Chapter 31
Sorrow
It starts with whispers. It continues with shouts. It ends in silence.
The quiet devours everything. Hushed words, hands clasping her face, manacles releasing her wrists, and pain burying its talons into her.
At one point, Sorrow had felt herself levitate. Her body had been encased, resting against a slab of muscle. Water had splashed beneath someone’s feet, then she’d muttered something and pointed, a rock explosion shattering her eardrums.
Now, silence. Now, blackness.
And then suddenly, the surge of running water.
Mist sprays her limbs, the relief coaxing a sigh from her throat.
She stirs, a soft patch of ground cushioning her weight, a large form nestling her close.
Sorrow’s cheek rubs against a finely loomed textile, and an arm slings possessively across her waist, tucking her in.
Sorrow’s eyes flutter open. She’s in a cave, a stunning grotto comprising three small waterfalls. The coved ceiling sparkles, and tiny pools beneath each cascade hurl steam across the walls.
From beyond one of the falls, tree silhouettes and more glittering pools indicate an enclave. The way out, beyond the deluge. That means she’s behind the veil, rather than in front of it.
Slung across the ground, a strong, masculine body aligns itself with her smaller frame, and a warm palm cups her jaw. She tilts her head, meeting his eyes, sharp amber rings that focus on her.
Envy.
He stares as if he’s been doing so for a long time. Then everything comes back, gushing like a rapid. The attack on the pier. The moment she tossed the iron archery to Envy and then leaped into the crowd. The little male deity and the two Guides standing beside him.
The Palace of Starlight. The interrogation from her rulers. The blackmail and torture that had followed.
The cuts. The ladder of deep incisions, patiently made by her own weapon.
As an outcast, her archery has lost that magic. Otherwise, those gashes could have infused Sorrow with her own root emotion, to the point of everlasting bleakness.
The Fate Court had carved into her. Because she had told them, “No.”
Her rulers had given Sorrow an ultimatum. With artificial politeness, she had suggested they go fuck themselves, then rammed her boot heels into the pale ruler’s countenance, rearranging the bitch’s bone structure and splattering crimson in the process.
That’s how Sorrow had ended up hanging like a bloody marionette from a tree. After that, she blacked out. Then her Guide’s face materialized, along with that runty male god.
But most of all, there had been Envy’s voice.
His warmth. His touch.
The escape. The avalanche.
The rest is a blur, except for his arms clasping Sorrow, his breath stirring her cheek. Envy, who stole her ice arrow when they were young. Envy, who had bullied her. Envy, who’d fucked her. Envy, who did a thousand things to her.
Envy, whom she’d done a thousand things to in return.
Envy, who holds her now. Envy, who must have freed Sorrow from the throne amphitheater, then carried her through the tunnels.
He’d taken Sorrow’s drowsy advice and created a landslide, barricading them from their attackers. She vaguely recalls the god picking her up afterward, clutching her like a star, and coming to rest with her in this spot. Covered in moss, the foundation is lush enough for them to sprawl across.
They must have gotten soaked while fleeing.
But finally, their clothes are dry except for the glaze from the falls.
It’s probably been a while, because the injuries on Sorrow’s arms have dried into a lattice of red-crusted lines, which peek through a length of silken fabric twining from her wrists to elbows.
Envy’s shirt. He’d torn the sleeves to ribbons, his biceps bulging from the frayed seams.
Glass archery resides in an alcove, alongside a longbow and a quiver loaded with iron arrows. The god swam with Love’s weapons, keeping them safe. He must have stashed them here before retrieving Sorrow, because he’s easy to read.
Yet not easy at all. Otherwise, she’d have foreseen the desolate look on his face, as he presently drinks her in.
Like a thorn in her side, this dumbass blatantly disregarded Sorrow’s order to escape the masses, to leave her behind.
He was supposed to wedge as much distance between them as possible, track down their rebel crew, return Love’s bow, and set to battle.
All of that, so Envy and their friends could bring this cursed immortal house down.
Insolent god! He was supposed to abandon her. Can’t he do anything right?
And motherfuck. She’s never been so happy or infuriated to see him. This infernal egomaniac, who has no clue he’s got her heart and temper clenched in his fist.
Holding his gaze, Sorrow covers the hand that cradles her face, then traces his knuckles with her fingertips. Envy sucks in a breath. Her touch confirms this is real, she’s okay, and he’s okay. They’re together, stuck with each other as usual.
Relief washes across Envy’s features, his gruff tone nonetheless accusatory. “Why the fuck did you distract that crowd for me?”
Sorrow’s eyes prickle. “Why the fuck did you come back?”
Clinging like film, they watch each other. Their answers hover in the air, both sentiments the same.
I did it for you.
Envy’s features twist, the words splintering from his throat. “I took something from you.” His eyes clamp onto Sorrow’s, determined to face her, as if nothing less is acceptable. “Your missing arrow. I stole it from you.”
Gone is this tender moment. Sorrow’s eyes mold shut, the confession twisting into her like a rusty key. She’d wanted him to confess on his own, and he risked his life to recover her, but none of that erases what he did.
When she refocuses, her eyes slit, and her voice comes out flinty. “They told me.”
His features cave, bereft to learn The Court got there before him. “Sorrow,” he implores through a mouthful of guilt. “I’m sorry.”
Imagine that. The God of Envy begging for mercy. Sorrow would never let him live this down, if she weren’t gutted to begin with.
“All these years,” she bites out. “After we started fucking, and then in the enclave, when I told you everything.”
There was a time when she would have spat or hissed that last word. Now it just cracks in half like a twig.
Features crimping, Envy opens his mouth to reply, but she mows through the attempt. “Why?” she demands. “Why did you do it?”
Ashamed, he shakes his head. “At first, I wanted to punish you. But then… I got attached.”
“To deceiving me?”
“To having you,” Envy hisses softly. “One part of you, at least. That arrow was the only thing of yours I thought I’d ever get to touch. The only thing of you I thought I’d ever have.”
“You did have me,” Sorrow reminds him, lifting her shaky chin. “Plenty of times.”
His pupils hurl fire at her. “That’s not what I mean.”
The admission twists the rusty key deeper, threatening to break open that beating organ in her chest. Nonetheless, Sorrow’s not about excuse Envy just because he’s had a change of romantic heart. She aims her nose down on him, silently requesting further explanation.
“The spite lasted millennia,” Envy says in a brittle tone, the revelations pouring from him like blood from a wound.
“But when we let loose in that raft bed, and when we hit the ground running afterward, guilt clawed its way to the surface. I wanted to tell you, but I was afraid. Then these last few days, the regret and self-loathing ripped me to pieces.”
His earlier proclamation spins like a disc in her mind. You intimidate me.
Doubt peppers her tongue. “Yet you still fucked with me in the enclave. More than once. That bathing pool, then in the boat, and in the lagoon where we kissed.”
“That wasn’t about me,” Envy pleads. “I wanted to give you bliss, pleasure, joy. Things you believed yourself incapable of, things you deserved, things that would make you happy.” He shakes his head.
“I know that doesn’t justify a cursed thing.
I’ll never forgive myself for taking what was yours. Fucking hell, I could flay myself.”
Better yet, she could do that for him. Punish him.
Resent him. Despise him. But the hate of three thousand years has been enough of a burden, and the ways they’ve inflicted one another have always been mutual.
Flashbacks of The Court and their ultimatum infiltrate Sorrow’s mind like a glaring reminder of this fact.
That rusty key clicks into a valve, unbolting Sorrow from her rigid posture.
Rejecting and detesting Envy is what The Court wants.
It’s why they presented her with the arrow in the first place, to cause a rift, which would expand to the crew.
Giving into this agenda would mean surrendering.
Whereas, doing the opposite takes strength, compassion, and something none of those monarchs have ever felt.
“Don’t flay yourself.” Leaning up, Sorrow bumps her nose against his. “I’d miss you too much.”
Envy flinches as if the contact is excruciating. “If I hadn’t taken the arrow, they wouldn’t have used it to hurt you.”
“Because they would have used something else.”
“I’m sorry,” he grovels. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
“I forgive you.”
“How? I’ve ruined our chance to enact the legend. That’s how fate works.”
“But that’s not how free will works,” she whispers, then caresses his mouth with her own. “Now show me how sorry you are.”
Waterfalls spill over tiers of rock. Pearls of light swim through the fog, the world receding to this grotto.
Them. Alone. Free.
The vainest god in existence rivets his gaze on Sorrow, uncertain, unworthy, yet unwilling to deny her.
At a loss, he rechecks her injuries, adjusting the makeshift bandages—evidently, not for the first time—before that immortal countenance returns to her own.
Only then does his expression flash, haggard and hungry.
Asking. Hoping.
Sorrow’s stomach gives a sweet, anarchistic flip. And she nods. “Yes.”