Chapter Thirty-Three #2
I want to protest—or laugh—at Nolan’s pragmatism, so deeply ingrained that it manages to overcome revulsion.
But I can’t find the energy to do either, returning to my vigil as his fingers probe my broken skin.
There’s a tingling rush of warmth when the salve touches me.
It’s less concentrated than the blood tincture would be, but localized—focused—on the wound.
Nolan dabs it so gently, so artfully, that I almost forget the salve’s grisly origin, especially when the faint, distinctive sensation of healing flesh begins.
It spreads like the bitterness I feel about the concoction’s inability to save Mortimer.
When Nolan is done, he washes his hands in the ocean, scrubbing them vigorously with sand.
Then, I hear him sit. Not near me, but not far either.
Minutes tick by, and then hours. No one comes for us; either we outsmarted the Caerula in our retreat, or they didn’t care enough to pursue us.
The sky turns darker, waves lapping at the beach in a hypnotic rhythm.
The air chills. Still, I sit, lifeless as the corpse beside me.
I stare out at the water, beyond the pass, in the direction I know the mainland lies.
To where Tempestra-Innara is. I suspect—no, I know—that if a line were drawn along my sight, it would lead directly to them.
Every little piece of me leads right back to them.
And that’s what Nolan wants more than anything.
We are a perfect pair. I want to break free of the Goddess; he wants to give himself over entirely, body and soul, mind and blood.
The very thought hollows me out. Makes me want to slump forward into Mortimer’s cooling form and close my eyes.
There’s something almost liberating about that dedication.
It is who I could become, filing off all of my edges to become the blood-bound servant I was meant to be.
But to do that, a part of me would have to die too, be left here on this beach with Mortimer.
And as much as I wonder if that hole could ever be filled with the pure, sacrificing devotion that Nolan seems to feel, I know it won’t.
If I cut out that part of myself to save myself, I’d be saving a broken thing.
Nolan waits. And waits, until the dark begins to recede, a thin blur of morning feathering along the stone cliffs that surround the bay.
I hate the sight of it, knowing what it heralds.
Knowing that I can’t stay here forever, no matter how deeply I crave it in this moment. We have to go back to Cyprene.
Nolan is right. This isn’t over yet.
I straighten and turn to him.
He sits with his knees out in front of him, arms resting on them, staring at me. Nothing readable on his face anymore. Only the slightest knit to his brow as he waits for me to speak.
“I won’t leave him for the scavengers.” My voice is thick, mouth dry.
I can feel the tight lines left by salty tears on my cheeks.
And despite the salve, my shoulder throbs a lively cadence.
“He was a good horse. He didn’t deserve to die like this.
” I remember Nolan, sick and wan on the ocean voyage, chained by the Renderers.
His fear of weakness, the very thing that is spilling out of me now, through cracks I cannot be bothered to conceal.
Let it be weakness. I don’t care. “And he doesn’t deserve to be left like this either.
But I… I can’t… It’s going to take me too long. ”
The pinch of skin between Nolan’s eyes deepens. I can’t sense what’s happening in his thoughts—anger, annoyance, confusion. So I turn back to Mortimer and hold my hands just above his flank, palms down.
Then, I call the divine flame.
The flickering pale light comes to life, jumping from me to Mortimer as if it were a creature with its own mind.
I am reminded of Belspire, of Caius’s execution.
Our gift came so easily for him, consuming his victim.
It comes for me too, but slower, a trickle spreading feebly over the still horse body.
I redouble my efforts, trying to draw from deep within myself, harness the damnable divinity that I am supposed to be a creature of.
But I am a candle compared to Caius, a firefly’s flicker compared to Tempestra-Innara.
And for the first time, I consider that it’s my fault the flame comes so weakly, that its light is so faint in me.
That this—the most extraordinary of my gifts—is weak because in my heart, I am as much a heretic as any to be found in Cyprene.
Which wouldn’t matter any other time save now, the first time I truly want it to come. To burn.
Sand shifts behind me. Suddenly, Nolan is there, kneeling.
His flame is fierce. It entwines itself with mine, becoming one force that moves purposefully, spreading until the entirety of Mortimer is consumed.
We remain like that, directing our divinity to a purpose that neither of us ever dreamed we’d use it for.
Sweat pricks my brow and cheeks. Nolan flushes with the effort.
But neither of us stops, not until some deep, shared instinct tells us that the fire has taken root.
Only then do we let go, standing back from the burning body of a very good horse, and watch until only bone and ash remain.