6 #3
He furrows his brow. “Surely, I would have seen him if he came here. Are you sure you weren’t dreaming?”
True, he would have seen the ancient crow, unless Morrigan didn’t want him to.
I scrub a hand down my tired face. “Well, her letter didn’t say much. She mentioned the ball and told me to find a willing champion.”
His lips part in surprise. “I thought she would champion us both.”
There’s no reason to believe she won’t champion him. She didn’t instruct him to find another. He keeps staring at the parchment on the floor. His fingers flex, but he balls them into fists.
“You can read it.”
He wastes no time. When he’s finished, he lays it on the chair beside the food. I don’t miss the way the paper trembles in his hands before he releases it. “Why did she send us to the trials if she didn’t plan to guide us through them?”
“She’s given you no reason to think she won’t champion you.”
He swallows thickly. “That wouldn’t be fair to you.”
I try to smile. “Since when is mortal life ever fair?”
“Maybe she can only support one contestant and thinks you’ll secure another god’s favor, while I… I would struggle to find one.”
Niall begins to pace and to reach for explanations I can’t give him. Only Morrigan can tell him why she chose him instead of me, and I don’t plan on asking her. I have my theories and they’re insidious enough.
The goddess’s darkness has rubbed off on me.
“Are you sure she’s the one who nominated us?” he asks.
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. When does Morrigan ever say more than she must? “She called us to her. Dressed us up and sent us to Olympus via Ceann ársa. Then she told me – not you – to find a sponsor. She’s responsible.”
“Someone will champion you,” he says, surety and bitterness mingling in his inflection. “How could they not?”
I bristle. “This won’t be like the wars we’ve fought in, or some team sport where there are clear sides, Niall. You should worry about yourself and making it through the trials.”
For the briefest moment, he hesitates like he might argue with me or say something stupid, like we’re in this together. But I cut him a scathing glare, reminding him that we aren’t and won’t be again. I straighten my back, sick of talking to him. I want him to leave.
My stomach chooses that moment to growl, so I drag the chair with the plate of food closer. Eating gives me something other than death to focus on; a basic need of the living. “I need to get ready.”
His shoulders sink at the dismissal as he eyes the door. “The fruit’s really good,” he blandly offers, gesturing at the tray.
Maybe he’ll mention the lovely weather we’re having next.
“It’s not poisoned, then?” I ask, smoothing the roughness I feel toward him as best I can.
He tries to smile. “Poisoning would be too easy and too dull for them, I think.”
He’s not wrong. I pop a grape in my mouth, enjoy the sweet burst of flavor, and wonder when he realized neither of us will leave this competition alive.
“I’m wearing black tonight, not that I have much of an option,” he says. “That’s the only color in my chest.”
I wave at him as if to say… See? I told you so. “I only have white clothes. You have ebony, Morrigan’s color.” She’s already claimed him.
He scratches the back of his head, wincing because I’m right and he knows it. “Maybe everyone has a different shade?”
I’ll bet no one else will be in Morrigan’s.
I bite into a section of orange.
Niall points to the black suit still crumpled on the floor. “You have the bodysuit she gave you. If you show up in it, she might be persuaded to shift her decision.”
Though his words may seem caring to someone who doesn’t know him, he’s not worried about me or whether I can garner divine help.
He’s worried about himself. He thinks that if I put in enough effort, Morrigan might leave him for me.
After all this time, he doesn’t understand her at all.
She would consider such undercutting deceitful, and if there’s anything she loathes, it’s a liar.
Worse than her opinion or the consequences she might mete, I would find it pathetic.
I’d sooner attend this ball stark naked, drawing the lascivious eyes of Zeus, the wrath of Hera, and the precise cut of Athena’s sword, dying only after Ares drew and fashioned my guts around his neck like a scarf, than stoop so low.
“I won’t do that,” I tell him when I’m finished chewing. Not even to you.
“I wouldn’t blame you if you did,” he tosses. We both know he’ll do whatever he has to do to survive, dignity be damned.
I stare at my former friend and first lover, disappointed to the core.
“Okay, then.” He steps out the door, tapping the frame twice as he leaves.
“Take your blanket back!” I yell after him.
He turns, his brows kissing. “Blanket?”
I rub the soft, pale fabric between my fingers. “Never mind.”
Whoever brought the food must have noticed I needed another blanket while they were straightening up. I look at the one still nailed to the wall, covering what my mind remembers. I’m glad they didn’t tear it down and toss it on me while I slept. I would’ve woken up screaming.