Page 36

Dying is like being submerged under a frigid sheet of water. I don’t fight against it, instead allowing it to wash over me with a heavy acceptance, a tinge of relief. I break the surface and warmth envelopes me, starting at my ravaged middle and pilfering out, golden rays spreading through each limb, taking with it every pulse of pain.

The other side is cold but filled with light and the call of birds, a vague sense of motion. Something sweeps against my cheek, calling to the barely conscious remnants of me. The cold surface of a vial is pressed to my lips. I will my eyes to open. They merely flutter. “Drink.”

A wave of dread washes over me. I was so certain it was over. I try to swat it away but my arm won’t give to my demands, weak and heavy like I’m sludging through a vat of honey. My lips are pried open and liquid spills into my mouth. My first reaction is to spit it out.

“You are the most stubborn person I have ever met,” he says with a ragged breath. “Trust me.”

My limbs are weighted, however there’s none of the pain radiating from my middle that’s plagued me the last several days. Maybe I’m dead after all. There’s a ravaging thirst in the sting of my cracked lips, tongue like melded sand. Liquid spills into my mouth again, and this time I’m weak to it. I swallow and wait for the commiserating burning. It doesn’t come.

I’m too eager for the next swallow. I take it too quickly and choke and sputter. My limbs shift as I’m rearranged into more of an incline, head braced against something cool and solid and wet. I take one vial, and then two, and then there’s the sweet, tangy crisp of cold water. I manage to lift a heavy hand to hold it there, guzzling it to quench the fires of this never-ending thirst.

“Easy.” He takes the water away, and with great effort, I squint my eyes open. It’s too bright for my heavily dilated pupils, and it takes several seconds for my surroundings to come into focus, everything returning in fragments: a flash of tree limbs, beads of water dripping down a bare chest.

The forest is vibrantly green, the trees much too large to be real. Sunlight glints across crystal water, clear all the way to its pebbled bottom. The smell of burning wood and the orange flickering flames of a small fire.

The trees are monstrous. I blink rapidly—skeptically. “Dead?” I barely recognize the throaty rasp that is my voice.

“No, you’re not dead.” He shifts me back slightly so we can look at each other. I break my attention away from the fantastical scene around me and to him as his eyes flicker over me, searching for something. My head is leaned under his shoulder, and we’re both sopping wet.

I search for clues, an emblem of understanding. He doesn’t look like he usually does either. A faint line of stubble lines his jaw, and his eyes are bloodshot, but the most obvious difference is the large scar cutting across his left eye. It slices his brow, crosses his eye, and snakes all the way down to the side of his jaw.

I lift a heavy hand to trace that strange scar. The skin is thick and risen under my fingertips. It must’ve been a very deep cut. His jaw tenses slightly under my touch. “Dreaming,” I mumble, letting my hand fall limp to my lap.

He shakes his head with a soft laugh. “You’re not dreaming. This is real.”

“Real?” I ask, furrowing my brow as I peer around once more. “Doesn’t look real.”

“Real,” he reiterates. He grabs my hand and smooths a thumb across my palm as if to convince me, and I frown. It does feel real.

The air is chilled, especially with the sopping wet state of my dress plastered against me. I shiver, teeth clattering. “I’m wet.”

“Sorry about that,” he says with another laugh. “Sorry, I can’t dry you. I didn’t realize that spell would put me so close to overexertion, or I probably would’ve done this differently…”

Everything starts to come back. Dying. I was dying or…I was turning into a monster. And the last thing I remember. Hunger. Deep, carnal hunger. I suck in a sharp breath as I palm at my face. “Hey.”

“Am I a monster?” I rasp.

“No, no, you’re not a monster. You’re perfectly normal.”

I hold up two trembling hands, disbelieving when they look…like hands and not claws. I twist them and stare down at my palms, twisting them back. He grabs my hand and tugs it down as he leans over to make eye contact with me. “You’re not a monster. Promise. You’re not going to be a monster.” He taps a finger against my lips. “But your lips are turning blue, and I need to get you out of these wet clothes.”

He pulls my hair out from the back of my neck and wraps it around his hand to wring it out before re-situating me between his knees with my head leaned back against his chest. My mind is still lagging behind, trying to catch up with reality as he begins tugging at the wet fabric and slips it over my head. It starts to settle in as I’m sitting there in only wet, clinging undergarments, the white splotchy mark of the dāemon peeking out from the fabric that wraps my breasts. He slips his hand under the fabric at my sides, and a flush works over me, a flit of panic.

“Wait—“ I push back feebly, trying to stop him from finishing. “I can do it.”

He stops and lowers his hands. “Can you?” I heave a deep breath, coaxing my mind, my body to cooperate with me. “Can you sit up?” He draws a cloak from the ground, and drapes it over me before shifting out from behind me, still holding a hand against my back. Pebbles and sticks prod my hands as I shift my weight back against my palms, wobbling slightly. He positions himself into a crouch in front of me, hesitant to let me go.

“I’m fine.” Slowly, he shifts his hand back, rises, grabs something off the ground, and places an article of clothing in my lap.

“Here, put this on. I won’t be far, so yell if you need me. I’ll be right back.”

I assess the garment in my lap. “This is your shirt.”

He grimaces. “Sorry. Working with what we got here.”

I’m still slowly crawling out of the blur in my mind, so I just nod, and he retreats. He’s wearing only his braies that sags down his hips with the weight of water dripping from them. I watch his back disappear behind the scenery of monstrous trees.

Where in the hell are we? I pinch my arm, and it hurts. The wind stirs, culling a shiver out of me and reminding me of the task at hand. Moving slowly and awkwardly, I shuffle out of the wet undergarments.

My belly is pale again with no purple bruise. I run a hand over it. No pain. His shirt is large enough on me that it drapes to my knees. I still feel entirely too naked with nothing underneath it but the strong smell of him permeating from it is oddly comforting. Sucking in a deep breath, I clumsily work up the buttons before bracing myself against the ground and tugging the cloak over my legs.

Appearing only a minute later, he wears dry pants his chest bare. He rolls a log closer to the fire, draws his own cloak off the ground, and lays it sideways in front of it. “Where are we?”

“The Ettin Woods.” He picks me up before I can speak any protests and settles me back against the log across his cloak. Leaning down into a crouch, he pulls my cloak up over me, and adjusts it across my legs as I stare at him blankly.

“The spell I used to heal you has to be done here, at this river.” He points his thumb behind his back.

For several seconds, I’m speechless, staring at him in dumbfounded silence. “H-heal?” My voice is still little more than a rasp, vocal cords seemingly damaged from the lack of water and acidity of bile and blood.

“Yes, heal.”

“But the healer said that wo—“

“A different kind of healing. You feel better, don’t you?”

I feel exhausted yet not painful—nothing like I was. I nod slowly, and he flashes me a tired grin, looking every bit as exhausted as I feel. “But…you left.”

He stares off toward the trees. “The information…was not easy to find.”

It’s too much for my addled mind. I drag my hands over my face, willing it to clear. “You’re sure I won’t turn—“

“Positive, pet. You’re not going to alter. Do you need anything?”

“But wouldn’t it have been easier if you had let me…”

“That’s not easier,” he says so fiercely I shrink back. That phrase jogs my memory as I remember begging him for death. It’s never easy, he’d said. I don’t know why a sharp sheen of shame hits me, and I dip my head and pick at my nails.

“Do you want some more water?”

I shake my head. He retreats anyway, swiping the canteen from the ground and starting down the rocky bank. I pull my knees up, tucking the cloak carefully around me. Across the river, trees crowd close to the bank line, their tangled limbs sweeping the stream. Birds chirp and sing serenely. The steady thrum of the dāemon is gone. Did he heal me of that, too? I cut that thought off as quickly as it comes. It’ll be back.

He lays the canteen against my lap and saunters off, bustling around to collect my wet clothing from the ground. Hanging them on a low-hanging branch nearby he takes to collecting firewood.

“I did put a few wards up. Nothing can pass the perimeter. We’ll be safe here for the night,” he says dropping a bundle of logs near the fire.

“We’re staying here?”

“Until morning. I wouldn’t feel comfortable traveling without magic.”

“How did we…” I turn and search the clearing of trees until I land on Epona tethered to a tree. Compared to the giant trees around her she almost looks like a normally-sized horse. A smile tugs at my lips. “What did you say is wrong with your magic again?”

He lowers himself to his knees to build the dying fire back up. “Magic is not an endless well. There are limits, and I’m very, very close to mine.”

“What would happen if you continued to use it?”

“I would pass out.”

“Has that happened to you before?”

He snorts. “A few times. I’ve gotten a bit better at gauging my limits over the years, but—“ he pauses. “That spell took more from me than I thought it would, so we’ll have to make due for the night.”

I look around the clearing. I’ve never slept outside before. Not sure I’ll be getting much sleep at all. “Your magic will come back though?”

“Yeah, of course. I need to eat and sleep, and I’ll be good as new. Which—you should eat something too.” He stalks off in the direction of Epona and comes back a moment later carrying one of the leather bags that straps to the saddle.

“How far are we from Samore?”

“About six hours ride.”

Six hours, and I don’t remember a minute of it. He drops to the ground beside me, close enough to settle back against the log, and begins plucking parcels out and laying them on the ground between us.

Two canteens, different than the leather-bound ones carrying our water. These ones are a gleaming metal, and he sets them right against the flames. He unravels the fabric parcels, revealing a variety of nuts and dried fruit, and settles it beside me in invitation. Another one has that same sweet dark bread we’d eaten on our journey into Samore, as well as some pieces of dried meat, cheeses, and crackers. An ample amount of food.

“Vera literally chased me to the stables to give me this, and I’m really glad she did. Remind me to thank her when we get back.” He sends me a small grin, and I quickly look away, an uneasy feeling taking root in my gut.

When I don’t immediately start scarfing food down, he turns scrutinizing eyes on me. “You should eat something, pet. You need it.”

“Are you sure?” I ask, eying the food with trepidation. So far…I feel fine, but this voice in the back of my mind nags at me. What if this healing is only temporary, too? What if it didn’t work?

“You’re going to be okay now,” he says like he can sense the trail of my thoughts. I work a swallow as his eyes sear into the side of my head. Picking up a single nut, I bring it to my mouth, chewing slowly and swallowing once I’ve mustered the nerve. After days without, it feels all wrong, chafing against my ravaged throat as it goes down. I hold my breath and wait. Waiting for the stab of pain and convulsive throbbing.

Nothing.

Still uneasy, I pick up a piece of dried fruit this time. It bursts sugary sweetness between my teeth. It’s good . I continue taking little bits of everything. Sitri eats, too, in a more measured way than he normally does. He’s trying not to hog it all. I know how difficult that must be for him, and the faintest glimmer of a smile tugs at my mouth.

I swear I can feel my strength returning with each swallow, filling and nourishing me. Approval practically drips off of Sitri.

After days of madness, being here in this place feels bizarre. Real? I’m not going to die? I smile then. A small smile but a real one. He catches it, returns it, the softest quirk of his lip, and I dip my head shyly.

He taps a finger against the flasks by the flames. Satisfied with the temperature, he pulls them forward, unscrews the cap, and brings it to his lips to test it before handing it off to me. “It’s not too hot.”

“What is it?”

“It’s soup.”

Soup . I don’t think I’ve been so excited for soup in my whole damn life. I take a careful sip, and warmth encapsulates my mouth. It’s perfectly heated, not hot enough to burn, savory and salty, and I gulp half of it immediately. Famished, wanting. The soup warms me from the inside out. A wave of relief washes over me so thickly I can feel a physical weight falling from my shoulders. A breath of fresh air. Full health after days of sickness, like saturating sunshine after days of rain.

The future is uncertain, but I’m not going to die…and I’m… happy about it? “This is good,” I murmur.

“Yeah?” This time, he flashes me a full smile, revealing those two crooked teeth. Genuine warmth. It’s as hopeful as it is relieved. He didn’t have to save me.

“Mhm, yeah it’s really—“ My chest squeezes, hardening my throat. I try again. “It’s really—“

He didn’t have to save me.

Fuck, I’m going to cry. With nowhere to run. Or no way to run. I try anyway, scrambling to my feet with newfound strength. The cloak falls to the ground. “Pet?”

“I’m going—I just need to—“ I need to escape . I heave a breath with the strain, knees wobbling. I spread my arms, fighting for balance, the canteen still clutched tightly in my hand. The oversized shirt hangs loosely off my shoulder. One step, I teeter. Two steps, and I fold, knees hitting the ground. Stupid .

The dam of my emotions overfills, and I crack, covering my face behind my hands, momentarily forgetting I’m still holding the canteen. Warm liquid sloshes over the back of my hand. “Pet, you’re spilling your soup,” Sitri admonishes, but his tone is gentle.

“Oh, no,” I choke out in alarm and he laughs softly. The next thing I know, he’s at my side, prying the canteen from my grip. He wipes the back of my hand on his pants as I continue to try and fail to hold back sobs. “Come here.”

He ignores my blubbering complaints and tugs me to his chest. I’m always fucking crying in front of him. I think I’ve cried more in the last few weeks than I have in the last five years. I hide my face behind my hands and empty all the panic and terror and misery of the last few days. Or maybe the last week, everything. Maybe I haven’t taken a full breath since I came here.

He didn’t have to save me.