Chapter 39 #2
Each step grows heavier than the last, and my mind tangles with words that refuse to come.
Gratitude wars with guilt, gratitude for his sacrifice, guilt for what it’s cost him.
He’s fought beside me for centuries, through every tide of blood and fire.
Since our youth, a youth I can barely recall beyond flashes of laughter, booze, and victory.
There were battles against minotaurs, wraiths, harpies…
even the occasional siren bold enough to test us.
Never once did he falter. Never once too wounded to raise his blade. Not until now.
I reach the door, an evening breeze stirring the dust at my feet. It should be nothing, air and earth, but it feels like an iron wall, holding me back.
The bowl in my hands is cooling fast. Whatever words I cannot find, my friend at least deserves a hot meal. I tighten my grip to hide the tremor in my fingers, then reach for the handle and turn.
The door creaks open, groaning on its hinges. Twilight spills into a wide room divided by hanging curtains. The air tastes of sickness, scrubbed clean but still clinging to the walls. This is where they keep their ill and wounded.
Jars and vials fill a cabinet along the far side.
Herbs and drying flowers sway gently from their hooks, and rows of potions and pungent-smelling balms line a long, worn table.
Beyond one of the drawn curtains, I glimpse two bare feet, pale as moonlight, resting at the edge of a cot, a pair of weathered leather boots placed neatly at the foot of the bed.
The silence is deep enough to press against my ribs. When those pale toes twitch, I swallow hard.
“Who’s there?” The voice is rough, weary. Before I can answer, it continues, harsher now. “Daedalus? That’s you, isn’t it? Are you just going to stand there like a pervert?”
I roll my eyes, a huff escaping me. “I was coming to you…if you’d give me a damned second.”
A snap of fingers sounds behind the curtain, followed by a bark of laughter. Brittle, humorless. “I couldn’t give you a second even if I tried, Rook.”
I move closer, my steps careful, though each one crashes through my head like thunder. My fingers curl around the curtain’s edge. I draw it back slowly.
Reon lies on his back, hands folded over his chest, a woven blanket pulled to his waist, not quite long enough to cover him.
He nods at the thing draped across him. “They’re all so short here.”
He tries to tease, tries to smile at his own expense, but his lips barely shift. His head turns toward me, limp hair falling across one eye. He’s still Reon, the same sharp lines, the same roguish charm that sets mortals and Fae alike spinning, but the spark is gone.
His copper hair, once bright as torchlight, has dulled to tired rust. His skin hangs thin and ashen around the fierce angles of his face.
Even his freckles have faded, and his eyes, those bright hazel flames that always held mischief, danger, life, whether seducing his next conquest or warning an enemy to run, are empty now. Burnt out like a dying star.
He lifts a hand from his chest and snaps his fingers again.
Nothing. No gold spark, no shimmer of time bending to his will.
“It’s all gone,” he murmurs, voice barely more than air. “Every last drop.”
“It will come back, Reon,” I say.
A grin cuts across his mouth, sharp but without heat. “Huh. You’re usually such an excellent liar.”
I’ve never heard him sound like this. So hollow.
So stripped of the assurance that once defined him.
I should know how to comfort him. I remember what it was to lose my wings.
To feel the empty ache where power should have been.
Fae magic isn’t some trick of light; it is us.
In our blood. Our breath. Our very bones.
When it’s gone, we are never whole again.
We are fragile, mortal in all the worst ways.
He’s right to doubt me. I don’t know if his power will return. I had to devour a void demon to reclaim what I’d lost, and Reon, the master of time himself, what would he have to do to restore his?
My throat tightens, but I keep my face composed. I hold the bowl out to him, steady despite the weight of everything between us.
“Broth,” I say, keeping it short so I don’t end up saying something stupid.
Reon groans as he props himself up on his elbows, peering into the bowl. His nose wrinkles.
“Is it good?”
I tip my head side to side, weighing my answer. “For a human concoction of weeds and flowers, it’s not the worst thing I’ve ever had in my mouth.”
That earns a rasping laugh from him. “Careful, Rook. Don’t tempt me with such unworthy bait.”
He reaches out, takes the bowl from my hand, and studies it like it might bite back. A cautious sniff, then a glance at me for reassurance. I nod once, and he drinks.
It’s just a testing sip at first. Then he licks his lips.
“That’s good weed,” he mutters, before draining the rest in a few gulps.
When he’s done, he wipes his mouth on his sleeve and lets out a small, satisfied sigh.
“How do you feel?” I ask, navigating the unfamiliar terrain of empathy.
“The same,” he says, “but slightly fuller.” His eyes narrow, glinting faintly with the ghost of his old mischief. “But enough about me. How are you, Rook?”
I wave him off, but he hisses, that sharp Reon tone still alive beneath the weariness.
“Please. I’d much rather hear about your misfortune than dwell on mine.”
I smirk. “We go to battle soon. I couldn’t be better.”
He snorts. “I didn’t mean the battle, though thank you for reminding me what I’ll miss. I meant Amara. You know, that troublesome wife of yours I spent every drop of magic keeping alive?”
My chin dips. The smirk fades. “She sleeps still beneath the soil. All I can do is wait.”
The words I’ve been swallowing for days finally claw their way free. “I am sorry this has happened to you, Reon. What you’ve given… I’ll never be able to repay. I am so very thankful and so very sorry, my friend.”
I brace for his sharp retort, the biting humor he wields when emotion runs too close. But none comes. He just looks at me, steady and quiet, knowing the truth when he hears it.
“There is nothing to be sorry for,” he says softly. “Nothing to repay. I’d do it again, Daedalus, because you are my prince, and my friend, and my brother.”
My lips part, words tearing loose to mirror his, to tell him I would do the same if ever asked. Before I can shape them, he jabs the bowl at my stomach, a mock shove that lands harder than it should.
“Now make yourself useful, will you, and get me a refill? But don’t bring it back yourself.
Ask that lovely, sweet girl who pops in to clean every now and then.
” He sighs, half-grin crooked. “She is stunning. Wears a yellow flower in her hair like some kind of forest fairy. Perhaps I’ll take a Grove bride for myself. ”
I frown and snatch the bowl from him. “They’re more trouble than either of us can handle.”
He chuckles at last, and I can’t help the small smile that answers it. It is a sound I needed to hear as much as he did. “Go well into battle, Rook,” he says.
“Thank you, Reon.” I glance down as his toes wiggle again. “That’s progress.”
Still propped on his elbows, he watches their movement with exaggerated solemnity. “Yes. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll move the whole foot.”
I straighten. “Be quick about it. Once I’ve finished with the Legion, when Amara has risen, I’ll need you at Gygarth’s doorstep. I’ll need you when I take the battle to An’kel.”
He nods, brow creased. “Then hurry with the broth. I need all the help I can get.”
I incline my head, pocketing the weight of his words, and slip toward the door before sentiment can unravel us both. I close it behind me and find Solena waiting.
“How is he?” she asks, taking the bowl from my hand.
“Surprisingly himself,” I reply.
“What do you mean?” she presses.
I sweep my gaze across the courtyard, Tenders moving between benches, Mordorin sharing the evening meal, and find the girl with the yellow flower in her hair stirring the dinner pot with a broad wooden spoon.
“He wants more broth,” I say. “But he insists she bring it.”
Solena’s brow hardens, then she scowls. “Scoundrel. I’ll take it to him myself with a side of face-punch.” She glances up through the canopy at the deepening dusk. “You leave soon?”
I nod. “Just one last thing to do.”
She nods back. She knows what I mean.
I draw a breath, roll my shoulders, and my wings unfurl with a snap, bursting into the twilight.
The air shivers with the motion as they stretch wide, catching the fading light before I launch skyward.
I cut through the village like a thrown spear, past the vine wall and beneath the tall, curved roots of the great trees until the forest breaks open around me.
The clearing glows ahead, a sea of lavender blossoms bathed in the soft, milky light. The breeze moves through them in waves, carrying that sweet, familiar scent. I angle my wings, glide low, then land without a sound beside her.
Warmth floods my chest. I can feel her, my wife, my love. Still sleeping, but still there. Still alive.
I drop into a crouch. “I will return soon, wife,” I murmur, hoping my voice threads through the earth to reach her beneath.
“Then together we will bring Estra home.” My voice catches.
The words break on a breath. “But for that to happen, you must wake, my love. Because I cannot do this without you.”
My hand trails across the blossoms, impossibly soft, fragile things beneath the roughness of my palm. “I need your fire, Amara. Your fury. I need my queen.”
Then something snags my attention, small, almost nothing. Among the vibrant blooms, one flower pales. Its edges shriveled, its color drained.
My jaw tightens. “Amara,” I breathe. “Wife, can you hear me?”
No answer. The quiet stretches too long. I grit my teeth until my jaw aches.