82. Leandra
The world comes back in fragments.
Pain first, a deep, pulsing throb that radiates from the right side of my face, spreading through my skull like cracks in ice. It’s dulled, wrapped in something chemical and syrupy that makes my thoughts sluggish, but it’s still there underneath, waiting. Patient.
Then light that is far too bright. I try to open my eyes, but only one responds.
The left. My right eye refuses, held down by something thick and oppressive.
Bandages. I can feel them now; the texture of gauze against my cheek, my temple, the ridge of my brow.
They pull with every small movement, every twitch of my face.
Don’t move.
I don’t know if the voice is mine, or instinct or something else entirely, but I obey.
I lie still, breathing through the fog, trying to piece together where I am.
The air smells of antiseptic and something floral; lilies, maybe, and there’s a beeping somewhere to my left. Steady. Rhythmic. A heart monitor.
Hospital. I’m in a hospital.
But not a real one. I know this because I can feel silk beneath my fingers, not the starched cotton of institutional sheets. And the light is too warm, too golden, filtering through windows rather than fluorescents. The villa, then. One of the rooms converted for medical care.
I try to remember how I got here and come up blank.
There was the ritual. The stage. Ezekiel’s screams. Blood on my hands, hot and sticky and so red against the white of the marble floor.
I remember Lazarus’s voice announcing a new era, I remember the weight of him on top of me, inside me, the press of his body against mine as the crowd watched.
I remember…Nothing after that. Nothing at all.
My left eye drifts closed, and I let it. The darkness is easier. The darkness doesn’t hurt.
But then something shifts beside me. A sound. A breath that catches on something raw and torn, and I know that sound. I know it down to my bones.
I force my eye open again and turn my head slowly, carefully, ignoring the way the pain spikes and the room tilts, and I see him.
Lazarus.
He’s sitting in a chair pulled right up to the edge of my bed, his body angled toward me like he’s been here for hours. Days, maybe. His hand is wrapped around mine, his fingers intertwined with my own, and the contact is the first thing I feel that isn’t pain or numbness. It’s warm. Steady. Alive.
But when I look at his face, my heart stops.
There are bandages wrapped around his throat.
Thick white gauze circling his neck from just below his jaw almost to his collarbone, wrapped so tightly I can see the faint outline of padding beneath.
His skin above the bandages is mottled, bruised in shades of purple and yellow that make my stomach turn.
His lips are cracked. His eyes, those dark, fathomless eyes that I’ve seen fill with rage and obsession and something terrifyingly close to love, are fixed on my face with an intensity that hurts to witness.
He looks like he hasn’t slept in a week. He looks like he’s been gutted and stitched back together, and the stitches are barely holding.
But he’s here. He’s holding my hand, and he’s alive.
And then I see Ezra. Curled up in a chair beside Lazarus, his small frame tucked into the corner, his knees pulled to his chest. His face looks pale, his dark hair tousled, and there are shadows under his eyes that shouldn’t belong to a child.
He’s asleep, his breathing shallow and uneven but even in rest, he looks fragile. Broken.
My chest tightens as I remember the chapel.
Ezekiel. The cage. Ezra locked inside it like an animal, his small hands gripping the bars, his eyes wide with fear but also something else; resilience.
He’s seen too much. Too young, too soon.
He witnessed his own father murder his mother, he’s lived a life steeped in violence and horror, and yet here he is; still breathing, still fighting.
I hope he isn’t traumatized by what happened, but I know better.
I know the scars Ezekiel left on him run deeper than flesh and I know, with a clarity that burns through the haze of pain and drugs, that I will not let him suffer alone. Not anymore.
I make a silent promise to myself, to him too that I will protect him. From now on, I will be the mother figure in his life. I will shield him from the darkness that has haunted him for so long. He will be safe because I will ensure it.
The colours around Lazarus are dim, muted, like a watercolour painting left too long in the sun.
Exhaustion and pain bleeding into something softer, something almost tender.
I watch the edges of his aura shift and blur, the deep blues and violets that are so uniquely him flickering with threads of grey and gold.
He’s hurting. He’s been hurting, but there’s no anger here. No shadow.
Just him.
“Lazarus.” His name comes out as barely a whisper, my voice scraped raw and unfamiliar, like I haven’t used it in a long time.
I don’t know if I have. I don’t know how long I’ve been lying here, drifting in and out of consciousness while my body tries to heal itself from whatever happened. “You’re…”
I trail off because I don’t know what he is. Hurt. Damaged. Here. All of those things feel too small for what I’m seeing.
He opens his mouth and for a moment I see the effort it takes. The way his jaw tightens, the way the muscles in his neck strain against the bandages. When he finally speaks, his voice is a ruin.
“I’m here.”
Two words. That’s all. But they come out cracked and shredded, dragged over something sharp, barely louder than a whisper themselves.
It sounds nothing like him. Nothing like the voice that whispered filthy promises in my ear, nothing like the voice that declared war on the Brethren and the Esau both, nothing like the voice that told me he loved me with such quiet certainty that I almost believed him.
This voice is broken. This voice belongs to someone who almost died.
I stare at him, at the bandages around his throat, and I understand.
Someone tried to kill him.
Someone tried to take him from me and nearly succeeded.
I don’t know the details. I don’t know who, how, or when. The ritual was meant to be a victory, a reconfirmation, the moment when Lazarus cemented his power and I stood beside him as his equal. As his. We were supposed to be untouchable. We were supposed to be safe.
But looking at him now, at the evidence of violence wrapped around his neck like a collar, I realise safety was never really an option. Not for us.
Something in my chest cracks open. It’s not sadness exactly, it’s bigger than that; sharper, laced with a fury so pure it takes my breath away.
Someone hurt him. Someone tried to take him from me, and I wasn’t there to stop it.
I was lying here, useless and broken while he was fighting for his life.
The colours around him pulse softly, and I can feel him watching me.
Waiting. Even through the pain, the exhaustion and the damage to his voice, he’s waiting for me.
Ready to catch me if I fall. Ready to soothe whatever distress shows on my face even though he’s the one with bandages around his throat and bruises on his skin.
I want to ask him what happened, I want to ask him who did this so I can find them and make them suffer.
I want to ask him about the ritual, about Ezekiel.
About the Brethren and the Esau, and everything that happened after I lost consciousness.
There are a hundred questions burning in my throat, clawing at my tongue, desperate to be spoken.
But I look at him, really look at him and I see the way he’s holding himself, the careful stillness of a man in so much pain that even breathing hurts.
The beeping of the heart monitor steadies.
The pain in my face settles from a roar into a hum, and Lazarus doesn’t move.
He doesn’t speak. He just sits there, his thumb tracing a slow circle against the back of my hand, and the colours around him shift again.
Still dim. Still exhausted. But brighter now, just a little.
Like a candle catching flame after too long in the dark.
I don’t know what happens next. I don’t know how long it will take to heal, or what scars I’ll carry, or whether the damage to my eye is permanent.
I don’t know if Lazarus’s voice will ever sound the same, or if the violence that nearly killed him was sanctioned or secret, an enemy’s attack or a friend’s betrayal.
But I know this; he is here. I am here, and Ezra is here. And whatever comes, we’ll face it together.
I feel the pull of sleep again, the weight of the drugs dragging me back under. I fight it for a moment, not wanting to let go. Not wanting to lose even a second of this, of him, of his hand in mine, of the quiet certainty that we survived.
But then Lazarus leans forward, slowly, carefully, and I feel the brush of his lips against my forehead. They’re dry and cracked and the kiss is feather-light, barely there at all, but it sends a shiver through my entire body.
“Rest,” he croaks, and the word is a command, a plea, and a prayer all wrapped together. “I’ll be here when you wake.”
And I believe him. I don’t know why, love makes fools of us all I suppose, but I believe him. So I let my eye stay closed, I let my hand stay tangled with his. I let the darkness rise up and swallow me whole, and this time, I’m not afraid.
This time, I know I’m not alone.
The last thing I’m aware of, before the world fades away entirely, is the colours. Even through my closed eye, even through the bandages and the drugs and the pain, I can still see them. Lazarus’s colours. Deep blue and violet and gold, steady and constant, wrapped around me like a shield.
And I trust them.
I trust him.
Everything is going to be okay.