Chapter 52
THE INSTANT I land in the labyrinth, despair smothers me, a heaviness upon my skin. A thickness in my lungs, like hot, damp air.
I brace for it, but I still waver on my feet.
Nodding, I remind myself. I’m strong.
You are weak. It’s a whisper in my own voice. It speaks with the same certainty I have when I say I’m dying. It knows.
It’s the labyrinth. It doesn’t know the truth. It only knows my fears.
I plant one foot in front of the other. And again.
I can do this.
You can’t.
Each step is a battle. Each movement makes my muscles ache like I’m pushing a boulder up a hill and not my body a single step forward.
I just need to keep going. That one simple thing.
Simple. And yet impossible. I hear the smile in that voice that is mine and yet not. I have never sounded so cruel.
He confirmed it. It turns singsong, mocking. No one has made it through the labyrinth. No one.
Then I’ll be the first.
The only reply is laughter.
I don’t know how long I’ve been here. It feels like years. Time seems strange, like a current I’m battling against rather than the normal ticking of seconds.
Sweat beads on my lip and gathers beneath my shirt, but I don’t dare expend the energy to lift the waterskin hanging at my waist. Dimly, I notice that there’s less corruption here, as though it’s climbing up the gauntlet slowly.
The sky above and the chasm below spin. I try to keep to the center of the walkway but walking is effort enough. My heart tolls, heavy and slow—an episode or just the strange effect of time here?
Another archway looms ahead.
Not much further. I can make it through.
And what then? Seven archways for seven brothers. Seven depths for you to fall into, little human. Seven hells and seven deaths.
The words echo through me, a horrible truth ringing through them—one I don’t understand but believe.
I whimper. Stumble. Reach for something to steady me, but there’s nothing and no one left.
You will fall. You will fail. And when you do, I will be right here to crush your bones to dust.
I have to keep going.
Do you? This time the voice isn’t cruel, just curious. Wouldn’t it be easier, kinder to just… not?
I try to take another step. I can’t. It’s too much. This weight is too heavy on my shoulders. My muscles groan, my joints ache.
Why not lie down in my sweet earth, child?
Why not?
I only want you to lie down. To rest. To leave striving to the strong. Its lulling words slide over each other, hissing in my ears. You’ll only hurt yourself. Break yourself more.
My head dips. My pulse pounds in rhythm with the voice. My body resonates with its words.
“It’s so hard,” I say, plaintive.
It is. So, so hard. You can’t do it. Come rest in my sweet earth.
I try to take a step and stumble. On my knees, I blink at the walkway ahead. Between the rock is soil, rich and dark. I want to press my fingers into it, feel its softness, give up on hard things. I can’t do them anyway.
Happiness isn’t meant for you. Only struggle. You’re bound to The Morrigan, girl. What happiness has the Lady of War and Death ever brought anyone? Better you look for strife.
The archway is still so far away, and I can see there’s another beyond it. It’s impossible. I can’t.
Some part of me cries out that I must, but its voice is very small and so far away.
I manage half a crawling pace forward. The hewn obsidian cuts my knee. A dull throb. Slick warmth. It doesn’t matter.
Give in.
It sounds easy. Simple. A final answer to a question I’ve been asking for too long.
I lie down. There’s cool, soft earth under my cheek and stone for my bed.
How silly I’ve been. Thinking I could do this where no fae has ever made it through. Me, a human.
Thinking hope would be enough.
I drag in a deep breath, not caring if it’s my last.
It’s sweet. Heady. If anyone can get through the last challenges of the labyrinth and get out of here, it’s you. Min’s voice. Her fierce kindness is a small spark of warmth, bright against the frigid black rock.
Show that labyrinth who you are. You’ve gone through worse than its whispers.
I remember her hug, the strength of it, the belief in it.
Another breath, floral and redolent of Drystan’s arms around me as we sit in the wreckage of that cottage, my fears closing in. I wouldn’t let that happen to you. Not ever. The ferocity of his voice says I’m safe. Cherished.
Maybe even loved.
I fancy I can feel them both, bright threads buried in my chest that not even despair can sever.
I inhale again, eyelids fluttering closed at the familiar scent.
Bathing with Drystan, his touch upon me, within me, his whispered prayers against my skin.
Riding with Asti and Min, noting the trees budding, laughing as Asti tells a filthy joke.
Sitting in the sun, my hands in the earth as I sow peas in our cottage garden.
Teasing Lowen as I cut his hair, asking who he wants to make himself pretty for.
Little happy moments kindle in my chest, each one another thread to another person. Thoughtful, patient Kishel who never gave up on me. The Collector who died for me to get here.
A tear trickles across the bridge of my nose and plops into the soil.
They’re my moments. My people. Happiness that is meant for me.
I feel it. I know it.
The air thins as though the thickness can’t compete with the sweet scent surrounding me. Another breath, and I can sit up, though it’s hard, like the Underworld is trying to keep hold of me.
A flash of green catches my eye, utterly out of place in the labyrinth’s obsidian.
The jasmine flower Min tucked behind my ear. It’s crushed into the patch of soil that formed my pillow.
From its green stalk, a tiny sprout grows.
Warmth surges in my chest. An answer. If this plant can grow here in nothing, then I can go on.
No. You can’t.
But I barely hear the voice—I’m too busy watching the seedling. It isn’t done. Tendrils spread in all directions, one questing toward my hand. Green threads along the edges of the obsidian paving, and when its cool, damp touch reaches me, it is everything.
Flesh to flesh. Sap to blood. It has a beat, a flow of its own. Not quite a pulse, but close.
A little miracle.
There are no miracles.
Shaking, I push myself to my knees.
Leaves unfurl. Buds form. Branches twist toward the next arch and around my thighs.
Its growth is swift, streaking across the ground. It spreads.
I spread.
And when we reach the arch, I spread my fingers, spread my branches.
You can’t.
But I can.
I have to save my brother from my silence, from himself.
Stone cracks. Shrieks. Shards break off, pushed apart by the inching, soft growth of a simple plant.
Obsidian’s sharp edges slice into us, our delicate flesh, but we grow back, two new stalks taking the place of one that breaks. We find the nooks, the cracks, the little points of weakness barely the breadth of a hair. And we press with the endless patience of things that grow.
The arch splinters, and I stand.
The moment I reach my feet, white flowers open, little stars that smell like summer and hope, like the sun on my face and a garden by the sea. Their blooming path races along each tendril, eclipsing the black rock.
As I take a step, the vines around my legs loosen, letting me move, their cool touch just a reminder, a connection. A held hand in the midst of an oppressive crowd.
Cracks race over the walkway. It shakes, threatening to crumble underfoot.
I encircle it, branches rambling, binding, able to walk on as more shoot ahead.
You will not overcome. You will not pass.
The voice gets louder the closer I get to the arch.
But I am life and this place is death. And although death might win one day, this is not that day.
The jasmine and I move as one. Onward. More powerful together than we could ever be alone. We crush the next arch with barely a thought. Vines triumph over stone.
With the setting sun on my back, the final arch splinters, leaving only a dark doorway before me.