,” Nasser added.

“If what you cook is as good as this, I’d be happy to let you cook all our meals.

Mother and Aesa could take even the most unappetizing root and turn it into a delicious dinner.

Father said he had never met two women who were more hopeless when it came to cooking than Runa and me.

Still, he was very happy to have us fight beside him. ”

“You said the chest held memories,” Nasser prompted with a nod toward the chest. The top was covered in a fine powder of dull gray sand.

A mixture of emotions crossed her face as she studied the chest as well. Nasser paused, his food and hunger momentarily forgotten. His gaze followed her slender hand as she touched the lid.

“Memories… and perhaps closure,” she said, looking across at him with an expression that tore at his heart.

“Eat first… please,” Musad said, his eyes filled with a dark, unfathomable emotion.

Dalla nodded. “Tell me how you came to be in danger.”

Musad snorted and shook his head. “When haven’t we?”

Nasser scowled at his brother. “Ignore him. We are usually pretty good at staying out of it. This time, though—” He shook his head and looked down at the fire.

“This time?” she gently asked.

Musad stood up and tossed his empty meal pouch in the fire. “This time it was deeply personal.”

Musad explained how their sister and her husband, the rulers of Kashir, had been betrayed for control over the Vasbin, a metal that was virtually indestructible and lightweight when processed correctly, and how the couple had ultimately made it out of Kashir, but were separated from their daughter.

Musad and Nasser’s sister, Lissa, had been severely wounded, and the names General Victor Hellman and Prime Minister Hannibal Crosse would go down in history as traitors to Kashir.

“Mario locked down the processing methods of Vasbin and banned all use of the metal except for space applications and the useful inventions stemming from that. He refused to allow any of the material to be refined for weapon development. Both he and Lissa realize the harm that could come from such production,” Musad said.

“And now these men who have taken control of the country have access to this material,” Dalla said grimly.

Nasser shook his head. “General Hellman underestimated his power. The moment he and Crosse attacked the royal family, safety protocols went into effect. The refinement center is deep underground, and the entire facility was sealed by people loyal to the royal family.”

“Crosse and Hellman have been unsuccessful at accessing the underground structures due in part because they are made of Vasbin,” Musad said with a grin.

“We suspect that Hellman wanted to capture Cianna to force Mario to override the access codes,” Nasser quietly added.

Horror flashed across Dalla’s face. Nasser could see that she understood the tactic intimately.

After all, hadn’t that been the same tactic used by the Jarl who wanted to marry into her family and instead murdered them all?

His gut twisted when he thought of how close he and Musad had come to losing Lissa, Mario, and Cianna.

The thought that what they had experienced was only a small sample of what Dalla had endured made him wince with sympathy.

“They would have succeeded if not for you,” Musad finally said, his eyes locked on her face.

“Humans don’t change,” she said quietly before looking down at the chest next to her.

Dalla caressed the top of the wooden chest with the tips of her fingers before she looked back at Nasser.

She tossed the remains of her pouch into the fire before twisting around to face the chest. The lock was ornate—deceptively aged.

She recognized it as something newer than the chest itself.

That meant Hakeem—no, Harlem Jones —had been here. He had kept his promise.

Musad stepped around the fire and squatted next to the chest, his expression thoughtful. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a multipurpose tool. Dalla shifted to give him space. The metal clicked softly as he examined the lock. With a few practiced twists, Musad popped it open.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

Her voice trembled despite her attempt to keep it steady. She drew in a deep breath, steeling herself for the memories—and the truth—she might discover inside.

As she opened the chest, the world fell away—wind, fire, water—silenced by memory.

It was as if the world shifted as the refrain of a long-forgotten time, another world, cast a shadow over the present.

Flashback: 1918 – Liberated French Village

Rain slicked the cobbled streets into ribbons of mud and shattered stone.

Dalla stepped off the curb, water squelching in her boots.

She wore a wool coat over men’s trousers that tucked into scuffed leather boots.

Her loose tunic was belted high, cinching her narrow waist, and her cap cast a shadow over her eyes.

It was the garb of a rebel, a freedom fighter.

She passed a small boy waving a stick like a rifle, two women singing and clapping in a doorway, and a trio of drunken soldiers attempting to harmonize La Marseillaise .

Her gaze locked on a narrow, blackened structure across the street—a bombed-out café with one jagged window missing and half the roof gone. She paused in the doorway, hidden in shadow, watching.

There he was.

The man she hadn’t seen since…

Pain splintered through her at the memory. Not of meeting him, but what happened after he left. Taking a deep breath, she stiffened her shoulders.

He was inside, upright, strong, broad-shouldered and poised, as if the crumbling world around them didn’t touch him.

He moved with quiet purpose, setting a second chair beside the first. A bottle of red wine, two glasses, a loaf of bread, and a wedge of cheese sat on the half-burnt table. Her stomach tightened with emotion.

As if sensing her, he turned toward the door.

She didn’t move.

He tilted his head and gave her the smallest of nods, then motioned with a wave to the chair opposite him.

Dalla hesitated, then crossed the threshold.

The room smelled of rain, ash, and fading war. She stepped around a pile of shattered beams and sank into the chair. Her gloved hands gripped her knees. A drunken soldier outside bellowed the chorus to an off-key victory song. She flinched.

“To victory,” he said softly, pouring the wine into both glasses. “I’m called Harlem Jones now.”

Dalla blinked at him, heart thundering. “You changed your name.”

“We all do, in time.” He handed her the glass.

She took it, her fingers trembling. The ruby liquid swirled. “I haven’t. I don’t want to.”

He studied the myriad of expressions crossing her face with a slight, curious smile. “Why?”

She looked at him, her expression slightly defiant, and lifted her chin. “I don’t want to forget who I am… or where I came from. I’m afraid—” Her eyes moved from his face to the scene outside. “I’m afraid if I do, then I truly will be lost.”

Harlem shook his head. “You won’t forget… or become lost.”

She watched as he broke the baguette in half and placed a portion in front of her on a clean, chipped plate with red and white squares running around the edge.

Her stomach rumbled at the delicious aroma.

He used his knife to slice several chunks of cheese off the round roll in front of him and placed those next to the bread.

“How… how is this possible? After all this time, how are you still?—?”

“Alive?” he finished for her. “You know my story; at least most of it.”

“Yes, but—” She shook her head and broke off a piece of the bread, then placed a slice of cheese on it. “Do you know if there are others like us?” she asked in a husky voice.

Harlem leaned back in the chair, his dark eyes watching her with unreadable calm.

“Rarely. Over the centuries, I’ve met a handful—maybe three, four others.

All different. All cursed. Or gifted. It depends on who you ask and how they are feeling at the moment.

” He paused. “But most… most don’t stay around long. ”

Dalla raised the glass to her lips and drank.

“It doesn’t feel like a gift,” she told him in a solemn voice.

“No,” he murmured. “It doesn’t, but it also doesn’t always feel like a curse.”

She gazed out the shattered window frame. Two soldiers danced arm-in-arm, soaked and laughing in the muddy street.

“I died shortly after you left,” she explained. “After that, I wandered, waking in places I didn’t recognize. Sometimes it was hours after my death… other times… years. I never remember where I go in between. Only that I come back.”

Harlem nodded, picking up his wine. “For me, there are not long expanses of time between deaths. I’ve stopped trying to understand it. Knowing the ‘how’ won’t change what we are.”

They sat in silence, the candle flickering between them.

“Then why?” she asked at last. “Why us? And why are we not the same?“

He turned toward the laughter and lifted his glass towards the men outside.

“Because of that. We are what remains when everything else burns—hope, in human form. It’s not always about saving the world… sometimes it’s about saving just one.”

Dalla looked away, her vision blurring. “My family were not saved.” Her voice cracked. “My family. My people. They died. I couldn’t stop it.”

“No,” he said gently. “You couldn’t. But if you’d lived with them… loved them for decades, watched them grow old and die… it would have broken you in other ways.”

His words struck like a blade sheathed in velvet.

“Pain is part of what we carry. But so is love. And hope. That’s what we offer. The only thing we can offer.”

Tears slid down her cheeks, silent and warm. She didn’t wipe them away.