33. Aryn
Aryn
Layers of fog part to let consciousness flood in. It takes effort to open my eyes as I emerge from this dead, dreamless sleep, but I fight through the desire to fade back into nothingness.
The first thing I notice is the softness beneath me.
I’m in a real bed, not a sleeping bag thrown over snow or frozen ground, and I’m covered by thick furs and woven blankets.
The second thing is the heavy, familiar warmth pressed against my side.
Cato curls into me, one arm draped across my chest as he sleeps with his face buried in the crook of my neck.
I lie still for a long moment, letting myself simply feel him there.
My body is a map of dull, throbbing aches.
The injuries to my ribs and shoulder are the worst, but when I run a careful hand over my bare torso, I find everything tightly bandaged.
Someone has cleaned and tended to me while I was out.
I have no idea how much time has passed.
A day? Two? More?
I shift slightly, testing my limits. The pain makes me suck in a sharp breath, but it’s manageable. I’m alive. No permanent damage, as far as I can tell.
That’s more than I expected.
Cato stirs the moment I move, and his head lifts, eyes blinking open. They’re hazy at first, but they sharpen the instant they find mine. Relief crashes over his face so powerfully it makes my chest tighten.
“Aryn,” he breathes, voice rough with sleep.
Before I can answer, he pulls me against him.
It isn’t gentle. Nothing about Cato has ever been gentle.
His arms band tight around my torso, holding on to me like he could keep me awake by sheer, stubborn will alone.
His thumbs brush over my shoulders and neck, and he lets out a long, shaky sigh against my skin.
I hug him back just as fiercely, ignoring the protest from my side until the pain sharpens enough to make me wince.
He pulls back immediately, forehead resting against mine.
“Shit, I’m sorry,” he whispers.
I stare into his eyes, wishing I had the ability to capture every unique shade of brown and the golden flecks that hide within them. Worry lines his face, wrinkling the skin between his brows and along his mouth, and dark bags hang above his cheeks.
He’s exhausted in a way I’ve never seen on him before. I think back to how it felt to leave him, and the way it gnawed at this connection between us on a cellular level.
Did he feel it, too?
Did his heart break along with mine?
My lips curve in a soft smile, trying to offer the same relief I feel from having him here. “Never be sorry for that. It was… you were the only thing that gave me the strength to make it here.”
“I thought I lost you,” he murmurs, eyes fluttering closed. “Gods, I thought you were gone. The others had to drag me away. I tried to come for you.”
“I knew you would,” I say softly. “It was the only choice.”
His eyes snap open as he glares at me sternly. “Not the only one. Stop being so self-sacrificing.”
My quiet laugh sends a spike of pain up my side, and I cringe, taking a deep breath to get through the worst of it. “To be fair, you know my history.”
“Always gotta steal the glory.”
I offer him a weak smile. “The others?”
“They’re fine. We’re all fine, even if there was some, uh… drama.”
“What sort of drama?” I ask carefully.
“I, um…” He pushes a hand through his hair, looking sheepish. “I might have attacked Ronan.”
My eyebrow lifts. “Oh?”
“Yeah,” he drawls, with a shrug that’s decidedly unapologetic. “When you ran off, I tried to follow. He stopped me. I didn’t exactly like being stopped.”
I hum, tracing the shape of his arms beneath his sweater, grounding myself in his solid warmth. “I’m far too stubborn to die that easily. I promised I’d find my way back to you, and I always keep my promises.”
“Don’t ever do that to me again,” he says softly.
Our eyes meet, and I hate that I can see the toll it took on him.
Things that are normally so well masked are broadcast for the world to see.
Ghosts of the fear linger just under the surface of his skin, and I swipe my thumb along those dark spots under his eyes like I might be able to wash them away.
“I won’t leave you again, Cato.”
He leans into my touch. “Good. We both know I’m supposed to be the reckless one, not you. Would be kind of rude to take that from me, don’t you think?”
My thumb drags over his lips, and he presses a kiss to the pad.
“It would be rather impolite.” I agree. He kisses my thumb once more before I pull my hand back, glancing around the room as I try to get my bearings.
Thick curtains are drawn over the windows and a bright fire crackles in the corner. I can’t tell what time it is.
“How long has it been?” I ask.
“Almost two full days. You were in and out for a while. Some of your wounds were pretty bad. You lost a lot of blood, and have a bunch of new stitches to add to your collection.”
“Ah, they didn’t let you sew me up, did they?”
“Ass,” he breathes with a quiet laugh. “Never fear. I wasn’t allowed anywhere close to the healers while they were working. You’ll stay pretty for another day.”
My smile fades as I process the information. My body feels heavy, but the worst of the pain has been dulled by whatever medicine they’ve given me. I try to sit up straighter and immediately regret it as fire shoots through my ribs.
Cato steadies me. “Easy. What do you need?”
“Bathroom,” I grunt.
He helps me up, letting me lean most of my weight on him as we shuffle to the attached washroom. I brush my teeth for long minutes until they finally feel clean again, then piss while he waits just outside the door. When I’m done, he helps me back to the bed and eases me onto the pillows.
I settle with a groan. “Tell me what happened.”
Cato sits on the edge of the bed, chewing on his lip and bouncing one foot restlessly beneath him.
“Well, you already know about someone in our group running off to be a martyr against a fucking army.” I grunt, refusing to answer even as he glares.
He rolls his eyes with a sigh and continues.
“We ran here, and the guards met us outside. I showed them the ring like you told me to. Oh, here…”
He pulls my necklace from his pocket and loops it around my neck. The weight is a comfort against my skin, and I wrap my fingers around it, tracing the familiar shape.
“They recognized it?”
Something crosses his face, and his eyes dart away. “Yeah, they definitely did.”
I glance over his frame, clocking his clean clothes and hair. “You look well.”
“They’ve been good to us. We’ve had private rooms, plenty of food, and healers. They sent out a search party to find you and tracked down some of the group that was chasing us… hells, they even brought in a few to question.”
I pause at the angry clench of his jaw. “Who questioned them?”
He licks his lips, fists curling over his pants. Faint bruises color his knuckles, dotted by scabs of deep crimson over fresh cuts. “It doesn’t matter,” he says.
“Cato—”
“No,” he interrupts. “Don’t. I won’t apologize for it.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to,” I say carefully as I examine his face, searching for regret but finding only steadfast defiance. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. You think I wasn’t the first one to volunteer?
” He shakes his head, frustration lingering in the stilted movement.
“No one knew what happened to you. They said you slaughtered a bunch of their warriors, then disappeared. When we couldn’t get anything else from them, we gave them a quick death.
It’s more than they would’ve done for us. ”
“We?” I prompt. He hesitates, focusing on my chest and refusing to meet my eyes. “Cato, what is it?”
His voice softens, turning cautious. “There’s something you should know, but I don’t know if I’m the one to tell you.”
“You can tell me anything,” I insist.
“I know that,” he agrees, nodding quickly, “but this is—”
Cato is cut off as the door opens, and a Dreven steps into the room carrying water and broth.
The shadows hide his face for a moment, but as he steps forward into the light, recognition hits me like a physical blow.
A lifetime of hoping and dreaming and praying builds into something so thick, I can barely breathe through it.
It’s like looking in a mirror.
He sets the tray down, and his gaze finally lifts to mine.
I search his features—the curve of his mother’s jaw, the sharp angles of my own cheekbones.
He steps closer, hesitant, like he doesn’t know if he should.
His fingers tap against the edge of the bed in that same nervous pattern he used to drum as a child.
I take his wrist with a hand that isn’t quite steady and turn it over.
An old scar travels up the pad of his palm, nearly erased by the years. I meet his eyes again, remembering them filled with tears as he stared up at me, no taller than my knees. He’d snuck into the blacksmith when I wasn’t watching and cut himself on the blades.
A million missed moments flash before my eyes as I take in the impossible sight of him before me. “Brihn?” I breathe.
“It’s really you,” he croaks before he rushes forward and throws his arms around me.
A choked sob escapes my throat as I pull him in, my hands cupping the back of his head.
He’s grown into a warrior and a leader, tall and strong, but for one aching moment I close my eyes and pretend he’s still the small boy who used to climb into my lap every night.
I can almost feel the weight of that child against my chest, the way he’d burrow close and demand I tell him stories until he fell asleep.
“Father,” he chokes out, barely more than an exhale. “When they told me they traveled with you, I didn’t believe it. I didn’t think it was possible.”
“So much has happened,” I say, holding him tight. “There is so much to tell you. I don’t even know where to begin.”