Chapter 29 #2
His fingers twitch against the soil, and she feels his power slip into hers – not to take it, but to steady it. The whir that had been ragged and wild inside her bones eases, smoothing into something bearable.
And together, they hold it.
Marian dares a glance at him and the sight nearly undoes her.
Lox is bent close, face etched with both pain and wonder. His golden eyes are brighter than she has ever seen them. He’s the holiest thing she’s ever witnessed.
His hand shifts, his fingers brushing hers in the soil. The contact is small, but the surge it brings is not. The hum spikes, then steadies, flowing through them both in tandem. And with it comes growth.
Tiny shoots pierce the ash. Quivering green tips push through the blackened seam with defiance. The glow beneath the soil strengthens, golden threads knitting themselves together, weaving a new pattern through the scorched veins.
Around them, the clearing hums; no longer void, but with a low, resonant note of return.
His palm slips over hers where it rests on the soil. Their connection to Sherwood vibrates between them.
The first leaf shakes itself free of ash and unfurls; another unfurls beside it, and another. What was a wound begins to lace itself shut from the inside. The golden threads beneath them brighten, braiding and carrying warmth outward.
Marian doesn’t push the growth, but merely strengthens what it needs to thrive. The once-thin veins begin to fatten to a steady glow. Beside her, Lox’s power is a weight that holds the banks so her flood does not break them.
In the ring of black around them, moss drinks; its soot-grimed nap lifts, brightening by shades like a bruise blooming backward into health.
Fern ribs arch and lace into fronds. Charred trunks do not spring back into trees – death keeps its dignity – but each carbonized pillar grows a fringe of tender green.
Marian’s body collapses into the dirt with a wet gasp.
She rolls onto her back, limbs quivering, breath uneven, as her eyes dart around to the ring of green around them.
It’s imperfect and earnest and alive. It will take seasons to forgive the rest, maybe years, but the clearing is no longer a mouth that only devours.
It is a throat that swallows, and it will sing again.
Marian lets out a sob she didn’t know she was swallowing. The chorus inside her, which moments ago was a clamour of pain, evens into soft harmony.
Her muscles shake from neck to fingers, used up in a way that feels good. When she turns to Lox, gratitude rushes up so fierce, it shames her earlier apology. He leans over her, soil-stained fingers brushing her cheek with veneration.
‘How is this possible?’ he whispers.
Marian lifts a trembling hand, pressing it over his where it cups her cheek. This time when she tries to answer, the words come with ease.
‘I saw them.’ Her chest rises and falls with shallow, uneven pulls of air. ‘Shéruel and Wodenna. They asked if I thought myself worthy.’ She lets out a broken laugh, shaky and soft. ‘I told them no. But they said . . . my mother didn’t think herself worthy either.’
He sighs as if puzzle pieces strewn before him are finally fitting together. ‘Your mother was fae.’
She nods. ‘She turned from what she was in the hopes that the wild would forget her.’ The admission is a soft wound. ‘They asked if I would make the same choice.’
‘And you chose us,’ Lox murmurs.
‘I chose both.’ Marian looks past him to the ring of green lifting itself out of ash. ‘I am not only fae, and I am not only mortal. I’m meant to be the bridge that keeps both our worlds from tearing each other apart. I am Sherwood’s Heartkeeper.’
Wind moves through the new fronds as if the forest approves of her name choice.
Lox’s hand slides from her cheek to the curve of her neck, thumb finding the steady drum under her skin.
‘You’re certainly mine,’ he whispers, palm moving to the ink at her sternum.
‘I wanted to kill him. In that moment, I could feel the shape the Sheriff cast for me closing over my head. Beast. Monster. I wanted to step inside it, because it was easier than bearing what he did to you.’ His jaw works; something fragile and furious flashes through his eyes. ‘I was prepared to drown in that fury.’
‘I know,’ she answers. Her palm covers his, lending weight, borrowing steadiness.
‘This power . . . it asks for teeth as often as it asks for tenderness,’ she finishes softly.
‘But if you drown, I will call you back to shore. Every time. I will be the rope at your waist and the hand on your collar. And when I go under, you’ll pull me to the surface too. ’
He bends until his brow rests against hers, until their breaths tangle in the quiet.
‘I almost lost you,’ Lox says, voice raw at the edges.
‘But you found me again.’ A small, helpless laugh slips out. ‘Seems to be our pattern.’