Chapter 21 #2
His lips twist in some cruel imitation of a smile. “The beast was an abomination, the bastard progeny of a woman and a bull. It did not belong in the City of Gods. Or maybe I thought I did not belong, with my hideous mutation. I looked at that beast, and I saw myself.”
“Eurus,” I whisper.
“Look, what’s done is done. I should not have imprisoned the monster, but it escaped regardless, and together with Prince Balior, it destroyed Ammara’s capital—Notus’ home.”
Which was already suffering from drought, if I recall correctly. “But if you were in Marles, who was watching over the beast?”
Before he can respond, the door to the tavern rams open, and in stumbles a large group of blue-skinned gods and goddesses, their brows wreathed in laurel leaves.
“The mortal king of Ammara was willing to do anything to save the life of his newborn daughter, who was born frail. In exchange for Ammara’s rains and the king’s promise that he would maintain the labyrinth, I used some of the beast’s dark power to borrow twenty-five years of life for the infant girl—but it was a cursed existence. ”
It is a slow thing, this emergent horror. I can only listen as he goes on, the depths of his selfishness and malevolence brought into sharp relief beneath the low lighting of the tavern.
“I thought I had washed my hands of it.” As Eurus speaks, he looks elsewhere: the front door, the crowded bar, the couples dancing before the ensemble. Anywhere but at my face. “But years later, I learned the king’s daughter had grown, and Notus had fallen in love with her.”
“The child you cursed grew up to be your brother’s lover?” I whisper in dismay.
A muscle tics in his jaw, and he traces his scarred cheek, chin to temple and back.
“She wasn’t his lover at the time. Then, she was only an infant.
I didn’t care about the consequences when I made my bargain with the king.
I took Ammara’s rains,” he says in a tone I now recognize as remorse, “because I needed more power to fuel the storm surrounding the manor.”
“To keep others out,” I clarify.
“Yes.” It is quiet, this word. Quiet and defeated.
“I believed I offered nothing good—to anyone. Not to family, and certainly not to the world. So when my brothers and I were banished, I did everyone a favor, and I flew to a place I knew none would go, and it was there I built my life on the rock in the middle of the sea.”
The clink of glasses fills the silence that swells to swarm us both. What do you say when the person you have grown to care for reveals mistakes from their past? Choices that have led to grave peril? The destruction of others’ lives?
“What you did,” I whisper to the East Wind, “was wrong.”
He flinches, the fingers of one hand curling into a fist. “I know.”
“But I understand.”
He loosens a breath, and his other hand envelops mine, squeezing so tightly my bones creak. In times of drowning, we seek the rock, the pillar, the ledge. Tonight, I will be that rock for him.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said before, about the drought,” Eurus murmurs. “You’re right. My actions have consequences.”
It is what I’d hoped for him. “What will you do?”
The toe of his boot nudges my ankle. Even that brief contact coaxes my pulse higher. “I know what must be done, but… I don’t know if I’m ready. The storm is my protection. Yes, people are suffering, but—” He releases a self-conscious laugh. “Is it stupid that it makes me feel safe?”
“No,” I whisper. “It’s not stupid at all.”
“A part of me wonders if giving up the rains will leave me open to attack. I’m not saying no,” he adds hurriedly, perhaps sensing my apprehension. “I’m saying I need more time to decide.”
It is more than I ever expected from the god who once spoke of others’ suffering as though it were of no more significance than an unexpected drizzle.
We relapse into companionable silence. I drink the horrid ale, if only to prevent myself from doing something rash, like reaching for the East Wind instead.
“I want to apologize, bird.” He swallows. “Min.”
“Again? For what?”
The moment his black eyes capture mine is the moment I recognize that I have changed, as has he.
I have despised him, I have loathed him, I have judged him, I have scorned him.
But we are threads of the same loose weave, hardship fraying our lives.
I cannot despise the East Wind unless I despise myself.
“For how wrong I was to judge you,” he says.
“For doing everything in my power to hurt the one person who might be able to help me. For failing to see that who you are is separate from who you work for. For not lifting you up when you needed it. For withholding gratitude and appreciation. For making your time here horrible. For taking you from your home.” He trails off, his expression troubled. “And that is only the surface.”
We could be in a tavern, or a ballroom, or a library, or the middle of the street. It wouldn’t matter. My awareness of our surroundings has long since faded, and there is only the East Wind to anchor me to reality.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, voice hoarsening. “For everything.”
That he cares enough to admit his transgression shows how far the East Wind has come since our tumultuous beginning all those weeks ago. “Thank you, Eurus. Really. Thank you.” I do my best not to peer at him too closely for too long. His face fascinates me.
Apparently, his is not the only face others find fascinating. I have been so engrossed by our discourse that I have failed to realize that I, too, have become an object of interest to the divine seated at the surrounding tables.
“They stare,” I whisper.
“Because you are radiant, as Demi said,” he murmurs. “There can be no other reason.”
I shift in my chair, strangely breathless. “Or because I d-don’t belong.”
“What if I say that you do?”
My body leans toward him and the warmth that is promised. What does he mean, exactly? Belong here, in the City of Gods? Belong with him?
But it is a dangerous edge to toe, and so I retreat a step into safer waters. “What comes after?”
“After?”
“When the tournament is done. After you have won.” And killed the Council of Gods.
His knee brushes mine. My eyes drop to the point of contact, his heavy thigh cloaked in the stiff fabric of his trousers, mine concealed beneath layers of silk. The clamor of the tavern dulls, as though steeped in a heavy fog.
“I promised I would take you back to St. Laurent if you helped me, and I keep my promises. Unless,” he says with new intensity, “you have changed your mind?”
Weeks ago, I would have reaffirmed my desire to return home.
Now, I question the decision. Should I wish to open my own practice—and I believe that I do—Lady Clarisse will do everything in her power to sabotage me.
And then what? Homeless and out of work.
Nan’s legacy forever buried. “I don’t know. ”
“Why do you want to return to your old employer so badly?” he presses. “You know she will return to mistreating you. It may even be worse than it was previously.”
He is right. The moment I return, I will be punished. The only question is how severely.
“It’s not that I wish to return to her, necessarily, but if I want to be promoted to bane weaver, then I need to return to the estate. Do you expect me to just leave and start over with n-nothing, at a place I have no ties to, with people I cannot trust to have my best interests at heart?”
“That witch has never had your best interests at heart,” he argues. “And I question what will change, if anything, should you return to her.”
“What do you mean?”
“What of the immortals she’s taken prisoner? Will you return to your former life and do nothing as you did prior to coming here? Will you listen to their cries of pain and turn a blind eye?”
The churning in my gut hitches, for I can recall with frightening clarity how those cries broke against the walls of the estate.
“I d-don’t agree with her ladyship’s t-treatment of immortals,” I squeeze out, feeling suddenly small and pitiful, little more than the gunk wiped off the bottom of someone’s boot.
“So what will you do to stop her?” His tone has softened.
“I d-don’t—” I shake my head, throat stricken. He’s right. For all the years of my life, I did nothing. I was forever frozen by the fear of being cast out, drowned simply for the idea of existing. “I-I-I—”
“It’s all right, bird.” Eurus cups my cheek, and I calm. “We don’t have to discuss this right now.”
Thank the Mother of Earth for that. Reaching for the ale, I drink deeply, then drop the tankard onto the table with a retching sound. “Truly, this is awful.”
He chuckles. “Then why drink?”
Because it is less awful than granting space to the idea that returning to St. Laurent does not hold the same allure as it once did. Because I am not prepared to dissect the ways I have changed.
Here is what I know: I have grown to care for the East Wind, a man of brutish character, rigid boundaries, severe perspective, and gross misunderstanding—or so I thought.
He is officious, yet wounded. He clings to control to build security within himself.
He is a product of his environment, as am I, as are we all.
But even the hardest stone erodes should water impact its surface frequently, over lengths of time.
“I’m going to get another drink,” Eurus says. “Do you want something?”
My head tilts back to keep him in my sight as he stands, tucking his wings safely against his spine. “Water, please.” I watch him leave. I’m helpless to do otherwise.