25. Penny
Penny
Iwent ahead with my plan, doubts be damned and Kit along with them.
No, I didn’t mean that. But I did think it. A few times.
He hid from me. At his job and in his room, and too often, in a liquor bottle. Did he think I didn’t notice? Or assume I didn’t care?
Regardless, I completed the rites Sybil gave me, the last of which was bringing a community together. I’d already done that here in Ashpoint. I made a new family in the absence of mine, and I was proud. For the first time in my life, I felt like I was doing something right.
But that didn’t make it easy.
None of this was easy. I’d started the process to become a vessel assuming it was a temporary thing: a short-term agreement between myself and a god. Realizing my sacrifice could be ultimate gave me pause, as well as cause to shed more tears than were healthy, but it still felt right, somehow.
And I’d never fully realized how badly I needed that.
I was home alone—the new, unfortunate normal—when a knock came at the door. Kit wouldn’t knock, but I hoped for a friendlier face than the messenger I saw when I peeked out into the growing dark.
I missed the days of Kit insisting on intercepting every guest, guarding me so carefully. Since he discovered my altar and my plans, it seemed he’d resigned himself. His care had gone along with his affection and I was wholly, miserably alone.
Which was how I received the news. The messenger announced the seventh Oath in uncertain terms. We were to burn a town. Sometime. Somewhere. There was a simple letter detailing how we were to set fire to an unsuspecting community, but no map.
“Mister Koesters will know the way,” the messenger assured me, then left.
Those words resounded long after I retreated back into the cottage. Into solitude. Into my own thoughts. They were my most constant companions these days.
Thoughts, and my sketches, though even those were more like ghosts. Memories I found myself reluctant to visit because they would remind me of what I stood to lose. My love, my life…
Sinking onto the couch, I tossed the missive onto the low table, then retrieved my sketchbook and pulled it into my lap. My coloring pencils came along with, tucked in the leather pouch I’d made for them when I was still working in the smithy.
My favorite colors were easy to spot—green, yellow, and blue—worn down to half their original length from heavy use.
Every time I sharpened them, I mourned a bit, wondering when I’d have the chance to replace them.
Now, that chance seemed a too-distant hope, so I spilled them across my sketchbook and stared at them instead, unwilling to shave even another centimeter off. It was a loss I couldn’t abide.
I was still staring at them, occasionally prodding them across the smooth cream paper, when the front door opened again.
It was earlier than usual, but given the lack of announcement, I knew it was Kit without looking.
And I didn’t look. I kept on rolling my pencils and staring at the blank page while Kit went through his nightly ritual of stripping out of his robe and boots. After a few moments, he wandered over and sat beside me without so much as a greeting exchanged.
I wasn’t sure which of us was more determined to wait out the silence, but it ate me alive.
The house was always quiet these days. Depressing and damn near dead. So, when Kit reached to grab the sheet of parchment off the table and unfold it, I broke.
“They wouldn’t tell me where we were going. They said you’d know the way.”
He looked surprised by the mumble; it was the first thing I’d said to him in days. But no sooner had his brows arched than did they fall flat.
He sighed, then tossed the paper back onto the table. “I do.”
“Where is it?”
Eye contact was uncomfortable—when had that happened? I used to love nothing more than getting lost in his gaze.
“Forstford,” Kit replied.
Quiet descended again, this time like an executioner’s axe.
I gawked at him, waiting for further explanation and getting none.
He braced his elbows on his knees and hunched, settling his gaze on the fireplace. Thanks to the warming weather, I was able to leave it unlit most days. It was another task I’d come to rely on Kit for. Another kindness I was missing.
But something else would soon be burning. A whole town. Kit’s town. His home. His neighbors. The community that had protected him and given him refuge before I plucked him out of it.
We were tasked with destroying it, and I didn’t know what to make of that.
“Kit, we can’t…”
The words dribbled out before Kit snapped back, “We will do what’s required.”
The sharpness cut me to the quick. My hand clenched around my sketchbook before I shoved it aside, sending the coloring pencils rolling and the pages fanning open, laying bare months’ worth of moments and memories.
I shot to my feet, spurred by the heat rising in my chest. “This is where you decide to quit? This is where you’ll let them lead you?” My voice broke, angry, aching. “You’re giving up on all of them like you’ve given up on—”
Me.
I didn’t need to finish the statement; the truth was written all over my face, leaking out of me like blood. If I was to die, if these were my last days alive, then I wanted to spend them happy.
Kit dragged a weary hand down his face. “Can you sit down, please?”
Reluctantly, I did. It felt like another surrender, but I was tired of fighting.
We sat in the pause. Wallowed in it.
Kit rubbed his face again, pinching at his temples and nose as though he could wipe away the lingering shadows of exhaustion.
I wasn’t a patient man, but I tried to be, because I had missed his voice. And his company. And his… Gods, I could reach out and touch him. I could grab his hand and—
“I think what you're doing is brave,” Kit said on a long breath. “Stupid, but brave. And selfless, and maybe brilliant, and I might admire it. At the very least I wouldn't mind it if... if you were anyone else.” His gaze cut toward me, still a load too heavy to bear.
I shied away, glancing instead to my discarded sketchbook. I felt almost guilty for pushing it away, too. For isolating myself even further.
I pulled it across my thighs again, thumbing over the paper, glancing at the drawings as I turned toward the blank pages.
“I’m just doing what you taught me,” I mumbled.
“I didn’t want to teach you this,” Kit said, “or anything else that ended in you hurt. And what happened to you hating when I did things like this without telling you? We fought about it constantly, but now it’s a good idea when you’re the one doing it?”
We had fought about it. I’d hated it. So, maybe I couldn’t fully blame Kit for hating this. That didn’t mean I wanted to talk about it.
My hair spilled over my brow, and I blew it back, then bent to reach for the pencils now littering the floor. They’d scattered everywhere, some certainly lost under the couch. At least one, which came rolling out as Nutmeg darted after it with Ember on her heels.
The kittens were most often absent when I was home alone. I’d heard that animals could sense emotions. If that were the case, I couldn’t blame them for avoiding me and my foul mood the past week.
I gathered a few more pencils, blowing and pushing at my hair that refused to stay out of sight. By the time I sat straight, Kit was watching me with a half-smile on his lips.
It seemed foreign after so long, and I couldn’t fathom the cause for any level of humor.
“What?” I asked.
Kit tipped his chin to indicate the strands spilling across my forehead. “It’s gotten pretty long.”
I clutched the pencils in one hand and used the other to tuck my hair behind my ear once more. My cheeks warmed at the affection in his gaze, and I mumbled, “I suppose.”
“Turn around.”
“Why?”
Kit didn’t answer, just fixed me with a look until I gave a huff and did as he asked.
His intention was a mystery, but not for long. When I felt his fingers snag in my hair, my breath caught.
“Kit…?”
I glanced over my shoulder, pulling against his gentle hold. He situated himself behind me, combing his fingers through my errant locks and gathering them together.
“Hold still,” he said. Calmly. Softly.
The held breath left, taking with it the tightness that had kept me rigid for what must have been days. I situated my sketchbook in my lap, the kittens skittered around with the pencils I had failed to recover, and Kit played with my hair. But it wasn’t just idle play, he was methodical about it.
My mouth curved in a grin. “How do you know how to braid?”
Kit chuckled. Such a warm and wanted sound.
“I fixed more than a few horse’s tails in my time on Delmer’s farm,” he replied. “Kept them out of the mud. This will keep yours out of your eyes.”
He worked and, after a few moments, began to hum.
I didn’t recognize the tune, but that didn’t matter.
I was soothed by the sound and the feeling of his hands and his warmth so near my back.
Before long, I found myself leaning into him, stretching toward his body like a plant straining for sunlight.
Kit gave another, fuller laugh. “I’m going to lose it if you keep wiggling. Your hair is longer than it was, but it’s still much shorter than a horse tail.”
My cheeks flamed as I shifted upright.
Kit chased me, though, pitching forward so he could place a kiss on the exposed side of my neck. The feather-light touch sent chills slithering down my spine, and I shivered, then ached.
Gods, I hurt. And it wasn’t fair for him to have his hands all over me when I still wanted so badly to hold him.
The clench of need spun me around, yanking the braid from Kit’s grasp and undoing whatever he’d accomplished. My bangs fell forward, curtaining my face as I dove into Kit, eyes closed and arms open, and tackled him against the arm of the couch.
His laughter rumbled against my ear, and I clung onto him, holding on the way I’d wanted to for days and relishing it when he returned my embrace.
He tucked me in tight, his arm banded firm around my ribs while the other cradled my head against his shoulder.
My face found the hollow of his neck, where the scent of him was strongest. I breathed him in and let myself pretend.
Pretend we weren’t at odds. Pretend these weren’t my last days.
Pretend it didn’t feel like Kit was giving up—on Forstford, on me, on us.
For a long moment, it was peaceful.
Then Kit eased me back, his hand slipping away, and I reached up, fingers fumbling at the braid. The plait was already unraveling, loose tresses spilling down the nape of my neck. I tugged on the ends, cheeks warm with shame.
“I ruined it,” I murmured. “Now I look a mess.”
Kit’s eyes searched me, and I saw more than admiration in them.
I saw the gleam of sorrow cutting through.
At last, he reached out, brushing a single strand behind my ear.
His hand lingered there, trembling faintly.
His lips pressed tight like he was fighting to keep something from slipping through.
“You look lovely, Pen.” His voice was rough and deep. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
My throat tightened. I couldn’t stand another inch of distance. My sketchbook thumped on the coffee table, and I climbed onto his lap. His body was solid and steady beneath me, his heartbeat knocking against my chest as though it belonged to me.
I kissed him, lips open and inviting, and his mouth met mine just as fiercely, hands roaming, clutching, memorizing. Every brush of skin, every breath shared, carried a quiet, terrible knowledge: this might be all we had left.
Desire surged hot and fast, racing through my veins. A need for forgiveness. For connection. For closeness.
Kit’s hands tugged at my slacks, pulling at fastenings, shoving fabric aside, and I did the same to him. It was messy, graceless, and frantic, like every second still clothed was a second wasted. My breath hitched against his mouth, the air between us tasting of salt and want.
I freed his erection the same way he’d loosed mine, and he pressed his hips up to grind his length against me, generating friction that made us both groan.
My fingers wrapped around us both and I worked my hand along our shafts, rocking my hips to the rhythm. All the while, my lips stayed stitched to Kit’s and our hearts drummed a rapid beat.
We moved together, skin slicking with the fluid I gathered with my thumb then spread along our lengths. Kit cupped his hand around my backside, urging me into him at the same time his teeth pinched my lower lip.
I hissed and moaned and moved my hand faster. My tongue slipped between his teeth, savoring the taste of him. I would have taken his very breath if I could have—filled my lungs with his essence.
I loved him as much as ever. I told him so between kisses and gasps.
I told him I loved him, and he reminded me of the same.
My grip on us grew tighter and as frantic as I was. Every movement sang with urgency, and every thrust of my fist brought us closer and closer until we were all over each other. Chests crushed together, our shared release mingling and dampening our shirt hems.
Kit groaned, head tipping back, throat bared. Irresistible. I latched onto the curve of his neck, tasting the salt of his skin as I sucked hard enough to leave proof, then traced my tongue along the vein that jumped with his hammering pulse.
We were alive like this, and in that tangle of limbs and breath and sweat, I found solace.
Perhaps more peace than even a god could grant.
If Eeus or Paneus were watching, I could only hope they would understand.
They were like us, after all. Lovers like Kit and me, and even if this was wrong, I could not wish it undone.
Not when Kit was trembling beneath me and I could still feel the echo of him shuddering against my skin. Not when, for once, I felt whole.