38. Blood in the Snow #3
Then he’s turning sideways, spinning around and catching that icicle with a broad flat of his tail, smacking it with all his might and sending it right back at me with blinding speed.
I have no time to move. No time to react, no time to utter words and cast a spell to protect myself as that fat icicle finds me—a dagger dead center in my chest, penetrating with a muted thud.
I hear my name hollered as though from far away. My eyes cannot move, cannot track for the source of the sound, even though I know who it is. I feel his agony echoing my own. I hover in place, my arms wide at my sides as though that might somehow keep me from falling. It does no good.
I go down, landing on my back in the giving snow.
I fall and know this is a fall I will never get up from—even as Tage fills my line of vision, looming over me, his expression perfectly miserable.
There are other sounds: the dragons continuing to fight their ongoing battle, wrestling for dominance.
Win or lose, it does not affect me. It does not have any bearing on me anymore. Because I’ve lost. Because I am dying. I am already gone. A mortal wound. Witch or not, I will not heal from this. I see my death in Tage’s eyes, reflected in the flashing prisms of ink. He knows it, too.
“Arden!” he cries my name multiple times as though that might do something, haul me from the precipice.
His eyes track from my chest to my face and back again.
A strangled sob rises from his throat as he chokes out, “What did you do? Oh, fuck, what did you do, you little fool? This wasn’t supposed to happen.
It’s not supposed to be like this. You and me. That’s how it should be.”
I smile weakly, loving that idea and loving even more that that dream existed inside him. Even if it can’t be. Even if, in one blow, it vanished like motes of dust in the dawn.
I fight for air that isn’t there and choke out only a few words. “I . . . helped.” Then I cough, feeling as though I’m drowning, blood swelling in my throat, sputtering at my lips.
He nods with a pained smile. “You did. You helped. I wouldn’t even be here if not for you.”
My smile pulls wider at the wonder of that. As much as this hurts, it means something. It’s not for nothing.
“Magic.” The single word spills from my lips.
He nods in understanding, his eyes full of suffering.
I wish I could spare him that, but he will survive. Live. Move on. Perhaps once in an age he will think of me. “I know. Magic. Pretty amazing stuff.”
It is. Too bad I only just realized that. I would have liked to know it sooner. I would have liked for it to make a difference in my life, in the lives of others.
I would have liked for a great many things.
I feel darkness taking over, pushing at the edges of my vision. My gaze fastens on Tage’s face, and I’m frightened to go, and yet content to know he will be the last thing I see.
With a final surge of strength, I lift my arm and trail my fingers against his cheek, the barest touch. I don’t have the strength for anything more than that.
I would have liked for so many, many things.
I would have liked to love again. To love and be loved. “At least . . . I—” My time with him wasn’t nearly long enough, but it was real and sweet and the best experience of my life.
He’s holding me then, pulling me up into his arms, chest to chest. No icicle juts from my torso anymore. It’s gone, melted into the heat of me. If only the harm done to me could disappear, as well.
I feel the presence of others around us.
Bodies pressing in. A quick glance reveals Viggo, Arvos, Danhy, and Merik all crowding close.
The skelm are gone. Injured and overwhelmed, they’ve gone.
Now Tage’s pride—his family—moves in and watches closely, seeing what it is Tage and I see.
To their credit, they don’t look happy or relieved at my apparent demise.
Viggo closes a comforting hand over Tage’s shoulder.
“Ah, fuck,” Merik mutters as he eyes me.
Even Danhy looks at me and then away, blinking her eyes as though overcome with distress at the sight of my inevitable demise.
Engulfed in Tage’s arms, I let my cheek collapse against his shoulder.
I go limp, everything dissolving out of me even as I take solace with a slow exhalation. A tingling burn starts at my center. Death wends its way through, coming, seizing, stealing me.
Except I don’t feel that darkness anymore. Not so much.
Tage holds me tightly, his embrace consuming, engulfing me. Between us, where the icicle pierced, my wound throbs, the tingling continuing, intensifying . . . spreading outward in hot prickles.
My vision begins to clear, pushing back against the shadows . . . and I suddenly don’t feel so weak or limp or . . . lifeless.
My fingers fold over his shoulders, hands gripping, tightening with growing strength, squeezing, pressing down on his firmness, relishing the sensation of him even as I pull back, inserting space between us. “Tage,” I whisper, sounding bewildered, feeling bewildered as I look down.
Why am I not dead? How am I still here? Talking . . . moving, each breath escaping smoother and smoother, flowing over my lips with growing ease.
His gleaming gaze travels my face, hungry, desperate . . . but without hope. I’m dead. I read that grim knowledge on his face. Until he looks down. Shock passes over his features and wipes free the hopelessness.
“Arden?” he gasps, quickly fumbling with my ripped tunic, seeking and finding my flesh, fingers slipping past the shredded fabric and touching me where the icicle penetrated my body.
Except there’s no gaping hole. No mortal wound.
No jagged, ripped skin and exposed tissue.
Only perfectly healthy skin, slippery with red and purple blood.
Red and purple.
My blood.
Tage’s blood.
Tage’s glimmering purple blood . . . all over me. In me. In my wound. Healing me?
Healing me.
I lift my face and lock gazes with Tage. “Tage?” I whisper. “Where . . . how?”
Is it possible?
Could Tage’s blood have fixed me? Could dragon blood have saved me? Clearly, from the look on his face, he had not known this was possible, and in that moment, I remember the harpies’ words: These new ones know nothing. They’re still learning what it is they are. They’re not like the Old Ones.
He does a rough mix of shaking and nodding his head, his teeth flashing as he laughs. “You’re good. You’re alive!” The words escape him in a spirited rush. As though he needs to hear this beyond just seeing the evidence of it.
His hand flattens over my chest where the wound once marked me for death. My heart beats fast and strong, rising up to meet the press of his hand.
“Tage,” I get out.
“Arden,” he returns fiercely. “We’re good.” He lowers his head to kiss me, and at this last utterance, I feel the conviction, the truth, of those words on his lips. I believe them.
In them . . . I taste forever.