Page 65 of Grim and Oro (Lightlark)

HEARTLESS

We aren’t going to find the heart.

We’ve been searching for over a week now. I can tell Isla is losing hope too.

She sits on the ground, in a patch of forest we’ve already scoured, glaring at the soil. It’s an uncharacteristic thing for a Wildling to do; then again, nothing about Isla is expected.

Perhaps that’s what makes me so afraid of her.

“We aren’t ... we aren’t going to find it,” she admits, and I’m almost shocked into silence, hearing our thoughts so aligned.

We are more similar than I would ever admit aloud.

“We have to find it,” is all I say. Then I surprise myself by moving to sit next to her.

She glances over at me, and I want to turn, to see those eyes up close, to see if they match the shade from my dream, but I remain still. It might be one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.

“What does it feel like?” she asks.

I finally allow myself to turn to her then, and— those eyes .

She reddens, and I realize I’ve been staring. And frowning , as she’s often reminded me I do. She must assume I’m thinking ill of her.

How do I tell her she’s all I think about?

I clear my throat. “What does what feel like?”

“Dying.”

The word is a bucket of cold water on my thoughts. I tear my eyes from hers, mourning the loss of that green that is much more vivid than the forest around us.

I think about the bluish gray methodically spreading across my body. “Slow. Painful.”

I hear her swallow.

“Are you afraid?” she asks.

“Yes,” I reply, surprised I’m answering her at all, that we’re having any stretch of conversation that doesn’t include scowling.

“But not for me,” I admit, realizing I’m not just admitting the truth; I’m discovering these feelings for the first time.

No one’s ever asked. Everyone, even my friends, avoids the topic of my death.

“I don’t fear death for myself. I fear it for everyone tied to my life. My people. My land.” I run a hand across the soil, and it’s cold. Colder than it’s felt in centuries.

She nods. “I—I hope it’s not like that for everyone,” she says. “I hope, for some, death is quiet and quick.”

Quiet and quick .

“A quiet and quick death is a gift,” I say, not meaning to say anything at all. This is what she does. She reaches into me, somehow, drawing out thoughts I would normally keep to myself. She’s collecting my truths. I wonder what she’s planning on doing with them.

“It is,” she agrees, gazing at the forest without seeming to see it. No, she’s lost in her thoughts, and I feel the urge to know what she’s thinking. To implore her to share truths, the same way I have. To determine whether she’s capable of saying anything to me that isn’t a lie.

“What are you thinking about?” I ask, then immediately regret it. I shouldn’t ask.

I shouldn’t care.

But I do.

She blinks. Turns to me. “My parents,” she says, appearing surprised by the admission.

Sweetness. Truth.

“What were they like?” Her truths are like a struck ore, something valuable that must be mined.

“I don’t know,” she says. Another truth. She frowns, and I can see her mind working. She’s trying to see if she’s giving too much away.

“They died before I knew them,” is what she offers me.

I wonder how they died. I wonder why both did. Did her mother kill her father, as the Wildling curse goes?

It’s something we have in common. Neither of us can love anyone. For her, it means death. For me ... as king ... it’s a risk that could destroy Lightlark, if my power should end up in the wrong hands.

“What were your parents like?” she asks.

I stiffen.

I shouldn’t have asked a question I wouldn’t have readily answered. It’s a rule I’ve lived by for centuries. But I’m breaking so many rules when it comes to Isla. I should stand up. I should ignore her. I’ve done both things dozens of times since we’ve worked together.

But I know her now. I can tell when she’s trying to be sly, when she’s digging for information for strategic reasons. This time ... she’s not. She’s genuinely curious.

About me .

How long has it been since anyone other than my friends has asked me about myself, Oro, and not about the king ?

“My father was cold,” I say. “And my mother ...” My voice breaks off. It’s been so long since I’ve allowed myself to think about her. There are so many words, so many memories. “She was warm,” is all I say. It’s not enough, but it’s everything, at the same time.

She seems to think so too, because she nods. She doesn’t press further.

We stare at each other for a moment, before we both look away. We stand.

We return to not looking and not asking, as we search for the heart.

A scream cuts through the forest, and I freeze.

Isla .

I’m in the air without question, without hesitation. Fire surges in my palm, ready to turn the entire forest to ash if needed.

There she is, caught in the middle of a web of barbs. I can smell her blood everywhere. Why would the forest attack a Wildling ruler? She’s trying to tear herself away. The needles sink deeper, as if set on killing her.

“Stop moving. You’re making it worse,” I say, and she stiffens.

She’s angry at me, at my tone. Good. Because anger means she’s alive. Anger means she’s ready to fight .

And she’s going to have to fight to survive this pain.

Her back is wrecked. Thorns cover her body, stabbing her in dozens of places. I curse, wondering how she’s conscious. “I’m going to have to break them to free you.”

She nods, then screams when I tear the first barb in half with a spark of energy sent from my palm.

I try to be gentle, but the thorns curl into her skin, anchoring deep.

They’re actively resisting me, digging further into her flesh with my every effort to free her, as if the forest wants to keep her for itself.

She screams again, the sound raking through my bones, and I pause my efforts, realizing I’m making it worse.

“There are ... several.” The warning won’t do much; I know that.

Tears slide down her face, as it twists in agony, and it feels just like a blade, tearing through my chest. It’s as if the barbs are in me , and that doesn’t make any fucking sense.

But all I know is I’ll do anything to make the pain stop.

I pull the barbs from her, as gently as I can, using every shred of focus and skill, and she jerks forward, retching all over herself. All over me . I grimace at the mess but realize I don’t care. I don’t care at all.

I just want this to be over. I want her to be freed from this forest. But I can’t do it alone. She has to help herself. I gently curl her hand into a fist, my fingers sliding over hers. “Find your strength,” I say, paraphrasing words I heard centuries prior from my mother.

She looks up at me. Those green eyes sharpen. The flame within ignites. A sense of pride fills me. There she is. The stubborn, strong Wildling that will survive this. I nod at her. Together , I think. We’re going to get out of this together .

Then I continue.

One by one, I break each curved barb, holding her body still with one hand.

And when they’re all out, I take her in my arms, her blood seeping into my shirt, then move her away from the wall of thorns intent on stabbing her again.

We’re in the center of the forest, and now I’m beside her, questioning my judgment.

She’s asked me to leave several times— stubborn Wildling —yet here I am, on my knees, still by her side.

“How did this happen?” I ask, because it doesn’t make sense. We were searching the same forest together for hours. She walked away for a few damned minutes . I’ve never seen a forest attack a Wildling.

“I tripped,” she says.

Liar . Bitterness soaks my tongue. Anger flares inside of me. How can she not trust me when I’m here on my knees, pulling thorns from her bleeding skin and covered in the contents of her stomach? And why lie about something so simple?

She narrows her eyes, the green of her irises brighter than any emerald I’ve ever seen. “Go, look for whatever the wall is guarding. I’m fine. I can take them out myself.”

Her tone is biting.

I scowl at her. “You’re covered in your own vomit.” I reach toward her back again, and she rears away from me, then groans.

“I said I’ll do it myself,” she snaps, as if I’m the one causing her pain, and not helping her .

“Are you truly this stubborn?” I demand.

“Are you truly this overbearing ?” At this, my nostrils flare. “I said no,” she continues. “Now leave.”

I consider it. If she wants me to leave, then fine. Even though everything in me wants to stay, I do as she says. I go back to the forest and look for the heart. I fly past every tree, alert, searching faster than I ever have before.

Then I’m back, crouching next to her.

Her eyes widen—and I must be imagining the flicker in her expression that looks something like relief .

It’s gone in an instant. “I told you to go look for—”

“I did. No heart.”

Tears roll down her cheeks. Her face flushes from pain and probably also anger. All this for nothing , she must be thinking. Because I’m thinking it too. I have the absurd thought to wipe her tears away.

I have the urge to cradle her in my arms, to burn this entire fucking forest down for hurting her, to fly her back to the castle and demand the best healer on Moon Isle attend to her.

“You can go,” she says, closing her eyes.

Not an order, this time. So, I don’t. I stay.

She looks surprised when she opens her eyes again to find me there. Did she really think I would leave? It makes me wonder if she’s been abandoned while in pain before.

It makes me want to burn anyone who’s ever hurt her alive.

I reach for her again. Her back is going to get infected, if the thorns aren’t taken out. She flinches.

I hold my hands up. She wants to do it herself.

Fine. But she doesn’t have to do it alone.

“The spines are all yours,” I say, eyeing the larger ones.

There are dozens of tiny thorns in her back that she can’t see.

She can’t reach them on her own. “I’ll get these smaller ones.

” She looks like she won’t agree, like she’s so stubborn that she won’t accept any gods-damned help, so I add, “It’s faster.

The sooner this is finished, the sooner we can resume our search. ”

This, I hope, she can’t disagree with.

“Fine,” she says, and an ember of surprise ignites within me.

It’s a small gesture. But it’s one of trust. Of cooperation.

I’m gentle. I try not to do anything to make her change her mind, to make her demand I leave again.

I don’t want to leave her, here, alone, wincing in pain, bleeding out on this forest floor.

I don’t want to leave her at all. She never leaves me, really.

She’s always in my damned head. She’s always in my damned dreams .

And the way she refuses help ... the way she assumes I’ll leave her here ...

It makes me remember that day in Moonling training when I assumed Calder would leave me to die.

It makes me remember the relief of opening my eyes and seeing a hand reaching out, offering aid. Does she have a friend? Does she want one?

She screams out, and this time I wince, as if her pain were truly my own. Her hand is wrapped around a particularly thick barb, right next to her spine.

I can’t imagine the pain. She’s strong. She’s so fucking strong . The fact that she’s still conscious —

She pulls it out, biting her tongue hard enough to draw blood. I see it dripping from her mouth.

Without thinking, I offer my hand in place of her tongue.

“Here,” I say, giving her something to bite on that won’t hurt herself.

She accepts without even looking. Then her mouth is on my skin, wet and warm, coating me with her blood.

“You’re going to bite your tongue off. I’ve seen it happen before; you have to have something in your mouth for something like—”

She bites down immediately. Hard. Right against my knuckles.

But I don’t feel the pain. No, the opposite. There’s relief in offering her comfort. In being any comfort at all.

She struggles with the last few barbs, her body slumping, then straightening. Stubborn. So stubborn. So strong. Finally, they’re gone, and she collapses against a tree. Only then does she open her eyes and see my hand. It’s covered in both our blood, in bite marks where her teeth pierced my skin.

Her eyes widen, then lift to meet mine.

She’s surprised, and I hate it. I’m gutted she thinks that I wouldn’t give her anything to make her feel better.

But of course, she doesn’t know all the lengths I would go for her. She’s right—I’ve been a miserable wretch around her this entire time.

It’s a defense. A shield I hold between us.

I’m cruel to her as a reminder to myself that I should not care.

I’m cruel because I want her to hate me—because if she ever didn’t .

.. if she ever wanted me a fraction of the ways I want her, I’m not sure I would be able to survive it.

Not as king. Not as the person who is supposed to put everyone else above himself.

I grab the canteen of water and begin to heal her wounds.

Not as well as the true Moonling healers, but I know for certain she would refuse any aid that isn’t my own.

She doesn’t want the other realms to think she’s weak.

She’s smart. So, it’s up to me, and I focus more than I ever have in my life, scraping for every piece of healing power, remembering every bit of training.

I close every abrasion, every puncture from the forest’s talons, until she stops bleeding.

Later, I realize I never healed my hand.

I sit in bed, staring at the marks of her teeth. They form crescents against my skin. They will heal in time.

I don’t do anything to speed it up.