Chapter 46 #2
It helped that he didn’t smell or feel like Brand, didn’t hold her with the same possessive intensity. Helped her keep just enough of her composure that she didn’t fall to her knees and curl up in a ball on the floorboards.
Even if you wanted to stay, he’d never forgive you. You left him. Rejected him. He probably hates you. Just get over it and go.
That feeling of resentment for her other half multiplied. Even if it was right, she was starting to hate it.
You’re only mad because it’s the truth and you know it.
“Come now. Nyri says we’ve got work to do.” He produced a kerchief from some hidden pocket, using it to wipe her face down, then pinched it around her nose. “Blow. Go on, I can take it.”
A pathetic, half-hearted scoff gurgled out of her, but she couldn’t possibly—
“I’ve wiped worse snot than yours, Lunara. Get on with it.”
Are you serious?
She blew her nose as hard as she could, as much out of spite as anything else.
When she was done, he dangled the cloth in front of her face, laughing. “Shite, maybe I haven’t wiped worse snot than yours. Look at that mess!”
Sisters save her, but his teasing brought a fresh round of tears. She blinked furiously, refusing them freedom. He was right. They had work to do.
“Thank you, Magnus,” she rasped. “It changes nothing, but thank you.”
“You’re right. I believe I just said that.” He chucked her under the chin. “Glad you finally agree.”
“Wait, that’s not what I meant.”
He ignored her completely, clapping his hands and rubbing them together. “Right. Let’s heal the lass, aye?”
She forced her consciousness through the dark spaces of Fern’s mind, the feel of Hedda and Nyri’s hands on either shoulder comforting her through the near-instantaneous onslaught of pain.
Her connection to them—the sound of their beating hearts, the grounding contact of their touch—kept her from diving too deep. From losing herself entirely.
Following the threads of her power, she trudged through the bogging gloom until she hit the iron wall at its center.
Hammering blows started up in the deepest parts of her skull when she reached out to touch it, as if a blacksmith had taken to forging her brain for fun. She gritted her teeth, swallowing back a rush of nauseating saliva, and pushed.
It devoured the light of her power as she thrust it out, as much as she could manage without collapsing. The barrier swelled, fighting back, lashing out with invisible claws and teeth.
When a contralto shout she couldn’t decipher accompanied sharp nails digging into her skin, she pulled back.
Right. She was meant to be going slow this time.
Another push—this one gentler—and the wall bulged again, almost smug.
Like she was feeding it. Satisfying it.
Shite, she hadn’t noticed that before.
Except, she had the same impression upon first seeing the chasm. Of the gloom consuming Solyrian’s light. Erasing it. She’d only been trying to commit the color to memory. Describe the indescribable.
What if it was literal?
If that was the case, this inky evil had already defeated her. All she had was light.
Unless…
She sucked back every ounce of her power, plunging herself into utter darkness. Feeling her way, she laid mental hands on it again and dug her clawed fingers into its unforgiving surface.
She felt more than heard herself screaming.
The others were there, still safe. Only the slightest uptick in the pace of their heartbeats. Worry for her, more than distress for themselves.
Good. She could take any amount of agony, so long as it was her own.
With all the strength she possessed, she wrenched outwards, tearing through the insidious blockade piece by piece. It was like digging through the great hall’s marble floor with nothing but her bloodied fingertips, only chips and granules coming away.
It was possible she was doing more damage to herself than anything, but progress—however seemingly insignificant—was progress.
Lunara awoke wedged between Hedda and Nyri, both of them slack-jawed and snoring.
Solyrian’s rays peeked around the closed curtains, casting her chamber in diffuse morning light. It allowed her to see the purple smudges adorning the flesh beneath their closed eyes, their olive skin unusually pale.
A pang of guilt twisted in her chest. They’d stayed beside her for hours on end, never faltering, and then catching her limp, ravaged body before it could hit the ground at the end. Even Magnus and Faldir had been wrung out, their horror evident.
Their respect, too, which had been hard to swallow.
And when they hadn’t known how to handle her—when they’d tried to lift her and the only sound she’d been able to make was incoherent whimpering and pleas for them to stop—they’d called in Brand.
Fighting it had been impossible. Desperate didn’t even begin to do justice to how she’d felt.
Lunara hadn’t been able to look at him as he’d suffused her with his calm compassion through the bond, though. Hadn’t opened her eyes when he’d pried her mouth open with such heartbreaking tenderness that she’d choked on it, or when he’d set his flesh to her fangs.
No. With lids plastered shut, she’d fed on his perfect gift and silently wept, tears streaming when he’d lifted her and offered soft murmurings, a kiss to her brow.
Lunara hoped he thought it was the pain from healing, and not because she was so torn apart that she was positive the jagged damage was irreparable.
Extracting herself in slow increments, she crawled from the bed. Someone had turned the chaos of her things into organized piles. Everything had been sorted, like with like, crates and cases lining the perimeter instead of being tossed every which way.
Lunara picked up one of her woven blankets from the top of one such pile, intending to wrap it around her shoulders, and nearly doubled over. The smell of salt and pine resin, of Solyrian’s warmth, lingered in the moonlight fibers, and she knew.
Her neat, orderly mate had been the one to do it. To lovingly fold her linens and stack her books. To straighten parchments and untangle the mess of random trinkets being in the same box as her frying pans.
Shite. It hurt.
Worse than healing. Worse than the loneliness. Worse than any moment in her life, even the death of her parents. The old wound was exactly that—old and scarred over, the damage healed enough to leave her functional, even if it did twinge from time to time.
Weeping moons, this wound was so new. So raw. A fatal, hemorrhaging gash across her heart and soul.
A tray had been left on the low table, stunted flames left in the enchanted fireplace, and she crossed the room. Her stomach rumbled, gleeful at the idea of sustenance. Of—
A bowl of cut strawberries.
A crystal goblet of gifted blood.
A single trilliatum in a tiny, porcelain vase.
She leaned in closer, brows dropping together. No. Not a real trilliatum, but a carved one—hewn from a block of glowing, foamy blue and deep viridian wood with her magic all over it.
And it hit her.
Woodcarving, he’d told her. When it was all too much, he turned to woodcarving.
Lunara did double over, then. Just folded herself in two, palms landing on the wooden tabletop on either side of the offering, and sank to her knees in front of it.
Nyri had never left her side. Not after the healing. Not after climbing into bed beside her. Nyri hadn’t done this.
Maybe it made her crazy after all, but she pressed her nose to the sculpted flower and… there he was.
Brand. Brand had been making the trays all along.
Every morning during her training, they’d been there—the only thing keeping her going. She’d just assumed. Hadn’t made the connection.
She didn’t need to do the deed herself. Leaving him was going to kill her more surely than anything else ever could.