Chapter 21 Hills to Die On
Hills to Die On
Now
T
he thought of going to class leaves me hollow. Most thoughts do now, without what I once held so deeply.
Sometimes there is a weight in my hands, but when I look, I’m not carrying anything.
Somehow, in some way, I worry this is what Azaire feels. I didn’t take from him like Pa took from me, but I’m the reason he no longer wants to go to Folkara.
I took something from him, however small.
It doesn’t feel so bad. The Weapon is inconsequential.
As time passes, I begin to remember what the weight in my arms is. I remember I’m carrying something new, something to get used to.
The prophecy.
When I visit the kitchen for breakfast, there’s a new kind of emotion in me.
Deadlier than hope, but almost its kin.
Then Eudora gives me a sneaky smile.
I step toward her, resting my elbows on the counter. With a smile back, I ask, “You got it?”
“Of course I got it,” she replies, her tone playful. With a groan, she bends down beneath the counter, then stands up holding a brown bag. “It was mighty hard, but I found everything you asked for.”
“Oh, Eudora,” I breathe, grabbing the bag when she offers it to me. “Thank you so much.”
“It’s a nice thing you’re doing. Whatever Nepenthe it’s for, I doubt they felt any kindness since they got here. This isn’t a universe built for them.”
I sigh. “It doesn’t seem like it’s a universe built for anyone.”
Eudora smirks. “Only the richest Lyrians and Folk get the good stuff.” Her tone is light, but her expression turns serious as she continues, “The rest of us get mud.”
“Scraps,” I add.
“Shit,” she finishes.
“Yeah,” I agree, “Shit.”
Anger fills me—a budding desire to do something impossible.
I swallow it.
“Thanks again.” I hold up the bag.
“A little kindness goes a long way.” Eudora smiles. “Thank you. It’s your generation that’s going to mend our relationship with the Nepenthes.”
I nod, offering Eudora one last smile before I leave the kitchen.
?
I don’t go to class. Instead, I find myself retreating back to Azaire’s room. He’s still tangled in bed.
His eyes lift to meet mine the moment I enter.
There’s something in the way he looks at me—something I could sense, even if I didn’t already feel it.
He looks at me like I am relief incarnate. As if every time I leave, he’s scared I’ll be gone forever.
Then he smiles. An irreplaceable grin.
I feel it in my heart.
“I’m back,” I whisper.
“I wish you never left.”
I set my bag by the door—with the soup ingredients. I decide to save them for the right time. Maybe I’ll surprise Azaire between classes, the way he did with me. Instead of the lunar lake, I’ll take him into the woods, to the place where we met during the party.
Then I climb into his bed, falling on my stomach before burying my head into Azaire’s chest.
“Me too,” I mutter. “I wish I could stay here forever. I like your arms.”
“My arms like you.”
“Oh really?”
“You’re their favorite thing to hold.”
I laugh, and it’s ridiculous. “Oh, shut up.”
Azaire’s hand rests on my cheek, his thumb scraping against my skin. “I’m not kidding. You’re my favorite thing in this universe.”
I shake my head. “Don’t lie to me.”
I’m afraid he isn’t.
“Wendy Estridon.” His voice drops low, my name a caress on his lips. “I know you better than that.”
My breath catches in my throat. “And I know you aren’t lying.”
He touches his nose to mine. “I know.”
I move forward, filling the gap between us and resting my lips on his. The kiss is gentle, the way he always is at first. As if, even after all this time together, he’s still trying to know me.
In every sense. Every flavor, every way.
As if he could find the answers in my lips—learn me inside out.
His hands graze down the sides of my body, resting on my hips. His grip turns firm, and he pulls me against him. We are chest-to-chest.
We are skin-to-skin.
I wrap a leg over his, pulling him even closer.
He holds my hip tighter.
I hold his face.
“Azaire Wenejad.” I trace his jaw. “You are my favorite thing, too.”
?
We lie in bed for most of the morning. I’m content to stay here forever, but Azaire rises, putting on his academy uniform.
“You already missed first period,” I say. “Why not go for double?”
My smile quickly fades. The humor quickly stanched from my bones.
With his back turned to me, Azaire says, “I… have to go to Ms. Ferner’s class.”
I jolt upright. “Again?”
He turns to me, nodding with a quiet sadness in his eyes. “Someone has to make you a healer.”
I rise to my feet. “Mending intentionally harmed people is not the definition of a healer.”
A small smile tugs at his lips. “There’s that mind of yours.”
“No. We’re not going.”
“You might not be,” Azaire sighs. “But I have to.” He throws his bag across his shoulder.
Taking one long stride toward him, I grab the bag’s strap.
“Why? Why don’t we do something—take a stand?”
“A stand with one person isn’t much of one at all.”
“But—”
“It’d just be rebellion—not revolution,” he says, reaching for my hand.
He holds it tightly. His touch stills my shaking head. All my disagreement suddenly understands him. He’ll get there, I know he will. He’ll change the world.
But not today.
“I don’t want you to be there.” His thumb strokes the back of my hand. “To have to feel it—”
“I don’t want to risk someone hurting you more.” I turn and grab my academy coat.
“I can take it.”
“I can’t,” I say, grabbing his hand once more and walking to the door.
Together, we walk to class, and when I see Ms. Ferner, it’s hard not to give her the evil eye. This isn’t her fault. These volunteer groups aren’t her doing. But she’s complicit.
That’s half the evil.
She tells the class we’ll be hiking beyond the school’s garden, searching for poisonous herbs. It’s a double lesson—identifying plants and learning to heal poison.
The Nepenthes have to ingest what we find.
When she’s done, the class and the “volunteers” quickly rise, filing out the door and beginning the hike. Some of the students chat as we walk, but I can’t find any words.
It’s only the Eunoia who speak.
The Nepenthes are all dejected, for obvious reasons.
We’re far in the woods now, and as I pass a poisonous hemlock, I avert my gaze. Whatever I collect, I’ll have to give to Azaire. With every step and every student who picks their poison, I pretend not to see anything.
But Azaire’s eyes rest somewhere in the distance, over my shoulder and past the foliage.
I watch him intently. He’s determined. There’s something he wants to do, and he’s going to do it. It’s a nice feeling from him. Uncommon.
But I invite it.
He is the person I enjoy feeling the most.
Azaire walks past me, and for a silent moment, I hope he isn’t reaching for a plant of his choosing. I’m sure he knows what I’m doing—delaying the inevitable—and I don’t want him to feel that he has to do this. Even though he does.
When Azaire returns, he stands inches from my face. His eyes hold a softness that rivals the harshness of the day. Slowly, he reaches out and tucks my hair behind my ear, then gently places a delicate stem there. The nature brushes against my skin, and his closeness warms me.
“What is it?” I ask with a laugh, letting out a breath of relief. We only have a few more minutes before I have to harm him.
Azaire meets my gaze, his own glistening, bright, hopeful. As if he doesn’t even mind the poisoning, so long as he gets to do it with me.
“A violet,” he murmurs. “It brings out your eyes.”
For a moment, I falter. And when I recover my motor functions, I raise a hand to my ear, pulling the flower away from my skin. I hold it between my gloved fingers, twisting the stem and looking at the pollen.
I see Ma in the flower. The way she’d cover one of her eyes with a violet, just like this one, then tuck it behind my ear with a kiss on my forehead.
I smell her as I hold it close to my nose.
Glancing up at Azaire, my eyebrows knit together—tears close to spilling.
“How did you know?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
He smiles but shakes his head. “Know what?”
I choke on my words, the feeling tightening in my chest. There’s no reason he would know that this is Ma’s flower. It’s just one example of how Azaire understands me like no one else can.
“Violets were my ma’s favorite,” I finally manage to say.
His shoulders lift slightly, like he’s trying to give me space. “I didn’t know.” There’s a soft sadness in his tone that makes me feel like maybe he does know, in some way.
Not about the flowers—but about this feeling.
“My mistake.” My voice drops, and I shrink back slightly. Have I crossed an invisible line? Am I overbearing, have I said too much?
The quiet between us is heavy.
But Azaire doesn’t think so.
“No,” he says. “It isn’t a mistake at all.” A soft pause, then, “How did she die?”
His eyes meet mine with an earnestness that makes my chest tighten. Every word he speaks is laden with patience. He genuinely wants to know, wants to help.
Azaire knows that there are no easy deaths—not for kids like us. No neat, simple stories. Oddly, he wants to make me feel less alone in this moment.
“I’m sorry,” he blurts out when I don’t answer, his tone soft with regret. “If you don’t want to tell me—”
“She was killed.” My gaze moves on the ground, unable to meet his eyes. “By a pernipe. I should have saved her, but I-I couldn’t.”
Azaire stops walking, and the group around us passes by. So many of the Eunoia twist their poisonous herbs between their fingers, as if they’re nothing more than pretty flowers.
As we stand still, Azaire searches for something to say that will adequately display his sorrow. I can already feel it rolling off him like the mist from a wave, as if he’s trying to carry a part of the burden with me.
“It’s okay,” I mutter, shaking my head. “It’s been a long time, so…”
Azaire gently takes my hand, and I nearly choke. It’s strange how fully he seems to understand. “The loss never goes away.”
“Yeah,” I choke out. “But some days are easier to pretend than others.”