15. Esmerelda
ESMERELDA
Things are good.
Too good, whispers a voice in the back of my mind. Too easy. Too perfect.
I've been waking up in Stellan's arms every morning for four days now, falling asleep to the sound of his breathing every night.
The beast inside him is quiet, settled, content in ways he says he's never experienced before.
He smiles more, these small, rusty expressions that light up his whole face when they appear.
He touches me casually, fearlessly, like he's finally starting to believe he won't break me.
He laughs, sometimes, these surprised huffs of sound that make my heart ache with how rare and precious they are.
Everything I wanted. Everything I reached for.
So why do I feel like I'm waiting for something to go wrong?
The question has been gnawing at me for two days now, this restless energy that I can't quite name or dispel.
I should be happy. I am happy. Happier than I've been in years, maybe ever.
But there's something underneath the happiness, something that feels uncomfortably like anxiety, like the need to move and act and do something productive before the universe notices how good things are and takes them away.
I'm in the common room, supposedly reading a novel Eliza lent me, but my eyes keep drifting from the page.
The words blur together into meaningless shapes while my mind circles around a restlessness I can't quite name.
Around me, the other women are going about their routines.
Margot is knitting something soft and blue, her eyes occasionally flicking toward the hallway where Roman is still recovering.
Camille is cleaning her knife with methodical precision.
Eliza is making lists for the kitchen supplies that need replenishing.
June is reading in the corner, though I've noticed her attention keeps drifting toward the door, toward the hallway, toward wherever Kieran happens to be.
Normal things. Peaceful things. The kind of domestic quiet I should be grateful for after everything that's happened.
But I can't settle into it. My hands want to move, my mind wants to work, and the part of me that's spent my entire adult life helping people is screaming that there has to be something I can do.
Something I can fix.
The thought crystallizes, sharp and sudden, and I find myself setting down the novel and reaching for my phone. The compound has limited internet access, patchy connections that the brothers maintain for essential communications, but it's enough to search. Enough to research.
Berserker rage.
The words appear in the search bar before I've fully decided to type them. I hesitate for just a moment, some small voice warning me that this might not be the right approach, and then I hit enter anyway.
The results are mostly fiction, fantasy novels and video game references that have nothing to do with what Stellan actually experiences.
But buried in the noise, I find academic papers on rage disorders, on trauma responses, on the neuroscience of violence.
I find articles about grounding techniques, about cognitive behavioral therapy, about anchoring methods that help people stay present during episodes of dissociation.
My training kicks in, the social worker part of me that knows how to research intervention strategies, how to build treatment plans, how to find resources for clients who are struggling.
I start taking mental notes, then switch to actually typing them into a document.
Breathing exercises that activate the parasympathetic nervous system.
Progressive muscle relaxation. Visualization techniques.
Sensory grounding, the 5-4-3-2-1 method that therapists use for panic attacks and PTSD flashbacks.
I dive deeper, finding case studies about veterans with combat-related PTSD, about the effectiveness of different therapeutic approaches, about the role of anchoring relationships in recovery.
Some of it is promising. Some of it seems applicable.
All of it makes me feel like I'm doing something, contributing something, being useful in a way that just existing alongside Stellan doesn't quite satisfy.
There has to be something here that could help him. Something that could make the morveth easier to manage, easier to control. Something that could reduce his suffering, give him tools, help him feel less like a monster waiting to emerge.
Something that would prove I'm useful.
Something that would prove I deserve to be loved.
The thought stops me cold. I stare at my phone screen, at the article about trauma-informed grounding techniques, and I feel something uncomfortable twist in my chest.
Is that what this is? Is that why I can't just be happy, can't just accept that things are good and stop trying to fix them?
"What are you reading?"
I startle, nearly dropping my phone, and look up to find Kira standing behind me. Her eyes are on my screen, her expression unreadable, and I feel a flush of something that might be guilt crawl up my neck.
"Research," I say. "For Stellan."
"Research to fix him?"
The words hit harder than they should. "To help him. There's a difference."
Kira doesn't answer right away. She moves around the couch and sits down beside me, close enough that our shoulders almost touch, and when she speaks again, her voice is gentler.
"What did you find?"
"Grounding techniques. Anchoring methods.
Ways to help people stay present during episodes of dissociation.
" I hear the defensiveness creeping into my voice and try to soften it.
"He's been living with this for fifteen years.
I just thought maybe there's something out there that could make it easier. "
"Has he asked for help?"
"What?"
"Has Stellan asked you to research treatment methods for the berserker?" Kira's tone is careful, neutral. "Has he said he wants you to find solutions, to fix the morveth, to make it go away?"
"No, but?—"
"But you decided he needs it anyway."
The words land like a slap. I open my mouth to argue, to explain, to defend myself, but Kira holds up a hand.
"I'm not trying to attack you, Esme. I'm trying to help you see something.
" She pauses, choosing her words. "You've been watching Stellan for months.
You've seen his pain, his isolation, the way he holds himself apart from everyone.
And now you're finally together, finally close enough to touch all that hurt, and your first instinct is to research how to fix it. "
"I just want to help?—"
"And that's beautiful. It really is. Your compassion is one of your greatest gifts.
" Kira's voice is gentle but firm. "But not everyone wants to be helped.
Not everyone needs to be fixed. Sometimes the best thing you can do for someone is just be present.
Not fixing. Not solving. Just existing alongside them. "
"He's in pain, Kira. Every day, he carries this thing inside him that could break loose at any moment. How am I supposed to just watch that and do nothing?"
"Is that what you've been doing? Nothing?
" She raises an eyebrow. "From what I've seen, you've been doing a hell of a lot.
You've been reaching for him when everyone else keeps their distance.
You've been touching him when he expects people to flinch.
You've been staying when he tells you to run.
You've been loving him exactly as he is, beast and all. "
"But that's not?—"
"That's not useful?" Kira finishes quietly. "That's not productive? That's not something you can point to and measure and prove your worth with?"
The words hit somewhere deep, somewhere I don't want to look at. I feel tears prick at the corners of my eyes, sudden and unwelcome, and I blink them back furiously.
"That's not fair."
"Maybe not. But it might be true." Kira takes my hand, squeezing gently.
"I've known you twelve years, Esme. I know how you love.
You throw yourself into it completely, giving everything you have, taking care of everyone around you.
And it's beautiful. It really is. But sometimes I wonder if you know how to just receive.
If you know how to let someone love you without earning it. "
"Of course I do."
"Do you?" Her gaze is steady, unflinching.
"Or do you immediately start looking for ways to be useful, to prove you deserve the love you're being given?
Ways to fix and help and solve problems so that the other person needs you, depends on you, can't leave because you've made yourself indispensable? "
I want to argue. Want to tell her she's wrong, that my research is about Stellan's wellbeing and not my own need to feel necessary. But the words won't come because somewhere deep down, I'm not sure she's wrong.
"I just want to make it easier for him," I whisper.
"Maybe. Or maybe you need to be useful to feel okay about being loved."
The silence that follows is heavy, loaded with implications I don't want to examine. Kira doesn't push, doesn't try to drive the point home. She just sits beside me, holding my hand, giving me space to process what she's said.
"I don't know if you're right," I finally say. "But I can't just dismiss it either."
"That's all I'm asking. That you think about it.
" She squeezes my hand again. "Stellan doesn't need you to fix his berserker rage.
He's been managing it for fifteen years without you.
What he needs is someone who sees him, all of him, and stays anyway.
You're already giving him that. Maybe that's enough. "
"What if it's not?"
"Then you'll figure out together what else he needs.
But together, Esme. Not you deciding for him what help he requires.
" She releases my hand and stands. "I love you.
You know that. But I've watched you exhaust yourself trying to save people who didn't want saving, trying to fix things that weren't yours to fix.
I don't want to watch you do that to Stellan. Or to yourself."
She walks away, rejoining the others, and I'm left sitting with my phone in my hand and a hollow feeling in my chest.
Later, alone in the room I've been sharing with Stellan, I think about what Kira said.
Is she right? Is this about my need to feel useful more than it's about his actual wellbeing?
I think about my childhood, about growing up as the helper, the nurturer, the one everyone came to with their problems. My parents' marriage was happy, stable, but they were busy people, and I learned early that the best way to get attention was to be helpful.
To anticipate needs before they were expressed. To make myself indispensable.
I think about my career, about choosing social work because I wanted to help people but also because I wanted to feel necessary.
Every case file, every intervention, every family I reunited or child I protected, it all fed something in me that needed to know I was doing good in the world. That I mattered. That I was useful.
I think about Stellan, about the way he looks at me like I'm something precious, something sacred. About the way he holds me like he's afraid I'll disappear. About the way he whispers "you're still here" every morning like he can't quite believe it.
He's not asking me to fix him. He's never asked me to fix him. He's just grateful that I stayed.
And maybe that should be enough.
But what if it's not? What if someday the beast breaks free and hurts someone, hurts me, and I could have prevented it if I'd just found the right technique, the right approach, the right way to help?
The door opens, and Stellan appears, filling the frame with his massive presence. He pauses when he sees me sitting on the bed, my phone forgotten in my lap, my expression probably showing more than I want it to.
"Everything okay?" His voice is soft, careful. The way he always speaks when he's worried about spooking me.
"Fine. Just thinking."
He crosses to the bed and sits beside me, the mattress dipping under his weight. His hand finds mine, engulfing it, and I feel some of the tension in my chest ease.
"About what?"
I could tell him. Could explain about the research, about Kira's confrontation, about the doubts that are spinning through my mind.
But something stops me. Maybe it's pride.
Maybe it's the fear that he'll see through me the way Kira did, see the needy, desperate part of me that has to be useful to feel loved.
"Just the war," I say instead, the half-truth sliding out more easily than I expected. "Everything that's coming. All the uncertainty."
He studies my face for a long moment, those dark eyes searching mine with an intensity that makes me want to look away. I can see him deciding whether to push, whether to probe beneath the surface, whether to ask the questions I can tell are forming behind his careful expression.
"Okay," he finally says, and there's a wealth of understanding in that single word. "If you want to talk about it—really talk about it—I'm here. Always."
"I know." I lean into him, resting my head against his broad shoulder, feeling the solid warmth of him seep into my bones. "I know you are."
He wraps his arm around me, pulling me close against his chest, and we sit in comfortable silence as the afternoon light gradually fades to evening through the bedroom window. It's peaceful, comfortable, the kind of quiet intimacy that should fill me with contentment. Everything I should want.
But underneath the surface contentment, the doubt remains, persistent as a low-grade fever.
Maybe Kira's right. Maybe I need to learn how to just be present in moments like these, how to receive love without constantly trying to earn it, how to trust that simply being myself—flawed, uncertain, sometimes broken—is enough.
Or maybe there's still something I can do to help, something tangible and concrete.
Something I haven't found yet, haven't researched deeply enough.
Something that will make a real difference when the war finally reaches its inevitable climax and Stellan has to unleash the beast again, has to let that darkness consume him.
I don't know which path is right. And that uncertainty sits heavy in my chest, a weight I can't quite put down no matter how I shift it.
Tomorrow, I'll decide. Tomorrow, I'll figure out whether to keep researching, to keep searching for answers, or to let it go entirely.
For now, I let Stellan hold me, and I try to believe that this moment is enough.
That I am enough.
Even if I'm not sure I believe it yet.