Chapter 15
Castor
The most ironic part of finding out he’d been wrong about everything was to find out he’d been mistaken in his disbelief of hell. It was the worst possible thing, and having been plunged straight there, it was clear that he was out of time. Was this his punishment for dying less than a warrior’s death? Did the universe believe that he’d betrayed his father and pack, kin and homeland?
“Shh. It’s alright. I’m here.”
Hell had the most beautiful enchantress in the world, a witch who designed her voice to sound just like Briar May, in order to lure him to some disastrous end.
But wasn’t hell the disastrous end? Or was the sweet voice whispered in his ear just part of the everlasting damnation and torture?
“I’m going to put your hand on my hip, Castor. You squeeze if you need to. I’m not going anywhere. My hand won’t move from yours.
The fiery prongs pierced him from every angle then. Back and front, he was speared by a thousand knives. Red hot rods jammed right under his skin. He was boiling from the inside out. His blood turned into molten metal. He was scalding, the flames consuming him. He tried to thrash away, to find relief, to get out of his body, out of the pit of madness and fury and torment. He convulsed, bending over to try and empty his stomach, but nothing came up.
Something cold at his neck. His brow.
When he looked up, there was nothing there. Just black. The whole world was black, pressing around him.
He wasn’t in hell. He was in the sky. The night sky. He’d become a star in more than name. “Pollux!” he bellowed, emptying out his lungs. “Pollux! I’m here. Where are you? Brother?”
“I’m here.” That soft voice. Briar May’s. It came to him, but there was no body or form behind it. She was lost to him now. He was in another time, another dimension. He was dead and she was alive. She couldn’t follow him.
Cold. Ice cold. Red hot pincers again, tearing at his flesh. It hurt to be a star. It hurt to be a great ball of fire. Maybe he’d implode and die out all over again before he even learned what it meant to shine brightly.
The black gave way suddenly. He swam through a thick fog, his limbs leaden and weighed down. He thought he glimpsed Briar May, but her face was all wrong. Contorted with fear and agony. She had one fist stuck at her mouth. She was biting her own knuckles until they bled.
“B…” He tried to say her name, but language was no longer a commodity he could trade in. He was still all fire. Consumed with it. Hellfire. Starfire. His skin was burning and melting off his body. He’d be nothing but bleached bones soon. Ash, like his twin.
Briar May couldn’t see that. She couldn’t watch it happen. He had to get away. He had to run. He had to spare her, save her, protect her. His pack would come for her if he was near her. They’d already killed him, but it wasn’t enough.
Wetness on his cheeks. That burned too. And then, something on his lips. He opened his mouth and tried to suck. His tongue was just flames. They dried the water instantly, his skin cracking and sizzling as the droplets rained down. His throat worked, spasming. His whole body wrenched with it, but some of the water went down. The relief was so great that he turned his face into the soft earth and rained down his tears, watering it, like he’d done with his blood.
His life’s blood. All of it, gone. Briar May, gone.
“I’m so sorry, my darling. It’ll be over soon. Drink a little more so you can rest.”
Herbs. Spice. Tang. Water on the cracked surface of him. Dry dust in his throat.
That voice, so like the woman he knew he’d never see again, a woman he’d never touch or lay down beside, a woman he’d never hold or love, even if he ever proved capable. He could never do those things because he was gone. Gone to a land of scalding sand and hot sun and flames. The tiny grains blew under his skin, grating against him with every breath. It was all pain, white hot and enduring. It seared through him like he was the firepit, the hearth, the kitchen stove. The coals were lit inside.
He was the source of all that heat.
He was the star.
He wouldn’t make a sound. Not a sound. Not even now that he was dead. He was still a warrior, and warriors didn’t cry out. They didn’t utter the one name they thought could have saved them, broken and guttural, tossed up from the very pit at the heart of them. They didn’t write that name with blood upon the mantle of their soul. A warrior knew he was nothing and would die as nothing.
A featherlight touch, almost like a wisp of wind across his brow, cold and soothing, nearly drew him from the darkness, but he was eager to go to it. Most people walked to the light, but he’d had enough torture, enough fire. If his star was set to burn bright and then burn out, then so be it.
But for just the briefest instant before the dark void welcomed him home, he heard that sweet, gentle voice again and smelled the saltwater tang of an ocean’s worth of spent tears.