Chapter 10
CHAPTER
The others were in awe each time they witnessed my power, whether unleashed in its raw, destructive form or guided with finesse by my every whim.
I stood idle in silence, summoning all my strength and control.
On the inside, I focused on the calm that only fond memories of my past could grant me.
Varro tended to my needs closely, ensuring I wouldn’t be overcome with fatigue.
As the tenacity and predictability of my powers grew, so did the concern in Varro’s demeanor.
Though he beamed with pride at my achievements, a subtle fearfulness clung to him, blossoming like the white mushrooms that flourished on the trunks of the forest trees near my home.
I saw it lurking behind his eyes, felt it when he held me just a fraction tighter in our embraces.
We both knew why, but did not speak of it.
After dinner, Saryn found me journaling in the cramped confines of the Dark Wielder’s room.
He knocked and waited for me to open the door.
I pushed it open with one hand till he could see me sitting there, writing by candlelight.
He walked in and our bodies immediately encroached on one another, so closely that I could now make out his distinct peppery scent as he hovered behind me.
He reached down and gently pulled back the hair that was hanging in my face, tucking it behind my ear.
The encounter felt strangely invasive. If Varro had witnessed it, I’m certain there would have been a quarrel or, at the very least, an exchange of very heated words.
I sat frozen, trying not to react to his actions.
“This marking…” he said seductively, languidly running his fingertip across the tattoo behind my ear. It caused a ticklish feeling and I leaned away from his touch, feeling more uncomfortable with each passing moment.
“What are you doing?” I spat out in irritation, rotating my body away from him to put distance between us in the tightly cramped space.
“Only the very wealthy have tattoos in Artume. You should know that. A poor lady’s maid could not afford such a luxury, don’t you think?”
I drew in a deep breath, overwhelmed with the information that I had not yet discovered in my studies of the southern kingdom.
“Handle it,” he said, emotionless.
“But I can glamour it!”
“You expect me to believe that on top of keeping your mental shields up at all times, you’re going to suddenly be adept at maintaining a constant glamour?
” he scoffed in disbelief. “I already have my doubts about your plans to address that pale skin of yours. Let’s hope your body responds to the sun’s radiance before long, or we may have to change your backstory. ”
“Trace does it!” I snapped back.
Saryn leaned down, making himself eye-level with me. I could feel his hot breath on my face.
“Trace has been glamouring far longer than you! He’s been glamouring those despicable tattoos since the day they appeared on his skin.
He hides them because he is ashamed, as he should be.
You think I approve of a fucking black cloak on this team?
Be glad that savage is off doing what he was bred for. You are not him.”
Saryn’s disparagement of a fellow Imperi hit me with such force I wasn’t sure whether I was more appalled at his choice of words or the conviction with which he delivered them.
I’d heard Saryn’s sharp tongue say many things to us, some of the worst directed at Nori, but there was an edge to his tone when he spoke of Trace.
One that I’d never heard. There was also truth buried between his spiteful remarks.
Saryn removed himself from the tiny room, leaving me behind with the door open, and as he disappeared down the hall he called back, “Deal with it—or I will.”
His command upset me so deeply that I immediately went to Varro’s room seeking comfort. I couldn’t hold the tears back any longer as I entered his room. I practically fell into his embrace as he cupped my wet cheeks, trying to understand what had caused my unravelling.
Through sniffles and upset gasps, I explained, “Commoners don’t have tattoos in Artume.”
Varro looked at me with a knowing expression, and I continued, “If I were going to be installed as a noble like Gia, maybe it would be different. But I’m not. Saryn has commanded that I deal with it before he does.”
My mate stared at my tear-soaked face, trying to discern how he could bring me some sense of comfort. With our shields already down, he knew not to mention a glamour.
“Will you help me?” I looked up into his crystal-blue eyes, watching me with so much emotion, begging for him to walk with me through what felt like torture.
“Of course,” he whispered. “What will you have me do?”
I looked at the knife sheathed on his leg, then pulled it from the safety of its strap. His eyes followed mine as I glanced over at the candle burning brightly by his bedside.
“I need you to burn it…deep,” I clarified.
His breath audibly hitched at the idea of holding a scalding hot piece of metal to the thin, soft skin behind my ear, at causing me any ounce of pain. I placed the small blade in his hand, as if to give him permission. Letting him know, without words, that this was what I needed from him.
He took it from my palms reluctantly. “I promise you there will be no pain, simply let my Siren Song soothe you.”
“No,” I interjected immediately. More tears began to form in the wells of my eyes. “This is a tattoo my twin sister and I got before we parted. She has a matching one.”
I paused, trying to compose myself and convey my feelings to him.
Trying to show him how desperate I was for him to do this for me.
“It’s supposed to guide me back to her,” I said between sniffles.
“I’m so afraid of losing her, Varro, of losing it all to the Drift.
This tattoo could have helped me remember her. ”
“Then at least let me get Nori in here to help us; she will ensure there is not a single scar.”
“Don’t you get it?” I snapped at him, finally breaking. “I need the pain. I want the scars. I must have something to remind me of what I’ve lost. Please, let me have this.”
Accepting my outburst, only a soft, understanding expression remained.
He never wavered, no matter how upsetting my anger had become.
He understood my pain. He knew the same grief of being a twin, a triplet, and what that kind of loss felt like.
It was akin to the idea of losing each other now that we had discovered we were fated to one another.
I nodded at him, letting him know I was ready, and turned my gaze back to the flickering candlelight.
He removed his leather belt, laying it on the bed.
I sat down beside it, watching as Varro held the blade over the flame for a long moment, letting it get as hot as possible.
The hotter the blade, the more likely he would succeed on the first brand.
Time seemed to slow as my patience dwindled, wanting to get it over with.
Sensing my rising anxiety, he spoke without taking his eyes off the knife.
“Patience, Moirai, one burn needs to be enough.” I can take it, I thought, steeling my will.
Then, it dawned on me: But, can he? As if he heard me speak aloud, he added, “I have the strength to do this once, but perhaps not twice.”
When he was certain it was hot enough—as much as he could be—he walked to my side, tilting my head to expose the area behind my ear where three tiny crescents sat; the moons of Demir. The marks he had once said reminded him of his gills.
I grabbed the belt, already knowing its purpose. I placed it between my teeth, tasting salt on the sea-stained leather.
“Do not put up your shields, Cress. Let me know your pain alongside you.”
I gave him an accepting nod, knowing that while I needed this from him, that was what he needed from me.
My palms began to sweat and I reached for his free hand to squeeze when the inevitable, unbearable pain would begin.
I’d burned a Vesper many times during the darker parts of my training.
On occasion, I’d let a Vesper burn me back, but each time, I would heal myself and ensure no scars remained.
I braced myself; bit down on the leather, looking up at my partner, my mate, while blinking away tears. Then nodded, so he knew I was ready.
No one could have prepared me for this. The deafening sound that rings through you till it feels like it’s coming out of your eyes.
My whole body writhed against the unimaginable pain Varro was inflicting on my skin.
The smell of my own flesh burning swirled in my nostrils and made my stomach turn.
I squeezed his hand so hard I was sure his bones would break.
I knew that in that moment, the single hardest thing for Varro to do was resist using Siren Song to ease my agony.
Had he given in, his power could have transformed my experience into that of a feather brushing along my skin.
Instead, I closed my eyes and let the feelings of agony sink deep into the forefront of my mind, beginning to weave the sensation with memories of my sweet sister, Versa.
They braided around one another so tightly that soon my memories were stronger than the torture I’d inflicted upon myself, eventually turning into a manageable numbness.
The loud-ringing sound that had overtaken me now seemed as if it were off in the distance—more of a low keening knell.
I could feel my body covered in perspiration, my teeth aching from biting down so hard on Varro’s belt, but now I was afraid to let go.
Afraid to descend from the heights of pain to accept what was done—gone.
Each memory of Versa spilled over into the next, like watercolors splashing into each other, painting vibrant images of my past and our youth together.
I could hear Varro’s voice faintly in the distance, but I willed myself to ignore it.
To stay right there with her in this dreamlike place that I’d created, to survive having another piece of my heart wrested unwillingly from my chest. The Imperi takes and takes far more than it gives.
I’d give it all up—everything—to see her again.
A wish I repeat in my heart, so quietly with hopes that my mate cannot hear it.
My grip eased from Varro’s hand, and my jaw slowly unclenched from the worn leather; my eyes fluttered as candlelight came back into view.
The blood rushing to my ears caused a steady thrum now, much easier to manage than the ringing sound during the act itself.
My muscles were so tired from contracting against the pain that my body went limp, and Varro gently laid me on my side.
He pulled a salve from his bedside drawer and began to dab it along the back of my ear.
Each time his fingertip touched the wound, I winced, until the cooling effect began to do its work and offset the irritation.
I didn’t need to see a mirror; I knew it probably looked awful.
I lay on my side and Varro crawled into the bed behind me.
It was barely big enough for the two of us, but I didn’t mind the closeness as he laid an arm over my waist, wrapping it around me and gently tugging me in tighter.
We lay there in silence. I could feel it as he grappled with what he’d just put me through, while I tried to hold back more tears—both at what I’d lost, and at the torment I’d caused my mate in asking him to do it.
“Varro,” I whispered.
“Yes, Moirai?”
“Will you listen to my stories?”
“I’ll always listen to you.”
“But I need you to remember them,” I pleaded gently. “Someday, there is a good chance I won’t remember where I came from—my family, my sister…any of it…” I trailed off.
“I promise to remember for you, Cress.”
And so, it began. Mornings, nights, hours in the healing pools—any chance we could be alone, I would recount the stories of my life to Varro.
Never in any particular order, as I had a habit of jumping from one excited tangent to another, each memory reminding me of something else important.
Some stories would fill us both with laughter, others with shared sadness.
There was a simple joy that came from telling my mate every possible thing I could remember about my life prior to the Imperi, and it served two very meaningful purposes.
Hopefully, there would be time for Varro to tell me more about his life before arriving at Basdie, too, but for me, time was not promised.
Each day he selflessly granted me all those hours of listening and committing my stories to his memory as if they were his own.
Emblazoning them on his heart as if they were his to protect.
So, when Idris finally returned for us, it meant the sands of my hourglass had finally run out, and I hoped I’d told Varro enough to keep my histories intact.
To keep Cress Blackthorn alive.