Page 49 of These Eternal Bones

Canvas

Molly

My movements are listless as I drag the brush against the canvas, my skin heating as Elric’s lips press into my freshest bite.

When he said, if I must hate him, I will do it by his side, he meant it.

The past few weeks have been just like this.

Our bond fluttering with my hurt and his fear like an odd cacophony while he holds and dotes, adores and fucks.

He’s wrong about many things lately, but mostly the hate.

The sensation had been short-lived.

Now, I only seem to manage frustration and profound sadness. All my reasoning, all of my attempts to be let out, to even try from the confines to search for a solution, fell on deaf ears. I keep my pity to myself, knowing he would hate that.

The only reason I’m aware of Tien’s sudden appearance is his gruff, tired voice suddenly filling the room. I don’t startle this time. My nerves are shot, my eyes leaving the ugly canvas to search for any signs of light from outside.

I find none.

“Sir, the doctor is back to discuss his clinic's funding.”

Elric doesn’t halt his adoration of my flesh. “Tell him to return tomorrow.”

“I have…for a week now.”

“I think I would like a bath, in private,” I offer, deciding to help the older man.

Elric growls, his arm capturing my waist as he hugs me tighter to him. “I do not wish to leave you.”

“It would be nice to have some privacy to wash, just now and then.”

He hesitates.

The lack of sunlight is jarring, but what’s almost more so in the cage's bathroom, only a thin curtain separates the toilet from the rest. I’d taken to just banishing Elric to the steps, but my cheeks heat every time I need to use it, my pride taking a major hit.

Few things make you feel more like an animal than relieving yourself in front of a God with a sensitive sense of smell and hearing.

My embarrassment floods the bond, and for the hundredth time, I wish I could shut it off, at least for a little while.

It is hard to stay mad at someone when, at all hours of the day, you can feel their undying devotion and love for you, as well as their guilt and pain.

“He will make it quick, or the town will be short a doctor,” he growls, gently untwisting from me to set me on my back on my painting stool.

My chest lets out a brief pang when he kisses me goodbye, but I ignore it, making another ugly swipe on the ugly canvas. It’s not a picture per se, but more of a clash of black and gray, no color.

No light .

I’m not feeling inspired by such things lately.

I make a few more passes before I let my wrist fall limp onto my long white nightdress.

I hadn’t bothered changing out of it today.

No real point, I suppose. The tip of the brush slips further from my fingers, dotting the fine, lacy fabric with black.

I don’t know what it is about that single small dot of black that makes me slap my hand out onto my pallet, smearing the only two colors there across my palm.

I rub my fingers together, testing the wet paint before my other hand joins in, smearing at the painting until it's covered entirely.

No strokes, just a canvas of darkness. My eyes fall to the plunging bodice of the dress next, regarding it only for a moment before I smear my hands across it, ruining it too.

I feel oddly empty at the sight. Is this boredom?

This strange lack of effect?

It’s numbing; I can’t tell which I prefer.

I take my time marring the dress further, putting little thought into it, and when it’s done, I find my heart has finally picked up speed.

My shaky legs carry me to the full-length mirror in the corner of the gilded cage.

That seems to part what remains of the numbness.

My knees wobble, and I stare at my own gaunt eyes, the dark bags underneath them.

My hair is heavy and scratchy on my neck.

I barely spare a glance at the dress. The woman is alarming enough as my fingers rub the scar on my left hand, its ridges hidden by the paint.

Joseph had once said that things such as depression and anxiety were proof of our corruption, our doubt in God's divine plan. What was there to fear when he’d curated our lives for us?

When he died for our sin? What could we possibly have to fear, to be sad about? We were chosen to live in his light.

Perhaps because we wanted to be children and not wives.

Perhaps because we wanted to be free from his leering glances .

Perhaps we didn’t want to be branded like cattle.

We wanted to read.

To cut our hair.

To ask questions and speak loudly.

Perhaps if I truly am to die, I do not wish to spend my last few weeks in the dark. Even surrounded by love.

My eyes leave the frail looking, sad woman and land on my paint supplies, the scissors glinting in the bright candlelight.

Tears well in my eyes as I grab them, returning to the mirror where I jerk my hair free from its thick braid, wild frizzy copper curls fraying as I unfurl them.

Like everything else, there’s no ceremony in what comes next.

My lips wobble as I hack at the thick length, my hand aching, arm and wrist screaming their disapproval by the time the last thick chunk falls away.

For a moment, I think my breath comes a little easier without the weight.

It’s choppy and lopsided, hanging down to just past my shoulders instead of my waist as I let my legs give out underneath me, falling into the pile of hair as it sticks to the wet paint on my dress.

The tears welled in my eyes join the hair and paint as I desperately try to find the confidence I felt weeks ago, when I vowed this life would be my last. When I said I wouldn’t leave him.

I had been so sure…whatever in the world for?

A small gasp fills the room. My movements are dazed, nearly sluggish, as I turn to look at the horror on Péal’s small face.

Glancing down at myself, I suppose this looks quite bad, especially when I’m gripping the scissors like that .

She paces by the door, clearly unsure of what to do.

“One moment, mistress, it’s okay. Come away from there. ”

I frown at her, then at my hand, still clutching the scissors. Realization dawning on me that she thinks I mean to use them on myself. I almost tell her I’m not going to, that I wouldn’t do that to him, to me, but the words don’t come. I simply watch her panic as she yells for Elric.

He’s there in a blink, his eyes pitching from rage to worry as he unlocks the cage.

Péal keeps pacing as if weighing what she wants to do, but the moment she decides and goes to enter the cage, an unearthly snarl leaves my mate.

She doesn’t cower, but lifts her chin in defiance, stepping back but only slightly.

“It’s a terrible ending to a beautiful life,” she spits.

My heart lurches, thinking he will hurt her, but he doesn’t as he turns from her, dismissing the woman with a flick of his hand, but she stays as he steps inside, her eyes finding mine.

“You’re dismissed,” he growls as he blurs to me.

“My love...” he murmurs, gathering me in his arms so tenderly that my body warms.

“Funnily enough, I have just decided I do not answer to you. I no longer wish to serve a master who lacks honor .” Her eyes spark as she levels him, as if there was power to her words. Elric barely reacts. “Mistress, do you wish for me to stay?”

Yes.

“It’s okay. I’m okay…” The words are watery, filled to the brim with the lies. “Just needed a haircut.”

She swallows hard, bunching her apron before letting it fall, over and over, wrinkling the fabric. “And a new dress,” she adds.

Her humor is lost on me at the moment, but it makes my lips quirk anyway as I smooth off some of the hair, smearing more paint. “I fear I haven’t done a great job.”

Our eyes meet as she nods. “I will check on you soon.”

What goes unspoken nearly rips a sob from my throat.

I’m here, I’m still here .

She never left me.

How had I been mad at her for even a second?

Elric is on his way to the bathtub as the door to the stairs opens and closes. His tendrils reluctantly release me so he can rid me of my ruined gown.

I clear my throat, steadying my voice before I speak. “You will not hurt her, right?”

He kneels in front of me, picking clumps of hair off my paint smeared legs. “No, I have made enough mess of this life.”

I’m not sure what I’m doing when I grip his face in my hands, pressing my lips to his in a biting kiss.

His tongue dances with mine, fighting for more purchase.

When I finally break away, new tears are coating my face.

“It is not a mess,” I whisper, tracing the line of his high cheekbone.

I’m not sure if I’m reassuring him or myself, but the truth of it rings clear, forcing a ragged sound from my lips.

“I am not so far gone, syringa, that I cannot recognize what I have done. You needn’t assuage guilt I have earned.”

I shake my head, dropping to my knees in front of him. As much as I love watching him kneel, it feels wrong with that pained look in his eyes. “It was a beautiful life.”

He chokes back a sound as he gathers me close. “I swear to you, I will earn your forgiveness; I will be worthy of you, Molly.”

“You already have it, and you already are. There is no one more worthy of me than the other half of my soul.”

His eyes are heavy with emotion as he lifts me into the bath, the hot water soaking his ruined shirt.

We’re silent for a long while. He washes me, lost to his thoughts and me to mine, only my occasional sniffles and the lapping of water filling the room.

The crackle of the fireplace can be heard when he speaks next, the bond hums with fondness, admiration .

“You cut my hair once, in another life.”

I peek over my shoulder at him as he pours water over my back.

“You’d wanted to try.” His laugh was sad, but the sound beautiful, nonetheless.

“Just a trim, that was all. You’d confidently showed me how much you’d take off the ends and everything.

” His eyebrows shoot up in an over-exaggerated look of exasperation.

“I was nearly bald by the time your selkie walked past the room. I’d like to have thought the two of you would never stop laughing.

Sore wa saigai deshi ta. ” He catches himself, translating. “It was a disaster.”

My eyes widen on him, my teeth digging into my cheek to hide my smile. A genuine smile. It feels like a betrayal to the hurt still lingering in my chest.

“Tien was much more tactful in hiding his amusement but the lot of you were shocked that my veins extended all the way to my head.”

That seems to do it.

A laugh bursts from me, sudden and jarring, but it’s a big one, the type that makes your tummy hurt and tears well in your eyes. He feigns annoyance, but I can feel his happiness through the bond.

“I look far more bizarre without hair, I assure you. It seems your skills have not improved.”

I laugh harder, jostling the water. Only sobering when the cool air meets me as he pulls me free from the tub, wrapping me in a plush, warm towel he’d had resting by the fireplace. Something he’s always done for me; my chest warms even hotter than my skin as my incoherent giggling dies down.

My green eyes meet his dark ones. His sleeves are soaked as he wraps his arms around me, tugging me to his chest.

I don’t mean to ruin the moment, but the question slips through my lips before I can stop it.

It feels important .

Like the most important thing right now.

“You could stop this at any time. You could make me like you.”

He nods against my head, sensing I have more to say.

“Why not just end this hell?”

“Turning you would break my end of the curse. I would damn not only myself but you and everyone else in this hazy town for the rest of our immortal lives. It is also a hell of biblical proportions, Molly. One I would suffer a thousand lives for before I inflicted it on you. This way you can live, outside of this place, at least for a while.”

“Is it truly that bad?”

“To have seen the world, ruled it, only to be shut away while it moves on, yes. But above all, you love flowers.”

I pull away from him, just my head, just to watch his handsome face. I do love flowers, although I’d never said as much out loud. I suppose I paint them a lot.

“They will not grow here. I have robbed you of enough. I cannot curse you to an eternity here , in this cold, nothingness place without your flowers. Without a chance to see the most beautiful ones. I made a list of them all, where they grow. I want to take you some day.”

My lip wobbles.

We don’t speak again as he settles me on my painting stool, washing the tacky scissors in the basin sink.

Something odd, uncomfortable, and…heavy settles in my chest as I watch him from the far full-length mirror as he cuts my hair, doing a much better job of it than I had.

He’s tender, touching each strand as though it’s priceless.

He scoured the world so that I could have a baby. Decimated an entire town to avenge my death. Gone mad so that I could see flowers.

It seems a silly concept now, to give up on him, when he has done nothing but endure for me.