Chapter 23
Nate
Elven medicine is miraculous. Sure, I am still very much underweight, but within the span of six weeks they’ve healed all my bruises, and the messed-up ankle.
I can again move without constant pain, and while I’ve been advised not to jump or run yet, I’m confident that I could.
I was even gifted a new pair of glasses, made out of ‘moonshard’, which not only help with my vision issue, but also allow me to see well in the dark.
I wish the medics could heal my mind with the same ease they’ve fixed my body…
Every night is a struggle. Now that I can sleep in comfort and I’m not permanently exhausted anymore, I find it hard to drift off, then snap out of my nightmares, wailing for the man I chased out of my new quarters right after he delivered me here.
And then I’m only able to fall asleep when I hug Lady and imagine she’s Tristan’s warm arms, which is… disturbing and embarrassing.
It’s not healthy, this obsession I still have with him. Not when he’s the reason for every traumatic experience that turned me into this nervous wreck of a human being. Not maliciously, but he did make me trust him and then left me with a psychopath who clearly enjoyed the torture he inflicted.
Instead of questioning why the letters Gloombane made me write were so very dry, he waited, waited, waited until I became an empty shell, frightened of every noise, even the ones made by rats inside the walls.
And then he just took ownership of me, as if I was a fancy symbol of power, not a person with his own wants, needs, and feelings. The worst thing about it? I’m starting to recognize the echoes of his emotions on the other end of the thread connecting our shadows.
And I hate it, because staying angry would have been easier if I sensed positive emotions.
Instead, I’m flooded by melancholy almost as intense as my own.
Half of me expects it to be a trick, because he can’t possibly be this upset about not seeing the wreck of a human I’ve become.
My hair might have grown back, the bruises are a distant memory, but I’m just not the same.
It took me a week to be rested enough to write an actual message to Tristan, but he answered me promptly.
I found out that the glass tube in the middle of the spiral staircase down to the library is not just a safety measure, but a kind of elevator for books so they don’t need to be carried up and down.
Tristan and I use it to exchange letters.
The old me, the Nate who believed in love and swoony knights, would have considered our correspondence the height of romance.
Now, I’m more inclined to assume he has reasons to sway me so that I can become his Dark Companion.
Why he’d want one with a shadow so weak, I don’t know.
I’ve done a lot of research about the topic in the past weeks, and it doesn’t make much sense.
All Tristan told me was how special I’d be as a Dark Companion, and what a gem in the crown of the palace I’d be.
I now know the stories of many humans from the past who were royal Dark Companions, and many of those people met tragic ends, or led unhappy lives.
Most of all, Tristan never mentioned how lending one’s shadow is a physically taxing act.
I would have most definitely suffered if Gloombane ended up as the shadow wielder I was bound to.
With my shadow so measly, I would probably be at the end of my rope any time he used it.
And he would have drained me completely, just to freely find someone better.
I shudder, and the feather in my hand leaks ink onto the paper as I press it down too hard. I drop it to the desk, then attempt to wipe off most of the dark red fluid, but it only results in a greater mess—both on the letter and my hand. I look like I’ve gotten old blood over me…
It’s the same color as the vermin who fed on me at the tower…
I shoot up, struggling to breathe, and once again, there’s that creaking noise inside the wall. I ignore it, because otherwise I’d have to fear that those monstrous leeches have followed me all the way here.
Lady lifts her head, red eyes following my every move as the room spins around me, and I collapse, reaching for her. I need to get the blood off me, or else they’ll come for me.
My teeth clatter by the time the unnaturally big puppy crawls under my arm, whining softly. Even so young, she can sense my distress and offers comfort.
I love her so much.
She’s the only thing keeping me going in my small world of wood, paper, and dust. She’s licked tears off my face and gave me the sweetest hugs.
Twice a day, I let her go down the stairs, and Tristan then takes her for walks.
It’s a very strange type of shared custody that leaves me with mixed emotions.
On one hand, I don’t like when she’s away from me, but on the other, I’m happy that her world is bigger than mine. She gets to hang out with Tristan, who took care of her when I was away, and I see how much she anticipates it. So I’m happy for her. Maybe even a little jealous.
That she can spend carefree time with him. That she’s had a terrible start in life yet bounced back without trouble, while I’m still broken.
Tristan always attaches a little gift, or another message for me to her collar, and while there’s always a pretense of it being about our research, they’ve become more…
tender. I’m ashamed to say I’ve not discouraged him.
I eat any treat he sends me and find it endearing how he always assures me it has ‘no animal’ in it.
And while we don’t speak in person, the messages have also become more frivolous.
He’s written to me extensively on how he’s been working with the royal cooks to perfect a recipe for a pizza made out of their local ingredients.
Yesterday, the update was that it’s not perfect yet, but Tristan has managed to coerce Prince Sylvan to share his crop of tomatoes.
I find the simple nature of those musings so sweet and soothing.
I would like to try this new style of pizza some day, and I wrote to him about that, even though I know I shouldn’t have.
But as much as I dream of seeing him, stepping out of the Book Mausoleum feels like jumping off a skyscraper. And while thoughts of him calm me, I’m still refusing to see him in person.
Servants come in several times a day. Initially, I found their presence awkward, but I was so weak that their help proved invaluable.
A maid named Celeste is the most frequent visitor.
She brings all my meals, and after a week at the palace, she convinced me that rearranging my quarters is no trouble.
As soon as I made the tiniest mention of it to Tristan in a letter, he sent a decorator to ‘help my wishes come true’.
Now, the drab walls have been covered with beautiful tapestries that additionally ward off the cold and hide the skulls and bones of librarians past. The books have been moved to one side of the room, so I have a space I can call mine.
I own several new pieces of furniture, and flowers are regularly replaced in large vases, filling my new home with soft fragrance.
Suspiciously, every bouquet is arranged to contain a lusciously green herb reminiscent of a fern.
It carries the exact scent that’s so prominent on Tristan.
Perhaps I should call him out on it. But I don’t want to. This scent makes me feel safe.
The attic remains somewhat eerie, but with the addition of color and soft fabrics, it’s cozy rather than oppressive, like the hut of a hedge witch who came into a bit of money.
Courtesy of Tristan, I’ve collected quite a few unicorn-themed trinkets, and I have to say it suits my aesthetic much more than the gloomy gothic style that featured here before.
While I don’t have a fireplace, because of the books, as soon as I complained about the green of swamplight, I was provided a powder to put over the torches that makes the light glow blue instead.
Other than growing tomatoes, Prince Sylvan is the castle’s master alchemist, with whom I’ve corresponded about rare potions, which has been a dead end.
I did have some hopes about his husband, Hawk, who possesses a rare ability of consuming shadows.
If he could eat mine, I’d be free of the attachment to Tristan, but Sabine explained that his magic only works on elves.
Which brought me back to square one.
I still don’t know how to break our bond, and neither I, nor Tristan, nor Sabine have managed to find any truly useful information about finding unicorns yet.
Without a busy job, phones, or the internet, I seem to have more time for pondering everything.
Especially in daytime, when I sit with Lady on the carpet and look at the stars through the skylight, wondering whether my bond with Tristan really is now written in them.
Or what that might mean in a magical world.
If it’s something that physically happens, then how could a unicorn rewrite that?
And how has Sohan communicated with one?
In his mind? Or does the animal speak? Is it even an animal?
All questions I’ve eventually exchanged with Tristan, yet seeing him and talking to him is a whole different story.
I worry that if I meet him in person, look into his golden eyes, and feel the warmth of his fingers, I will be fooled into the stupid attachment called love.
I don’t believe in this kind of stuff anymore.
I can’t. Not after Gloombane.
He killed all the joy I was ever capable of, and my ability to trust.
And love? Its first blossoms were what put me in that position in the first place.
Even now, with Lady lovingly putting her head in my lap, I feel empty, as if a part of my soul has departed.
Once again, there’s a creak, and the massive dog barks, staring at the wall.
“It’s all right, girl. It’s just rats,” I whisper, scratching her behind the ear.