Chapter 18 #3
“You’re not w-wrong about me,” I whisper.
“I am weak, cowardly.” Then I wince, for who cares to admit such feeble traits?
“After Nan passed, my… her ladyship bought the estate, relegating me to her assistant. She claimed I needed direction, claimed she would teach me all that she knew, so that one day I m-might take over the apothecary when I was ready.” My mouth bends, sullen and resentful.
“It was a foolish hope, to think I might prove myself to her l-ladyship. To think I might be proven w-w-worthy of the honor of bane weaver.”
My eyes sting. Tears, again? I have tried every day of my life to be what Lady Clarisse wants, but in the end, I am only stupid Min, foolish Min, incompetent Min who is more a burden than a blessing.
“When will it stop hurting?” My words are garbled, choked by emotion.
The East Wind smooths a hand across the back of my skull. “When will what stop hurting?”
“Living.”
Wordlessly, he gathers me into his arms, one palm cradling the back of my head.
My breathing grows more erratic, stretched to a high keen that cracks against my teeth.
The dim is all around us. The tears will not cease.
They well and gather, sliding across the dips and hills of my face as, curled into his chest, I release back-breaking sobs.
A stream of warm air stirs my hair as the East Wind says, with a gentleness I yearn for, “I understand, bird. Living does hurt. But don’t be like me.
Don’t pretend your pain does not exist, because it will eat at you.
Eventually, you will no longer recognize the lonely creature you have become.
I would not wish that for you. I would not see your kind heart grow cold. ”
“Is that what h-happened to you?” I ask, leaning back, though not far enough to completely remove myself from his embrace. With a tentative touch, I trace the frayed edge of his hood. “Is that why you refuse to show your face? Because y-you fear your own reflection?”
The East Wind holds himself in high tension. I can almost feel it, like a mist against his skin, spreading taut to encase his bones. “My scars remind me of a time when I was helpless and alone. I do not like to be reminded of that. It is not pleasant, my face.”
“I’m sure it is not as bad as you th-think,” I reassure him.
His laughter contains an unexpected trace of humor. “I am aware of what I look like, bird. Trust me, it’s not a welcome sight.”
I pluck a loose thread from the blanket, considering how best to ask for what I want. I would like to think our walls are lowered and mutual understanding reached. “Would you allow me to r-remove your hood?” If I am to look upon the East Wind, if I am to understand him fully, his armor must fall.
“I do not think that is the best idea. I would shield you from what lies beneath, if possible.”
“What if I t-told you I don’t care what you look l-like?
” I counter. Before he can respond, I push forward.
“I have seen ugliness in all forms, Eurus. Your features cannot scare me.” I waver, for to live is to be brave, and I have never considered that a strong quality in myself.
But I reach toward his hood regardless. Darkness consumes the tips of my fingers, which brush something smooth, yet softly prickled in texture: the East Wind’s stubbled jaw.
He goes still, yet: “Go on,” he murmurs.
Catching the edge of his hood, I draw it back. It falls away to reveal a head of thick black hair, tousled; a raw-boned face; dark eyes and wide cheekbones, like those ancient gods from Nan’s homeland, forever enshrined in her holy books.
But that is where our similarities end, for the East Wind’s visage is twisted and malformed.
The entire left side is puckered by a stretch of old scarring.
A portion of his hairline has receded where the damage is particularly severe.
His left eye has been spared, though its corner droops slightly, smeared into the damage blotting his cheek.
Burn marks. I would recognize them anywhere.
But they do not detract from the rest of his features.
The right side of his face, largely untouched by scarring, reveals considerable beauty.
His jaw is sharp and wide. The pupils of his eyes are clear.
His mouth: long and of pleasing shape, one side soft, the other kinked with scarring.
What of the rest of his body? Is it, too, marked by scars?
The East Wind begins to draw his hood back up.
“No, please.” I catch his hand. For just a moment, our fingers lie curled beside each other’s, like kits in a burrow. “Don’t cover up.”
He stares at me. It does funny things to my insides. “My features are too ugly.”
“You’re not ugly,” I say. Then, quieter: “Not to me.”
Reluctantly, he lowers his arms, granting me permission to continue my perusal. My body buzzes with sudden anticipation as I reach for his face and allow the tips of my fingers to coast along the raised, toughened skin, a gossamer touch.
His expression changes then, thawing into tentative pleasure as my fingertips travel along his jaw, up and across his unblemished right cheek.
His eyebrows are straight, yet sparse. His nose slightly rounded at the tip.
And I was mistaken. His eyes are so much richer than I first perceived, gleaming black stones shaded by short eyelashes.
And somehow… somehow, we have drawn closer.
I’m not sure who moves first, but as the East Wind cradles the back of my head, he brushes a soft kiss across my cheek.
The scarred edge of his mouth grazes my skin, and my head sinks beneath high waves, the sea drawn into my lungs.
Two heartbeats later, Eurus pulls back. I blink at him, dazed.
“Rest, bird.” After easing me back onto the mattress, he tucks the blanket around my form. “You deserve it.”
As he shifts away, I catch his hand, peer up into a face that is both familiar and wholly new. “Thank you,” I whisper.
His mouth curls, the disfigured corner pulled taut. “Don’t thank me,” he says. “I’ve done nothing to earn your gratitude and everything to earn your spite. But tomorrow is a new day. I’m going to make this right.”
Then he is gone, and I am left with the warmth of his gift, this darkness that is his and mine to share.