“Is that what you think?” I demand. “That if you don’t deserve happiness, no one does?”
His eyes shine, and he blinks rapidly to clear them. “I am not a good man, Brielle. I fear my past transgressions will always burden me.”
“Why would they burden you?”
“Because I am the same as I have always been.”
“I do not believe that.” Even in the short time I have known Zephyrus, I recognize a change in him. “You are more than the man you were. Of that, I am certain.”
He shakes his head. “I am not so sure.”
I consider his tale with newfound perspective. A tragic series of mistakes? Maybe. I will not know until I ask the only question able to alleviate my doubt.
“Are you sorry for what you did? Do you regret treating your brother so poorly?”
“Every day,” Zephyrus says. “Every gods-forsaken day. There is a rot within me. It cannot be changed, nor can it be purged. It stays with me, always.”
The horror of his past softens in me, and fades. We are all made of separate parts. Zephyrus might always carry this rot with him, but who is to say it cannot be burned away to some degree, or lessened? The West Wind is the grower of green things. He is relief in the cold. I choose to see him as a collection of parts, some undesirable, others shaped by curiosity, playfulness, wonder.
“Maybe you’re not the most likeable person,” I admit, to which Zephyrus laughs, a noise strained to breaking, “but I like you well enough. I’m not perfect either. You erred, as we all do. What matters is how we learn from our missteps. That is how we grow.” Briefly, I touch his arm. “Tell me what you have learned.”
“That I am the cause of my misfortune. My selfish, self-centered, sabotaging nature.” He speaks harshly toward himself. “An immortal who is careless with his own life. Imagine that.” Yet eventually his voice gentles. The lines smooth from his skin, as though warmed by a touch of compassion.
“But life, I’ve learned, is fragile, even mine,” he continues. “It must be cherished, nurtured, embraced. I must not be careless with others’ emotions, for it will lead to my own isolation. I must hold myself accountable for my actions, for how else am I to understand the harm I inflict on others? And you, Brielle…” He regards me with an openness I have yearned to witness since our first meeting. “You have been the wisest of all my teachers. You are a teacher of faith, of how to live an unselfish life, of patience and empathic humility. You are,” he says haltingly, “too good.”
“I am Brielle. Nothing less, nothing more.”
One of his hands lifts, strong fingers encircling my wrist. “We do not have much time.”
Indeed, the sun has begun its descent. I look to Zephyrus’ hand, pondering all I have been through. I wonder what tomorrow will bring. I ask myself what I will regret. I think of what could have been.
Pulling my wrist free, I begin to tug off my gloves. Zephyrus watches, marveling at the sight of my pale, freckled hands, their hardened calluses.
As his gaze locks with mine, my belly quivers. If he were to close the distance, I might again experience the sweet pressure of his mouth, the wet slide of his tongue.
“You once asked me if I wondered what a man’s touch felt like,” I say, and those piercing eyes flicker. “I didn’t then. I do now.”
He watches me with grave understanding. I have removed my gloves, this inviolable barrier cast aside at last.
“I want to know what it feels like to lie with a man.”
“Brielle.” Zephyrus shifts closer, though he does not touch me. “We don’t have to do this. It is enough to be in your presence. There’s nothing you need to prove, not to me, nor to anyone else.”
“I know I have nothing to prove,” I state. “I want to know how it feels, just once.”
“Only a virgin may become an acolyte. You said so yourself.”
“I know.”
There is a change, and it is a change in him, and in me: two contraries falling into harmony with one another. “Are you sure?”
“Zephyrus.” I cup his face in my hands, and oh, how his skin sings to mine. “I am sure.”
Leaning forward, I press my mouth to his. Curved and smooth, his lips part, slotting briefly into mine. Warmth blooms in my chest as I ease back. “Though I do not know what to do.”
Wrapping his fingers around my wrists, he anchors me in place with the delicious heat of his skin. “Do you trust me?”
“Yes,” I whisper, allowing him to pull me closer. “I trust you.” That which had been broken is finally mended. It is worth more to me now. “Are you feeling strong enough?”
