Chapter Forty-Five #3
He’s still so far away from me, still sinking further into himself. “This isn’t the end. It can’t be. Please, Ronan. I think you were right.”
His head drops into his hands. “I’ve never been right about anything.”
“No, you’ve always been right about everything.
I think you were right that the gods chose us for a reason.
We have to fix this, Ronan. It can only be us.
We have to put right what my family did to this country.
What it wants to do to this world. Even if we fail, even if it kills us, we still have to try.
And when it’s over, you can never look at me again.
You can walk away, and I’ll let you go. But I’m choosing this now.
I was afraid that I had no choice in being with you, but there’s nothing pulling me to you right now other than the love I have for you and this world we share.
There’s no magic between us any longer, and yet I love you more and more each day.
It has killed me being apart from you. I’m begging you, Ronan. Please.”
He lifts his head from his hands and looks at me. “I can’t—I don’t—I’m not him. I’m not what this world needs.”
I reach my hand through the bars as far as I can, just grasping his shoulder. “You are the only thing it needs.”
And then I start to sing:
Termen a grenok, archin a hemerow,
Po dolgos opone a mos,
Mos a korta mev po vayhel.
My voice isn’t very strong, and though I know what some of the words mean now after living among the Orsa, I’m sure my pronunciation is awful. But I sing Taran’s lullaby to him, hoping that it soothes him somewhat if nothing else.
I know how much he loves music.
He breathes deeply as I sing, his hands falling from his face, a single tear running down his cheek. When I finish, there’s a long moment of silence. And then, slowly, he crawls over to the bars. “Sylvie,” he murmurs, letting me stroke his hair with my fingers. “Did he teach you that?”
He tilts his head in Taran’s direction, but his eyes never leave mine.
“Yes,” I whisper. “He said it helped you.”
He touches my cheek, and I tremble, my heart racing. “It did.” He reaches down and takes my hand. “You’re still wearing your ring.”
Then he kisses me softly, and for a moment, it’s just us. Just the two of us, Ronan and Sylvie, husband and wife. No magic, no prophecy, no destiny. Just two people who love each other so much, they can’t be kept apart by any force in the universe.
And then the kiss deepens. He pulls me to him through the bars, his lips parting against mine, our hands in each other’s hair, on our cheeks, on our necks.
Magic surges through us—not light-born, not shadow-born, but both.
The ancient magic, the timeless power bound not to us but something larger than us, something stronger than any force in this world.
It flows between us, illuminating the dungeon in flickering light and shadow, bending the laws of the universe.
Unmaking our reality.
The bars of our cells crumble and fall like ash to the ground.
“Holy fucking gods,” I hear Seth say, but I’m still kissing Ronan. “Maybe we should be doing that,” he says to Taran.
“Maybe we should be getting out of here,” says Octavia.
The six of us run from the cells as several guards enter the hall.
I call to the power and burst open the other cell doors, freeing the rest of the prisoners as Ronan uses a shadow tendril to disarm one of the guards.
He fights the others as I disarm them, giving their weapons to our group and the other prisoners, the ancient power humming its approval at our path of destruction.
Through the power, I feel Ronan’s feelings, the full gamut of his emotions: his hurt and betrayal eclipsed nearly entirely by his longing, his desire, his unconditional love for me.
Any anger he had for what I did to him has long since passed.
Even his guilt and self-loathing have been pushed beneath the surface now that I’m with him once more.
They have been replaced with hope.
There’s a loud crash as we make our way to the escape tunnel we used when Faros fell. “Was that you?” asks Seth.
“No,” I shout over a dozen screaming voices. The servants are running; no, fleeing, and there’s not a guard in sight.
Then the alarm bells sound. The palace is under attack.
Octavia smiles broadly. “Quinn.”
“Or Elia,” says Taran. “Someone must have broken through.”
“Trying to save you, undoubtedly,” says Seth. “Or him, I guess.” He rolls his eyes in Ronan’s direction, forever Ronan’s number one detractor.
I don’t even care right now. I’m just so happy to have Ronan back.
We turn the last corner but find our path to the secret passage blocked by more than a dozen palace guards.
And there, at the other end of the hall, is Adria. “Stop them!” she yells, whipping her blonde hair behind her shoulders as she gathers more of her guards behind her, the guards in front barreling towards us down the narrow corridor.
“Adria!” I call back. “Stand and fight us!”
“Come and get me,” she replies, and she takes her guard.