Chapter 31
Chapter
Thirty-One
- AYC -
A yc dreams of Xylie crawling through a window and a Xylie who now has Avabeth’s face, or perhaps, it’s an Avabeth wearing Xylie’s clothes. But mostly, Ayc dreams about Lora. He clings to those dreams. They are more comfortable than the reality.
He isn’t sure if he wakes up or falls asleep, but Peregrin sits beside him in armor now made of feathers. Ayc’s teeth chatter, and yet the blankets cling to his skin, damp with sweat. And everything, everything, everything hurts. He’s not a stranger to pain, but this feels like there is a beast inside of him, clawing to get out. He tries to form words past the pain, but all he can manage is a choke.
Peregrin bolts from the chair. They lift Ayc’s head and press a mug to his lips. “Drink.”
It’s difficult to get his muscles to follow commands. He sputters and gasps but manages to get down several gulps of the tea. As he drinks, relief floods through him, not complete, but enough that when Peregrin lets his head fall back on the pillow, Ayc can breathe. There must have been a feather within it, because the beast grows quiet. That was what he saw when he first awoke. Peregrin doesn’t wear feathers, but there’s a pouch at their neck and a few feathers poke out.
Ayc’s teeth still chatter, and he pats at the empty bed beside him. Something is missing, but he can’t remember what.
“Tavish took Saga outside,” Peregrin explains. “He’ll be back soon to keep you warm.”
They reach for a blanket crumpled at the end of the bed and pull it over Ayc, tucking it around his shoulders. The gesture makes Ayc feel young… and loved, but it shifts something on Ayc’s chest. The sharp object scraps along his skin. Ayc seizes it beneath the blanket and tries to thrust it away, but he only tugs at the cord around his neck.
It’s just the tooth, the one Ember laid in Ayc’s palm, like it could ensure Ayc would come home.
But with the scream of pain echoing through his muscles, with his head full of hallucinations and dreams, Ayc is more certain than ever it isn’t going to happen. It takes Ayc a few tries of opening and closing his mouth, but eventually, he speaks.
“How long has it been? Since I was stabbed?” Surely, it's been an eternity.
“Nearly forty-eight hours now.”
How many more hours does he have left until the three days are over? He can’t do the math in his muddled head. Too long. It’ll be too long. And it doesn’t matter anyway. Marcellus won’t keep his word.
Ayc pulls the tooth out from beneath the blanket and holds it up to Peregrin. He doesn’t have the strength to lift his head and free the cord. “Peregrin, if I die, will you take the leviathan’s tooth back to Ember? I want him to?—”
“Shut up!” Peregrin snaps, silver sparking in their eyes. “Shut the fuck up, boy. I am not going back and telling my child and my loves that we’ve lost you—that I lost you. So you’re going to hang on. You’re going to survive.”
Ayc’s chest hurts, but this is a pain deeper than physical. Tears burn in his eyes. He wants to sob, the deep, relentless type of crying he hasn’t done in a long, long time. But he blinks the tears away. He clings to the remnants of his strength like it’s the very edge of a cliff about to crumble.
“Marcellus isn’t coming back,” Ayc reasons.
“Yes, he is. Tempest and I will hunt him to the ends of the earth if we must, but he is coming back. You will not die. You won’t—” Peregrin’s voice breaks, and the silver fades from their eyes to make way for a flash of something else.
Ayc looks away, unable to bear it. He tells himself this isn’t real. He must be dreaming again, because Ayc has never seen Peregrin cry.
It cannot be real.
- LORA -
Lora paces at the end of Ayc’s bed. It’s noon on the third day, and Marcellus said he would be back at sunset. Only a few hours to go, but overnight, Ayc has been fading faster.
This is the first time Lora has seen him in nearly twenty-four hours. Avabeth has limited time when her absence won’t be noticed, and if she’s not sitting in Xylie’s place, no one else can leave the waiting room. It means that most of the time Ayc has been alone, or at least alone except for Saga. But Avabeth is currently in the waiting room, ensuring that Erech lays eyes on who he thinks is Xylie so he doesn’t get suspicious. Lora took the brief opportunity to see Ayc, and she noticed the change as soon as she laid eyes upon him.
Ayc’s breaths have become shallow, and his skin has turned a sickly yellow. He hasn’t been seizing or vomiting, but he hasn’t woken up since last evening when Peregrin sat at Ayc’s bedside. The healers and nurses must now give total care to him: repositioning his body to prevent sores, cleaning his mouth every two hours to keep away infection, and frequently monitoring his breaths and heartbeat. Per the healer’s reports, he doesn’t even stir.
Lora understands the signs all too well.
Just a few more hours, she reasons. They just need a few more hours. By now, Xylie has surely made it to Velphin, though the flight would have been long and hard. She will try to bargain for what Ayc needs, but it’ll surely be another day until she’s back. Ayc doesn’t have that long. Marcellus is his only hope.
Still, two words echo in her head, a haunting refrain.
He’s dying.
…dying…
Lora’s eyes sting, and she presses them shut.
“Water.” The request isn’t stronger than a croak. She whirls toward Ayc. His eyes are still shut, but his lips move again.
“W-water.”
Lora rushes to the pitcher on the stand beside his bed and pours water into a cup. When she looks again, one of Ayc’s eyes has peeked open. She offers the cup, and he raises a hand, but it trembles like the last leaf of autumn clinging to a barren limb.
“Here.” She lowers herself gingerly to sit on the bed beside him. She cradles one hand behind his head and helps him lift it as she brings the cup to his lips. He drinks it down, his body shaking.
Lora grits her teeth. She hates this, hates how fragile he seems. No matter what the kids around her thought, she never once thought of him as weak. Disadvantaged, perhaps. Different, certainly. But not weak. The way he could smile with a knife at his throat always made her admire him a little too much. She wants that now. She wants him to tell her a joke, one that is so ridiculous she'll want to punch him, but he slumps backward onto his pillow.
“Thank y-you,” he says, his teeth chattering.
She sets the cup down on the stand and pulls the blankets up to his chin, hardly registering her own movements.
“C-cold,” he says, though sweat shines on his brow and he’s covered with three blankets. A fire still roars in the fireplace. It’s sweltering in this room.
Lora looks to the side door, wondering if perhaps she should get Tavish and Saga, but Lora has only a short amount of time before Avabeth must leave. She forces herself not to hesitate, knowing if she does, she’ll let fear get the best of her. She stands and swiftly strips out of her armor with practiced ease until only her tight black shirt and breeches remain. She kicks off her boots and then lifts Ayc’s blankets.
“W-what are you—” Ayc begins, but Lora ignores him and slides beneath the blankets. The bed is narrow, meant only for a single person. She has to press her body against his side to fit. She tucks the blankets back around them but keeps her body stiff and rigged. She hovers her head above his shoulder, trying to touch as little as possible.
“O-oh,” he whispers softly into her hair.
She isn’t quite sure what to do with her hands, so she keeps the one that is not beneath her awkwardly pressed to her shoulder. Then, slowly, she lets it relax, resting it on his chest, careful not to let her pointed nails touch his skin. His breath stills beneath her touch, pausing for a small eternity before he releases a shaky exhale. And she finds she was right about touching him: he gives beneath her touch. He is not stiff and unmoving. He is soft and alive.
Her fingers flutter with the desire to explore his chest, trace the lines of it, explore the hills and the valleys, but she forces her hand to be still.
“Better?” she asks.
His teeth are not chattering now. “Yes.”
“Good.”
Her neck aches in the position she has been holding it, so she allows her head to fall onto his shoulder. He adjusts his arm from beneath her and curls it around her. Goosebumps prickle along her arms, even though heat blazes from Ayc’s skin. She has never been the type to lay for hours in someone’s arms. She’s never seen the point. But she might like this a little too much: his heartbeat beneath her palm, the steady rhythm of his breath, the way his fingers absently trail over the taut muscles of her back, convincing them to ease. She takes a breath, and despite herself, her body fully relaxes against him.
They fit together, the two of them, like a sword resting in its sheath. The strange sense of well-being and warmth settles over her, the same tenderness she felt as she watched Ayc bake in her grandmother’s kitchen. She could stay here forever, live in this moment and make it her home. Here, with him.
Ayc’s voice vibrates in her ear, “Hey, Lora, why didn’t the wall trust the stairs?”
Lora tilts her head up. She catches the smallest of grins playing on his lips, though his eyes are still closed. Her own lips tug up on one side. It feels so good to hear him speak. Perhaps she was wrong in her assessment. If he has the strength to joke, perhaps he’s doing far better than he first seemed.
“Because they’re always up to something,” she replies.
“Damn, I’ve already told you that one, huh?”
“Twice.”
“Pathetic of me, really. I ought to do better.”
Almost without realizing what she’s doing, she fiddles with the cord around his neck, the one connected to the leviathan tooth. His eyes open at last, revealing that stunning blue.
“Will you read to me?” he asks. A grin curves fully up on his lips, now, and her heart swells with hope. “From that dirty book of yours.”
Warmth stings her cheeks at the reminder that he not only read her book, but he read the portion she paused on. “No. Absolutely not.” As much as she’s relieved to see him so alert, she’s not giving into that request.
“It’s not kind to deny a dying man his last wish.”
The words wound more than any weapon. Her hand clamps over the tooth. It’s larger than her fist. She grasps it so hard her hand shudders. “No, because you will not die,” she snarls. She pushes herself up on her elbow so she can look down at him. “Do you hear me, Ayc? Do not die.”
His smile disappears. A muscle in his jaw jumps as it tightens. “Fuck off, my lady.”
She forgot for a moment—the power she has over him. She drops the fossil tooth with a growl of frustration. “That isn’t an order. I’m not giving you an order. But you can’t die, Ayc. Do you understand? You can’t.”
He searches over her face like she’s a book whose words are written in a foreign language. Then he shrugs, shuts his eyes, and sinks deeper into his pillow.
No, he isn’t taking her seriously enough.
“Will you look at me, Ayc?”
When he doesn’t, her hands fling to his cheeks of their own accord, framing his face. “Ayc!”
His eyes flutter open.
“I need you to promise me you won’t die.” The words open a vein, and she can't make her mouth stop. She bleeds out the words, one by one. “I need you to keep being a pain in my ass, all right? I need you not to die. I just need?—”
You.
She stops before that last traitorous word can leave her lips.
“Promise me, Ayc,” she insists. “That’s not an order. Just… please.”
“Why?” he demands.
He searches her eyes, and he’s much too close. Their noses nearly touch. His breath teases her lips, smelling of the wash the nurses have kept his mouth clean with and the sharp, bitter smell of whatever tonic the healers last gave him. This close, and he can see right through her. Yet, she can’t bring herself to draw away. His face fits into her hands far too perfectly. Her thumb glides against the stubble on his chin, across those white crescent scars where the stubble doesn’t grow.
And fuck, she does hate him for this. Hates how being this close to him is such fucking torture, and yet she doesn’t ever want to be anywhere else.
“Why, Lora?” he snaps again. His hand lifts and cups the back of her head. The pad of his thumb presses against her jaw, and all of her senses narrow down to that spot.
“Why w-what?” she asks, hating the way her voice trembles like she’s the one with a fever.
“Why do you care so much about what happens to me?” Something burns in his eyes, too hot for the blue. And that heat blazes into her. She closes her eyes to block him out, but it only serves to heighten her senses. She's aware of every millimeter of his skin when he guides her closer and presses his forehead to hers. “Don’t tell me it's only out of guilt for what your mother has done. I don’t believe you. Why did you really come for me? Why can’t you leave me now?”
“I just… can’t.”
The tip of his nose brushes down the bridge of hers. “You can do better than that. I deserve more than that.”
His voice is his own, but deeper. Stronger. It makes the hope grow wings and soar around her chest. Perhaps, the healers are wrong. He’s stronger than anyone gives him credit for. He’s fine. He’s going to be fine.
“I don’t know how to explain,” Lora manages. The emotions clattering around inside her can’t be illustrated in a few sentences. It would take twelve tapestries to capture, and at least six dozen books. It would take decades to explain all the things she feels for him .
“Try.”
She shakes her head, her eyes still closed, and something soft as rosebuds trail across her cheekbone. Lips. His lips.
Her heart slams against her sternum. One small tilt of her head, and she could meet his mouth with her own. And she wants to kiss him. She wants to know what his mouth would feel like against her lips, against her body, between her thighs.
A shudder passes through her, and perhaps he feels it, because he chuckles. When she peeks her eyes open, he wears a wicked smile, like he now knows that he’s winning this game that exists between them.
“You’re supposed to hate me,” he says.
“I do,” she lies. Or perhaps it isn’t a lie. She hates him for how much she wants him.
“Then leave me.”
It’s a dare. A challenge. And she doesn’t care when she fails it.
“Never,” she snarls.
His hand glides back to tangle into her curls ever so carefully, not tugging on the strands. “Why are you always so stubborn?”
“Why are you such an obtuse asshole?”
Their foreheads still touch, and her fingers drift of their own accord, down his neck and onto his chest. His breath releases in another unsteady exhale, and she barely controls her own breath. They are so close, and yet, still so far away. Between them are millimeters and miles and this game—this ridiculous, foolish game that has existed between them since they met, that has been present every time she’s held a knife to his throat. A game of tension and half-truths and words unspoken and risks they do not dare to take. A game that will end as soon as they close the distance between them. But neither one of them moves, neither of them able to be the first to surrender.
And so he does what he always does when the tension rises between them. He tells a joke.
“Do you know what you get when you cross an obtuse asshole with?—”
“Shut up!” she growls. “For once in your life, cinnamon roll, just shut up!”
And she kisses him.
It isn’t a conscious choice. It is inevitable.
They have always been charging toward this moment. But when she closes those millimeters of distance, she understands why she resisted so long. There’s power here, a magic that can’t be cast with words. Walls crumble, and the world utterly changes in the moment that her lips collide with his.
He stiffens in surprise, but his hesitation lasts only a heartbeat before he responds. His hand tightens at the back of her neck, and he pulls her until their bodies are flesh together. They come together like swords clashing. Sparks ignite, and the heat roars through her. If he keeps kissing her, she will go up in flames. She will die with him.
Die. Dying.
Reality crashes back to her. She yanks herself back, managing to pry herself only a finger’s breath away. She gasps for a breath. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
“Yes, you should have,” he argues. “You absolutely fucking should have.”
His hands slide down her back, pressing her toward him. It takes every shred of her will to turn her head. His lips find her jaw instead and forge a path across it. Every warm caress of his lips sends a shiver through her, melting the tension in her muscles, chipping away at her resistance.
“You’re sick.” Her protest is weak. Breathless.
“And it’s a miracle,” he says against the curve of her neck. “I suddenly feel fine.”
He lays a kiss where her pulse thrums. Slowly, first with his mouth, then with his tongue. When he kisses her again, he’s only moved millimeters, like he means to devote time to every inch of her skin. She trembles and bites hard on her lower lip to keep back the whimper that rises in her throat.
“You’ve been given medicine,” she says, and she isn’t sure if she’s convincing him, or herself. “You may not be thinking straight.”
He rests his head back on the pillow, creating space she desperately needs. His eyes are bright, and the look he gives her is unguarded, but she still can't define it. She only knows she wants to weave tapestries using only the shades of blue in his eyes.
“Medicine can’t make me want something I’ve wanted for years.”
“Years?” she repeats. “You’ve wanted?—”
“Lora.” Her name growls off his lips. The vibration of it rattles her all the way to her core. “Shut up, and let me kiss you.”
The last of her reasons fracture, and she can only nod. He guides their mouths back together, and she realizes she’s fucked. Completely and totally fucked.
Because no one has ever kissed her like this .
Males have kissed her like it’s a task to be completed before moving on to more exciting things. But Ayc kisses her slowly like he cherishes every brush of their lips, like he could kiss her for the entire rest of his life and never bore of it. Then, when her mouth parts for him, his kiss becomes more urgent, desperate. Like he is dying of hunger and she is the only thing that will satisfy.
And his hands—oh, his hands. They glide lightly across her back like she is something to be worshiped, something so priceless he must handle with care. Then, just as quickly, he grasps her to him tightly, his fingers sinking into her soft flesh, like she is something he longs to devour. And then back again.
Worshiped and devoured, devoured and worshiped.
It’s too much. Every long withheld emotion ignites within her, and she blazes so hot she thinks she might explode at the seams. This is too much. It’s everything .
“Lora,” he groans against the skin of her neck. The next time, her name’s a growl again. “Lora.”
And nothing—not anything in this divine forsaken world—could keep her away from him now. She arches against him, sinks her fingers into his hair to hold his face to hers, drags her hands down his body. And he meets her every violence with tenderness, her yearning with ferocity. Of course, kissing him would be like this. Like an endless battle and final salvation, all at once.
There’s still too much between them, too many clothes, too many words unspoken, so many wounds unforgiven. She longs to rip it all away until there is nothing left but this . These kisses and his skin and something to satisfy the damp ache building between her legs.
He is everything.
When he presses against her, she allows him to change their positions, until they are both on their sides and every last inch of their bodies weld together. His fingers pluck at the hem of her shirt, but he hesitates there, as though seeking permission, Yes, she’s about to demand. Fuck, she’ll plead if he must, if he’ll just touch her , skin to skin. Every part of her aches for him. She can’t make the words form in her throat, so instead she yanks on his bottom lip with her teeth. She expects a groan or a curse, but she’s rewarded instead with a grin. His lips curve against her own, and the brightness of him glows in her chest, like she’s swallowed sunlight.
His chuckle shudders through his body as he maneuvers away from her mouth and back to her neck. He grazes his next words playfully against her throat with his teeth. “My vicious, beautiful villainess.”
“Ayc,” she whispers back. My Ayc.
“Do you remember what I said about my new goal?”
“No. When were we talking about goals?”
He whips his head back so quickly cold hits her like an avalanche. She’s about to yank him back, but the cloud of confusion in his eyes halts her. He searches her face, looking bewildered, lost, as though he can’t quite remember where he is.
Then a look of crushing disappointment crosses his face. He sighs, and the sound is as bitter as the darkest of chocolates. “Oh, fuck, I’m dreaming again.”
“What?” she mumbles. “What are you?—”
He flops onto his back and flings an arm across his eyes.
“Ayc?”
But his breath already moves in the slow pattern of sleep. At least, he looks comfortable. A red flush colors his pale cheeks. A sign of life.
She takes a moment to catch her own breath. Every nerve still feels alive from his touch. But honestly, what the fuck is wrong with her? He seemed fine, completely within his senses moments ago, but of course, he isn’t. He can’t even tell that their kiss isn’t a hallucination. Maybe, when he wakes up again, he won’t even remember that this happened.
And she will never forget. His kiss lingers even now, on her lips, on her jaw, on her neck.
A knock sounds at the door. It’s probably Avabeth. Lora has been in this room far too long.
She climbs from the bed and gathers her armor, strapping it back in place, like it can shield her from all the things that she feels for him. She makes the mistake of looking back at Ayc, at his beautiful face and mouth still puffy from her lips. She cannot stop herself from bending and brushing a kiss upon his forehead. He smiles in his sleep, and she hopes his dreams are good ones.
He’s fine. He’s going to be fine.
“How is Ayc?” Avabeth whispers, when Lora opens the door.
Lora glances past her, into the room, but Erech is absent. Probably only stepped outside to relieve himself.
“I spoke to him,” Lora replies, “and he seemed fine a minute ago. Normal almost.”
Avabeth frowns. “I’ve seen that happen fairly commonly when people are this ill. They regain strength and seem fine, right before?—”
She stops. As the blood drains from Avabeth's face, the hope in Lora's chest plummets like its wings have broken.
“Right before what?” Lora snaps.
Avabeth doesn’t meet Lora’s eyes when she answers. “Right before they die.”
In the waiting room, Lora watches the pattern of sunlight change on the floor. Avabeth comes back every two hours and allows Lora to peek in. Whatever fresh energy Ayc felt when he kissed her disappears. He does not wake up again. At times, the spaces between his breaths seem too long, and at others, he breathes far too quickly.
The healers are honest. Ayc will likely not make it another day. Perhaps, not even through the night.
The shadows on the floor grow longer. Through the window, Lora, Peregrin, and Bronwen watch the sun slip beneath the horizon. Tavish sits with them, and he doesn’t ask for the time, but perhaps he can feel the end coming.
The sun sets.
Darkness falls.
And Marcellus does not come.
Lora’s entire world tints with silver, her very soul shaking with rage, as she storms toward Erech. “Where the fuck is he?”
Erech shrugs, sheathing his sword for the first time in three days. “He must have gotten held up. Either way, your end of the bargain is done, and I don’t have to babysit you anymore.”
He turns around and saunters from the room. Lora almost follows him, intent to tear him apart with her bare hands, but she sucks in a breath. Focus. Time is running out.
She snatches Tavish’s pack from where it lies on a chair. She yanks out a map of Everadyn and spreads it on the floor before Tavish. “Find him.”
He leans over the map, concentrating. Bronwen kneels beside him, and Peregrin moves to the door of the hospital room. They open it, so they can watch Ayc and the map all at once. Lora forces herself not to look into that room .
“Find him,” Lora commands again.
“I’m trying,” Tavish says, rubbing the heels of his hands against his temples. “But I can’t. It’s like he’s shielded himself or something.”
No, no, no, this can’t be happening. Lora can’t lose Ayc. She refuses.
One more chance enters her head, and she changes the request, “Find Wren.”
Tavish hesitates, staring past Lora’s right shoulder. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to find out if she knows where Marcellus went.” And then I’m going to kill her.
Wren is a traitorous bitch who played with Ayc’s affections like it meant nothing and then handed him over to his death. Lora will enjoy every moment of disassembling her body.
“Lora,” Bronwen says, because surely she knows. But Lora shoots her a look, and she only says, “Throw an extra punch for me.”
Tavish's hand shudders a moment, before he stabs a finger onto the map. A village that is close, perhaps only an hour’s hard ride away.
Perfect.
Lora jumps to her feet. “Bronwen, Peregrin, stay with Ayc. Tavish, ride with me in case she moves. Those priests better have a fast horse.”
There will be one less bitch breathing come morning.