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As if reducing an entire race to our most notable physical trait—the pointed tip of an ear—somehow makes their barbarity easier to stomach.
I suppose it’s easier to justify killing a mythological monster than a living being. Something, not someone.
My spirit will return to the skies regardless of where my body burns. It’s not much consolation, but I cling to it anyway.
Sunlight cannot fix a flower on the cusp of death.
“Captain, if I wanted my ass kissed I’d be in a brothel. Take me to the prisoner. Now.”
Bigger problems are looming. For though Scythe has killed my captors, he is no savior. Of that, I’m certain.
And a voice, an imploring rasp in the swimming dark. Stay with me.
I make it a scant few steps inside before I hear Scythe mutter something under his breath. “I think I preferred her mute.”
“Do you find insulting someone is your best strategy when preparing to ask for their assistance?”
I clear my throat. “With the bridge down, I have no earthly idea how to get back to the Midlands. So, it appears I’m stuck here. Stuck with you.” “No need to sound so overjoyed about it.”
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I am not sure whether to be flattered or insulted by his astonishment in learning I am not entirely without skills.
“Glad you’re still breathing, Ace. You don’t mind if I call you Ace, do you? Seeing as I don’t know your real name…” “It’s R—” I catch myself just in time, swallowing down the slipup. “Call me whatever you’d like.” “How about fool or idiot or insufferable bane of my existence,” Scythe mutters from beside me.
“Any slower, we’ll be going backward,” comes his wry greeting after a few moments. I glower. “I do wish the centipedes had eaten you.”
To annihilate a race, you must do more than kill its people. You must kill its music, its artwork, its architecture. Its customs, its traditions, its religions. You must eradicate the beauty, so only horror remains in the memories of those who live on in the aftermath. So no one attempts to rebuild—or even remembers why they might ever want to.
“Paradise burned a long time ago. All that’s left are the ashes.”
I do know, for whatever reason, snapping at him calms me. Brings me back to myself. Slows my racing heart and stills my shaking hands.
It is not a large bed, and he is a very large man.
I do as Penn bids, riding back through the woods to the passage that leads up toward the summit. I don’t want to, but I do. Because he asked. Because…he pleaded. I need you to go. I need you to stay safe. And so I go. But I leave my heart behind in that blood-drenched camp. Back with Jac and Mabon and Uther, the soldiers who have forced themselves inside its chambers, becoming friends despite all odds. Back with Penn, the man who has saved me again and again, even when I’ve punished him for it.
“A man is not his history.”
“What do I feel like?” “Like…a hot swallow of tea after a day out in the chill.” I test the current between us, exploring it, running my mind across it like hands over a precious object. “Like the faint char of a bonfire in the air from somewhere far away. A hint of flame and heat.” He does not say a word. He does not move a muscle. He does not even appear to be breathing. “Is that what I feel like to you?” I ask. “No. You…” A muscle leaps in his cheek as his jaw tightens. “You are like a crisp trickle of water down the back of a sun-scorched neck. Like cold aloe on a burn.”
“Some grief is too heavy to carry alone. Let go of it. Give it to me. I will carry it for you.”
When our eyes meet again there is a moment—a moment of unspoken words, a moment of unfulfilled promises—that suffuses the air between us so thickly, neither of us draws breath. A moment that begs for more than a moment; for hours, for days, for a whole bloody month to finish what we started.
“Home?” he whispers finally, voice gruff. Such a small word. Such enormous implications. It scares me, but I say it anyway. “Home.”
“This is a portal?” “What were you expecting?” “I don’t know.” I shrug. “Something a bit more maegical. This just looks like part of nature.” “Maegic is part of nature.”
I am the Remnant of Air. I am the weaver of wind. I was born for this. I am stronger than my fear. And I will hold the line of chaos. I will keep the wind at bay. I will bolt the gate within.
“In a time of widespread death and loss, we are fortunate to still have so much to safeguard. To possess so much worthy of protection. So on this night, above all else, we give thanks for the salvation already delivered. For the gifts already given. For the homecomings we thought might never come. And for the ones we love—the ones worth fighting for.”
“May the light of Fyremas burn bright until the dawn, a reminder that there is no night so consuming it cannot be endured; no gloom so heavy it cannot be cast out. We are Dyved. We are the flame in the darkness. And we will hold back the shadows, in whatever form they come.”
“Sometimes, the deepest love disguises itself as indifference—for to reveal it would be to lay oneself bare. No man would willingly admit such a weakness. Perhaps not even to himself.”
“Rhya,” Penn whispers, his voice cracking. “Don’t you understand? You…you have undone me completely. I look at you, I touch you, I sense you near me, and I…” His voice pitches lower, barely audible. “I pride myself on staying in control of all things. I am a master at it. But these days, I hardly recognize myself. I am a raw nerve, run ragged from trying to keep myself in check each time I’m near you.”
“Stay safe,” he whispers fervently. “For me.”
“The only family I care for is the one of my own choosing. My horse. My men.” He pauses. “You.”
“Come,” he whispers, brushing his lips against mine—light as a feather, but heavy with promise. “There’s a world to remake.”
