Broken, Beautiful
Lark woke to the sound of voices.
They were muffled, coming from somewhere beyond her door, but there was an edge to them that pulled her from sleep faster than any alarm could have. She lay still, listening, trying to make out words through the walls of the guesthouse.
Two voices. Male. One she recognized as Darian’s steady baritone. The other was Rion’s, defensive.
She rose and dressed quickly, not bothering with anything beyond the essentials. When she opened her door and stepped into the corridor, the voices became clearer.
“… can’t keep doing this.” Darian’s voice said firmly. “You’re hurting yourself, and you’re hurting her, and for what? Because you’re too proud to admit you need help?”
“This isn’t about pride.” Rion sounded exhausted, worn down. “You don’t understand.”
“Then explain it to me. Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re punishing yourself for something that wasn’t your fault, and taking everyone else down with you.”
Lark moved toward the common room, her bare footsteps silent. She stopped at the edge of the corridor, still hidden from view, and watched.
Darian stood with his arms crossed over his chest, his posture that of a soldier confronting an insubordinate recruit. Rion faced him, his back to Lark, his shoulders hunched in defeat. Noctis sat between them, his head swiveling back and forth as though following the argument.
“I’m not punishing anyone,” Rion said. “I’m trying to protect …”
“Goatshit.” The word cracked through the air like a whip. “You’re not protecting her. You’re protecting yourself. There’s a difference.”
Rion flinched. Even from behind, Lark could see the impact of Darian’s words, the way they landed.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I know exactly what I’m talking about. I’ve seen it before in soldiers who come back from bad campaigns.
They think they’re damaged goods. They think nobody could possibly want them anymore.
So they push everyone away before they can be rejected.
” Darian’s voice softened slightly, but lost none of its intensity.
“Is that what this is? Do you think she’s going to look at you and see someone damaged? ”
The silence that followed was long, heavy, and utterly damning.
Lark felt her breath catch. She shouldn't be listening to this. She should announce her presence or walk away and give them privacy. But her feet wouldn't move, her ears wouldn't stop hearing, and somewhere in the pit of her stomach, a cold understanding was forming.
“I am damaged. And she deserves better,” Rion said finally. His voice was barely above a whisper. “Better than half a man with one eye, no magic and nightmares that won’t stop.”
“That’s not your decision to make.”
“Isn’t it? I know what I am now. I see it every time I look in a mirror. Why would she want …”
“Because she broke into the Ashen Citadel for you, you idiot.” Darian’s patience had finally snapped.
“She killed for you. Carried you up a mountain. Sat by your bed for days. Brought your wolf to visit because she knew it would make you happy. Fetched your books and let you shut her out and kept coming back, regardless.” He stepped closer, his voice fierce and urgent.
“She’s not going to reject you because of some scars. The only person rejecting you is you.”
Rion said nothing. His head was bowed, his hands hanging loose at his sides. He looked shattered in a way that had nothing to do with his physical wounds.
Lark stepped back into the corridor before either of them could see her. Her heart was pounding, her mind racing, fragments of understanding clicking into place like pieces of a puzzle she hadn't known she was solving.
It wasn’t just the trauma, his locked magic, the nightmares, or the slow process of healing. It was simpler than that and more painful.
He thought he was unworthy of her, that his scars made him unlovable. He thought she would look at him and see damage instead of the man she had crossed half of Ianorrah to save.
She retreated to her room, sat on the edge of her bed, and tried to breathe through the ache in her soul.
She didn't know how long she sat there before the knock came at her door.
“Lark?” Darian’s voice, quieter now than it had been in the common room. “Can I come in?”
She considered saying no, pretending she had heard nothing and had absolutely not been eavesdropping on a conversation she had no right to witness. But Darian would see through that. He was too observant for half-baked lies.
“Yes.”
He opened the door and stepped inside, closing it behind him. His expression was unreadable, but there was sympathy in his eyes.
“You heard,” he said.
“Some of it.”
Darian nodded slowly. He didn't question the lack of privacy and didn't expect excuses. He simply stood there, waiting for her to respond.
“What was that about?” she asked, even though she already knew.
“I talked to him. He’s being an idiot, but not for the reasons you think.” Darian paused, choosing his words carefully. “Give him some time. He’s got things to work through, and I might have … uh … accelerated that process.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I said some things he needed to hear. Whether he listens is up to him.” Darian moved toward the door, then stopped with his hand on the frame. “He cares about you. Much more than he knows how to handle right now. Try to remember that even when he’s being difficult.”
Then he was gone, and Lark was alone again with her thoughts.
The day passed slowly.
Lark stayed in her room for most of it, pretending to read a book that some previous guest had left behind, unwilling to face Rion after what she had overheard.
She told herself she was giving him space.
That she was respecting his need to process whatever feelings Darian's words may have stirred up. But the truth was simpler. She didn’t know what to say to him, and even more so, didn’t know how to bridge the gap between what she had heard and what he had been willing to tell her.
Pippa brought lunch around midday, along with concerned looks and gentle questions that Lark deflected with monosyllables. She wasn't ready to talk about it. Not yet. Maybe never.
The afternoon faded into evening. The light through her window turned gold, then orange, then gray. She heard movement in the guesthouse, the sounds of dinner being prepared and eaten without her, the murmur of voices she could not quite make out.
But she didn’t go out and couldn’t bring herself to join them.
She simply sat on her bed, her hands creating cups and keys and plates like a nervous habit, the book open and unread on the table.
She watched the shadows lengthen slowly across the plank floor as she tried to untangle the knot of emotions that had taken up residence inside of her.
When the knock came at her door, she expected Pippa again, making another attempt to draw her out, to make her eat, to remind her that isolation was not the answer.
“Come in,” she said, not bothering to rise.
The door opened. And Rion stepped through.
He looked terrible. Worse than he had in days, the exhaustion carved deep into his features, his single eye red-rimmed and haunted. He stood in her doorway like a man approaching a gallows, his hands clenched at his sides, his jaw tight with the effort of being there at all.
“Can we talk?” he asked.
Lark sat up straighter. Whatever she had expected, it was not this. Not him seeking her out, coming to her room, standing before her with all of his walls crumbling visibly around him.
“Close the door,” she said.
He did. Then he stood there, uncertain, as though he had used up all his courage in the act of knocking and had nothing left for what came next.
“Sit down.” She gestured to the chair by the window, the one draped with her new blue scarf. “Before you fall down.”
He sat. The chair creaked under his weight, and he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and his head bowed, not looking at her. The lamplight caught the edge of his eyepatch, the scarred skin visible at its border.
“I wasn’t honest with you,” he said softly. “In the archive. When I said I wasn’t ready.”
Lark waited. She had learned in the weeks sitting at his bedside that Rion needed time to find his words. Pushing him only made him retreat further.
“Part of what I told you was true. I don’t know who I am anymore. I can’t reach my magic. I have nightmares every night that leave me shaking for hours afterward.” He paused, his hands clenched into fists. “But that’s not why I pulled away. That’s not why I’ve been keeping you at a distance.”
“Then why?”
He was silent for so long that she thought he might not answer. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough, stripped of all pretense.
“Every time I look in a mirror, I don’t recognize myself.
This face …” His hand came up to touch the eyepatch, the gesture automatic and bitter.
“This isn’t who I was. The scars, the empty socket, the way people look at me now and then look away …
” He let out a breath that shook. “I can’t understand why you would want this. Why anyone would want this.”
The words landed in the space between them, raw and painful and finally honest.
“Rion.” Lark’s voice was quiet.
“Darian told me I’m just punishing myself.
I know it’s not rational. But when I close my eye, I still see myself the way I was, and then I open it and catch my reflection and I …
” He stopped. Swallowed. “I feel like a fraud. Like I’m pretending to be someone I’m not.
And the thought of you looking at me, really looking at me, and seeing what I see … ”
“What do you see?”
“Someone damaged. Someone ruined.” His voice cracked. “Someone who doesn’t deserve you.”
His honesty, his pain, cut her through her. She wanted to fix this for him so desperately, but she wasn't sure how.