Divine Rivals (Letters of Enchantment, #1)

by Rebecca Ross

Write me of hope and love, and hearts that endured. —EMILY DICKINSON

An Emily epigraph ❤️

Cold fog had settled over the depot like a burial shroud, and Iris Winnow thought the weather couldn’t have been better. She could hardly see the train through the gloam, but she could taste it in the evening air: metal and smoke and burning coal, all woven together with a trace of petrichor. The wooden platform was slick beneath her shoes, gleaming with rain puddles and piles of decaying leaves.

Noice opening, Miss Ross.

It was eventide, the moment between darkness and light, when the constellations began to dust the sky and the city lamps flickered to life in reply.

Oo, "eventide". Lovely wording, using an archaic term.

“Going easy on me, then?” He arched a brow. “That’s surprising. We’re supposed to duel to the death.” She snorted. “A hyperbolic turn of phrase, Kitt. Which you do often in your articles, by the way. You should be careful of that tendency if you get columnist.” A lie. Iris rarely read what he wrote. But he didn’t know that.

She made a dig at his writing without even *reading* it? 😆

“Has anyone ever told you that you squint when you lie?” His scowl only deepened. “No, but only because no one has spent as much time looking at me as you do, Winnow.” Someone snickered from a nearby desk. Iris flushed, sitting down in her chair. She grappled for a witty reply but came up short, because he was unfortunately handsome and he often drew her eyes.

Damn. Getting read by the op here, unforch.

“You were late this morning,” he stated. “Yes, sir. I apologize. I overslept and missed the tram.” By the way his frown deepened … she wondered if he could sense lies too.

What's the lie? What actually happened ?

She thought of an old proverb that Forest used to invoke: Turn a foe into a friend, and you’ll have one less enemy.

A redundant and needless proverb, but ok.

I wonder if fighting for Enva is everything you thought it would be. I wonder if a bullet or a bayonet has torn through you. If a monster has wounded you. I wonder if you’re lying in an unmarked grave, covered in blood-soaked earth that I will never be able to kneel at, no matter how desperate my soul is to find you.

I hate you, and yet I love you even more, because you are brave and full of a light that I don’t think I will ever find or understand. The call to fight for something so fervently that death holds no sting over you. Sometimes I can’t draw a full breath. Between my worry and my fear … my lungs are small because I don’t know where you are.

She drew the blankets to her chin but left the candle burning, even though she knew better. I should blow it out, save it for tomorrow night, she thought, because there was no telling when she would be able to pay the electricity bill. But for now, she wanted to rest in the light, not in the darkness.

That's weird... dangerous and plain illogical. 😬

She needed to pay the electricity bill. She needed to purchase a nice set of shoes that fit. She needed to eat regularly. She needed to find her mother help. And yet she wanted to write about what was happening in the west. She wanted to write the truth. She wanted to know what Forest was facing at the front.

They see what they want to see in you—the warped reflection of their own face, or a piece of the sky, or a shadow cast between buildings. They see all the times you’ve made mistakes, all the times you’ve failed, all the times you’ve hurt them or disappointed them. As if that is all you will ever be in their eyes. How do you change something like that? How do you make your life your own and not feel guilt over it?

On some days, I’m afraid, but most days, I simply want to achieve those things I dream of. A world where my brother is home safe, and my mother is well, and I write words that I don’t despise half of the time. Words that will mean something to someone else, as if I’ve cast a line into the dark and felt a tug in the distance.

Your grief will never fully fade; it will always be with you—a shadow you carry in your soul—but it will become fainter as your life becomes brighter. You will learn to live outside of it again, as impossible as that may sound. Others who share your pain will also help you heal. Because you are not alone. Not in your fear or your grief or your hopes or your dreams. You are not alone.

I don’t like attempting things that I think I’ll fail at, so I have no choice but to write superb pieces and live to see them published, to my old professor’s chagrin. In fact, I paid for him to have a subscription, so the Inkridden Tribune will start showing up on his doorstep, and he’ll see my name in print and eat his words.”

That evening, Iris sat at the desk in her room, watching the sunlight fade over a distant field, and she began to type all the letters she had written down at the infirmary. She felt like a vessel, being filled up by the stories and questions and reassurances the soldiers had shared with her. Typing to people she didn’t know. Nans and paps and mums and dads and sisters and brothers and friends and lovers. People she would never see but was all the same linked to in this moment.

He said, “I don’t think I have much of a choice, Nan.” Nan puffed and swatted his hand. “There is always a choice. Are you going to let your father write your story, or will you?”

“I am seventy-five years old, Roman,” she began. “I’ve seen endless things throughout my life, and I can tell you right now that this world is about to change. The days to come will only grow darker. And when you find something good? You hold on to it. You don’t waste time worrying about things that won’t even matter in the end. Rather, you take a risk for that light. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

You’re returning? When? Do you know, or will you wait for the end of the war? P.S. You truly don’t have wings? I’m shocked. She paused, uncertain how to respond. It suddenly felt as if she had a host of butterflies within her, and she typed: I’ll return most likely when the war is over. I want to see you. I want to hear your voice. P.S. I most certainly don’t have wings.

This ought to work out well, when she finds out he knew her identity the whole time.

Perhaps we could go irritate the librarians of Oath with our quest for missing myths, or I could take you to meet my nan over tea and biscuits. I think she would take a shine to you. You could also settle the debate about my chin being too pointy and sharp, and if I look more like a knight errant or a rogue. Or maybe we could even just walk the park together. Anything you would like, I would too. I’ll be here, waiting for whenever you’re ready to see me. She read it twice before hiding her smile in the crease of the paper.

Yeah, this is going to be bad ! 😆

It was that ache again. The one that tasted like salt and smoke. A longing he feared would only grow stronger with each passing year. A regret in the making.

What does it mean the ache tastes like "salt" and "smoke"? Some nonsensical ~vibes~ writing here.

Dear Carver, I’m sorry I haven’t written to you in a while. The days have been long and hard here. And they’ve made me realize that I don’t think I’m brave enough or strong enough for this. I don’t think my words will ever be able to describe how I feel right now. I don’t think my words will ever be able to describe the things I’ve seen. The people I’ve met. The way the war creeps like a shadow.

Dear Iris, I don’t think you realize how strong you are, because sometimes strength isn’t swords and steel and fire, as we are so often made to believe. Sometimes it’s found in quiet, gentle places. The way you hold someone’s hand as they grieve. The way you listen to others. The way you show up, day after day, even when you are weary or afraid or simply uncertain.

I need to completely restart this letter to you to me. Dear Iris, You don’t know what’s coming in the days ahead, but you’re doing just fine. You are so much stronger than you think, than you feel. Don’t be afraid. Keep going. Write the things you need to read. Write what you know to be true. —I.

It caught Iris by surprise—this weighted sense of peace she felt as she gave the earth seed after seed, knowing they would soon rise. It quieted her fears and her worries, to let the soil pass through her fingers, to smell the loam and listen to the birdsong in the trees above. To let something go with the reassurance it would return, transformed.

THE PATH OF DACRE’S DESTRUCTION by THEA ATTWOOD Iris read the first few lines over Attie’s shoulder, awe and excitement coursing through her. “If you’ll both excuse me, there’s a letter I need to write,” Attie said abruptly. Iris watched her bolt down the hallway, knowing she was probably going to wax vengefully poetic to the professor who had once dismissed her writing.

They would have the chance to grow old together, year by year. They would be friends until they both finally acknowledged the truth. And they would have everything that other couples had—the arguments and the hand-holding in the market and the gradual exploration of their bodies and the birthday celebrations and the journeys to new cities and the living as one and sharing a bed and the gradual sense of melting into each other. Their names would be entwined—Roman and Iris or Winnow and Kitt because could you truly have one without the other?—

Wait, what. She couldn't even treat Roman like a friend and now she thinks this? Iris has no idea how he even feels about her. In her mind, he just wanted someone to compete against and trade words with. How did she go from clueless to suddenly all-in without even knowing he loves her, let alone that she feels anything like that for him...? Big jump there. A scene to grow intimacy in her POV, where she suspects his feelings, would have eased that.

When the soldiers in the lorry around her fell quiet, listening, she wondered if perhaps she should have chosen a different myth. Here she was, talking about Dacre, the author of their wounds and pain and losses and heartaches. But then she realized that there was power in this story; it proved that Dacre could be tamed and bested, that Dacre was not nearly as strong and shrewd as he liked to be perceived.

“I’ll have to say it over and over and over, now. If I live, I’ll be full of nothing but regrets and apologies, because I’m the last one.

Her breath caught. “The C is for Carver,” Roman said, leaning closer to her. “My name is Roman Carver Kitt.” He wove his fingers into her hair and brought his mouth down to hers.

Um, ok. Seems like a weird and honestly bad time. 🤷🏽‍♀️

I’m volunteering to dig graves in the field instead. I dig, hour after hour. I give all my anger and helplessness and sadness to the ground. And I help the people of Avalon Bluff take the names of soldiers before we bury them.

I am coming to love him, in two different ways. Face to face, and word to word. If I’m honest, there were moments when I longed for Carver, and moments when I longed for Roman, and now I don’t know how to bring the two together.

Interesting POV on attempting to reconcile expectations and reality.

“I don’t want the light,” he grumbled, but Iris had already parted the window curtains. He raised his hands to shield his face against the stream of sunshine. “Why have you come to torture me, Winnow?” “If this is my torture, I would hate to see what my pleasure would be.”

"If this is my torture, I would hate to see what my pleasure would be." Um. What does this mean? 🤔 Like, what is the implication? Author, wtf.

It was my ‘duty’ to follow his will, and I tried to adhere to it, even if it was killing me. Even if it meant I couldn’t buy your sandwich at lunch, which I still think about to this day and despise myself for.”

She remembered the words she had written to herself, nights ago. She reminded herself that even though she had been left, time and time again, by the people she loved, Roman had come to her. He was choosing her.

“Do you think we could live in a world made only of those things? Death and pain and horror? Loss and agony? It’s not a crime to feel joy, even when things seem hopeless. Iris, look at me. You deserve all the happiness in the world. And I intend to see that you have it.”

“Did you just take a shower, Kitt?” It was the most ridiculous thing she could’ve asked, but it felt so strange to her. That he would wash in the middle of the day, when things were about to collapse. Although perhaps it shouldn’t take her by surprise. He had always liked to look his best. Why should the end of the world change that? Roman met her gaze. He didn’t say anything, but a flush was creeping across his cheeks,

Some people sweat more or have oilier skin / hair than others. Washing once a day might be excessive for some, but it's necessary for others. Also, if Roman's used to bathing often (necessarily or not), he's not going to feel properly clean when going days without it. A persons's gotta wash sometimes, war included. I don't get the shower shaming, I guess 🤷🏽‍♀️

Attie turned on the faucet. “Why don’t you shower while I go and find—” “Shower?” Iris demanded. “Why would I shower at a time like this?” “Because you’ve been running up and down a hill all day and cutting up carrots and parsnips and onions and your jumpsuit smells like lorry exhaust,” Attie said. “Trust me, Iris. Use the fresh shampoo there, in that tin.”

Ha!

“You don’t think this is foolish, do you? With Dacre on his way? For me to be celebrating when death is coming?” “Iris,” Attie said, “it only makes this all the more beautiful. The two of you have found each other against great odds. And if this is your one and only night with him, then savor it.”

He thought for sure one of them would say, No, there are more important things at hand, Roman. Look around you! There’s no time for a wedding. He had been met by the opposite, as if Attie and Marisol and Keegan were eager for something to lift the heaviness of their spirits.

Yes. Moments of joy in hard times are essential for moral. Mental health hinges on them!

She was warm, flushed from her shower. Her palm was like silk in his.

After all the work she's been doing, I doubt she wouldn't have a callus or two. 😆

Marisol had found these rings in her jewelry box. She had told Roman that the silver band that had once been her aunt’s would fit Iris. And the copper ring was for him, to wear on his smallest finger. Just until he could get them proper matching bands.

Aw, that was sweet of her.

“How dare you!” she said, glaring up at him. He was smiling, and she felt her skin flush. She could never stay angry at him for long. “I just washed this dress!” “I know you did. It looks better off you anyways.”

Why is this written so flirtatiously? 😆 The author writes their sibling relationship so strangely. I mean, unless it's *supposed* to be incestuous.

“You’re impossible,” she said, straddling him. “And I win this round.” Roman only grinned, his hands tracing up her legs. “I surrender. How shall I pay my penance this time?”

Author! 🙈 I honestly don't know how I'm supposed to he reading this platonically?

She spun and searched the crowd that had gathered around her, frantically looking for Roman, for Attie, for Marisol, for Keegan. It was time for them to flee. She felt it in her gut, and she remembered what Attie had told her the day before.

I mean, the whole time was the time to flee. There was no point in non-combatants and non-medical trained people sticking around as long as they did. It was foolish and stubborn sentimentality keeping the journalists there, when they owed it to their profession to get to safety before the front line moved over them.

“I’ll take you back to the field to look for Kitt. But we can’t go beyond it; we can’t stray into the town. It’s too dangerous. And after we search the field, you will agree to let me take you somewhere safe. You’ll follow me home.”

Dude is going AWOL? "To save his sister" is the excuse, but he could have taken Iris to the transport and sent her off with her partner and their friends.

I don’t have my typewriter. I don’t even have pen and paper. But I have my thoughts, my words. They once connected me to you, and I pray that they’ll reach you now. Somehow, someway. An old trace of magic in the wind. I’ll find you whenever I can.

Intentionally staying behind was so illogical. Iris only did so to possibly maybe see her brother, which realistically she wouldn't have in all the chaos. The author should have written the town being blindsided by quick advances. Like, our protagonist and company only intending to stay long enough to help evacuate civilians. Then, before they could be on their way too, Dacre's forces moved in lightning speed. It's harder to feel emotionally for characters when things happen in a way that was too obviously constructed for plot. It breaks immersion, and sympathy becomes "You did this to yourself, acting stupidly because the author couldn't think of a better way to move the plot forward".

That night, Forest moved slowly when he built the fire. He moved like he was wounded, and when patches of blood began to seep through the chest of his jumpsuit, Iris jumped to her feet. “Forest … you’re bleeding.” He glanced down at the bright red spots. He winced but waved her away. “It’s nothing, Iris. Eat your dinner.”

Is he going to die and leave her alone in the middle of nowhere as a result of his selfishness? 🙈

I never told you that I love you. And I regret that, most of all.

Yeah, I was wondering about that. Pretty crazy to not tell someone you're* tying yourself to in marriage out of love* that you love them.

She was reluctant to step into the flat’s empty darkness first. She gave that honor to Forest, who instantly reached for the light switch. “The electricity’s off,” he mumbled.

Well, yeah—nobody's been there to pay the fricking bills. 🙄 Realistically, they shouldn't have a place to go back to. They don't own the flat, and the land-lord would have leased it out to someone else when the Winnows stopped paying rent. Or did Iris pay months in advance? That was probably mentioned, but I can't remember.