Fireborne (The Aurelian Cycle, #1)

by Rosaria Munda

When she breathes in, taking in the smell of earth, of roses and honeysuckle, her smile is so full of such simple pleasure that I feel a pang of remembrance. That is what it looks like, to be able to enjoy freely, without the constricting binds of old griefs.

Even after she removes her fingers, the memory of the touch—minute, but for its deliberateness it might as well have been words—leaves my skin burning.

Somehow it’s enough to convey comfort, and at the same time a shared understanding of a bone-deep sorrow. The grief that I’ve grown so accustomed to quieting alone rises from forgotten depths. I have no strength to fight it.

It takes me a moment to distinguish the feeling of splintering joy and sorrow and loss that’s mingled with the physical sensation of a headache.

You see, Annie, they watch us kneel, they see the back of our heads, and they think we’ve given in. They don’t realize you can think from your knees just as well as from your feet.

I look down at this boy, vulnerable, at my mercy, and think, To the ends of the earth I will protect you.

“Whatever our differences have been. It’s been good to remember with you. I hope that, if ever we meet in any afterlife, we will meet as we were, before.” As children. The sadness mounts; it is piercing.