A piercing scream fills the room and then another, just as loud, just as anguished. The screams rattle the walls, and I realize it’s my mouth open, my scream, my tears, my pain. And another. The man beside me. Damien. He’s screaming too. My mate. My other. The bond between us is an echo chamber, a feedback loop of pain and fear and the edge of madness.
“Breathe,” Catarina orders. “Breathe as if it is your first breath. You have died and are reborn. Breathe in your new life!”
How? How can I breathe when I’m coming apart?
Beside me, I hear Damien draw a rough, gasping inhale. I turn my face toward him, although the pain it causes almost ends me. He arches off the pallet, his skin bleeding, breaking into shadow, and then coming together again.
My scream has long since died out. There is no more air in my lungs, but I can’t seem to draw a breath. Black spots swarm in my vision. My body seizes on the pallet, my muscles spasming.
Catarina grabs my head, screaming something my brain can’t make sense of. Darkness is closing in. I’m tired. So tired.
And then Damien’s symbol-covered face appears in the remnants of my vision. His hand covers my eyes as he pinches my nose and forces open my mouth. His lips meet mine, and he blows his own breath into me, filling my lungs.
It only takes once. As soon as I have that air, my body rallies. I exhale and inhale again. Again. Again. Slowly, with time, my breathing eases, growing more even, as he and Catarina hover over me, his cool hand in mine. He’s still managing his own breathing, trying to bring himself under control. Our gazes lock, and we find a rhythm. In two, three, four. Out, two, three, four.
The pain gradually recedes, growing distant, as new sensations flow in. The crackle and smoky scent of the fire. The smell of stewing meat. The thump of a drum beating in the distance. The closeness of the air in the warm cottage. The stale taste in my mouth.
“Water?” I manage.
Catarina moves back and allows me to sit up. The witch hands me a tall glass of what looks like tea. She hands another to Damien. When I sip it, it tastes strongly of alcohol. I cough after my first swallow. Damien drains the glass.
“You need the witch’s whiskey to revive you and spark your appetite. You’ve been dead a long time. Much longer than we expected.” She wrings out a washcloth in a basin on the table and hands it to me. I run it over my face, wiping the stiff, muddy symbols from my skin.
“How long?” Damien asks, accepting the cloth she hands him. He scrubs the ash off his face.
“Three days. I might have given up and buried you if not for the occasional tug on the tether I’d cast. But we were fortunate today. You woke before I collapsed from exhaustion.”
She sways beside me, her eyes bright red and rimmed beneath with dark half circles the color of a bruise.
“You stayed awake the entire time?” I ask.
“I had to. If I broke the spell, I’d break the tether. But now, I must sleep. Please stay as long as you wish. Eat, drink, heal.”
“Of course. Thank you, Catarina. You have done us a favor we will never forget and can never repay,” Damien says.
She rises, bows her head, and moves for the adjoining bedroom. But the thump of the drum meets my ears again. “Should we tell the musicians they can stop playing?” I ask. I’m exhausted myself, but judging by the sound, we’d likely pass them on the way back to our cabin.
She furrows her brow. “Musicians?”
I point a finger straight up, tipping my head. “The music. I can hear rhythm, outside.”
Catarina frowns. “There is no music. I sang to you to draw you back to this plane. Perhaps your mind is still attuned to my song. Damien, make sure she eats and drinks. There are provisions in the kitchen. Afterward, both of you must rest. Eloise, do not attempt any magic until you are stronger. The scent of death still clings to you.”
“You have my word,” Damien says.
Catarina disappears into her bedroom and closes the door. Damien rises, looking worried. “Wait here. I will find us something to eat, little bird.”
I draw my knees into my chest and stare into the fire. My stomach growls, but otherwise, there’s nothing to distract me from the thump, thump, thump of drums I hear. Still, as I calm down and just concentrate on my breath, the sound fades, until finally, I don’t hear it at all.
Damien returns with a goblet of blood for me and a steaming bowl of porridge for himself and sits down beside me. We’re both ravenous, so only when we’ve reached the bottom of our respective meals do we speak to each other again. “That happened, right? We faced the goddess.”
“Yes,” he says gruffly. “I thought she’d killed us.”
“She wanted us to take back the kingdom. Clearly, she did. Right?”
“There is no other way to interpret her words.” He scrapes the bowl and takes his last bite of porridge.
“But she didn’t grant us anything we asked for?”
