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“No,” I snap. “There will be no speak of Gods under this roof. Or anything that might lead her toward the truth.” No child should be forced to bear that weight.
“I am her roof—the shadow that dims her light and keeps the world from seeing that mark on her fucking shoulder. Nothing more.”
“I want nothing to do with the child.” I spear my gaze at the woman. “Nothing.”
“Her tears no longer sparkle like they used to.”
“You don’t wrap a wound without treating it first. It’ll do nothing but fester.” She shakes the necklace at me, pendant swinging. “You can’t protect her from herself.”
“She’s Aeshlian. Aravyn’s child. She’s … got a black mark on her shoulder that doesn’t look natural.” Light will bloom from sky and soil, Skin tarnished by the brand of death …
“How did you stumble upon the frayed thread that unraveled my entire species?” “Fate.”
“You’re exhausting,” I mutter, closing my eyes. “Just ... let me go down with the ship.” That sounds peaceful.
I internally catalog its inventory while he battles the series of knots, preparing excuses to toss at him like boulders. Hard to come up with one for the talon. Or the pillow slip. Or the parcel of shit-shrooms I never got the chance to pottle.
“You can climb down on your own, can you?” Probably not. I lift my chin. “Absolutely.”
Over the past week, I’ve seen Rhordyn become progressively more abrasive, and I’ve become progressively more drunk. Same problem, different coping mechanisms.
“We’re lying to the people, not ourselves.
“Carved it into three small tools and gifted them to someone special.” Someone who needed to see that beautiful things don’t have to be breakable.
keep having dreams.” Nightmares. There’s no heartbeat in the words that pass her lips, but her thought is a storm rioting through me. Catastrophic.
She doesn’t think I care. It’s almost enough to bring me to my knees. I did that to her. I fucking did that to her.
“I’m not your problem anymore. I don’t want your charity.” Never my problem. Always my tragic ever after.
Little does she know, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for her. Except let her go.
What I regret is letting her believe she doesn’t hold my cold, crippled heart in the palm of her hand. Because she does.
