Chapter Thirty-Eight Kion
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Kion
Kion’s heart pounds in his chest as, head resting against the crisp linen of the hospital’s bed, James stirs.
He’s gripping his friend’s hand in his; he feels James’s fingers beginning to twitch, his skin beginning to melt from clammy coldness to the warmth of life.
There are still streaks of premature gray in his hair and faint wrinkles lining his face, but they begin to fade as, somewhere, the Withers retract their price from James’s body and direct it toward Edward.
And as James’s eyes flutter open, he looks so young without his spectacles that Kion can only stare, unsteadied.
“Kion,” whispers James, blinking slowly.
“James,” he tries to say, but his throat is suddenly so sore and swollen that all that comes out is some strangled noise. Grrrkkkrlllhrrk, it sounds like. Not close to “James.” Not even bloody close.
The sound hangs in the air between them.
And then, in the cramped little room of Le Fay Hospital, with the window overlooking the River Keat and the smell of antiseptic clinging to the squashed armchair on which Kion sits, James begins to cry.
His chest shakes, and his—his lips turn upward?
Hells. He’s not crying, even as a tear trickles down his face.
He’s laughing at him. Kion cracks a smile, relief slumping his shoulders.
James is awake, and he’s laughing.
“I’ve never heard you make that sound before in my life,” James gasps, beginning to compose himself. “Truly. I think the shock of it would be enough to shake anyone out of a coma. Second only to the shock of finding out it was Edward, all along.”
His stomach plummets. “You—”
James’s smile is a weak, ghostly thing now. “I could hear it all, yes. I would have preferred not to; Knox has insisted on reading sonnets at my bedside quite more often than I would like. He’s got no future in the theater, I’m sorry to say.”
“James, mate,” Kion forces out, “I knew it couldn’t have been you, but I—”
His expression darkens; he glances away. “He planned it well, Kion,” he says, but there’s a waver in his voice that anybody but Kion might have missed. “I can’t blame you if you thought…”
Words fail him, sticking in his throat. So instead of saying anything, Kion squeezes his hand. And after a moment, James squeezes back.
“Why wouldn’t you tell me, mate?” whispers Kion. “I knew you were feeling poorly. It was plain as fucking day, but you wouldn’t admit it…”
James shifts his head, staring past Kion toward the window, or probably the smudges of it he can see without his glasses.
Evening rain has begun to patter against the glass.
“I meant it, then. I thought…I’m elf-shot, forever.
And some days, the medication works, and some days it…
doesn’t. I’ve always hidden those days from you, Kion—you, and the others.
And because of that, the illness that’s always there, I have different limits for myself.
A different conviction of what I can tolerate.
” His lips twitch. “I suppose there are a lot of answers for why I didn’t admit it to you, really.
I’m afraid of being seen as weak; you know that.
And I didn’t want you to order me to sit out from practice, even if you just call it ‘taking a breather.’ I thought, the next thing I know, I’ll be off the team on medical leave and you won’t be able to compete at all.
It was hard enough, I knew, convincing Taissa to replace Samara.
If I left, the team would only veer faster toward dissolution, and I-I couldn’t be responsible for that. ”
“I’d never blame you,” Kion says, low and fast. “Merlin, mate, you must know that.”
James’s eyes turn back to him. “The mind is a strange thing, Kion. Both of us are familiar with its…quirks. It is not always the most logical organ. Perhaps that’s what made me do something foolish,” he adds ruefully. “At Shrieking Pumpkin…”
“You spoke to Orla Banes.” Kion grips the armrest with his other hand, feels the wood creak underneath him. “I saw you slip in. Merlin. Tell me you didn’t bargain with her, James.”
“It turns out I’m just as foolish as my father.
” His smile is limpid, but as Kion’s heart squeezes painfully in his chest, he shakes his head.
“Banes turned me away. Wouldn’t even consider it.
I’ve a feeling she’s not as bad as they say, actually.
She told me that she wouldn’t take any pleasure in deceiving an ill man, let alone an ill Unseelie.
” Guilt flashes in his eyes. “I was in the werewolf glamour, at the time. I nearly took it off, to provoke her into bargaining with me after all, but lost my nerve. She was dressed rather like a medieval executioner from Ye Olden Days, did you notice that?”
How? How had his straitlaced friend been in such darkness that he’d visited Banes to bargain—and how had Kion not noticed?
How far apart had they drifted this summer?
“I’m sorry,” Kion rasps, still white-knuckling the armrest. James smirks, but it quickly fades as Kion whispers, “I know I’ve been a massive prick at times—”
“No,” James says, sharply. “I should be apologizing. I’ve been a-a—”
“A spoiled brat,” suggests Kion.
His friend’s grimace smooths. “I suppose, yes. And you’ve been an—”
“Idiot,” says Kion.
“Precisely,” says James.
In that moment, in fond looks they exchange all that needs to be said between them.
Kion feels the warmth of their friendship like a soft quilt, draping back over his shoulders after he’d been left out in the cold.
For a few seconds longer, neither speaks.
Until James, eyes growing glassy, clears his throat.
“Where are the others?” he asks. “I assume you’ve all got quite the story to tell me of how you solved the mysteries, don’t you?”
“They’re in the corridor,” Kion confesses.
Elder rang them earlier that morning, letting them know that Orla Banes had been made aware of the switch-up.
They’d all hurried here as fast as they could, but Taissa had held up a hand at the doors.
“Wait,” she’d said. “Kion first.” Because she knew him, knew that he’d needed this time with James alone.
“Well,” says James, sighing as Kion releases his hand and leaning over to the bedside table to gingerly slide on his spectacles, “let the horde in, I suppose.”
“OI, YOU LOT!” shouts Kion, and like puppies tumbling over one another, their teammates are barreling inside and fussing over James: Knox drapes himself dramatically halfway over the bed and monologues about the perils of the Wild Hunt; Isla—carrying a large bag from the grocer’s—immediately sets up shop at the bedside table, plying James with chicken soup and other food; óríon claps James’s shoulder; Mahina and Adriel give him sideways hugs; Bronte whoops in relief and joy, while Taissa…
Taissa grins, presenting James with one of her crocheted monstrosities. “Glad to have you back, Ridgeshaw,” she says.
James grimaces, pinching the lumpy, bright green yarn between two disdainful fingers. “What,” he says with immeasurable disgust, “is this?”
She looks offended. “It’s a scarf. My first one, actually. I’m used to crocheting—well.” Mischief gleams in her eyes. “At any rate, it’s for you. I thought it would suit Warble’s flamboyant personality.”
Kion watches as James flushes all the way to his roots. “That’s—you—” But then he sighs, glancing at Kion and sniffing haughtily. “Thank you, I suppose, Taissa.”
Her smile is like a shark’s.
Well, thinks Kion, pinching the bridge of his nose, it’s a start, at least.