Page 88 of Of Blood and Banes (The Arterian #2)

AND THE STARS

A fter those Nightfort civilians who’ve fought on our side have helped us settle into the city with fresh baths, clothes, food, and any wound care, we head to the northernmost point of Nightfort after sunset.

Melaina lingers at the edge of a stone pit, staring absently at A’nala and Sethan’s bodies in the center.

A blanket covers Sethan’s body, and A’nala is wrapped around him, her nose touching the tip of his head and tail curled around him in an everlasting sign of oneness.

Even in death, their bond is evident.

The torch in Melaina’s grasp flickers as she stands at the pit’s edge for a few still moments, tears slipping down her cheeks at a furious speed. Dipping her head, she tosses the torch out onto her father’s body.

This was what they wanted.

The old, ancient way of burials.

One by one, Daeja and the other dragons blow soft breaths of fire onto them, intensifying the flame until it drowns out the silhouettes of A’nala and Sethan.

The group of us circling around the pit watch the flames grow higher and higher until it reaches up for the heavens.

“To the skies…” I murmur, my head tilted back as I watch the smoke waft into the air.

“And the stars,” Daeja finishes sadly.

Archie leans his head into my shoulder, then wordlessly offers me a flask. I flick my gaze up to him and shake my head. Melaina stands to our left, her arms wrapped tightly around her chest as she stares up at the flames. Her eyes glisten, and her hair whips in the gentle breeze.

I squeeze Archie’s arm. “Go to her.”

He looks up at me, his eyes wide and sad. “I can’t.”

“She needs you,” I whisper, patting his cheek.

He bites his lip, then nods as if he was internally struggling with the decision and only needed one small push. But I don’t have long to watch the situation unfold because Darian slinks off between the flames, away from the group and into the darkness.

He’s avoided all eye contact with me since the battle. I haven’t even proposed to put his shackles back on. I’m not sure why—maybe because, for the first time, it seems like he’s finally come to terms with being on the right side of this war.

He saved Archie. He came back for him .

And yet…something doesn’t feel right.

I dip my head in respect to Sethan and A’nala and leave behind the warmth and light of the fire to slip into the brisk cold air of the winter night. Maybe he’s injured and didn’t want to admit it. He can’t possibly be…upset? That he killed someone?

As I stride farther away from the bonfire, he’s nowhere to be found, and I’m starting to wonder if he actually ran away this time.

Until I catch a glimpse of someone sitting on the edge of the cliffside overlooking the river and distant Serahaven mountain range hiding Vitalis.

Throwing a glance over my shoulder, debating if I should go back to the fire and leave him alone, I decide against it and walk toward him.

The wind picks up and ruffles my hair, the cold air kissing my skin and sending a shiver down my spine.

I pull my cloak tight across my frame, my body tensing as I stop a few steps away from him.

He has his legs dangling over the side of the cliff, which drops hundreds of feet to the ground below. The sliver of moon hanging in the sky is barely enough for me to see his outline against the explosion of stars and brilliant darkness in front of us.

Darian tilts his head back to guzzle down the liquid in his flask. He pauses, but he doesn’t turn to look at me. “What do you want?”

My mouth parts, but nothing comes out. I’m not quite sure how to answer him.

When I try again, I shake my head and settle down next to him.

I sit a foot away from him and only dare an inch of my heels over the cliff’s edge.

But he still won’t look my way, his eyes fixed on the distant star-streaked sky.

“Are you…okay?” I ask cautiously, glancing sidelong at him. It feels as if I were trying to pet a snake, waiting for him to lash out.

A breathy sigh escapes his lips. “Seriously?” He finally turns to look at me, his eyes narrowed and that icy characteristic back in his tone.

“Seriously...” I breathe.

When he doesn’t respond, I creep my hand on the ground slowly toward him.

His gaze darts to my hand, and then he offers me his flask by placing it at the tips of my fingers.

I awkwardly take it, unsure if he misunderstood my intentions.

To save myself the embarrassment, I lift it to my lips and take a few sips.

The fiery liquid burns and slides down my throat, warming my insides.

The moment feels too tense for me to ask him where he got it.

“I knew him,” he says at last.

“Sethan? I know?—”

“No. The guy who almost killed Archie. I knew him.” His voice is tinged in regret.

It’s the first time I’ve ever heard him call Archie by his name. Here I was thinking he had no capacity to feel remorse or regret. It makes me feel like an asshole. “I’m sorry, Darian.”

He snorts at my, admittedly, lackluster apology, and takes another gulp from his flask.

“Do you…” my voice drops to a whisper, “want to talk about it?”

He whips his head to me, holding my gaze captive in his.

Before I can regret it, I swallow and press on. “Why did you come back?”

“Because I heard you.”

“You heard me call you a fucking asshole? No different than most days.”

“No…” He rips his gaze from mine, back to losing himself in the distant sky. “No. I heard you scream for Archie. Watched you crawl for him. And I…I just knew I couldn’t let it happen to you. Not again. Not after Marge.”

My breath catches in my throat. The painting of the allium I found in my jacket pocket flashes behind my eyes. And the simmering realization bubbles to the surface, even when I threaten to smother it.

He cares.

Even if I don’t want to recognize it. Even if he doesn’t want to admit it.

I take the key from my brassiere, grab his forearm, and unlock the last manacle still on his wrist, releasing him.

He watches me, a silent breath sucked into his lungs when I finally free him and drop his arm.

His thumb strokes the inside of his wrist, scarred with all the weeks of wear and fighting.

Clearing his throat, he tips the flask back to his lips again, his muscled neck working the liquid down his throat.

When he stops, his eyes are a little softer.

A little duller, as they stare out at something I can’t see.

The tension collected in his jaw from earlier dissipates.

“I’ve…killed plenty of people. More than I care to admit to.

And yet…I haven’t felt like this since my mother died. Killing someone I knew…”

He takes another hearty swig from the flask.

My heart flutters as I remember Marge telling me all those months ago how his mother died, too. He was…

…he is just like me.

I know that feeling all too well. The heaviness and emptiness, all at once.

A reality where I cling to every ounce and breath of a memory, and who she was.

And yet, no matter how hard I longed for her or how much I wished I could see or feel her just one more time—it somehow could never be enough.

Until the day I die, we’ll be separated by this invisible rift.

The only thing to bring me the smallest morsel of peace is knowing she might be out there with my father and brother.

And perhaps, wherever they are, they’re looking back at me. Watching. Proud of me.

“I understand,” I breathe gently, careful not to spook him if I’m any louder.

He shifts his gaze back to me, and before I can think better of it, I rest my hand on the back of his.

The tension in him flares as he flinches at my touch, his chest inflating as his breath stutters.

He looks down at my hand perched on his.

But to my surprise he doesn’t shift away from me.

We’re both frozen, staring at where we touch.

Neither of us daring to break contact first.

Unable to take my hand off his, I whisper, “My mother died, too. I wouldn’t wish the death of a parent on my worst enemy.

You live your whole life knowing nothing else but them, and then they’re gone.

And you’re supposed to figure out how to live in a world without them and…

.and it’s not fair. It’s not easy. Even when they’re gone, you see them everywhere.

In the set of your jaw or the color of your own eyes… ”

“Yeah,” he mutters, so softly I almost second-guess it. But his eyes snap up to me, watching me with an intensity that makes me swallow. Staring at me as if he knows it all too well, and my words aren’t only unnecessary, but they’re useless. And yet he appreciates it all the same.

He shifts his gaze back up to the stars, his hand rigidly still under mine. “She used to tell us the stars were lights of a far off city in the heavens where people went when they passed away...and then she died.” His throat bobs as he fights through the tension in his voice.

My thumb skitters across the back of his hand, slow and gentle.

I don’t know why I feel so desperate to make him feel better.

Maybe it’s because it’s such a stark contrast against the Darian I know…

I feel like he’s a stranger. And I’m just trying to do the right thing for someone who has done all the wrong ones.

He continues, “After my mother was gone, my little sister would stay up for hours looking for movement in the night sky. She’d sometimes fall asleep on the balcony, just waiting.

And then one night, she told me about this beautiful streak of light that flared across the sky.

That it was our mother, telling her ‘I love you.’ ”

He stops and shakes his head profusely, his gaze falling down to the bottom of the cliff as his breath snorts out of his nose. “It’s a bunch of bullshit, though. I’ve never seen one. I think she was so young she was making it up to make me feel better.”