41. Helene #2
A vicious cycle of wanting and giving and receiving nothing.
I push a hand through my hair. “I know what she’d say. Love is worth every ounce of heartbreak.”
But is it love when you can’t trust the other person? They’ve had millennia to get to know me in whatever form I’ve reincarnated.
What have I had? Less than a week. Four full days of insistence that I’m the sun at the center of their universe.
But get real. A devotion that spans centuries? It’s impossible. They’re enamored with a memory, an idea. Give them a month with the authentic me, the one who can’t make time for anyone, and they’ll see.
They “know” me. I don’t have the same courtesy. My body’s a thirsty bitch for those handsome strangers, but good looks only take you so far.
Sex and trust are entirely different things.
The pieces of you given away for those differ in size and importance.
Harsh footsteps echo, and I whip around to let Wren have a piece of my mind for coming back when I want space.
Forest stands at the door wearing a mixture of apprehension and contrition. The crease above his brows deepens, and the lines scoring his skin stretch across his hairline.
His cloak hangs to the ground, ax at the ready, hair a usual shade of wheat gold and two braids hanging down to his stubborn chin.
“I'm worried about you.”
His gruff tone strikes me between each rib, spurring a sigh loose. “I’m fine. No need to worry,” I insist.
He steps closer but leaves enough room to breathe. He tries, anyway. There isn’t much he can do about the breadth of his shoulders or the way his presence is a spark in the wind. Soon, it will catch.
Anticipation shivers through me.
“I always worry. You’re strong, little shieldmaiden. You are stronger than you believe, but my memory stretches longer than yours. I remember the moments when strength failed you.”
I’d be a fool to argue with him there. Not when he is who he is. Not when the pieces are returning faster for him.
“Okay. I will be fine. Right now, it’s a little challenging to find solid ground. And no, I don’t want any help.” I drop and draw my legs up on the couch. “Sorry.”
“There’s nothing for you to apologize for. No apologies necessary.”
His movements halting, he steps up and places a searing kiss to the top of my head. His hand smoothes along the length of my braid before he withdraws and takes the scent of wind and cold with him.
“You’ll come upon your happiness again, love. I know you’re scared right now but we’re lucky as Helheim to have found you. We’re going to make it out of this.” He captures my hand and lifts my knuckles to his lips. “You’re not alone.”
I sigh. “I thought you were the one to share memories, not sink inside someone else's head.”
“It’s not your mind I’m reading. It’s your face. I’ve marked the countless other times you lost yourself to thoughts and worries.”
“That’s not me,” I insist, gorge rising.
“Maybe it’s not, but I know you. I see you.
I love you. And you might love us, too, if you give us the chance.
None of us are in a good headspace but we’re going to get past it,” he finishes with a shake of his head.
“What loves, Helene? A body? Or a soul? True mates of the spirit don’t need gods to put them together. We find our own way.”
Forest straightens.
“I’ll be outside with the others if you want to talk.”
Well shit. Why do I feel like I’ve been properly told off?
The apartment has never been the fortress I wanted it to be. Not the sanctuary our mother sought for. But it’s ours. The feeling’s been stripped away now. The walls hang heavier and the ceiling presses lower, trapping me between its weight and the sagging floor.
And what is there to do but survive?
What is there to do but greet the sun when it rises and embrace the darkness when night devours the sky?
“Fucking morbid, Helene.” I toss my braid across my shoulder.
Pushing off the couch requires energy my supplies can’t bank. I totter on my feet before finding them again. I need my sister, to sit with her, to curl my body around hers and find reassurance.
We’re both alive.
I bite my lip. No matter how hard life can be, the alternative sucks. I stare up at the ceiling, the cracks I’ve memorized, the Christmas lights behind me glowing a dull red, green, and blue against a backdrop of dust.
Everything I’ve experienced in the last few days have battered against my walls, filling me, struggling to find room inside the neat confines of the world I knew.
If I look too deeply, feel too deeply, breathe wrong or move fast, the dam will overflow and I’ll break open.
Walls are there for a reason.
I push the door open to draw out the low moaning creak of hinges. “Hey, Audra—”
Fear blankets me.
She lies trapped beneath a pale, white-haired woman with crooked limbs and fingers like spider legs digging into her flesh.
I know this dread. Intimately.
I know the paralysis crawling through my veins, the cold that steals breath from my lungs.
My pulse crashes in my throat.
Like when I was a girl. It’s the same frozen terror, the immediate and gut-wrenching adrenaline surge. I know this monster. I watched it drive my mother to madness.
I watched it push her until she felt like she had no choice but to take her own life.
The Mare lifts her head slowly, and her milk-white eyes find mine. Then she smiles like she remembers me.
Like she’s been waiting.
THE END