Chapter 1 #2
She hadn’t attempted bathing since then. Only using the basin on the vanity in her room and washing cloth to cleanse what dirt she could from her person before slinking into bed every night.
Her embarrassment did not stem from all that she’d been through, but from the sole fact that she was tired of running.
All of her determination, all of her fight for freedom and independence from the identity that haunted her, it’d led nowhere.
It left her with too many questions, too many nights spent crying herself to sleep because she missed being known by someone—missed having someone to talk to who wasn’t dead.
And, of course, there were the prayers she’d been hearing.
“There is nothing wrong with going back home, Nymiria.” Owen’s voice was soft, no longer laced with the same amusement as before.
She glanced at him with a half-smile, rolling her eyes at herself. “I always told you that it wasn’t the thought of going home that scared me—it was the memories that came with it.”
“Those people are gone now. The people that hurt you, the people that abandoned you, your mother… they aren’t there anymore.”
That was what Owen never seemed to understand.
Because while those people did not exist in body, they existed in her memories.
They existed in the parts of her that she still hadn’t learned to love.
She struggled with her mistakes. She struggled to believe that the pain she felt in being away from those she loved was not deserved.
As if seeing the direction in which her thoughts were travelling, Owen released a frustrated grunt and rose to his feet.
“That’s enough of that.” He made a beckoning motion with his hands, urging her to get up.
“Let’s go. The more you sit here feeling sorry for yourself, the more time you waste. Do something useful with that pain.”
She squinted against the rays of the sun as she looked up at him, lips a tight line.
“Someone is taking their job as a nanny very seriously.” She grumbled.
Still, even in her ire, she lifted herself off of the ground and followed his misty form further down the stream.
“You know, I’m beginning to think what my life would be like if you’d gone to your grave hating me.
That’s the usual reaction, you know? To hate the person that killed you. ”
“Aye, it is.” He glanced over his shoulder at her, but did not stop walking. “Alas, I find myself falling more and more in love with you every time I remember what you did to me.”
Nymiria rolled her eyes. “I hate that, too. That my violence does not illicit the desired effect on people.”
Owen laughed aloud and, for a moment, Nymiria believed the sound could be heard echoing through the forest. Despite everything, she smiled too.
“Perhaps, one day, I will love you so much that it eventually turns to hatred.” His features became more rigid, like just proposing the idea brought him pain.
“You were never mine to keep, Nymiria. I will come to terms with that eventually.”
She opened her mouth to speak, to say something that could comfort the mournful soul in front of her, but there was nothing.
Owen had always been a firm believer in the gods—in fate, especially.
And while he’d loved her fiercely during their time together, every conversation about a future together never went the way she wanted.
He’d always said that—that she was not his to keep.
At first, she believed it was because of their stations in Yaar that he said those things. Now, knowing what he knew, she could feel nothing but a deep sadness that she could not heal for either of them.
Owen had known about Aziel, had known that he was her mate.
Not because Aziel had told him, but because Owen had his own suspicions about who she was and what her ties to Aziel truly meant.
He’d known that Nymiria was to be the next Goddess of Life and he’d known, given his close relationship with the bastard prince of Yaar, that Aziel was the God of Death.
Perhaps she’d never been Owen’s to keep, but she wished that there was someone who could have been his. He deserved that much.
“Stop moping.”
Nymiria groaned loudly, throwing her hands up into the air in exasperation. “You are the most annoying travel companion I’ve ever had. At least Oran would allow me to whine a little.”
“You and Oran spent the vast majority of six months getting black-out drunk and stumbling through forests together. I’d hardly say either of you accomplished much during that time.”
“We were finding ourselves.”
A snort. “Finding yourselves drunk.”
She couldn’t argue with him there. The only good idea Oran had during that time was them boarding that ship to Shidosha.
Even then, none of that had gone to plan.
She felt guilty about it—wondering if Oran ever made it to Fiernan’s side, wondering if he settled into life on the islands, wondering if it’d been the balm for his soul that he’d hoped it would be.
She was an awful friend. And an awful travel companion.
By the time they reached anything remotely familiar, Nymiria’s legs were burning so intensely that she plopped herself onto the ground and refused to take another step. Owen, turning to see her state of dishevelment and the dark circles under her eyes, smiled as he relented to her request.
Over the last six months, Nymiria had worked hard at conjuring things with her magic. Just as Aziel had procured food from thin air, she’d been able to produce a few apples and a too-thin fish every once in a while.
It was harder than it looked.
She was still surprised when she managed to produce things that way.
Even now, as she looked down at the leaf in her palm that held plump cherries, she smiled.
Owen was watching from the other side of the fire as she plopped each one into her mouth, juices staining her fingers a deep red from the amount of seeds she plucked from her mouth.
“I’d kill for some of Dieve’s dragon tart right now.” She closed her eyes and sighed, imagining that the next cherry was that flaky, delectable crust filled with dragon-berry jam. When she opened her eyes again, Owen was watching her with a smirk. “What?” She demanded.
He shook his head, pushing his deep golden waves away from his face. “Nothing. You’re just… different here.”
She frowned. “In a good way or a bad way?”
“You’re home here, Nym. This sort of freedom… it suits you.”
“Living in a forest suits me?” She chuckled, averting her eyes back to the cherries.
“No,” He laughed. “Just you. Like this. You belong here.”
Nymiria stared at the cherries, heart aching as she watched each stone fruit stem in her palm formed pretty pink blossoms. The overwhelming scent of cherry blossoms filled her nose. Panic hit her, her heart thudding loudly as she tossed the leaf of cherries into the fire.
You don’t belong here.
Aziel had said that to her in the garden.
She’d been cursing at him, shoving dead flowers into his face, demanding that he admit that he had ruined them with his rot.
She remembered how his face paled, how he looked at her like she was some sort of marvelous monster that both intrigued and terrified him.
You don’t belong here.
Nymiria shoved the memory from her mind, lips pressed together as she dusted her dirtied hands off on her breeches.
Glancing around at the darkened forest before them, she slowly pushed herself to her feet and mumbled something about needing to relieve herself.
Owen watched her as she went, but stayed close to the fire.
She ventured out a few yards, hiding behind a large boulder before she lowered herself to the earthen floor. Her eyes were burning with tears, her throat tight, and as much as she would have loved to will those emotions away, she’d learned that it was better to let them go.
Face in her hands, shielding the bleeding of her heart from the world, Nymiria cried.
She didn’t know how much time had passed, but when her eyes were finally dry and the ache in her chest had returned to the numbness of before, she lifted her face to see a beautiful bed of moonflowers had sprouted from the rotted foliage underneath her.
She stared at them for a moment longer before deciding to return to the fire she’d made.
It was now smoking and the logs she’d used as kindling were reduced to crumbled remains, white smoke rising into the night sky. Owen was still watching her with a calculated indifference, already knowing that if he questioned why her eyes were swollen and red, she would banish him immediately.
She took her seat across from him again and closed her eyes, picturing Dieve’s dragon tart landing in the palm of her hand. From the warm crust, to the frosting that dripped off the tops, she assessed every detail, willing it to existence.
She felt something warm and wet against her palm.
Confused, she opened her eyes, only to find a thick, clear substance pooled in the cup of her hand. She followed the slimy stream of clear goop up, up, up until…
Fuck.