The Value of A Life
Chapter Thirty
Eridessa
I slam the cellar door shut behind me and step into the sunlight.
The day stands in direct opposition to my mood.
There’s less ash today, and it has always been so in this part of the valley.
It’s more of a fine dusting suspended in the air than an active fall.
The forest holds its own quiet melody: wind moving through leaves, distant birdsongs, and the subtle hum of insects hidden in bark and brush.
Light filters through the trees in soft, fractured beams and casts itself over the front of the house.
From the open window, Lila’s voice drifts outward, clear and sweet. She’s singing again, and the scent of her infamous blueberry muffins lingers on the breeze, a comforting smell I’ve become accustomed to.
But I turn away from the house and head for the trees, not wanting to sully her mood with my own.
My conversation with Orán stirred up some deep-seated emotions, and I won’t let them bleed into her day.
So I walk.
At first, my steps are rushed, more stomping than an actual jaunt through the woods, boots snapping twigs and dead leaves underfoot as I let distance build between myself and the house.
My thoughts churn in uneven loops—everything I said, everything I shouldn’t have, the way feeling slipped past discipline in that cell.
I replay the conversation in fragments, cataloging mistakes like old habits.
I gave too much away. And I hate that part of myself—the part that still wants companionship and to be understood.
His certainty surprised me with his answers.
They weren’t what I expected, but maybe I should have.
I was shaped by doctrine. He was shaped by Heaven. We both believe in our respective truths, yet somewhere between his faith and mine, something vital feels lost.
The deeper I go, the quieter it becomes, and the forest slowly calms my racing thoughts.
I pause beside a moss-covered log where a line of ants heft a leaf twice their size, their tiny bodies moving in a tireless procession. Nearby, a beetle clicks as it travels across bark, its shell catching light like polished onyx. Small lives. Persistent little things.
I crouch and watch the ants with the leaf vanish into the hole.
Further in, I spot a cluster of mushrooms pushing up through damp soil, pale caps unfurling like miniature umbrellas. I trail my fingers lightly against the edge of one, feeling its cool resilience. Growth, even here. Even in a world being slowly unmade.
I find one of my familiar trees and climb without thinking, muscles remembering the movement. The bark presses against my palms. My boots find old grooves where I’ve climbed before. I settle into a crook of branches halfway up and lean back against the trunk, letting its solid presence anchor me.
From here, I can see a small clearing.
Birds flit between branches, their wings beating rapidly against the air to keep them aloft. Beautiful and varying shades of brown and gold. One lands close enough that I can see its chest flutter, and the tail end of the worm it captured before it slips down its throat.
Sometime later, something larger moves through the brush.
I wait as it approaches and stay as still as possible so as not to spook it.
Eventually, a doe steps into the clearing, cautious and graceful, her ears flicking at every sound.
A fawn follows close, still clumsy in the use of its legs, pressing against the mother’s side for reassurance.
The mother lowers her head to graze.
The fawn mimics her.
My chest tightens.
The way she positions her body between danger and her young. The way the fawn mirrors her movements without understanding why, trusting that her instinct alone will keep it alive. Life teaching life how to continue.
I’m fully aware that the meat of the doe would last weeks. It could feed a whole settlement for some time. But ending one brings about the end of the other. Their lives are bound together, so I continue to watch until they disappear back into the trees.
Only then do I let out the breath I’ve been holding.
This.
This is what Orán doesn’t see.
The way this world and everything in it fights to live on in small, stubborn ways.
Sometimes the right choice is to choose restraint rather than conquest. Life doesn’t simply come down to souls and scales and covenants. Life holds more meaning than that, or at least it should.
I stay in the tree until the forest quiets and dusk appears. Until the ache in my chest lessens. Until the forest reminds me who I am.
Lila has muffin crumbs coating her lips and a milk stain working hard to disguise itself as a mustache.
I shake my head and pass her a napkin. She takes it without breaking stride in her rambling, wiping at her mouth while her thoughts continue to tumble out unchecked.
Today she’s wearing a yellow floral top with small white and coral blossoms and a pair of white leggings. Big, fluffy socks are pulled up to her calves, and her hair—still damp from her swim in the lake—is twisted into a messy knot on top of her head, loose strands escaping around her temples.
One hand rests instinctively on her growing belly. The other is already reaching for another muffin.
If she weren’t such a good cook, I’d fear her eating me out of house and home. But she pulls her weight. Helps with chores. Tends the garden beds. Keeps the place running and everyone fed when I’m away.
Since she arrived, my days have not only been less lonely but also less monotonous.
“He told me a little about his life before,” she says around a mouthful. “When he was human.”
I arch a brow. “And what did you learn?”
“Did you know he’s a twin? That one threw me.
And Irish. I mean, I kind of got that from the accent, but I wasn’t sure if that was just to entice the masses or what.
I thought being an immortal, he was just made that way, but no.
He and his brother were reborn, or that’s the verbiage he used.
Dead men brought back to life. The things you learn about a Horseman when you’re locked up with one, am I right? ”
I pause with the muffin raised to my own mouth. “Wait, go back. A twin?”
She grins and nods enthusiastically. “Yep. Pollock or Conquest or the one you call Soul Serpent. That’s his mothereffing twin. Can you believe it?
“The White Horseman?”
“Uh-huh. They were both remade. Identical twins, and to hear how he tells it, they were once inseparable. Oh, they’re like way old. Like he robbed the cradle in a way no man has ever done before.”
“Stop.” I reach out and playfully smack her arm.
“Just sayin’. Nothing better than a finely aged Irishman with an accent.” Her grin is ridiculous, and the wink…over the top.
“They’re old because they’re immortal.”
“But also…” She rips off a piece of muffin and tosses it into her mouth.
“Because when they were alive, it was like ages and ages ago. He said something about a clan. Not sure what that is.” Her eyes flit up to the ceiling and back down to my face.
“I didn’t really understand much of that part.
He said his father was their clan leader.
And this was in a remote part of Ireland, way before there were cities and towns.
Like no roads, cars, or things like that.
They were essentially going to be lords if they hadn’t died so young.
They grew up in a castle and everything.
But like, with no electricity, no plumbing, so I’m not really sure that’s worth raving about.
But yes, a real live castle, one that probably doesn’t exist today, or if it does, it’s in ruins now.
Can you believe it? That’s crazy, right?
” Her exuberance vibrates in the space around her, and her smiles are contagious.
Then she pulls a face. In a flash, her smile vanishes.
“I mean. Castle life back in the day always sounded cool until you realize they had it rough like that. Not anymore. No, thank you. Hard pass.”
I huff quietly. “We don’t have any of that now.”
“Yes, but we did, and we’ve made use of what we can to mimic plumbing. It’s not the same, but better than nothing.”
She waves a dismissive hand. “Anyway, I’ll gripe about medieval hygiene later.
The point is—he had a real life and at times a rough one from the way he tells it.
He wasn’t just birthed from God’s brain, like poof, you're a gorgeous immortal badass.” She flicks her fingers open like she’s performing a magic trick.
“Poof, you’re a Horseman. Poof, you’re an archangel.
Poof, you’re a cupid. Go shoot someone in the ass. ”
“Did he tell you how he was remade?”
A frown has the dimple on her right cheek turning into a divot. “No. Shit, I forgot to ask about that part.” She shrugs. “Put it on the list for next time.”
I point at her mouth again until she raises the napkin to swipe it over her face. “How did he die?”
Her voice softens. “He glossed over that part quite a bit. Talked of a war between clans and betrayal within the family that set everything off. He got lost in his thoughts for some time and simply said, ‘Greed and power can corrupt and bring down even the most noble of families.’ Then he changed the subject.”
She pops more muffin into her mouth like that sentence didn’t carry centuries of grief. Before swallowing, she goes on talking, and muffin bits fly out as her words do. “He wanted to kno—”
I shake my head. “Chew first.”
She freezes and rolls her eyes dramatically, but obeys.
“I swear,” I add, watching her with mock severity, “one of these days you’re going to choke when I’m not around.”
She grins once she’s swallowed. “Please. You’d feel it in your soul and come sprinting through the woods like some feral forest mom.”
I snort despite myself.
She leans back in her chair, one hand returning to her belly, expression softening for just a moment. “He’s not what I expected.” Her head sways to the side. “Not completely.”
We’re all more than we might appear.
“I honestly kind of like him. You know, if he wasn’t so dead set on ending the world and all of that. I really don’t want to see that happen. I’m kind of looking forward to meeting this little warrior of mine.”
“Warrior, huh?”
“Yes. He’s got a mean right hook already, and his kicks when he gets going are insane. When he’s full-grown, he’ll give those Horsemen a run for their money. Right here.” She points at a spot low on her belly. “Feel it and tell me I’m wrong.”
I laugh and reach forward. She moves her hand, and I replace it with mine, feeling carefully until a solid kick greets my palm. A second follows almost immediately.
“A warrior,” I agree softly. “Or an athlete.”
“A warrior,” she insists. “You’ll train him, and he’ll be the best there ever was. Like Hercules. Or Achilles.”
A wide smile spreads across my face. “If we’re allowed that time, I’ll definitely train him.”
“And I’ll teach him how to cook,” she adds. “He’ll be any woman’s kryptonite. Handsome, deadly, and a master of pastries.” She lets out a girlish giggle, and it pulls a laugh from me in return.
I shake my head as she keeps talking, because the way Lila has bounced back from everything she’s endured says so much about how she was raised and who she was raised by.
It speaks to her strength of character, her resilience.
Even now, she still chooses to see good in the world.
To hope for better days, though they’re not promised to any of us.
To believe in people, even after she’s witnessed the worst of mankind.
Something I could stand to learn from.
I’ve judged Orán by his words alone and by the old scripture that paints him in a horrible light.
And while we stand on opposite sides of what must be done, he isn’t the monster I expected him to be.
He’s been honest with me. It’s just that we have very different opinions on how the future should unfold.
I have to remember that there may still be hope of changing his mind.
And I intend to try.