Chapter 27 #2
“Even if I help you dispel the shadows from Elaerion, how can I know the elves will actually leave Earth?” I don’t even attempt to keep the distaste from my voice. “Your kind has grown quite comfortable here.”
“Some of us have, perhaps. The younger elves, who have spent the majority of their lives in this realm and know nothing else. Or the foolish ones, who have come to believe that the carnal delights of Earth could somehow surpass the serene beauty of our homeland.” Here, the king glances pointedly at his son.
Daerios doesn’t react, doesn’t even look at his father, but I see the knuckles turn white around his bow.
“But most of us long to return home,” the king continues, walking back over to stand in front of his throne.
“To the place we grew up, had families, raised children. The place we fought tooth and nail for during the Elemental Wars. The place I kept at absolute peace for almost a thousand years thereafter.” For a moment, his eyes drift upward, voice softening. “The resting place of my beloved wife.”
I glance at Daerios. His eyes are still pointedly on the ground.
The King clears his throat, looking back at me. “Elaerion is our home, Ms. Kallister, and I can assure you, when the time comes, even if a few stragglers remain here, the majority of us will go.” He pauses. “And anyone who knows what’s best for them will come with us.”
There’s a weight to his final words, an undercurrent that makes me think that, even though he’s looking in my direction, they aren’t intended for me.
But his next ones are. “If you agree to this deal,” he says, taking a step closer to me, “you will get everything you ever wanted: your brother’s safety, and for the elves to leave Earth forever.”
Except I’ll be dead.
But does that really matter, at the end of the day?
I cannot reach Elaerion or rescue Michael without the help of the elves; they’re his only chance at survival.
If I give myself up, Michael will get to come home.
Everything I’ve worked for floats before me.
All I have to do is take it. All I have to give up is my life.
And could I really live out the rest of it knowing that I left Michael to suffer?
I already know the answer to that. No. No, I couldn’t.
“I’ll do it,” I say before I can stop myself.
The King lights up. “Excellent!” he says, sweeping over and laying a delicate hand on my shoulder. “You are doing a great service to our people, Quinn Kallister. One day, they will write songs about you.”
“Charming,” I mutter.
It’s only then that I allow myself to look over at Daerios. To gauge his reaction. I expect joy, or at least smug satisfaction.
But when I meet his gaze, I see nothing but anguish.
After our meeting, I’m escorted to Sheep’s Meadow, where an elaborate tent camp has been set up to accommodate the royal convoy.
The tents are made of sturdy white canvas woven with yellow and grey thread—the colors of the Sun Elves and the royal family.
It takes up almost the entire meadow. A city within a city.
As soon as I set foot inside, I forget I’m in Manhattan.
Blankets and colorful tunics hang from clotheslines.
Enough weapons to arm a sizeable force lean against the outside of tents.
Somewhere, a fire burns, layering everything with the scent of smoke and charred vegetables.
I gaze around at it all, dumbstruck, as Rad pushes me forward, guiding me through the maze of pathways.
We stop outside a tent threaded with lime green sunflowers. Rad lifts the flap and gestures inside. “After you.”
I duck my head and blink in the sudden dimness.
My tent is surprisingly spacious and comfortable.
Thick carpet lines the floor. Colorful cushions and blankets form cozy little mounds throughout the space, books stacked beside them.
Light green fire burns at the center. I wave my hand near the flames and find that they emit no heat. Magic, then.
By all counts, it’s a rather luxurious place to curl up before you die.
After an hour, Daerios doesn’t show. Two, and he doesn’t show. Afternoon fades into evening, and still he stays away.
Fucking coward. I pick up a book from one of the stacks and chuck it at the tent wall.
At some point, an elf soldier I don’t recognize drops off a tray of food.
It’s a mouthwatering selection, probably straight from the king’s personal chef: venison, roasted potatoes, charred vegetables sprinkled with some fragrant herb.
I know it won’t be poisoned, because why would they kill me now, when my sacrifice on Elaerion is what they so desperately need?
Plus, it’s been hours since I last ate. Even if I’m not hungry, I should pick that plate clean.
I know what happens when I let myself skip one meal.
One turns into two, which turns into three, and soon I’m back in the cycle of restriction. Again.
Who cares? whispers a small voice at the back of my head. You’re almost at the end. You’re quite literally headed to a different planet to die. Who cares if you fall back on old habits now?
I stare at the tray of glistening food and think about a pink box of donuts instead. About a bowl of mac and cheese. About a tower of paal fed to me by hand. I think about how cared-for I felt in those moments. How seen. How loved.
I think about how it was all a lie.
The pain that knifes through me is so visceral it makes me bend over at the waist.
It was all a lie.
He never cared for you. He was just waiting for the right moment to see if you were truly the Lightbearer. You are worth nothing to him.
You are worth nothing at all.
I know these thoughts. I recognize them.
They’re the same sort of filth my brain tried to make me believe after Dad and Michael.
That I, on my own, am not worthy of being alive.
That I must look a certain way, must eat a certain way, must fulfill a certain set of criteria if I am to take up any space in this world.
I know exactly what this is. And on any other day, that recognition would have been enough for me to move forward.
To let those thoughts echo meaninglessly in the chamber of my head, giving them no weight, no value, until at last they dissipated on their own.
I’ve done it a thousand times since going into recovery. It always works.
But that was before.
That was before I learned the truth. Before I felt my heart tear wide open, leaving this gaping hole inside me.
The pain of losing Daerios is so much worse than I would have expected.
It feels nothing like losing a friend, or a boy I slept with one time.
It feels like an entire piece of my soul has vanished.
It makes no sense, and it’s excruciating.
It would be so easy to shut it off, whispers that same voice. You know what to do.
I look at the tray full of food one last time.
I turn around and walk over to the other side of the tent, leaving it untouched.
There’s a gap between the bottom of the tent and the ground.
Fading sunlight leaks inside through the crack.
I bend over onto all fours, checking for sets of elven boots or sandals.
By some miracle, the only guards posted to my tent appear to be surrounding the entrance.
Maybe the king trusts my word. More likely, he simply doesn’t imagine I have the guts to run.
And I’m not going to run. I’m not. If I leave now, Michael will never be rescued.
I just want to look around.
A hooded cloak hangs from the rack in the corner. My travel-wear for the next day, no doubt. I pull it off the hanger and slip it on. The material settles, heavy and oddly comforting, over my shoulders.
Slipping on a pair of elven sandals, I lie down on the grass and tuck my arms into my sides. Then I make myself as small as possible and roll out from under the tent.