2. Brave
Orma abhorred decision making.
She hadn’t realised it. Not until Lucian had placed opportunity into her mind and heart and made her stew with it.
Well, perhaps that was unfair. The waiting was her own fault. She could have answered him immediately, either in the affirmative, or far more likely, the denial that settled on her tongue with far more ease than was comfortable.
Sleep left her. Which was nothing new, but every time she tossed and turned uncomfortably onto her wing, she would huff and curse and more often than not, it was Lucian’s name she was denouncing.
Then she’d feel sorry for it, and whisper a blessing, while tugging at her blankets and willing for a rest that refused to come.
Which led to fitful days, where she’d drift off at meals, only to be sharply awakened when her mother’s hand would settle on her shoulder, worried eyes looking over every bit of her while her father whispered about healers.
As if she couldn’t hear.
As if she wouldn’t insist she was fine, she was tired, that was all. She’d keep to her room, and surely it would be better in the morning.
Which it wasn’t. And their patience was waning, and she knew what would come next.
She chewed at her thumb until it bled.
Put salve and a bandage and told herself to simply decide . She needn’t even speak to Lucian directly if she didn’t want to. A note passed along to one of the kitchen girls. They’d see it delivered, and it would be over.
Except she did not pen the note.
Lost herself in a cycle of imaginings. Of what ifs and all the subsequent possibilities until she was so sick she found herself sicking up what little she’d managed of her supper.
Her brow was damp with perspiration, and the thought of lying awake for another night was almost intolerable.
She looked to her table of tonics, wondering how sick she might be if she ignored the healers’ warnings and mixed a few of them together to increase their potency—since they seemed to do so little any longer.
She stilled.
Quieted.
It might grant sleep—but it also might be of the more permanent nature.
And she did not want that. No matter how miserable she was most days...
That wasn’t what she wanted.
She sniffled. Rubbed at her face.
And decided this wasn’t really deciding at all. This was simply another step. An adventure.
Which would have sounded far more appealing if she felt better, but she didn’t.
She rinsed her mouth and scrubbed at her face with cold water. Dressed in her darkest clothes.
And slipped out of her window.
It was not the first time she’d escaped that way, and likely would not be the last. But it was not a fete she wanted. Wasn’t threads and bonds and the earnest smiles she craved.
It was sleep and rest. Which evidently, this required.
It made her knock more forceful than was reasonable. Made her scowl and cringe when it was Firen that opened the door rather than her cousin, and she certainly had not earned even a moment’s ire.
“Orma!” Firen urged, pulling her into the kitchen. It was not so very late, Firen in her nightdress, but there was little else to suggest she’d been pulled from sleep. Dark, but the moon was high and lit her way admirably. “Are you well?”
Orma smiled dimly. Always the question. Always the one that lacked an answer anybody wished to hear. “Not really,” she answered truthfully. She did not need to ask for Lucian. He emerged through the doorway, hair mussed and looking strikingly different from his usual crisp appearance.
He looked her over, and she did so tire of that. Of the appraisals. Her chin rose, which likely formed unflattering shadows on her already gaunt cheeks, but so be it. “Will you take a walk with me?” she asked her cousin, Firen looking between the two of them with all the bewilderment Orma might expect if Lucian had kept his word.
She could share or not share whatever she liked.
It had been given in comfort, but now it felt like yet another weight. Another talk, more advice.
Choking at her. Drowning her. Pressing and twisting until she...
“Yes, of course,” Lucian answered, already heading back toward his room, presumably to change.
Which left her with Firen.
And questions she did not want to answer.
“Do you mind?” Orma asked, trying to head off any need for an explanation. “If I borrow him? It shouldn’t be too long.”
Couldn’t be. She had so few reserves left to draw upon.
“He’s your family,” Firen assured her. “If you need him, you need him.” So simple, but there was a glint in her eye that suggested he would be missed, and she did not particularly favour having to share him at this hour.
Of course.
She should have come in the morning. Or perhaps stolen him from the Hall in between assignments.
Her insides twisted, insisting she was an inconvenience. A mistake.
She rubbed at her nose, and there were no tears, the thoughts too old to cause fresh pain.
Lucian appeared before she could form any sort of apology. He did not have to think carefully about his attire—he was used to the harsh black that came with his station.
“Shall we?” he asked, opening the door and ushering her out.
But not before ducking back in, his hand curling about Firen’s ear as he whispered softly to her.
Her lips thinned, but her hand came to his chest, pushing him back out gently.
Gracious, even when she was being robbed of her mate with little explanation.
“She is too good for you,” Orma declared when he shut the door and waited to hear the bolt fasten behind it.
“Isn’t she just,” Lucian agreed. He took a few steps through the courtyard before he broached their aim. “Is this really just a walk?” He asked it gently, but it was still enough for her throat to tighten and to desperately wish she’d never come.
“No,” she said instead, her voice small and almost inaudible. “It’s not.”
He was polite enough not to give her one of his smug smiles. Not to tease or mock or do anything at all that might discourage her from the attempt.
Wise, because if he’d even allowed his eyes to glitter, she would have waved him back to Firen and taken to her bed for a full season if she must.
Sleep would come eventually. It had to.
But he merely stood. Waiting for her.
Right.
He’d offered a cart.
Because asking to be carried was an embarrassment. Something reserved for over-tired fledglings and not the woman she was supposed to be.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a tonic she’d stashed there. Not of pain, although she likely would need one of those soon enough. Energy was what she was after—the thrill that urged her toward a fete to watch the couples there.
For a hint of the magic that buoyed her, lifting her spirits and making the world seem a far kinder place than she’d known thus far.
His brow rose slowly as she drank down the noxious liquid. She’d begged the healers to stop trying to mask the taste with fruits and sweet syrups. At some point, they only made the bitter brews worse, lingering on her tongue and spoiling the flavours that should have reminded her of harvests and festival treats.
“Do I wish to know what that was?” he asked, leaning forward slightly as if he might ascertain the contents from the lingering scent alone.
“I only have enough for me,” she answered, her hand hovering over her pocket where others were stashed. “Unless you’re too tired from your day?” She was being polite—offering him an out that she almost hoped he would take.
“For you? Never.”
She doubted that. Doubted he’d be willing to drop just anything if she had need of him—most particularly if Firen grew less obliging. She’d not abuse his willingness. Would not use his kindness against him.
She certainly would not grow teary over it.
She felt the prickling in her skin, unpleasant yet familiar. The tonic at work, lending her strength she didn’t think she had anymore. “I don’t want to do this,” she admitted, more to herself than to him
Lucian gentled. Reached for her, but she shook her head. “Do you want more time to think?”
She snorted, shaking her head certainly. “That is the last thing I want.”
He hummed. “Of course. Well, then.” He opened the courtyard gate and ushered her out.
She rubbed at her forehead, a pressure coming between her eyes.
She was going to do this.
It felt strange to try.
To feel the threads, to coax them from their terrible knot in her chest. To urge them out, to lead her. She’d never done it before, did not know if she was even capable—he’d been so near before, they’d acted of their own accord.
It did not feel as she expected. Instead, it was almost a release. As if she’d held in a breath too long only to feel the burn and relief all at once as precious air came once more. The threads themselves were dim, and she had to squint too hard to make them out. That was her, wasn’t it? A shadow. A figment of something more.
She took a breath. Then another.
Let them go.
“Can we walk first?” she tried, seeing if her voice worked or if it had been lost as her heart raced with an urgency settled in her veins that frightened her.
She was a child again.
Rushing forward. Thrilled and exhilarated.
Full of hope and certain there could not possibly be any consequences.
But this was a different Orma.
One that could keep her steps measured. Would keep her head.
She would not engage with him, even if she found him. She would learn of him, that was all. Lucian would keep his disappointments to himself if she turned around at any time and went home.
But she didn’t want to go back. She reached out and allowed the tendrils of shimmering light to weave through her fingers, tickling her skin and promising everything would be all right. If she just kept moving, if she just went a little faster as they reached and pulled.
She did not wonder what she looked liked. Did not question when suddenly she was airborne, her wings moving of their own will, pulling her upward. Faster. Enough with her slow gait. This was more important. Fundamental.
Instinctive.
Lucian followed, but she was only vaguely aware of his presence. It was more a nuisance than a comfort—but those weren’t her thoughts, were they? They were this half-formed bond, wanting nothing to interfere now that she’d finally, finally, paid attention.
It frightened her more than she could say.
The numbing haze was a balm, full of promises that could not possibly be real.
She was truly mad. One healer had said so. When all his knowledge had failed to provide a cure and she was still there, wretched and miserable.
She wouldn’t be able to take it. She’d start raving at some point. Dancing along with her lights that weren’t real, and they’d have to consider more drastic measures for her protection.
But it wasn’t just about that, was it?
It was the appearance of it. One of the most prominent families in the city, allowing their mad daughter to roam about freely.
An embarrassment.
She drew her hand back, and her wings slowed. She was higher than she’d gone for a long while, the city below blanketed in black, punctuated with the warm glow of homey windows and bits of moonbeams.
“Orma?” Lucian called, coming as near as he dared. “What’s going on?”
She should answer him. She knew that, in the part that was suddenly caged. Penned. Something else had taken over, and she darted past him, wanting away from him. He’d stop her. She knew that. She wanted to call out to him, to tell him something was very, very wrong, and he needed to take her home. To shutter her window and fetch her parents, and most especially to pour tonics down her throat until this awful feeling went away.
The one that surged and trapped her.
The one that flew with more speed than she’d ever dared attempt in her fragile state.
She would pay for this for days afterward.
Lucian was faster. She glanced back more than once, and to her horror, she felt her teeth bare in something near to a snarl. And it wasn’t her, it was the tangled bond, suddenly free and so terribly angry.
Orma wasn’t crying, but she wanted to.
She had never imagined this could turn out so badly, not even as she’d tried to dream up even the worst scenarios.
She flew downward. Spinning and twirling as the threads reached out, tangling amongst themselves in their fervour to grasp hold of their target. It was too far—the street below approaching far too quickly, and she closed her eyes and brought her hands out to cover her head.
Only to lurch back as Lucian caught her, pulling her to him as he darted them upward once more. “Talk to me, Orma,” he insisted, shaking her slightly until her eyes focused on him.
She wanted to struggle, wanted to fight him.
Wanted to bury herself in his arms and insist he take her home again.
It was a war she would not win, but she tried. Tried to pull in the threads. To knot them, tie them up within herself until they’d spend a good long while trying to loosen again.
She’d made a mistake. It did not mean all was lost. “I don’t know how to stop,” she choked out. “This was wrong,” she insisted. “I can’t... I can’t do this.”
His eyes drifted over her wildly, trying to make sense even as her body fought to free herself from his hold.
Even as her mind screamed to stay where she was, that he would protect her...
Except the face was wrong.
The hair, too.
This was kin, and she could recognise that, but not much else.
She lurched free.
Snarled at him without words.
And darted back down to the street.
He was close. She could feel it. The threads were taking shape, binding together as they formed first into twine.
Then as thick as ropes, brightening and shimmering in ways they had not for years.
He was close. The one she needed. Wanted.
Not on the street. One of these houses. His house? She did not know the district, did not know this place at all. The towers were far away, the city sprawling and circling in a maze of streets and roofs for an easy landing, mapped out available for study if she’d ever cared to pay attention.
She hadn’t. What did it matter how the city was constructed when she had no intention of going out there?
It mattered now. Or would have, if she was moving on anything but instinct and a power she didn’t understand. Lucian was hovering above her as she moved, but he did not grab her again. It made her antsy, uncertain when he would strike, and she hissed at him vaguely, warning him away.
This was a private business. Her mate had made her wait, and for that, there would be consequences.
The thoughts were not her own, and did not seem to matter how she argued internally with the wrongness of it.
It was true she was years past her majority. But that choice had been hers.
She found herself on a doorstep of a stranger’s home, her hand poised not to knock and wait politely. But to try the latch and see if the door would allow her entrance directly, so she might stalk and find and subdue what felt far too much like prey.
She tried to touch the newly formed ropes. To pull them back, to shove them back into her chest where they could remain there until she was ready to deal with this latest development, but they simply whispered through her fingers. Filaments from her imagination rather than corporeal.
She sobbed. Just once, born of frustration too great for her to name.
She touched the latch.
Only then did Lucian come.
He was faster than she knew, his presence above in the peripherals of her awareness, until suddenly he was there.
Pulling her back. Holding her against him.
Which felt all wrong. Now that she was fixated on her aim, kin meant little.
Her mate meant more.
And he was just inside, wasn’t he? Waiting for her. And this man was keeping her from him, just as her mother had done, her father, those healers that couldn’t begin to understand what ailed her.
She struggled fiercely, but his grip was stronger, and she would have taken a dozen tonics if it meant she could remove his hold from her.
“Settle down,” Lucian urged. “You think he’s inside?”
She tried to whimper, but it caught in her throat and became a choked, wretched sound instead. “Orma,” he hissed when her foot caught at his ankle. She’d hurt him, and that should matter to her. Did matter.
Or... would. Later. When she was herself again. If this awfulness that took her senses and control of her body ever let her go.
She sagged against him, which was more effective than her struggles, as her sudden shift in weight had him grappling to hold her upright. “Orma,” he repeated, still a whisper, but with far more alarm than had been there a moment before. “I do not know what to do.”
And there it was. He was frightened, too. Because of her. Because he understood even less than she did.
She did not screech, but she wanted to.
But she flailed, her head lurching backward, narrowly missing his chin as he ducked away from her just in time.
But her foot caught the door, her boot thudding against it just the once while Lucian cursed and pulled her even further back from the house.
That might be her house in a moment. If only he’d loosen his hold long enough, she could slip inside and bolt the door so he couldn’t take her away again. “Let go!”
The voice wasn’t hers. Or maybe it was—she just hadn’t used it in such a way. It was raspy and low, born of desperation and a fury that curdled in her blood and left her feeling wild.
He was going to argue with her. He was going to talk some more, and that truly was intolerable. She was sick to death of worry and wondering and the endless cycle of tests and theories that all were utter nonsense.
This was real. This was right.
If only that door would open.
And it did.