Chapter 31 War is Sweet to Those Who Never Fought
War is Sweet to Those
Who Never Fought
A
breath of fresh air becomes a fish out of water—it doesn’t feel right. I breathe, and I breathe, and I breathe.
It doesn’t feel right.
Darkness. Lucian. Nothing.
Icarthus—the Arcane who stole my body and told Lucian he was his father.
Nothing.
Memories assault my mind. My voice tells Lucian that his father is not his father, his mother not his mother. That he was made to destroy Desdemona.
Desdemona.
She sits in front of me. Black liquid trickles down her neck. Then she looks at me, expecting something. At least, I think she’s expecting something.
Because I cannot feel it.
Why can I not feel her?
Black blood—the liquid staining her neck—means she has rewritten the very laws of nature. Revoked the goddess of balance herself. Bleeding black is a myth—folklore. Yet, here she is, bleeding…
I had died. I had died with my mind screaming at me, telling me to live. I chose against it.
How am I here?
“What did you do?”
“Saved your life,” Desdemona snaps, wiping the blood from her neck. Her tone is whiplash. “I’m gonna find Lucian, you can come or you can mope. Your choice.”
I watch her, curiously. I’ve never experienced this before: confusion at one’s words. I always understand where they’re coming from, but I can’t seem to understand her.
At least, not entirely. There’s a small glimmer, a slight tether. A feeling in her soul.
It feels like the black blood.
Then Desdemona stands, leaving me with two options: sit on the ground or follow.
I follow.
It feels like I’m picking up a corpse as I rise from the floor. Every step is deadweight, every movement mechanical, like it shouldn’t be.
Like I am not real.
Desdemona does something to my surprise. She wraps her arm around my torso, allowing me to put my weight on hers.
“Thank you,” I mumble, stumbling through the academy halls.
My body is difficult to carry.
When we arrive at Azaire’s suite, I swallow the ache. It burns going down, stirring in my stomach like acid.
Desdemona knocks and I stand at the doorway, forgetting why we’re here. But Desdemona might not know Azaire is gone. She certainly doesn’t know what he was to me. Meaning there is a reason we’re here other than my loss.
Kai answers the door.
“Where is Lucian?” Desdemona demands.
Kai’s eyes go wide, and as I watch, I notice I cannot feel his fear—or confusion or shock. I only think it’s there.
“You’re one of them,” he whispers.
I turn to Desdemona, who’s glaring at Kai. I see her eyes for the first time. They are red, like the Arcanes.
Arcane, Arcane, Arcane. Like the one in my body.
The one that killed me.
But if I’m dead…
It cannot be.
Desdemona huffs something. Then she slams the door.
She’s an Arcane. An Arcane that Ma knew, aided, and cared for. Ma didn’t want information from Isa because she wanted to protect them both.
She’s an Arcane I remember—fleeting as it might be—from my childhood. The little girl I would play with when Ma visited Isa.
That was her.
I stare at Desdemona with a new meaning, a new life. She’s Ma’s best friend’s daughter, a piece of her.
As we stumble through the halls together, I notice how much of my weight Desdemona is carrying.
I wonder how much she knows.
“Calista can find him,” I say, referring to Lucian. I can feel Calista on campus. Not because of my magic, but because of the favor she granted me. Her power hums in the back of my mind when I’m near.
But the rest of my power isn’t anywhere. I don’t feel it in my mind or my fingertips, and certainly not in my heart. I don’t feel anything. Does that mean it’s gone? Is that what the black blood meant—Desdemona had rewritten my power?
“Calista?” Desdemona asks, regarding my comment about finding Lucian.
“They’re betrothed,” I say. “They share a little of the other’s power.”
“That’s good.” The hollow tone in her voice is easy to recognize—even without power.
“She should be in our suite,” I say, following the invisible thread of power.
“That’s good.”
Then we move in silence, leaving me alone with the boy. My boy.
Leaving me alone when there’s one person I want. One thing I can’t have.
“Do you think Azaire would forgive me?” I ask the boy. “For all I’ve done?”
“I’m certain of it,” he says.
Tears threaten to spill. I nod, relief washing over me momentarily. I want to believe the boy.
But I want something else more.
I close my eyes, meeting the boy in the hallway. “Can you—can you look like him?” I ask, meeting his gaze. “Just for a minute. Just to hold me?”
Physically, I lean my body into Desdemona’s body. Mentally, I lean into the boy.
“It could become a crutch,” the boy responds as I drop my head on his shoulder. “I can’t always be him.”
“You’ve been Xander,” I counter.
“You were not in love with Xander,” the boy says.
Though he quickly morphs into Azaire. Into his blue beanie and gray eyes. His arched nose and chin, sculpted as if from a piece of marble. I hold his face, knowing it isn’t real.
I step in front of him, just holding on.
“I’m sorry, Azaire.”
He shakes his head. “It was never your fault.”
“I know,” I answer. “I know that.”
“Do you, Wendy?” He looks down at me.
My face puckers as I try not to look away. “No.”
Azaire nods with a sigh. “Lucian was right when he said I wouldn’t want more death. But I also wouldn’t want this—for you to feel at fault.”
“If I hadn’t left him—”
“You made that choice to protect him,” the boy says, cutting me off before I can spiral further. “Even if you hadn’t left him, he still would have fought.”
I stare into Azaire’s eyes, knowing it isn’t him I speak to. “Can you please talk like Azaire, at least?” I ask the boy. “Say I instead of him?”
“Of course,” the boy answers, so clearly not Azaire. It takes me out of it—this coping mechanism.
I try to fall back in, but I fly right out.
I sit on the marble floor of the academy hall, leaning against the wall. “I love him, you know?”
“Love me?” The boy sits beside me.
I shake my head. “No,” I admit. “I love him. The boy you’re pretending to be.
” The tears I’ve choked back come to the surface, even if it’s only in my mind.
“And if he were here, I think I’d tell him that now.
That there’s safety in his voice and adventure in his eyes.
I’d apologize for underestimating him and the strength in his peace.
I’d tell him that, even if I had to feel a million people’s grief, I would still be grateful I ever got to feel him.
” I meet Azaire’s gaze, wishing it could be real.
Tears slide down my cheek, salty on my lips.
“I’d look into his eyes, and I would say it, and I would mean it.
” My voice cracks. “I am in love with you, Azaire Wenejad.”
And I am too late.
Azaire’s hand—the boy’s hand—reaches for my cheek. “He knew it. I know it.”
“I hate that.” I shake my head, shrugging away from his touch. “The past tense.”
“It’s all he has now.”
“I hate it,” I repeat.
“You didn’t steal his future,” he says. “Is that what you were thinking?”
The taste of salt settles in my mouth as the tears drop. “Everyone I love most dies. What if I’d run when Ma said run? What if I’d known my power before I touched Xander? What if I trusted Azaire to handle this on his own?”
“Don’t imprison yourself with what if’s,” the boy reminds me—Azaire’s words.
“But they’re real,” I say. “And they matter. They hold weight in all of these situations.”
“Situations that have passed. Seas you will only drown in, if you do not learn to swim.” He picks up my cheek, looks me in the eyes, and says with full conviction, “It is not your fault.”
I feel a knot tighten in my chest, and I break eye contact, turning my face away from his touch. “Okay,” I mutter.
He doesn’t let me off so easily.
“Wendy,” he says, his words cutting through the silence. “It. Is not. Your. Fault.”
I nod.
“Look at me,” he says.
I do.
“None of this was your fault.”
“I know—”
He cuts me off. “Not Xander. Not Ma. Not Azaire. You didn’t know. You couldn’t have known.”
His gaze is intense, unwavering, my childhood flashing in those eyes. Xander dying, my ma dying, my family blaming me.
Things that happened, far beyond my control. Things I was powerless to, and then blamed for.
As I look at the boy disguised as Azaire, I finally understand what he’s been trying to tell me.
This whole time, I’ve been deaf to his words.
“It is not your fault,” he says.
And I repeat, “It is not my fault.”