30. Ayna
Ayna
My legs are shaking as I push into an upright position, arm and shoulder bare where the Flames tore my leathers open. How I manage, I can’t possibly tell. All I know is the moment Myron swept across the clearing like a cloud of feathers and death, my heart slowed and my breathing became deep, defying my battered, broken body. Then the Flames fell off me like bad fruit from a tree, and the darkness filling the air slid over me like ink in water, licking over the raw flesh of my shoulder as if it had a mind of its own. I don’t want to think about what once graced my skin there. It’s gone, burned out of me like Erina said. And the whole world is trembling as I refuse to acknowledge what he did to me.
Around me, the battlefield is a sight of destruction, leafless trees framing the patch of grass littered with bodies. I can’t bring myself to search for the others. All I see is him .
Like the wrath of the Guardians, Myron plummets from the sky, wrapped in clouds and thunder as he shifts on his descent. Feathers stream from his arms in a storm of shimmering black, whirling for a heartbeat before they puff into whisks of smoke. The earth shakes as his boots hit the blood-soaked ground a few paces from me, at the center of the small meadow, and his eyes… His beautiful eyes toss like the ocean east of Eherea where my peace is now buried. Veins of black pull back into the corners of his eyes, revealing the turquoise of his irises. Feathers retreat from his face, revealing the features of a vengeful god, beautiful and terrifying. And full of an anguish I know deep down will destroy him.
“Ayna—” With a few long strides, he closes the gap between us, arms falling around me like a pair of protective wings. On my right side, his hand lingers on the small of my back, careful not to touch the wound on my shoulder. I know now that he understands how they mutilated me. All his bird features are gone except for the black talons tipping his fingers and the last feathers disappearing from his arms. “I’m sorry.”
I try not to focus on the mind-numbing pain in my own shoulder, right where the bird tattoo we shared was inked into my skin until a few moments ago. He probably felt my pain the moment the torch touched my skin. The fact that I can already sense his magic seeping into my body, attempting to knit it back together, proves he’s aware of what exactly they did to me.
The pain doesn’t ebb, and the wound doesn’t close. In my shoulder, nothing is tingling; no tug is telling me he’s reaching for me with more than his arms. “I’m all right.” It’s a lie, and we both know it, but if I admit that I’m not, I’ll shatter. And so will he.
I don’t move when he carefully takes my face between his palms, hot breath pouring over my mouth as he leans in to kiss me. “I’m not.” He stops an inch from my lips, his scent evoking a cocoon of emotions that seem both too strong and too weak for what I’m used to feeling. “I won’t be until I’ve sent them all to Hel’s realm.”
His features are blurring from the proximity or from the tears collecting in my eyes, his fingers trembling against my cheeks, but when his lips touch mine, I can’t smell the stench of burned flesh; I can’t feel the pain. For a moment, it’s him and the softness of his lips, the tender sweep of his tongue as if he’s pouring words into my mouth he can’t fathom to speak.
I can’t speak them either because, if I pause to acknowledge the hollow ache inside my chest, I know that it won’t matter if the flesh on my shoulder heals. I’ve lost a part of my soul.