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Nine

Death’s Door

F ood and water are delivered to our rooms. I’m too tired to even protest it. I eat some, but I’m starting to feel sick, so I end up sipping water and then crawling into bed.

I hear them fighting about who gets to lie next to me, their bickering making me smile, even as my eyes shut in exhaustion. I feel the bed dip, and then arms and legs wrap around me from either side before it goes quiet and I drift off to sleep, hoping I have no nightmares tonight.

I barely remember sleeping, but when I wake up suddenly, heart racing and body covered in sweat, I know time has passed. Groaning, I slip from Drax’s and Jax’s arms, stumbling over Maxen’s, Thorn’s, and Dray’s bodies on the floor before rushing to the toilet.

I dry heave and then turn on the sink, cupping my hands under the flow before submerging my face in it. Sighing, I lift my head and meet my eyes in the mirror. They are bloodshot, and there are bags underneath them. My hair’s a mess, and my skin is pale and stark. I look like shit.

Feel like it too.

Knowing I won’t be going back to sleep with the sick feeling in my stomach, I head out to the balcony to get some fresh air. I perch on the stone railing and look out at The Wastes below .

It’s so quiet at night, with only the distant howls of cannibals and ferals drifting on the night air. There is no joyous laughter or fighting tonight. The Ring is dark. Here, I feel Major’s ghost so much more than anywhere else, but I also feel at home.

The Berserkers’ castle isn’t for me. I don’t do thrones and torture rooms. Out in The Wastes…

I can’t lead from there. No, Major was right.

This is my home now, my place is here, but I can’t look to the past without seeing the ghosts, Vass’s and Von’s memories flashing in my head.

I don’t know why I’m remembering my brother now, maybe because it’s finally over.

It’s strange that I don’t really think of my father.

I know he’s out there, Piper told me, but honestly, I don’t miss him.

The only father I do miss is six feet under.

In fact… Grabbing my sword in clumsy fingers, I silently leave the room, shutting the door gently, and head down the stairs and out the back.

I find the tree and Major’s grave beneath it. Wincing as I sit, I stare at the dirt like it will give me answers. Fighting I understand, I am good at, even politics to a degree, but I’m not suited for what is coming now. Maybe if I had more time with him, or if he was here to help me along…

I search the dirt where he is buried for answers, but it’s just a grave with a body.

He isn’t here, no, his spirit is everywhere.

It’s in The Ring where he saved me, in the slave quarters where he healed me, in the pit where he taught me to fight, and in his office where he taught me to read and to love.

I might not have him here physically, but I know his memory is still present. All those lessons and late-night talks stayed with me. He knew I could do this, and Major is—was always right.

“Well, we won,” I mutter, not really knowing why I am talking. The breeze out here is just as hot as usual and blows across my sweat-drenched body, making me frown. I’m used to the heat, so why am I sweating so much?

Ignoring the pull on my stomach, I lean forward and run my hand through the sand there, wishing he could talk back to me.

“I guess it’s time for politics now, I-I don’t know how to do that or get them to listen.

I can do the battles, the war… Fuck, I can handle dying, but now they all look to me.

They think I have the answers. What if I don’t? What if all I have are more questions?”

I let it out here, knowing he can’t judge me—all my fears, everything.

“I want this to be a better place, the war should mean something… Maybe we could make The Wastes safer. It’s not like I’m going out to hunt bounties anytime soon, and I was one of the only ones.

Once the dust of the dead settles, they will be back to raping, pillaging, and stealing…

I don’t want that. But I don’t know if I’m strong enou gh to stop it.

How do you change years of lawlessness, oppression, and anger?

How do you change the norm, even if that norm is wrong?

They are used to getting away with everything, they won’t like listening to rules.

They think this world is theirs to do as they wish with no consequences.

But there has to be consequences, there has to be, Major, otherwise we will just keep killing each other, living one big cycle of death and destruction. ”

I shake my head, holding my hand up and letting the dirt run through my fingers. “But how do I change the world when I am just one voice?”

I debate it as I watch the granules of sand fall. As more spills from my palm, the pile grows, and when my hand is empty apart from a few granules clinging to my fingers, I almost laugh.

“You get more voices,” I murmur, staring at the pile. “Until the world overflows with them, and the only ones who don’t speak are the ones who won’t ever follow or listen. You turn one speck of sand into a mountain.”

This time I do laugh, loudly, but it cuts off into a cough, and I cover my mouth as it hacks through my lungs.

Each jerk of my body rips at my stomach, until I fall backwards with a whimper.

The agony is too much, I can taste blood on my lips, and when I lift my hand, I spot the crimson on my palm in the moonlight.

That can’t be good.

Blinking, I realise time has passed. My hand is on my chest, and I can feel something warm around the wound on my stomach.

Lifting my head, I glance down to see the bandage is red…

and around it, the skin is too. I hold up my hand, blinking when I get double vision, watching as two hands weave about as I prod the skin.

I almost scream when I do, and I fall back with a cry.

Something is really wrong.

My heart is racing, my lungs are tight, my vision is darkening, and my body is on fire.

I turn my head to try and find someone, but all I see is my other hand lying in the sand.

I watch a huge spider crawl across it. Its spidery legs tickle as its thick, black body stills over my palm, and it turns to me.

I observe it helplessly until it finally crawls off my hand and back onto the sand.

Gulping, I force myself to move. My body doesn’t want to respond, but with pure fucking grit, I manage to flip over onto my front, biting my tongue at the pain it causes, biting it so hard I taste my own blood.

Great.

Digging my fingers into the sand, I grind my teeth and drag myself across it. Sweat pours down my face, my useless legs heavy and limp behind me. Each drag against the sand sends more pain spiking through me until it blinds me.

Yet still I pull myself, knowing I need to get help. Head down, eyes closed, and teeth clenched, I gouge my fingers in and pull. Dig in and pull. Again, I don’t even know which way I am going.

My head starts to get woozy, and I gag when I feel the sand slipping into my wounds. Come on, Worth, keep fucking going. You did not survive all this shit to die out here like a fucking dog .

Think of your men .

Of your people .

Of your life still left to live .

Screaming silently, I carry on until I can’t move any farther. My body gives out, and I collapse into the sand, unable to see, ears ringing, and blood flowing easily from my wounds, no doubt staining the sand.

I want to cry out for help, but my tongue won’t move, and as darkness claims me, I scream for my men in my mind.