16. Chapter 16 #2
"The spring won't kill us," Maxx said. "Probably. And I genuinely cannot spend another hour smelling... that." He waved at Eryndor. "No offense."
"None taken." Eryndor looked ready to crawl out of his own skin. "I can't spend another hour smelling myself."
That was enough consensus for me. We practically ran each other over getting back down the path and away from the smell.
The spring was exactly where we remembered—a small pool fed by water trickling down lichen-covered rocks, tucked into a hollow where the twisted trees opened into a peaceful pink patch of sky.
The water was impossibly clear, catching the strange light of the Sensorium and throwing it back in ripples of gold and violet.
It looked perfect. Too perfect.
"We're really doing this?" Serenya asked. She was looking at the water the way she looked at untested potions.
"I'm doing this." I was already unbuckling my weapons. "You can watch me drown in enchanted water or you can get clean. Your choice."
Eryndor hadn't said a word. He walked past me, straight into the spring—fully clothed, boots and all—and submerged himself to the neck.
The sound he made was not dignified. It was the groan of a male experiencing religious ecstasy.
"That good?" Maxx asked.
"Get in the water, Maxx."
Maxx got in the water.
Then Serenya, more hesitant, wading in slowly and gasping at the temperature.
Dreadscale settled on a boulder at the edge of the pool, waterskin in hand, wearing the patient smirk of someone who already knew how this ended.
I stepped in last.
The cold hit first—biting, bracing, washing away the gore and grime and the lingering stench of monster bile. I ducked under, scrubbed my fingers through my hair, and surfaced gasping.
Gods, that felt good.
Too good.
I floated for a moment, letting the water hold me, letting the tension drain out of my muscles. The spring had a current—gentle, almost like a massage against my skin. The light filtering through the canopy turned everything soft, dreamlike.
"Is it just me," Maxx said slowly, "or does this water feel... really good?"
"It's just water." Serenya's voice sounded strange. Distant. "It's just... very nice water."
On his boulder, Dreadscale took a long sip from his waterskin.
And said nothing.
I let myself sink into the water until it reached my chin.
Cold. Clean. Perfect.
The slime was already lifting off my skin, carried away by the gentle current. I watched it go—black ribbons dissolving into nothing—and felt a tightness in my chest ease that had been there for days. Weeks. Maybe longer.
The moss along the rocks caught my attention. Soft. Bright green. Glowing in the filtered light. I reached out and touched it.
Oh.
It was the softest thing I'd ever felt. Like touching a cloud. Like petting a very small, very cooperative animal.
"This would make a perfect sponge," I announced to no one in particular.
Serenya giggled.
I giggled.
Our eyes met and we giggled harder, the sound bouncing off the water and disappearing into the canopy.
She was grinning. When had I last seen her grin? "You just looked so serious. Examining moss like it was a battle strategy."
"It's very nice moss." I nuzzled it against my face like a cat.
"It is nice moss." She was still grinning. "It's the nicest moss I've ever seen."
We both laughed. I eased back into the water, enjoying the free floating feeling and watching the clouds.
When was the last time I felt this clean?
When was the last time I felt this... good?
Nearby, Maxx was floating on his back, staring up at the canopy with an expression of profound peace.
"The light is beautiful," he said. "Have you noticed the light? It's like... it's like the trees are holding it. Cradling it. Keeping it safe for us."
"That's very poetic," Serenya said.
"I'm a very poetic person."
She giggled again. So did I.
"Here." Serenya waded over to me, another clump of moss in her hand. "Turn around. You've still got... something. In your hair."
"Something?"
"I'm choosing not to identify it."
I turned. Her fingers worked through my hair, gentle but thorough, and I found myself leaning into the touch. It felt so nice. Everything felt so nice. The water. The moss. The way her nails scraped lightly against my scalp as she worked out the tangles.
"You have beautiful hair," she said softly. "When it's not full of monster."
"Thank you. You have beautiful... everything."
She laughed. I laughed. It was true, wasn't it? She was beautiful. We were all beautiful. The world was beautiful.
A splash drew my attention.
Eryndor had wandered to the shallower end, water lapping at his waist. He tugged at his soaked tunic, considered it for a moment, then simply pulled it off and tossed it vaguely toward the rocks.
"Better," he grunted.
I watched.
Oh, some distant part of my brain observed. He's not wearing a shirt now.
The observation felt neutral. Pleasant. Like noticing that the sky was blue or that the water was warm. His shoulders were broad. His stomach was flat. There were scars—old ones, layered like a map of violence—and they looked interesting. Like stories written in skin.
"Good idea." Maxx was already tugging at his own tunic. "Can't believe I didn't think of that."
He pulled it over his head and tossed it in the general direction of the rocks.
"Much better."
His tunic joined Eryndor's on the rocks. Then his pants.
Serenya made a small sound of appreciation beside me.
"The male body is a remarkable thing," she said thoughtfully.
"Fae body," Maxx corrected, watching her appreciatively. "And yes. Yes it is."
Eryndor unlaced his pants slowly, like he had all the time in the world. He stepped out of them and let them float away for a moment before remembering to grab them. The water came up to his thighs. He gathered some moss and started scrubbing his legs in lazy circles.
He missed a spot, I thought. On his back. He can't reach it.
The thought felt important. Urgent, almost. There was slime on his back and he couldn't reach it and someone should help him.
I should help him. The thought carried a quiet pull, simple and bodily, as natural as stepping closer to the warmth.
"You missed a spot." I was wading toward him before I'd decided to move. "On your back. Let me."
He turned his head. Those dark eyes, softened by whatever was in the water, met mine.
"You don't have to—"
"I want to."
And I did. I really did. The wanting felt simple and clean, like the water. Like the moss. Like everything in this perfect, beautiful spring.
I gathered more moss and dragged it over his shoulder blade.
His skin was warm—warmer than the water. The muscles beneath shifted as he breathed, slow and deep, each breath moving under my hands.
The tether stirred in response. Not urgent. Not demanding. Just aware—an easy, living warmth settling between us.
For a moment, neither of us moved. The water held us there, quiet and weightless, like even the spring knew better than to interrupt. My gaze drifted over the pale ridges crossing his skin—old marks, old thefts, places where the body had sealed itself without ever truly softening again.
"You have a lot of scars," I murmured in his ear. I gently gripped his chin, drawing him closer.
"Scars that have claimed parts of you." I let my lips skim along the edge of his ear. His breath shuddered under the pull of my trance.
"Parts that never should have been claimed." I trailed the bridge of my nose down his hairline from his ear, then tilted my face so the surface of my lips brushed his skin instead, touring down his shoulder blade.
"Will you take them back for me?"
He went still and held his breath.
"What?" His voice came out barely a whisper.
I pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes were dark and wide, both with terror and awe.
"Take back the parts they took," I murmured against a scar near his heart. "Take back the pieces."
He cupped my face with his hands, the red thread tied around his wrists rubbed against my cheek.
"You have to take them back." I curled my fingers around his. "So I can have them."
He held my gaze and let his thumb run over my lips.
"So I can have you." I squeezed his hand. "Claim them for me?"
His breath hitched. His eyes shone with unshed tears.
"I'll try," he whispered.
Something splashed nearby—Maxx’s laugh rang out as Serenya flicked a handful of water at him, bright and stupid and alive. Ripples brushed against my skin and slipped around Eryndor’s body in silver curves.
I watched them for a moment. The way the water moved over him. The scars. The strength of him. Beautiful.
Then I looked up and found his face again.
Why did he still look so stricken? Poor thing!
I circled around him and landed in his lap. That felt right. Like the best and safest place to be.
He grunted and adjusted me slightly. Oh! His hands were really strong and big…why hadn’t I noticed that before?
I traced a scar with my finger—a long, pale line that curved across his chest. "This one's old."
"Training accident. I was twelve." He tilted his face towards me; our lips seemed very close.
"Twelve seems young for scars like this." I kissed the scar.
He groaned and his grip on my hips tightened.
"I had an unusual childhood," he said hoarsely.
That seemed sad. I didn't want to think about sad things.
"Amaria." Serenya's voice, dreamy and far away. "You should drink some of the water."
"Why?"
"Maxx says it tastes like moonlight." She giggled. "He made me try it."
I looked over. Maxx had cupped water in his hands and was drinking deeply, his expression blissful.
"It's incredible," he confirmed. "Like waking up on the best morning of your life. Like remembering a dream you thought you'd forgotten."
I cupped my hands. Brought the water to my lips.
Cool. Sweet. Clean.
And then—oh.
Then it sparkled through me—warm and fizzy and bright, like joy had a taste and I'd just swallowed it whole.
"Oh," I breathed.