Chapter Twenty-Four
If she was angry with him for withholding the truth, he has no doubts she will hate him now. So long as she’s safe, so long as she has a chance for happiness, he can live with that.
TROLLSKOGEN, SWEDEN
He refuses to drop the illusion, but she doesn’t need to see the marks to know they’re deep.
Khiran’s hold is weak. When he tells her to hold on tight, she gets the sense it’s because he lacks confidence in his ability to do the same.
When the world folds around her, expanding and contracting, it feels like she’s being torn apart—pieces of her lurching to opposite ends of the earth—until she finally feels the ground beneath her. It’s worse than last time, sharper.
She falls to her knees painfully, stomach heaving. When she glances up, she’s alarmed to see Khiran leaning, his jaw slack and his eyes glazed.
“I’m sorry,” he says, but the syllables are fuzzy. Slurred. Then his eyes roll back and his body tips forward, and Anna only just manages to catch him. She staggers under his weight, knees threatening to buckle, as she calls his name between gasping breaths. He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t flinch.
Anna feels the panic set in as her strength gives and they fall to the ground.
It’s only the waist-high grasses that prevent the impact from being painful.
“Khiran!” She pushes against his chest, rolling him off her and hovering over him the moment his back hits the ground.
He’s pale—paler than he should be—but she can feel his breath against her cheek, find his heartbeat under her palm, and feels a thread of relief join the twisted knot in her chest.
Unconscious.
Guilt is a knife, serrated and deep. It cuts into her with every second he doesn’t wake, pierces her with the realization that he won’t be any time soon. She wonders how severe the injuries must be for a god to fall.
Pushing down the tears and the panic, she stands.
The sun is warm on her face, the wild grass untamed and dotted with summer wildflowers, and surrounded by towering dark pines.
Somewhere in Northern Europe, she guesses, but the where isn’t as important as what she’s looking for.
She turns, eyes flitting over the landscape and nearly crying out in relief when she spots the peaked roofline and red siding of a small farmhouse peeking behind a copse of trees.
She takes Khiran’s wrists, dragging him towards shelter.
His body leaves a trail of crushed flora, but the tall grasses are smooth and slick under his back, offering little resistance.
Still, Anna is blinking sweat from her eyes before they’ve made it even a quarter of the way.
By the time she has pulled him up the few steps, through the door, and onto the low bed, she is drenched in it.
She pants, taking a moment to study him now that she’s not fighting against his weight, and feels her heart stutter.
There is bruising on his jaw, swelling around his eyes, that wasn’t there before.
Her fingers fight with the buttons of his shirt, but they’re trembling so terribly that it takes her twice as long as it should.
Each one that gives way shows more damage, cuts only partially healed wrapping around his ribs, bruises so deep they border on black.
By the time she undoes the last one, her tears are dripping onto his chest.
There’s no wondering why he was forced to wait so long to return for her, not anymore.
The evidence is painted on his body and appearing more and more gruesome as the illusion fades.
She understands why he didn’t want to show her.
There’s a tearing in her chest, a guilt lodged so deeply between her lungs she’s almost certain she’ll never be rid of it.
The farmhouse is just as cozy as all his other getaways she’s seen over the years, the wide planked floors covered in beautifully woven rugs and the walls lined with artwork from seemingly every corner of the world.
Little trinkets and treasures as abundant as the dots of color painting the meadow outside. What it’s lacking, Anna finds, is food.
Aside from a few tins of cookies and other confectionery, she can find no ingredients for anything heartier.
It shouldn’t surprise her—the memory of the stew he cooked for her still burns her tongue.
She’s certain he never bothered to learn.
Khiran is many things, but he’s never been one to invest his time on something he can have someone else do better.
An easy feat for someone who can be anywhere at anytime, but not for her.
She helps herself to cookies the first day. They’re light and sweet—almond cookies. She eats the entire tin.
On the second day, she goes out into the meadow, gathers pine needles for tea and a basketful of bilberries, wood sorrel, and dandelion buds. Khiran is still unconscious when she returns, hours later. She brews a cup of tea, drags a beautifully upholstered wingback to his bedside, and waits.
And waits.
Until, on the evening of the third day, she wakes from a nap to find his blue-green eyes fixed and staring at her.
“You’re awake,” she breathes. An obvious observation, but it feels more real and less like a dream to say it out loud.
His smile is weak but teasing. “So are you.”
She presses the back of her hand to his forehead, even though he hasn’t hinted that he could even succumb to fever the entire time he was out. She remembers their conversation on her porch, the light of the fireflies dancing in his eyes, when she learned that his weaknesses were her strengths.
It seems we landed on opposite sides of that particular coin.
There will be no fevers for him, no sickness to make him burn, but his body shows every bruising blow that hers does not. She turns her hand, lets her palm rest against his cheek. “Don’t do that again.”
“I make no such promises,” he murmurs, resting his hand over hers. “But for you, I will try.”
Anna suspects it’s the closest she’ll ever get from him.
“I’m fine, Anna,” he grouses.
“You’ve been unconscious for three days.” She pushes a cup of tea into his hands, the steam gently coiling over the porcelain rim. “Drink.”
He accepts it grudgingly, frowning into the amber water. “Pine?”
Anna nods, already pouring another cup. “Yes. From the trees outside.”
Eyes closing, his expression sours into realization. “I’ve never thought to stock this place with food. You must be starving.”
“Not really.” She shrugs. “I foraged what I could. There’s plenty of berries in season. Also, I’m afraid you’re out of almond cookies.”
His lips quirk, but the shadows in his eyes remain. “Once I’m able, I’ll bring you whatever food you’d like.”
She watches him bring the cup to his lips, sipping the tea without complaint despite it having cooled. “You can’t use your magic, can you?” He glances at her, and she nods to his chest. “You haven’t tried to hide them.”
He looks down, cringing at the bruised and damaged flesh staring back at him. “Yes, well, there wouldn’t be much point now, would there?”
Anna shakes her head, voice soft. “I wish you wouldn’t do that.”
“Do what?”
Steer away from the answer she’s looking for. Her sigh is a short huff of breath. “You can’t use it at all, can you?” she repeats, firm enough for him to know she won’t be distracted into dropping it.
His lips thin. “No. I’m afraid I’ll need a bit of time to recover before I can draw on it.”
Nodding, Anna eyes the fading bruises circling his neck. His body is healing faster than a human’s would, but it’s still slower than she’d like. She knows if he had the magic to spare, they would already be gone. No illusion needed. “How long?”
“A week,” he murmurs, grimacing. “Two at most.”
Anna nods. It’s not ideal, foraging for the both of them, but they’ll make do.
There will be an edge of hunger, but nothing like what she’s already suffered.
“Alright.” She curls her feet beneath her, leaning into the cushioned back of the chair.
She doesn’t miss the way his eyes linger on the exposed skin of her calves. “Tell me a story?”
His laugh is little more than a breath. “One that’s true or one that’s fantastic?”
She holds his gaze. “Tell me what’s happened.”
Khiran cringes. “That’s a very long story.”
“We have time.”
He’s the first to look away; to yield. “Where could I possibly begin?”
“Who hurt you would be a good place to start.”
Khiran’s eyes snap to hers, going so still she begins to lose faith that he’ll answer. When he does, his eyes close as if it pains him to share the burden. “We call him The First.”
Anna thinks of the story he told her, his fingers dancing up and down her spine as he whispered words of a tree so grand it cradled the world in its roots and of a man who demanded more than he was given.
“The first to climb,” she murmurs. “The first to steal a peach.” Khiran sighs, leaning back against the pillows and staring up at the ceiling.
“The first to call himself a god,” he murmurs, lips curling as if the word tastes sour.
“There’s different theories, you know. Some think the powers given are weakened with every peach that’s plucked. Others think he just got lucky.”
Anna stares, fighting the chill tracing her spine. “What do you think?”
Another pause, shorter than the last. “I think people in power only ever want more of it.” His gaze finds hers, the blue so crystalline it nearly drowns out the green. “I think it’s foolish to believe he only ever helped himself to just the one.”
Anna thinks of the magic Khiran possesses, gifts given from just one single fruit, and feels a seed of horror take root.
What would it mean to have the power of two?
Of three? The thought alone is enough to make her mouth go dry.
“He’s the one you didn’t want to find me. The one you’re hiding me from.”
Khiran flinches, but he doesn’t try to deny it. Doesn’t try to hide the truth from her. “Yes.”