41. When Bones Turn To Ash
DESDEMONA
It ain’t over till the bones turn to ash.
— RECOVERED WRITINGS FROM THE WELDERS’ VILLAGE (TRANSLATED BY ELPHENSTEIN AJ, 536AA)
I’ve been sitting against the side of the bed watching the snowfall out the window for longer than I can count. Snow is as pretty as my mom said, but I feel like Lucian is playing a joke on me—telling me this is the septic. There’s no way. They have glass and beds with sheets and all, like at Visnatus.
I’d much rather think about the possibility of this being a joke than the probability of my mom. Everything I’ve been fighting for means nothing because she wouldn’t fight for me. I don’t even know who I am—what I am—to her.
A girl who killed kids and chased her from her homes? A girl who chased her from her lover?
My knees tuck closer to my chest, and I begin to count every snowflake I can make out in the red light that comes from downstairs. The room is mostly empty. A bed in the middle, a crowded table to the side, a fireplace in the wall, and a light in the ceiling.
When counting snowflakes becomes entirely too boring, I push around the firewood and find the kindling beneath the pile. I stack the wood and put the twigs in the middle, but I don’t use my magic. I just stare at my handiwork.
Lucian walks in, his fancy vest gone and his white shirt untucked, holding a pile of clothes and a face full of sorrow. I walk back to where I was sitting before, on the floor against the bed, and he takes his seat beside me.
“I suppose,” he whispers, “we’re in this together.”
A dry laugh escapes from my throat. “How about we’re just in it together until we find individual safety.” When he doesn’t respond, I turn to look at him, but he doesn’t turn to me. “You wouldn’t want me as a partner.” I look back at the window. “I’m not really a good person.”
“I see you clearly, Marquees.” He speaks like it’s the truth. It’s not.
“Not if you think I’m good.”
“Never said I did. Remember the myriad of times you’ve held a blade to my throat?”
“Remember when you told the entire school I was from the septic?” I bite back.
“Yes,” he sounds almost remorseful. I can see he’s looking at me now, but I don’t face him. He slowly whispers, “I’m truly sorry about that.”
“Yeah, well, I have a lot to be sorry about too,” I mutter.
“No, you don’t.” I face him and glance at his lips when he says, “Not to me.”
“Right.” I swallow. “Okay.”
“No,” he says again, moving in front of me and picking up both my hands. He holds them like they are Soul Stones. Like they’re stars. Like they will both grant the universe light and burn it to the ground. “Never apologize to me. There’s nothing you can do or have done that requires my forgiveness.”
Lucian’s eyes don’t leave mine but his cheeks turn red. I’ve never seen Lucian flush a day in my life.
I don’t know what to think. There are things I’ve done that require forgiveness. And if my own mother couldn’t offer it to me, no one could.
He doesn’t know what he’s saying. That much is obvious. Or at least, he doesn’t know who he’s saying these things to.
Multiple, long exhalations later, I ask, “So you trust me then? Or was that just an act to get me to jump off the balcony?”
He’s unwavering when he tells me, “I trust you.”
He shouldn’t. I don’t know why he does. I don’t know why he is thinking or saying any of this.
I also don’t know why I say my next words. Maybe I’m testing him to see how far his proclamation of trust will go. Maybe I want to arm myself with knowledge for the day that he turns on me again.
Or maybe I just want to know.
“Then tell me something about you no one knows.”
Lucian’s face goes from smug to faltering and he blinks at least ten times before he says, “I killed a wolf when I was ten.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Is that what a prince thinks a secret is? I’ve probably killed a thousand corenths.”
“No,” he shakes his head, “he wasn’t a corenth to me. He was my best friend. The last present my father gifted to me before he died.”
Suddenly, I’m frozen. Every shard of humor I’ve held onto shatters. “Why’d you kill him then?”
But isn’t his dad the king?
“It was my punishment. Lusia was taking both mine and Bao’s life forces, and told me if I didn’t kill him she’d kill us both.” He looks away. “If I died then, Azaire would’ve too… I did what I had to do. But that doesn’t make it any easier, does it?”
A better person would give their apologies. But I am not a better person. “No.” I think of my readiness to crack Aralia’s skull and my wavering remorse for the Folk I killed and all the misdeeds I’ve committed from then to now. “It doesn’t make it any easier.” I have nothing more to say—even though I should—except, “A punishment for what?”
Lucian twists the corenth sculpture in his pocket for a while before answering, “When I was one the Arcanes killed my mother, when I was six, my father. Lusia and Labyrinth took me in, not as their nephew, but as their son. I had to lie about my birthday because it was only three months after Lilac’s. One year, on my eighth, I worked up the courage to tell Lilac that small truth.”
I watch him watch the snow falling outside the window with a blank stare. How deeply I’ve misjudged him. I want to say something, I want to be able to convey my sorrow.
“I—I’m sorry,” I choke out. “I’m so sorry…”
“For laughing?” He finishes for me. But no, I think it’s more than that. “Don’t be. I can only imagine how silly it must sound.”
“What?” I whisper.
“Having an extra mouth to feed,” he answers.
“I wasn’t thinking about it like that,” I tell him.
“Well, it would be justifiable.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
He meets my eyes and with a single nod says, “I trust you. Should the next question for you be whether or not you truly trust me?”
“No. It shouldn’t.”
“Noted,” he says to the silence, and that’s where we sit for far too long. My knees tucked to my chest with my hands wrapped around my legs, and him with his long legs stretched in front of him and a posture better than I could ever hope to have.
Another person would’ve given him the answer he wanted. A better person would’ve told him the truth—that I am not trustworthy. But a better person would also be trustworthy. Faulty logic, I guess.
“I put my survival over basic compassion,” I say, telling myself it’s to fill the silence, but I think it’s because I want to answer his unspoken question. Something about me I’ve never told. “But I think that’s just what it means to be human, isn’t it?”
Lucian contemplates for a moment. His eyebrows crease like he’s deep in thought, and he says, “Being human means you get to find out where the line between good and evil is. Then it’s your job to stay on the right side of it.”
“Right.” I look out the window. “I don’t even know what it means to be a good person then. Let alone where the line is. That’s what I’ve never told anyone.”
But I think I know where I stand. My mom did too. I really can’t blame her for not wanting me. She basically said my nature is evil. And I don’t have the courage to disagree.
“You trust me then, Marquees?” He finally looks at me.
“I don’t know,” I mumble. “It ain’t over til bones turn to ash.”
“What?”
I smile, only a little. “It’s something we say back home. Don’t presume the outcome before the event is over,” I explain. “It’s really just about the death count from a fire.”
“That’s… vile.”
“The septic usually is,” I say. “What you have here is a joke, comparatively.” The words come out almost cheerfully, but he sullens.
“What was it like?” he asks. “Growing up there?”
“Probably pretty similar to growing up in a castle,” I say. “Let’s talk about this later?”
Why don’t I just tell him? I want to tell him. I want to be heard.
By him.
I want to prove the worlds wrong. Knowledge might be a weapon, but maybe it’s not a weakness. But Mom didn’t look at me in that way because she didn’t know me. And Bernice didn’t say those things because he wasn’t sure.
Are the worst parts of myself who I really am? Is there anything more?
Did the worlds make me this way, or was I born backward?
If it’s the worlds’ fault can it be undone? Can I revert back to some sort of purity? Or am I too far gone?
I don’t want to be too far gone. But I know that if it came down to killing all those people again or my life, I wouldn’t change a thing.
But maybe one person could hear my reasoning and understand. Hear what the world’s done to me and not agree that I’m a monster.
Not look at me the way I’m beginning to look at myself.
“It was hard,” I say. “And I mean, obviously I didn’t know it. As a kid, it was just normal. But, um… before the Gerner when I saw you in the Royals room, or whatever, with your fancy suit and the wine, I thought… this is what I would have dreamed of as a kid if I wasn’t dreaming of more food to ease the constant pit in my stomach or… being able to live in one place long enough to make a friend.” Or killing people. “I didn’t really think it sucked until I got older and I realized there are people out there not fighting, every day, just to make it to bed. So, uh, yeah. It sucked.”
I want to feel awkward or awful for sharing it but the only thing I’m wondering is: Does it exonerate me?
“It wasn’t all bad,” I say. “Sometimes there was music and dancing. Stories and poems. I think most of you posh people would be surprised by how strong we are.”
I’m looking at him, waiting for a response and trying to gauge his feelings from eyes alone.
Lucian walks away from me. Not exonerated. And he was just here saying I could never do something that he needed to forgive… or whatever that declaration was.
I should have known better. I used to. He’s a prince.
Oh, how he must see me now.
Then I hear a click and a rich symphony of sounds starts playing, forcing me to look his way.
“Do you still hate me?” he asks.
Confusion sweeps through me, but it’s this looming feeling of inadequacy that makes me whisper, “Debatable.”
Lucian steps closer, saying, “Perhaps I could change your mind.” Then he bows in front of me, like I’m the Royalty of this duo, and his hand reaches up in invitation. “A dance?”
I stare at his hand, unsure if I want to take it.
“To rewrite the dreams,” he says. A smile pulls at his lips and I see this situation for what it is.
The prince, on his knee for me.
“At least hate me the way you used to.” His voice is hoarse. “When you still cared enough to weaponize my longing.”
“Who says I still don’t?” I whisper, accepting his hand.
Lucian pulls me close until our chests touch. He leans into my ear and whispers, “It used to be far easier to make you nervous.” We dance slowly, taking small steps through the small room. “But I like it this way as well.” His eyes seem to break through my barriers. “There’s no facet of you I wouldn’t like.”
My blood pumps faster when I feel his heart thumping against my chest.
He’s… nervous.
I like that I told him. I like that he knows about my screwed-up life and still looks at me with some kind of wonder.
I like that he’s seen me kill and still thinks about wanting me.
“Well, my favorite is the one that hates you,” I say with a smile.
“So long as she still touches me. But for you, darling, I’m not above begging.”
He hasn’t called me darling in months.
I lean back. I wonder if Lucian can see the emotion written on my face even as I try to hide it. Because the way he’s staring at me is too intense. Too intimate that it has me looking at his hand until he says, “No one deserves the kind of life you told me of. Least of all you.”
I don’t know if I’m anything more than the bad.
I scoff a small laugh, changing the subject. “And here I was, thinking I’d never inspire endearment out of you again, darling!”
“Oh.” Lucian chuckles too, but it’s short-lived. “As if every time I look at you I don’t think about doing things I shouldn’t.”
I blush. Which is ridiculous. He could be talking about killing me for all I know.
“Then tell me,” I say, desperate for something a little less serious. “In what ways do I inspire you? Other than terms of endearment and booping noses?” I mean it teasingly but Lucian sways us through the room, lifting my arm over my head and spinning me. Then he pulls me into him, my back pressing against his chest. If I turned my head just an inch, my nose would touch his chin.
“I fall to pieces,” he whispers.
“I told you I’d be your undoing,” I say, but my voice is anything but steady.
“I never doubted it,” he whispers, so silently I’m not sure I didn’t imagine it. “If you meant what you said about not being a good person I don’t know where that leaves me. Beneath you, perhaps. But I think that’s where I’ve been this entire time. Because I swear the moment I first laid eyes on you a part of me knew this was where my life ended and began. Falling for you.”
I want to believe it. I want to look into his eyes and know he means it.
“You’re good at this,” I say. “Spewing romantic shit and seeing if it sticks.”
Spinning again, I end up facing him and the world flips, my back arching down. But I think I trust him enough to know he won’t let me fall.
His eyes crash on mine like a storm.
“Tell me I’m not crazy, Desdemona.” He’s not, but I might be because my name on his tongue is driving me into a frenzy. “Tell me you feel what I feel. Tell me your heart is on fire every time your eyes are on me. Tell me that through every harrowing hour of hating me, you couldn’t forget what it felt like to hold me.”
“Aibek—”
“Because I couldn’t.”
I try to swallow this lump in my throat.
“But if you still hate me, you’ll have to hate me enough for the both of us, because despite all my efforts I could never not want you.” I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. He pulls me upright until I’m standing and removes his hands from my body. It’s the most irrational part of my brain that demands me to tell him to put them back. “Perhaps I should have kept that to myself?—”
“No—”
“—but I promise to bleed until we’re even?—”
I grab the collar of his fancy, untucked shirt and pull his lips to mine.
Heat rushes to my skin, to my face, my lips, and I feel so alive. My hands slide from the collar of his shirt to his neck, inching further back until my fingers slip into his hair.
I pull away, only for a second, only hoping that my eyes will speak the words my tongue fails to.
I feel it too.
The intensity of his gaze tells me he understands as he reaches up around me and pulls the pin from my braid. Hair cascades around me.
I feel his calloused hand as he holds my cheek, his thumb grazing my jaw, then my lips. He looks at me how I look at the sea—lost to its magnificence, wishing I could steal some for myself.
Then he kisses me.
His hands come to their place on my waist as he pulls me closer, impossibly close, like this space between us can be remedied on a level deeper than physicality. The hands that move down my body set a path of blazing hot fire everywhere they go, awakening every inch of me that they touch.
I’m trying to catch my breath in the milliseconds between the merging of our lips when his hand presses into the small of my back. I arch against him, his lips moving to my neck. I am unable to suppress every moan that escapes me when he finds what must be a delicious spot on my neck because he won’t stop kissing it. And I would do anything to make sure he never does.
My back hits the wall with a thud, and with his lips on my neck and one hand on my back, I pull his face to mine and crash my lips into his. Taking every kiss like it’s the last human feeling I’ll ever experience. Taking every touch like they absolve my lack of morality. His tongue slips past mine, deeper into my mouth, and mine does the same.
I kiss down his chin, to his neck, and stop on the apple of his neck. The sound of his groaning is more than gratifying, and my hands track down his torso, finding their way underneath the edge of his shirt and touching him the way I think I’ve longed to for months now.
Touching him like he’s mine.
The music stops and the chattering from downstairs resumes, but it feels miles away. Especially when Lucian’s hands grip my thighs and pull me up his body. My legs wrap around his waist like that’s where they belong.
He carries me to the bed, dropping me down and kissing me, kissing me, kissing me. From my lips to my cheek to my ear down my neck to my collarbone until I crave for these lips to touch every inch of my body.
I sit up while he kisses me, desperately trying to untie the corset, but my hands won’t stop fumbling when his reach behind me. In one easy movement, I feel the corset come loose, falling from my top.
I push up, putting myself on top of him, tugging off his shirt and pulling his chest to me so we can be as close as possible. Skin on skin on skin. My fingers graze his cheeks, jaw, lips.
He’s so impossibly beautiful.
How am I kissing this boy? Skin to skin with a prince.
There’s a knock on the door, but neither of us are in the right mind to answer it, and his lips come to mine.
Another knock.
Then the door crashes to the floor.