“How are you holding up?”
I shrug. He has yet to put space between us. “I have good days and bad days.” Last night was especially difficult. I called Orla into my room, begging for a bottle, a mouthful, a drop. She sat with me while I tossed and turned in my sweat-soaked blankets before switching them out for clean sheets at dawn.
Turning away from him, I continue down the cramped road, and Boreas falls into step beside me, avoiding the growing crowd easily with his grace. “Drinking may not be the healthiest coping mechanism,” he says over the clatter and din, “but it is far better than how I dealt with my grief.”
Once free of the market, the king guides me to a garden—quieter, thick with flowering plants, a little walking trail tucked among the broad, flat leaves. “What do you mean?”
He brushes his fingers against the greenery in passing. I’m almost positive he isn’t aware of it, for his eyes have slipped behind a clouded haze. “When my wife and son were taken from me,” he says, “the linebetween life and death blurred so much that I stopped living. I thought, if I could not protect the lives of people I loved, then maybe I didn’t deserve a life of my own.”
Something about his phrasing causes distress to spike in me. Surely he’s not inferring what I think he is… though what other interpretation is there?
“I returned here, to the city, and I went to the temple where the Council of Gods assembles.” There is a pause. “I asked them to end my life.”
Shock roots my feet to the middle of the path. Boreas stops a few paces ahead, his back to me, but eventually he turns, and the churning emotion in his eyes darkens with unspeakable grief.
Even at my lowest point, I never considered ending my life. I had Elora to care for, of course, but even if I hadn’t, it’s not in my nature to consider that an option. “But they refused?”
“They turned me away.” He continues down the path, pushing through long, hanging vines. “I could not even take that decision into my own hands. When my brothers and I were banished, the Council of Gods made sure we could not escape our eternal suffering. We were prevented from taking our own lives, even with a god-touched weapon. Thus, grief became my sentence, and I returned to the citadel, with its empty rooms, its memories.”
Where he has been ever since.
We wander in the direction of a smaller plaza to the west, where bands of golden light burnish the pale stone buildings. Gods of every color and size and manner of dress ease past, completely oblivious that one of their own has returned. One goddess slips through the throng with a deer at her side, a bow slung across her back. A few blocks over, a god parades the streets atop his shining chariot, blood and gore sullying its sides.
I knew the North Wind had experienced loss, but I never realized how deeply it had impacted him. Enough to seek a permanent end.
“I suppose that’s the burden of a mortal life,” I say. The road curves, revealing a tiered vegetable garden to the left, another fountain to theright. “One day, our lives will end, and we move on, even if those we leave behind cannot.”
Our meandering takes us to a small, outdoor seating area overlooking a park. While I settle onto a bench beneath the shade, Boreas disappears and returns with two crystal glasses.
My heart beats still. “Wine?” And I loathe how quickly the ache rises in my throat, however brief. I didn’t expect Boreas to put me in a compromising position, especially one that would send me spiraling back to the sad, sorry person I’d been, peace and comfort found only in the dregs of a bottle.
“Nectar.” He passes me my drink and takes a seat. The bright, gleaming substance, like liquid gold, clings thickly to the glass.
With some effort, I relax. Nectar, not wine. I take a sip, let it coat my tongue, and startle as the flavor becomes clear. “It tastes like chocolate cake with cherry filling and fudge icing.” I gawp at the drink in bewilderment. “What is this sorcery?”
The corners around Boreas’ mouth tick upward as he lifts the glass to his mouth. “Nectar tastes like whatever your favorite food is.” The muscles of his throat flex with his swallow. I can’t help but stare.
I take another sip, because it’s been so long since I’ve had my mother’s cherry-filled chocolate cake. I’ve attempted to replicate it, but it never tastes the same. “What does it taste like to you?”
“A golden apple.” At my intrigue, he explains, “The fruit doesn’t exist in your realm. They grow in a garden guarded by a large serpent.”
My mind turns to another garden hidden in the looming veil of a cave. A garden which might infect this unspoiled afternoon, should I allow it room to blossom.
Settling back in the chair, I observe the cityfolk strolling throughout the park. “It’s peaceful here.” The swelling backs of the mountains brace the sky beyond the city, with its clean, elegant lines, ivy-grown balconies, and fluted marble pillars.
“How does it compare to what you imagined it would look like?”
Truthfully, I hadn’t given much thought to Boreas’ home. “It’s quieter than I thought it would be, but no less lovely.” A slight hesitation before I take another sip of my drink. “I always wanted to travel places. I wanted to see the world, even knowing I likely never would.”
The king studies me before taking a sweep of our surroundings. “Luckily, we have the time,” he says. “What else would you like to see? There are theaters, symphonies, art galleries, libraries, the university, bookstores, the ballet—”
“Bookstore.” I finish off the nectar, place the glass on the bench. “And then the ballet. Oh, and maybe on the way back we can stop and get one of those pastries I saw in the bakery window earlier…”
Many hours later, I stand in front of the mirror in my bedchamber and wonder if my outfit is too much, too… vulnerable. This is becoming a habit—mirror-gazing. I should shatter the damn thing, but I don’t shy from my reflection as I once did, and that is its own victory.
My scar does not mark me as undesirable. It is but a memory wrapped in old, tough skin. Boreas has never shown revulsion toward it, but what does he see when he looks at me? Really, it shouldn’t matter, and I shouldn’t care. But it does matter. And I do care.
“Lovely as usual, my lady.”
