In the Archive #2
“I don’t know. These are just notes, fragments of a larger work.
But if the rest of her research exists somewhere in this archive …
” He looked around at the vast chamber, at the shelves stretching away into shadow, his expression hopeful.
“We could find it. We could learn how to undo what Duskwood has done. How to cleanse the corruption instead of just fighting it.”
He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the stone floor. His hands were shaking, she realized. His whole body was trembling with the force of what he had discovered.
“Do you understand what this means?” He turned to face her, and his eye was blazing, alive in a way she had not seen since before his capture.
“All this time we’ve been treating dark aetheria as a permanent thing that can only be contained or bound.
But if it can be transmuted, if the corruption can be reversed . ..”
“Then we have a weapon,” Lark finished. “A real weapon. Not just swords and soldiers, but a way to undo the damage at its source.”
“Yes.” The word came out as a breath, as a supplication. “Yes.”
And then he was moving toward her, closing the distance between them in two quick strides. His arms were around her, and he was pulling her close, lifting her almost off her feet with the impetuous strength of his embrace.
Lark froze. For one heartbeat, two, she simply stood there, too stunned to react.
The top of her head barely reached his collarbone, and he had folded himself around her completely, his arms encircling her, his chin coming to rest against her hair.
Then her body remembered what her mind had forgotten, and her arms came up around him, her hands pressing flat against his back, her face turning into his chest.
He was warm. Even through his clothes, even in the archive's chill, he was so warm, the fire within him still there.
She could hear his heart pounding beneath her ear, could feel the tremors still running through him, aftershocks of the joy that had overwhelmed his carefully constructed restraint.
He smelled of leather and green growing things, achingly missed.
She let herself hold him. Let herself be held.
Let herself exist in this moment without questioning it or protecting herself from it, without armoring her heart or planning a hasty retreat.
She felt small in his arms, enveloped, sheltered in a way she had not allowed herself to feel since childhood.
It should have made her feel vulnerable. Instead, it made her feel safe.
His hand came up to cradle the back of her head, his long fingers tangling in her silver hair. His breath stirred the strands at her crown, coming fast and uneven.
“Lark,” he said. Just her name. Just the sound of it in his voice, rough and more real than anything he had said in weeks. She felt it as much as heard it, the vibration of his chest against her cheek.
And then he pulled away.
It happened so fast she barely had time to register the loss. One moment he was there, solid, warm and close, and the next he had stepped back, his arms falling to his sides, his face guarded and controlled.
“My apologies,” he said. His voice was steady again, the trembling gone, locked away behind whatever door he had slammed shut. “I shouldn’t have … that was inappropriate.”
Lark stood still. Her arms felt empty, her body aching with the sudden absence of his warmth.
“Don’t,” she said.
He blinked. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t apologize.” She forced herself to meet his eye, to not look away, to not let him see how much his retreat had hurt her. “Don’t pretend that didn’t happen. Don’t lock it away behind whatever wall you’re building right now.”
He flinched. The reaction was small, barely visible, but she saw it. She had learned to read him in their weeks of traveling together, in the days she had spent at his bedside. She knew what his defenses looked like from the outside.
“Lark.” His voice was quiet now, almost pleading. “I can’t. Not yet. I’m not …” He stopped, swallowed, started again. “I’m not who I was, and I don’t know if I ever will be again. Until I figure out who I am now, I can’t ...”
“I know.” She cut him off before he could finish, before he could say anything that would make this harder than it already was. “I know you're not ready. I’m not asking you to be.”
“Then what are you asking?”
She considered the question. What was she asking? For him to let her in? He couldn’t do that, not yet, maybe never. For him to acknowledge what had just happened? He had, in his own way, by apologizing for it. For him to stop running from her?
“I’m asking you not to regret it,” she said finally.
“What just happened. You let yourself feel, and you don't need to apologize for that.” She paused, choosing her next words carefully. “We found something important today. Something that could change everything. You’re allowed to be happy about that, and you’re allowed to share that happiness with someone.
It doesn’t make you weak, but it also doesn’t mean you’re healed or whole or ready for anything more than this moment.
It just means you’re still alive. Still capable of feeling things. ”
Rion was silent as his eye searched her face, though she could not have said for what.
“You’re very patient with me,” he said at last. “More patient than I deserve.”
“Probably.” She allowed herself a small smile, hoping to ease the tension that hung between them. “And I’ve been told that patience is a virtue. I’m trying it out. Seeing if it suits me.”
That twitch at the corner of his mouth again. Almost a smile. Almost.
“Does it?”
“The council is still out.” She turned back to the table, to the journal that lay open with its revolutionary words, giving him space to compose himself.
“We should make copies of these notes. And see if we can find the rest of her research. If the archivist knows where the founding scholars’ complete works are stored … ”
“Yes.” Rion’s voice was steadier now, the scholar reasserting himself over whatever else had briefly broken through. “Yes, that’s a good idea. I’ll ask her before we leave.”
They worked until the light from the high windows faded entirely, and the archivist came to tell them the archive was closing for the night.
Rion had carefully copied the relevant passages from the journal, his handwriting neat and precise despite the tremor that still occasionally passed through his fingers.
Lark helped him return the books to their shelves and roll the scrolls back into their cases.
They didn’t speak of the hug or acknowledge the moment that had passed between them. But the distance between them had shortened, and they both knew it.
As they walked back through the darkening streets of Springhope, Noctis appeared from wherever he had been waiting to circle around Rion’s legs, and Lark allowed herself to feel it.
Hopefulness.
Not for the discovery they had made, as revolutionary as it was, despite the war that was coming and the dark aetheria that threatened them all.
This was hopefulness for a smaller and more personal matter.
For the man walking beside her, his eye still bright with the excitement of the hunt, the door he kept so carefully closed cracked open just enough to let a little light shine through.
He had reached for her and held her close. He had said her name as if it held worth for him.
And even though he had retreated, even though the door had closed again, she had glimpsed what lay behind it. Just long enough to know it was still there.
That would have to be enough.
Lark was learning that patience, while not natural to her, was perhaps worth cultivating after all.