Chapter 29 Solitude
SOLITUDE
GRAVES
Alone.
Graves was alone.
And in that solitude, he found himself reaching for memories of his past.
He was back. In the Fallen Isles. His home.
As soon as the boat had sailed closer and the mountains rose against the skyline, it had all come rushing back to him, unable to be ignored.
In shame, he had left, even with the blessing of his mother and siblings. Gods, his siblings. He hadn’t allowed himself to think of them in years. Were they… well? Did they miss him?
And his mother, would she resent him?
The Fallen that had greeted them were not any Graves had recognized, but they had been prepared for this. For being treated as the enemy until proven otherwise; though, that didn’t mean it didn’t still fucking hurt—to see his own view him with such mistrust.
He couldn’t blame them. His wings were hidden, tucked away unnaturally with magic.
Graves gripped the amulet on his chest, feeling the weight of it burn in reminder, even through his gloves.
Tharen had gifted it to him, centuries ago, when Graves had first left the Isles—a way to hide his wings.
Shamed, Graves had taken the opportunity.
It had been agony, hiding such an intrinsic part of himself away, but the pain had been merely mental, not the physical agony of his wings ripping free from his back on the rare occasions he allowed himself to give in to the temptation.
The worst agony had been their first emergence, when he had been a youngling.
The Fallen were not born with wings, but they emerged in blood and pain upon one’s maturity.
And to see Luella, as she walked through the same in the Temples… It had reminded Graves all too well of the emergence of his own wings.
His secret was out, now.
He was a Fallen—the Prince of the Fallen Isles.
Prince Sorren Graves Damaris.
Yet, all he could fucking think of was Luella.
His boots scuffed over the stone floors as he walked to one of the walls, placing his hands on it. Was she on the other side?
He sent a thought through the open link—they had been talking in their mind since they had first interfaced with the Fallen. Bastian still did not bring Luella into the fold.
Are you all okay? Graves thought.
Vale was the first to answer. We are all in our rooms. Luella is in the one next to yours, and I am on the other side of hers.
Pissed but fine, Tharen interjected. Why the fuck do we have to lose time like this?
Graves knew why. The Fallen that had escorted them here had said no Umbra had attacked the Isles in centuries. The last time would have been…
Graves ran a finger over the scar on the side of his face, feeling memories assault him with ferocity.
A flash of a sword, the shadowed eyes of his father, the burn of steel against his face, narrowly missing his neck.
The tip of his sword plunged within his father’s gut, blood bubbling, the shadows in his father’s eyes flickering as he breathed, My son, I’m so sorry.
The aftermath, strangely enough, had been even worse than his father nearly beheading him and Graves being forced to kill him.
A strangled roar ripped free from Graves.
"Dammit!" He slammed his fist against the wall, a sob trailing in its wake. "Gods damn this."
Graves… Bastian’s voice pierced the agony of remembrance. We are stuck for one week. Don’t spiral.
Have you checked on Luella? Graves was desperate to know. The way she had looked at him last…
I cannot, the vampire responded, a low whisper, echoing in Graves’s mind.
Why the fuck not? Azgorath snarled.
I made a promise. Bastian paused. And I cannot break it.
Graves wanted to fucking strangle the vampire. He seethed against the wall, his forehead digging into the smooth stone, as his fingernails curled into it.
Vows have no merit when we’re all threatened like this, Vale asserted. Enter her mind. If it eases your worries, tell her that I ordered you to. She knows you will not disobey an order from your King.
Fine, Bastian replied. I will leave the link between us open. Perhaps I can ease her into joining us.
A whisper of humor floated from Tharen, icy and cruel. Please do. I would love for her to join us. But she may not need much easing from what I’ve heard.
Graves curled his lip. Bastian had told them all about what she had done with him and Azgorath.
You’re lucky we’re trapped within stone, Prima, the demon threatened.
Like you’d even fucking try to fight me if you could get to me… Tharen cajoled, his voice trailing off as he pulled away from them all, done with the conversation.
He’d pay for that. Vale always liked to have the last word in meetings.
Bastian left next, the link between them open, as always. Like a hollow chasm, dark and endless, that he could scream his thoughts down, knowing the others would hear the echo.
Graves knew what he must do now, and he was so godsdamned angry. And afraid of what he must endure. The last time had been the night everything had crumbled—when he forced himself through the agony of his wings’ emergence for the masquerade.
I need to remove my glamor, he uttered down the chasm.
No one responded for a moment, and in that moment, Graves pushed away from the wall, turning to stare at the room.
The bed was low to the floor, cozy for a prison.
Two fixtures made of gold were welded to the wall, the candles within burning as wax dripped down the sides.
A few wooden crates were stacked near the bed, and he looked inside, finding an extra supply of candles, blankets, a few pillows, soaps for the small stone tub in the corner…
He would have to make do with the surplus of blankets as bandages—his healing would take care of the rest.
Are you certain? Vale finally asked.
Graves lifted a blanket, feeling the thinness of it between his gloved fingers. He was alone here. So why did he still wear them? He felt distant from his body. Detached.
I must endure it. Or else they may never believe that I am still untouched by the Umbra, Graves responded. For all the Fallen know, I could be a shapeshifter or using a glamor. I will not risk what we came here for.
Tharen’s voice echoed in his mind, subdued. You don’t have to. We can find another way.
It is the only way. Graves bundled the blanket to his face, breathing in the scent of dust, along with the faint oceanic traces that clung to it from being here—a fabric woven in his home. It was but a promise of what was to come on the islands.
The memory of his home made him sick with melancholy and deep shame.
Would they hate him?
Sometimes, Graves felt like he hated himself so desperately, there wasn’t room for anything else.
I’m sorry, Azgorath grumbled, too soft to be silent—Graves envied the demon in that way.
Don’t feel pity for me… Az. Graves added the demon’s sobriquet at the last moment, thinking of Luella as he did so.
If you wish to wait, we will find another way, Vale stated.
But Graves knew the King was merely lying. They all knew Graves must do this.
I will be fine. I heal fast. It will be nothing like what Luella went through. At first, it would—until Graves’s healing kicked in. It would be agony.
I have but one wish, Graves thought, ensure she does not hear my screams.
Graves’s bare fingers wrapped around the chain of his amulet as the golden candlelight flickered over his bare chest.
He clenched his jaw so desperately that he felt like his teeth might crack from the force of it.
He was stalling. Gods, he didn’t want to do this.
Graves was not ready.
Vale told him that Bastian would distract Luella in her mind. Distract her from the sound of Graves’s screams. Tharen instructed him to rest as much as he could while he healed.
As if he could do anything but rest here, within this room, with its still air and slowly dripping wax as the only passage of time.
Graves’s hand shook as he gripped the chain. For one heartbeat, he let himself pretend he was a youngling again—safe, with no one expecting him to be anything more than free, no one expecting him to bleed for them.
One harsh inhale to ground himself, and he jerked the amulet away from his neck, feeling the snap of the chain as it cut into the back of his neck, the links breaking away.
And the glamor was shattered.
Pure agony ripped through Graves as his body rearranged itself to accommodate his wings, muscles tearing as his flesh was rended in two.
It never got easier.
He fell to his knees, a pained, anguished scream ripping from deep within his chest as his wings shot out from behind him, unfurling with a snap that pulled the muscles of his back as they twitched, making another scream fall from his lips.
"Fuck!" Graves cursed, twisting into a strangled plea as he fell forward, catching himself on his palms. From the corner of his eye, he saw the black of his feathers stretched wide and true. Warm, hot blood dripped down his spine from the two tears in his back where his wings had ripped free.
His breaths were strangled and desperate as he labored for air, feeling like he was going to pass out.
His head was light, his vision speckled with darkness as everything wavered.
He couldn’t hold himself up any longer; he fell to his front, the action jarring his whole body as a low, tired sound clawed its way up his sore, ravaged throat.
Graves blinked, fingers curling in the stone floor.
"Luella," he whispered, as the golden light of the candle danced upon the grey stone, making him think of her hair, once spun a shade similar—her eyes that had once sparkled like the sunlight.
But now she was so much more untouchable.
Blue like moonlight and dappled like stars.
She was his greatest melancholy and the source of all his wants.
And Luella was what Graves thought of as he lay on the ground, unable to move, every breath hitching in his chest, making a fresh wave of blood gush down his back, agony taking him hostage—would he ever be free of this feeling?
Somewhere in the deep corners of his mind, he swore he heard Luella’s soft laughter.
Graves’s wings lay over him like a blanket, keeping him warm as he started to shiver from blood loss.