Chapter 20 Seren
Chapter twenty
Seren
That night, in place of dreams, his words echoed through me again and again—sleep slurred and honeyed. Drifting in the recesses of my mind, filling the black cavern of almost unconsciousness. Plaguing my not quite wakefulness. Turning my stomach in knots as my heart pounded a lapsing rhythm.
Don’t go, Ren. Please. Just sleep.
Despite everything—despite agreeing to stay in the dark hours of the night—I wanted to run. I wanted to never see Harkin or another Rázuri again. I wanted to escape to some far off land where I would never have to face the mess I had made of myself.
My rabbit heart jumped, eager, begging me to leave. But I couldn’t.
I tossed and turned on the lumpy settee. The slice on my arm throbbed, though the bleeding had quelled. My fingers buzzed with the lingering memory of his hand on mine. I flexed my hand, fingers splaying, as if that alone could purge me of this feeling.
The first light of dawn seeped through the fogged windows, catching the falling motes of dust on their journey through the shallow room.
Wishing I could see my stars and pray my forbidden hopes to the Goddesses I was meant to have forsaken, I counted the knots in the rough wooden beams of the cottage ceiling.
My mind raced to think of what I had done the day before. The way the mágik had gripped me in a vise of power that I could not control. I did not want to remember the feeling of panic that consumed me as Harkin buried his head in my neck, drowned by my own twisted will.
The feeling of his hands pushing away from me lingered on my hip bones. The sound of the retching—water spilling endlessly from his lips—rang through the quiet.
I had not been able to stop. My own immeasurable desire to harm him choked me, not with water in my lungs, but with hate in my heart. The mágik had swelled, a river in a rainstorm, crushing past the dam that was meant to provide safety.
I wanted to hurt him—to kill him—but not like that. Not with a power I did not understand. I could not bear to take a life by the same means my brother’s life had been taken from him.
Sleep eluded me because I could not rid myself of those images. The pain in his face, eyes screwed shut and fists clutching at the earth. The fear that had emanated from him as I had taken one last glance and fled into the forest.
I felt fear, too. Of myself, of my circumstances. I no longer knew who the enemy was.
Light streamed into the room, stronger now, and Harkin had not yet risen. I glanced at him, annoyed at the ounce of concern which settled in my belly as I noted the blood stain on his tunic and the sallow tinge to his skin.
Though my blade had been small, its edge was razor sharp, and I had been out for his blood. I knew I had struck true, the dagger stabbing precisely through the gap in his ribs.
He hadn’t dressed the wound, and I knew he had been under considerable strain in the hours after. I remembered the way he had moved, stiff and sluggish at the end.
Blood loss and fatigue were certainly the only explanations as to his twilight words.
Don’t go, Ren. Please.
The settee let out a soft sound as I moved to stand.
Harkin stirred, reaching for me once more. He blinked to full awareness and let his hand fall to his lap, pushing into a sitting position with a grimace. “You stayed.”
“I did,” I whispered, not trusting my voice.
Harkin only watched me with careful consideration.
I gazed upon him a moment longer then turned away. I gathered long strips of clean fabric, frothed soap and water in a small bowl. The weight of his gaze was heavy upon me as I sank to the floor at his side.
Harkin watched me with open curiosity, his surprise as visceral as my own.
“Take off your shirt,” I demanded, averting my eyes as I dunked the first strip of cloth in the water.
His brow raised as he regarded me. “Excuse me?”
An exasperated sigh huffed out of me. “Do not jest. I cannot very well dress your wound through your bloodied tunic, can I?”
“If you wanted my clothes off—” I jabbed him in the ribs, just below his wound. Harkin wheezed but was smart enough not to complete the thought. “You might be the worst healer that has ever tended to me.”
“I will not ask again. Do as I say, or you may dress your own wounds.”
Harkin complied, the shadow of a grin on his lips as he gingerly removed the stiff tunic. “Yes, Healer.”
I rolled my eyes then softened as I gazed upon the injury I had dealt.
The wound was angry and reddened. Though the bleeding had mostly stanched, forming a rough scab, it still leaked at the edges. Left untreated, it would surely fester and become infected.
“You could have killed me last night,” I said. My words held the weight of a question—one I didn’t have the courage to ask outright.
“No, I couldn’t have.” Sincerity laced his expression, the first time I had ever seen it in him. The first time I had ever believed it.
“Right,” I agreed hesitantly. “You have a job to do, delivering me to Acsilla.”
“Even if that were not so… I have no desire to hurt you, Ren. I never have.” He spoke softly as if I were a wild animal, easy to be spooked.
“Why?” I asked, my voice smaller than I had ever heard it.
“What do I have to gain? What good does your pain bring me?” Harkin said the words as if they were a foregone conclusion—an inevitable, simple truth.
“I don’t know,” I whispered.
His eyes softened, just so, and I could not bear to look at him a second longer.
I drew the cloth from the water, dabbing it gently across his skin. The white fabric morphed into one of reds and pinks, blood soaking into it with every stroke of my hand.
Harkin tried not to wince as the stinging soap affected his wound, but I felt each breath and twitch as if they were my own.
When the wound was sufficiently clean, a pile of bloodied rags at our feet, I bound a clean cloth around his torso. I packed the fabric tightly against the wound, tying it in a firm knot.
My breath grazed the expanse of his bare chest as I leaned closer to inspect my work. He inhaled sharply, as if in pain, but when I glanced up, his eyes were turned away.
“You’ll survive. Though, try not to reopen the wound while it heals.”
“Cease your murder attempts, and I should have no problem.” Harkin spoke in a deadpan, but his eyes betrayed his mirth. Even deeper, I felt the hurt that was there, lingering beneath. I frowned and looked away.
“Let me return the favor.” His fingers caught the torn edge of my sleeve, revealing the cut beneath.
I jolted as his fingers brushed the wound. “That’s not necessary.”
“Let me help you anyway.” Harkin stood, steadier now, and led me to the table. He gestured for me to sit as he refreshed our supply of clean water and bandages.
It was an effort to ignore his discarded tunic and the way he did not move to replace it. The ripple of exposed muscle as he moved closer.
When he approached, I pushed up my sleeve, and his eyes caught on the bruises at my wrists. Fingerprints pressed purple into my bones and flesh—aching. Bands of angry red stung where the rope had chafed. Harkin looked away, jaw tightening.
With a heavy breath, he turned back to me. He cleaned the slice in my bicep carefully, stirring a gentle breeze to dry my goosefleshed skin. The air was warm and soothing against the pain.
The tension was palpable as he dressed the wound, silence stretching. Neither of us were quite able to manage the words that needed to be said.
He did not speak until the bandage was securely fastened, and my sleeve rolled down once more. His eyes lingered on the place where my bruises were. “I owe you an apology.”
“You don’t.”
“Yes, I do. I hurt you. The bruises on your wrists were done unto you by my hands. I'm sorry.” He would not look at me.
“We hurt each other. We mended each other. There is nothing to apologize for.” I ran my finger along the edge of the bowl—sloshing with bloodied water—just to have something to occupy my hands.
“I should never have lost my temper with you. I should have done better, and for that, I apologize.” Harkin looked pained, and it flooded me with distrust all over again.
Anger rose in my stubborn chest. Always anger, first. “Stop.”
Unease pooled in my gut as it never had before. The feeling that he was not real. That he was trying to be someone he was not in order to earn my favor.
Harkin opened his mouth as if to speak again.
“No, I mean it. Stop with this fucking game you’ve been playing with me. I’m sick of it.” I drew a shaky breath, pushing the bowl away. It scraped along the wooden table with a rasping sound that echoed the feeling in my chest. “Who are you?”
“What are you talking about?” Our gazes finally locked.
“Who are you?” I growled, clutching at the edge of the table. Soft wood pressed beneath my fingernails, dry and splintering. “Who are you, really, beneath the masks you wear?”
He sucked in a heavy breath. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“What is that—” I shook my head in disbelief and pushed to my feet, pacing as I fought against my racing heart. “You are unbelievable. I cannot tell if you are a practiced manipulator grasping at straws, or if you truly believe the story you have concocted in your head.”
Harkin said nothing as he rose to his feet. His chest was still, annoyingly, bare. It heaved with heavy breaths, and I closed my eyes against the sight.
“You want to know what I mean? Fine.” I turned away from him, then back.
“Every conversation with you, every interaction, every day is like walking into a masquerade ball. I search for you, but every Goddesses damned time, you have laced a new mask, and I cannot see beneath. You are the sarcastic, witty, uncaring challenger in my duel. You are the provoker who seeks to ruin my life and reputation. You are the kind and helpful savior who wants to protect me, and finally, last night, you fought back and showed me a modicum of something real. So I ask, once more, who are you, truly?”