Page 55 of Wild Reverence

“I am taking the second watch tonight. For now, I am to rest, and I would ask you to lie down beside me. I know you don’t sleep.

We don’t even need to touch, but I think it would be important for the people to see you close to me.

The sight of you earlier lifted their spirits in a way I have not seen in a long while. ”

Matilda’s eyes widened in surprise, but she nodded. “Yes. I can do that. Is there another blanket for me?”

“Let me find one.”

I strode from the thicket, Matilda following, her cloak knotted at her collar.

I found a spare bedroll in a nearby wagon bed and handed it to her, and together we chose a place on the edge of camp to spread our blankets, side by side.

We were close enough to be seen and appreciated by the others, who were beginning to settle for the night.

A few mothers were spinning stories for their children, and somewhere at the heart of the group came the notes of a reed flute, spilling a dreamlike lullaby through the darkness.

The first watch of knights guarded our perimeter, silent in the starlight.

I lay down first, on my side. The ground was uneven beneath me. But the rock at my ribs was soon forgotten as Matilda lay down beside me.

She was on her back, her arms tucked behind her head, and she was gazing up at the sky, her expression wistful.

“Do you ever study the stars?” she asked.

“I had no choice but to when I was younger,” I replied, thinking of all the lessons I had sat through, all the constellation charts I had memorized. “It is required learning for us.”

“Is it? I did not know that.”

“Yes. Your constellation appeared in the sky not long after I was born. I remember my mother thought it was a good omen. Although the newest stars to find their place in the sky were not yours, but Adria’s.”

“When did you realize they belonged to her?” Matilda asked.

“Nearly a year after she died.” I did not like to think back on that time.

Our world had plunged into chaos without Adria to guide us.

It had taken a while for skirmishes to settle down, for the king to regain control.

For the land to no longer look charred and broken.

“I suppose, in a way, Adria won after all, although not how we expected her to. When she announced herself to us as a goddess, that is when peace finally returned to the realm. She came and supped in our halls, and touched our wounds, and listened to our woes. She was gentle and kind, even as a divine. Which made me begin to think that maybe not all immortals are cruel and heartless.”

Matilda was quiet, her eyes still trained upon the sky while mine returned to the earth, to rest on her.

“Then there is hope after all,” she said.

“For what?”

“That one day, you will not think so low of all divinity.”

She was alluding to the other night. Our conversation in my bedchamber, which still brought color to my face when I remembered the flash of hurt in her eyes. How I had not spoken up when she asked if I thought low of her, as I did of all the other gods, save for Adria.

But before I could atone for it, Matilda asked, “Have you ever desired to extinguish a constellation?”

“You mean kill a divine? No. Never.”

It did not happen often, for it was an extraordinary feat to slay an immortal. But it had occurred, often when those who had access to enchanted weapons used their wits to fool gods. Many ballads about such glory were sung in irreverent halls.

My father, while not the most devout of men, had not liked those bloody tales to be told at Wyndrift.

I think this was due to the fact that he had four sons, and the last thing he desired was to stir up a foolish bloodlust in us.

To witness our untimely deaths, or for us to think we were strong enough, clever enough to slay a god when we most certainly were not.

Instead, we watched the stars for signs and omens, to keep track of the gods.

And while constellations revealed some news, they could not tell us when a divine killed their own, which happened far more frequently.

Then, the dead god’s magic remained, glittering in the sky, despite the change of hands.

We had to wait for that news to trickle from one realm to the next, or for Fate’s owls to visit us in mythical dreams.

“Do you want to know what I desire?” I said, eager to chase away the heavy air that had settled upon us. “You asked me just the night before, and I refused to answer.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“I have never told anyone this, but I have always wanted to care for the land. To have a small farm somewhere, tucked away from the world. To live in solitude, to live simply, where there is no war and no bloodshed and no violence. To live in a dream, I suppose.”

Matilda turned on her side to face me, the sky forgotten. “A farm such as this one?”

“Perhaps. The cottage is in dire need of repair. It has been abandoned for a while.”

“It only needs new thatching on the roof. The walls are still sound.”

“And I do not think these fields have been tended to in a long while.” I reached out to snag a few seed heads from the grass, letting them slip through my fingers.

“It is good to let fields rest,” Matilda said. “You could plant barley here.”

“And oats,” I added.

“And have a flock of sheep.”

“I know nothing of husbandry.”

“Then you will have to learn.” She held my stare, a smile curving the edges of her mouth. I liked how we were both dreaming side by side, this time with our eyes open. She made the impossible seem like it was within reach. But then she asked, “You would live alone? You would not grow lonely?”

I would indeed grow lonely, but I said, “If I found someone else who had the same desire, I would ask her to stay with me. And we could grow old together. They could bury me at her side when I die, and I would be content in the afterlife.”

“Then I hope that happens for you,” Matilda whispered. “I hope that you find her.”

I swallowed, uncertain what to say, and why her words made my chest feel small, like a cage that was collapsing. She shivered beneath her cloak, and I frowned.

“You are cold?”

“Yes,” she confessed. “I do not know why the cold here affects me. I do not feel it in the sky, or far below.”

My arm reached out, sliding beneath her ribs. I drew her closer to me until my warmth could seep into her, our bodies aligned, our legs tangled together. It reminded me of a day long ago, when I had held her fiercely to me, afraid to let her go beneath the churning of wings.

I felt that heady tug between us, that cord I could not see but feel.

“May I ask you something?” I said.

“Hmm.”

“If you rarely sleep, how did you find me in my dreams? I always thought you were sleeping when I was, that our minds were drifting together.”

Matilda stiffened in my arms. I regretted the question when she pulled back slightly, but it was only so she could look at me.

“I read your dreams after they happened,” she answered. “Only once was I ever truly there with you in the moment.”

She told me of Alva’s scrolls, of her surprise to discover herself in my dreams. How she had found a way to step into one of my nightmares eventually, although she would not explain how.

“Which dream?” I asked.

“When we climbed the cliff to the eithral. When we returned to your room and burned Skyward coins.”

My throat narrowed. She spoke of the dream when my uncle had dragged her away and I had stood, frozen and useless, unable to help her. When I had woken only after I had hurled myself from the window. The dream when I had first learned her name.

“Forgive me,” I said.

“For what?” She eased close to me again, until I could feel her breaths against my own. She laid her hand upon my chest, tracing the embroidery of my tunic with a light finger. I felt that touch echo across my bones.

“That I could not help you.”

“But you did. You woke and released me. And I learned an important lesson about mortals that day.”

“And what did you learn?”

She rested her head on my shoulder, her long hair spread around us. “That I cannot fully trust them. I cannot let them catch me, hold me.”

“What am I doing, then?” I asked, my voice ragged.

“Why are you letting me hold you?” I spoke of my arm, which was still wound about her, protectively.

My hand, which was splayed over her hip, as if the curve of her bone fit perfectly in my palm.

I spoke of our arrangement, our ruse of a marriage.

Of how we were making everyone believe she was mine, as I was hers, all to save my home.

“Why are you risking so much for me? Am I not a stranger to you now? What could you ever gain from aiding me and my people?”

I waited for my questions to drive her away from my arms. I waited, coiled tight and tense, to feel her untwine herself from me. I hated myself for encouraging it when I wanted her to remain close. But it was like treading deep rapids that were hungry to close over my head.

And I had always been afraid to drown.

“You are no stranger to me,” she said, her caresses easing as she laid her hand over my chest. “And I know that you would let me go, should I want it.”

We fell silent, but my heart was like a wild creature. I knew she could feel it, pounding beneath her palm. I willed it to calm, for my blood to thicken and slow, so that I would not feel so alive beside her, incandescent with longing.

I stared up at the sky, naming the constellations, until I found hers—a bright six points. Herald of the gods. A kestrel in flight.

I willed those stars to burn always, because I could not bear to imagine them ever going dark.