Chapter 7 #2
I ripped my hand back. Who the fuck was Gertrude? Did Noth have a blushing bride waiting in Allfenheim he didn’t tell anyone about? The flavor of black tourmaline hit my tongue. I didn’t want to admit it but I knew the taste of jealousy.
“I need some water.” Noth curled on his side like a dramatic little pill bug and moaned.
But Godds strike it, now I needed to know who Gertrude was. So I trudged downstairs and got him a pitcher of water and a cup.
Stomping back upstairs, I meant to roughly shove him awake.
Or pour the water all over him. I really did.
But he looked so vulnerable curled on top of the blankets, breathing through his lush mouth.
No one but Noth was adorable when sick. How did he manage that, wrong way on the bed?
I sat on the edge with a full cup of water.
I leaned over him, careful of his spill of hair.
All of his pomp and circumstance stripped away had me rubbing his back in smooth circles.
“Here’s some water, Rat Face.”
He cracked a bleary eye open. “I’m not a fan of that nickname.”
His voice was unfairly low, with his throat all scratchy, in a way that rubbed my thighs together. I didn’t understand how the girlie bits still had anything to say when I was trying to get him dead and he was sliming all over the sleeve of his shirt.
“Good. I’m not a fan of Pumpkin either. Now who is Gertrude?”
I realized that I was on the receiving end of what Evie must have gone through when her ex paraded around town crowing that he’d fucked both of us.
The bitter bile in the back of my throat burned with an ironic fire.
Somehow my hand still rubbed tight circles over his back as he sat up and took the cup.
“That’s amazing. You’re the best assassin I’ve ever had. The one that came for me when I turned seven was an absolute trash beast.”
People tried to kill him as a child? What?
Noth groped for his pack next to his bed and pulled out a silk handkerchief of all things and honked his blade-like nose into it like he hadn’t just said the most tragic thing I’d ever heard.
I stumbled into my feelings as they collided with all the memories brought up while I waited for him to die.
“I’m sorry, Noth.”
“S’okay,” he slurred. “Dad gave me Gertrude to make up for it. She was all small and just sprouting new leaves, not like the majestic Queen she is now.”
I never thought I would be relieved to hear the word ‘leaves’ in a sentence.
Noth’s face without the sneer he wore like his life depended on it, turned out to be a beautiful thing.
I’m sure he would have rather a more manly comparison to his dark glory or something equally ridiculous.
But I couldn’t deny he was delicately gorgeous when he got sick.
He should look arrogant or sadistically amused.
Annoyed maybe.
Lecherous in a way that made me think of his cock.
But vulnerable?
Never.
I squashed the impulse to stroke his ears.
“Just bright green secondary leaves until she grew strong enough to grow up her magenta primary leaves. Black Spice Dewpeppers live as long as elfs.. elf.. elves can. So she was just a wee baby.”
Noth rambled for the next hour about his childhood plant - soil depth, watering schedules, pruning. He laid bare his encyclopedic knowledge of every plant in the Harrowlands. The way he talked about Gertrude made it seem like she was his child. I poured him another cup of water.
“...and when the second assassin tried, Mum got me a shadowhound. She and Dad bickered about it for a week but she wanted me to have a balance between my Elven and Nightmare upbringing. With all the presents, I can’t help but have fond memories of attempted murder, Mags. What did you give me?”
His wheezing had already lessened, his skin now glistening with dew. How had I made him more attractive?
“Soft Shadowblow,” I replied.
Intelligence and awareness flickered behind his ruby eyes even while he slumped against the pillows. “That’s a good one. A slow, peaceful death where you just don’t wake up. Aw, Pumpkin. You were going to make it peaceful! Too bad I’m made of plant magic and shadows.”
He scooped me up in a sloppy hug, strong enough to keep me plastered to his chest.
“You’re clearly feeling better already.”
“I’m not. I’m really not. I need something to eat. Mum would make me chicken noodle soup. Go make that.”
Well, he was ordering me about, so he definitely felt better.
“I don’t know how to make that, Rat Face.”
He finally noticed the cap I still wore. “Was that you earlier? Clever girl.”
The praise did something funny to my insides. This was all wrong. He wasn’t supposed to love my murder attempts.
He fiddled with the strings of the cap. “If you can figure that out, you can figure out chicken noodle soup.”
Was this how he always got his way? This was a silly, frightening conversation, but he was too sick to remember most of it. A raw honesty welled up in me.
“I didn’t have a mum,” I slurred the word with my displeasure. “...who made me soup when I got sick. My parents didn’t love anything, let alone their children. ”
Noth rocked me against his chest in an over the top display of emotion. “Oh no. That’s so sad. They never taught you how to love?”
I jerked, offended. Not because he was wrong, but because Rue tried. He was making a show of this, but not taking me seriously popped the truth out of me. “You’ve seen the result. I’ve looked for it. Love ends up as my elaborate method of self-harm.”
He peppered my forehead with snotty kisses that no amount of pushing got me away from. “That’s not love, Pumpkin. You won’t find love searching for it in empty places.”
He said it as if part of me didn’t already know that.
Like Rue hadn’t helped me out of that hole and then I collapsed back into it when she died.
My anger sparked to life, obliterating any warm feelings our little chat stirred up in my flaming heart.
“That’s disgusting. Keep your fluids to yourself.
And call me Pumpkin again and I'm going to add to yours and start calling you Rat Face Pickle Pants.”
Noth released me and I stumbled off the bed. “You can call me anything you want if you make me some soup, MMMM-Maggie.” He ended with another room-shaking sneeze.
I gritted my teeth. He just used that so he would get his way. The unrepentant smirk on his face confirmed it. I slouched to the door.
“Don’t forget the parsley,” he said to my back.
I gripped the door frame as if it was his throat. For some reason, unknown even to myself, I turned to head downstairs to make him his thrice-cursed soup.