VAREK
Pax sleeps heavily.
He is sprawled across me in a way that would be inconvenient under any other circumstance, one leg thrown over mine, his weight settled fully against my chest as though he has decided I am both mattress and anchor.
His breathing is deep and even, his body finally at rest after everything we have done to each other over the past two days.
I do not move.
I have no desire to.
His warmth seeps into me, steady and grounding, the bond between us settled into something quiet and complete. It no longer strains or aches or demands. It exists. Solid. Certain. Mine.
My mate.
The word still lands with weight.
I lower my gaze to him, taking in the details I have denied myself for far too long.
His skin is warm brown, rich in tone even in the low light of Dathanor’s living stone.
His hair is a dark mass against the furs, uneven where sleep has disrupted it.
There are still faint remnants of bruising along his ribs, though they are already fading, the bond accelerating what would otherwise take weeks to heal.
He fought.
He endured.
He survived.
Again.
Something in my chest sparks, not with pain this time, but with something fuller. Something I do not have a precise word for in any language I know.
Pride, perhaps.
Affection.
Possession.
He shifts slightly in his sleep, pressing closer without waking, his hand curling instinctively against my side as if confirming I am still here.
I am.
I will always be.
That thought comes easily.
My species does not form bonds lightly. We do not attach ourselves in ways that can be undone without consequence. The bond is not symbolic. It is not optional.
It is final.
I brush my fingers lightly along his back, careful not to wake him. His skin warms under my touch, the bond responding with a low, contented hum that sinks deep in my chest.
He has not told me everything.
I am aware of this.
There are parts of him that remain closed, locked behind instinct and habit shaped long before he came to this world.
I have seen enough to understand the outline of it.
The way he flinches at sudden movement. The way his humour sharpens when something touches too close to truth.
The way his body braces before his mind catches up.
His former mate.
The word tastes wrong. I suppress the instinctive snarl that follows it.
That male hurt him, and in more ways than the time I intervened. I do not require the full details to understand that much. The evidence is written into Pax’s reflexes, and how he anticipates harm before it arrives.
I have seen the male who hurt him. I remember exactly what I did to him. There is no uncertainty in that memory. No distortion or regret.
I did not kill him cleanly. I tore him apart.
The decision had been immediate. Instinctive. Absolute. I would make the same choice again without hesitation.
That does not trouble me. What remains… is that Pax survived him. Carried the damage forward, and I do not yet know how to undo that.
I exhale slowly, forcing the instinct back under control. That is not what keeps me awake.
The pain at the base of my skull pulses again. It is focused. Localised. Familiar.
I have not told him.
The admission sits heavily in my mind.
It is not a lie. Not directly. I have not spoken falsehood to him. I would not. I cannot.
But omission—
Omission is a narrower path… a technicality. One I have been walking since Solan placed the documentation in front of me earlier today.
Rift formation theory. It’s incomplete and fragmented. It’s also dangerous.
And yet—
Possible.
I close my eyes briefly, recalling the details with unwanted clarity. Energy thresholds. Structural instability. Patterns that might—might—be manipulated into reopening a controlled tear between worlds.
It is not a solution. It is not even reliable. But it is enough to give hope—enough to give Pax a way back to Earth.
My stomach constricts. The reaction is immediate, bordering on violent. Instinctive.
No.
The word forms before I can stop it.
The thought of him leaving—
It is not tolerable.
The bond recoils at the idea, something deep within me reacting with a visceral rejection that borders on panic. My heart stumbles, breath shortening for a fraction of a second before I force control back into place.
If he leaves, I will die.
Not metaphorically.
Not just eventually.
But within a short span of time. It is the nature of my kind.
On Othrynn, fated bonds were common. Expected. Integrated into the structure of our society as naturally as breath. We were not rare in this.
But separation… true separation… was.
When a bond is severed by choice, when one mate leaves the other behind, the result is not grief alone. It is death. It’s not immediate and not always clean, but it is inevitable.
The body fails and the mind fractures. The bond, once formed, does not tolerate absence. It destroys what remains.
I have seen it and have witnessed the aftermath. I have no desire to survive it. If Pax leaves, I will not attempt to. The thought does not frighten me. Instead, it clicks into place with quiet certainty.
If he is gone, there is nothing of value left to preserve.
My hand stills against his back. I have not told him this.
I told him the truth: that his choices are his own and that I will not bind him. That he is free.
All of that is accurate. I did not tell him the consequence. Because if I do, it ceases to be a choice. It becomes coercion, and that is something I will not do to him. Even if it kills me.
The pain at the base of my skull pulses again, a direct response to the strain of holding that omission in place. It is the closest my body comes to rejecting the decision.
I accept it. I will continue to accept it, even if it costs me.
I open my eyes again, looking down at him. He deserves the truth. The thought is immediate, followed just as quickly by another.
He deserves the freedom to choose without it.
The conflict sits deep, unresolved and heavy.
I could tell myself I am withholding the information because it is incomplete. Because Solan’s findings are not confirmed. Because giving Pax hope based on uncertainty would be cruel.
That would be a cleaner justification. It would also be a lie.
The truth is simpler: If Pax knows there is a way home, he will consider it. If he considers it, I may lose him.
My fingers press more forcefully against his back before I relax.
I am not afraid of dying. I am afraid of him leaving. The distinction matters.
I study his face as he sleeps, the lines of tension that have finally eased, and how his expression has softened in rest. He trusts this space. He trusts me. The weight of that trust presses heavy in my chest.
I have never wanted something so completely.
Not power.
Not victory.
Not even survival.
Only him.
I lean down slightly, pressing a slow, careful kiss against his temple. He stirs faintly but does not wake, his body instinctively shifting closer, as if even in sleep, he seeks contact.
My chest tightens again.
I cannot remain here. Sleep will not come. The thoughts will not quiet.
Carefully, I begin to disentangle myself from him. It requires precision. His grip on me strengthens reflexively as I shift, his body resisting the separation even in unconsciousness. I move slowly, easing his arm away, adjusting his weight so the absence is gradual rather than abrupt.
He exhales softly, settling back into the furs.
For a moment, I remain still, watching him, ensuring he does not wake. He does not, so I stand.
The room feels colder when I am not close to him. The bond stretches slightly with the distance, not painful, but noticeable. A quiet awareness that he is there and I am here.
I dress without sound, movements efficient and controlled. Armour is unnecessary. Weapons are not. Habit dictates both.
I pause once more at the edge of the bed before I leave the sanctity of our room.
Dathanor is quieter at this hour.
The living stone glows low, casting soft illumination through the corridors and open spaces. Movement is minimal. A few guards. A few late workers. All of them step aside without question as I pass.
I do not slow.
The work remains, just as the problem remains. And the rifts.
If there is even a possibility of discovering the secret of the rifts, I will understand it. I will control it. I will decide what becomes of it.
Not chance.
Not theory.
Not hope.
Me.
Because I will not allow something like this to exist without my hand on it. Not when it could take him from me.
By the time I reach the central planning tables, my mind has settled back into structure. The emotional weight does not disappear, but it is contained, redirected into something functional.
Maps, notes, and Solan’s copied documentation.
I place my hands on the table and begin again. Because if I cannot sleep, I will work. And if there is a way to hold the world together, I will find it.