Chapter 30 The Hall of Hands and Paws
THE HALL OF HANDS AND PAWS
“Let them fear the girl who was raised in silence. Because when she learns to speak, she’ll teach the world to burn.”
—Eyleen ársa
Noel
The world around me dissolves into an endless void of darkness. There’s no ground or walls, just an overwhelming nothingness, as though I’ve been swallowed whole by the night. Where am I?
Slowly, dim lights begin to appear above, tiny strings glowing in the void. They pulse like the beat of a heart I cannot see.
I don’t move, yet I feel pulled forward, drawn into the strange glow. And I see them.
Hands. Paws.
So many hands and paws rise from the shadowy ground. They stretch upward, fingers curling and reaching. Each one is unique—weathered or delicate, clawed and strong—but they all share the same destination, grasping for the light above.
They rise higher, and that’s when I notice what they’re reaching for. Suspended above them is a small figure, glowing like a blue rose in a black, starless sky. I hold my breath as my sight sharpens, and I see it clearly.
A baby.
Me.
I am that baby.
The infant is held aloft by countless hands that cradle her carefully.
As she’s lifted higher, the glow of her skin grows stronger, silvery-blue light bright enough to cross the dark hall.
The whispers start then, rising around me.
I hear them everywhere I look. I can’t make out the words, but I feel them—prayers or hopes.
Warnings. They ripple through me, raising goose bumps on my skin.
The hands and paws remain outstretched, as though pleading, begging. Their desperate yearning seems aimed not at the baby, but at . . . my heart?
Then, from the shadows, someone steps forward. Cutting through the sea of hands and paws.
Mother.
She walks with grace. Back straight, chin high, just like she always did.
Her hair flows like midnight silk, her gray roots glowing in the light.
Her face is etched with sorrow, a grief that hurts even from where I stand.
Her bare feet are silent against the shadowy ground, and her gaze never leaves the baby. Me.
The whispers quiet as she approaches, the hands freezing mid-reach as though waiting for her permission to touch the infant. She leans down, her arms passing through the layers of hands and paws to lift the baby into her embrace.
“My little rose,” she murmurs. She presses a kiss to the baby’s forehead, her tears catching in the glow. “My Noel.”
A lump rises in my throat. “Mother,” I whisper.
She doesn’t hear me. Her eyes are closed as she holds the baby for a long moment. Then, with a deep breath, she lifts the infant high. Her strong voice echoes through the void as thousands of white feathers fall from above.
“The blue rose will bloom again.”
My heart pounds, chest tight and aching. My head feels heavy, eyes swollen as though I’ve been crying for hours. I’m warm, no, my body is nearly burning. Seeing my mother’s face so clearly . . . I miss her so much.
There’s so much I want to say to her, so much I need her to know.
How I long for her touch, her wisdom, and love.
How I wish I could tell her everything that’s happened since she left me.
I need to know why she was taken from me, how it all ended.
And I want to tell her about Theron, how kind he’s been, how he cares for me.
I think she would’ve liked him if only she were still here.
Maybe he could’ve helped her with that fat raccoon who always stole her trinkets from the roof.
We didn’t have many wild animals in Tárnov, but this raccoon managed to find a way between Tárnov’s walls, and for some reason, would appear in our home.
Theron’s so tall, he probably could’ve reached it easily.
It is so painful.
I want to reach out for that baby, to hold her close, to whisper to her that she’ll grow strong, that she’ll grow smart and beautiful.
But the hands. All those paws. Who were they? Why did they feel so familiar, like ghosts from a forgotten memory?
A gentle touch grazes my cheek, pulling me from my thoughts. I lean into the soothing sensation. It’s damp and fluffy, like fur.
Fur?
I force my eyes open, blinking away the blur, and find myself staring into Theron’s bright, hazel eyes. There’s something soft in the way he looks at me. It’s comforting.
“I can finally see your eyes, my little dove,” he murmurs.
Why does it feel like I haven’t seen him in so long? A breeze brushes against my skin, and I glance to the side. We’re on the porch.
We’re home.
Home. The word feels strangely right. My mother’s house in Tárnov seems like something from another lifetime.
“Theron,” I whisper, my voice hoarse, my throat dry and aching. I try to clear it, but the effort turns into a cough, and I wince, closing my eyes again.
“Your Majesty, please, drink this,” a melodic voice, light as a song, says. A nymphá.
I open my eyes again and see her pale hand holding a cup shaped from a leaf.
Theron takes it from her and raises it to my mouth, his other paw bracing my back as I sit up. As soon as the cool water touches my lips, I drink desperately, and I don’t stop until it’s gone, my body craving every drop.
I’m sitting on his lap, leaning into his solid, rock-hard chest as he rests his paw on my back. “Thank you,” I murmur, glancing at the nymphá who offered me water. My gaze shifts to the garden, and my breath catches.
“Theron!” Blue roses, countless and fully grown, stretch out around the porch. Their glow illuminates the nymphí sitting among them and the way their small hands trace the petals as they chat with one another.
I’ve never seen so many before. My mother’s garden had a few dozen flowers she ardently nurtured. But this? This is unlike anything I’ve ever imagined.
“I love having these rare and beautiful roses inside our home,” Theron says, his tone calm. “But you grew so many, and we needed space to walk. So I brought us out here.”
My jaw goes slack. I tilt my head to look up at him, my eyes heavy and struggling to stay open. “How did I do this?”
“It is said that the tears of a blue-rose blood make the flowers bloom,” he says, his claws combing through my hair.
It hits me all at once. My mother never cried. At least, not in front of me. Not once in my life had I seen her shed a single tear. Is that how we have blue roses in the first place? Did she cry when I wasn’t there to see it?
Why had she never told me a thing? Never answered any of my questions?
“Did I cry that much? Enough to grow a whole garden?”
Theron nods. “Three nights, my mate.”
Three nights?
I blink at him. “Have I slept for three whole nights?”
“You were asleep for seven.” His tone is heavy with a sadness that makes my chest ache. “The last three, you were crying.”
I reach up instinctively to rub my temples. No wonder my head feels like a horse trampled it.
“What dreams haunted you?” Theron’s deep voice rumbles as he tugs me closer and wraps his arms around me.
“I saw my mother,” I begin, my words barely audible as I rest my head against his chest. “I saw myself . . . saw lots of hands and paws. They were reaching for a baby, for me. I was that baby.” My voice trails off, the memory still so vivid. “Theron . . . what was that dream?”
If I had any tears left to shed, they would’ve come now. But I’m drained, hollow. The ache in my chest reminds me how much I miss her.
I sigh into his fur, then inhale his scent. He smells so good, like the roses surrounding us, earthy and comforting, with a warmth that soothes my raw nerves.
His brows knit together, his gaze fixed on me. I brush my hand over his furrowed brow, trying to smooth it. His throat bobs as he swallows. And then . . .
Oh. I feel something, hard and growing, against my hip. My face burns as realization dawns.
“Alright, time to feed you and get you cleaned,” Theron blurts, panic flashing across his face as he scoops me up with a speed that leaves no time for protest.
I want to tell him to put me down, but my body feels like a sack of stones. So, for now, I let him carry me, my pride taking a backseat to my exhaustion.
As Theron opens the door, my eyes catch the overgrowth of blue roses spilling around the bed-nest. My jaw slackens at the sight.
“Goddesses,” I murmur. “I must’ve stayed unconscious so long just because I was so dehydrated.”
“Actually,” he says, his chest puffing, “I gave you water every day, and Mina and the nymphí were bathing you.” He says the last part of the sentence with a disappointed expression.
If he’d bathed me, I’d probably melt with embarrassment. I should thank Mina as well.
I feel like that baby in my dream, helpless and cocooned.
The strong, fierce Noel seems like a legend whispered among the vólkins as I sit wrapped in furs, barely able to move.
Mina and the nymphí bathed me earlier, leaving me feeling clean but still weak.
Now, I’m bundled up so snugly that the only parts of me that can move are my eyes and my mouth, which I open wide every time Theron offers me another strawberry.
I’m starving. After not eating for an entire week, I feel like I could hunt a bear, though the thought of harming the poor creature makes me wince.
Theron, however, is insistent that I eat in small amounts to avoid getting sick.
His practicality is both endearing and infuriating, especially since I know he genuinely believes I could take down a bear on my own. Honestly, I’m flattered.
“This one is juicy,” he says as he holds another strawberry to my lips with his claws. I open wide and let the sweetness burst in my mouth. His gaze doesn’t move, and the intensity in his eyes as he watches me eat each berry . . . He’s so eager to feed me.
If I weren’t so drained, I might laugh at how terrified I was of him just over a week ago. Now, this massive vólkin is carefully feeding me strawberries like I’m the most precious thing in the world. I shake my head, trying to clear the thought.