His head snaps up. The blacks of his eyes are large enough to fall into, and fall into them I do. As his slow, salt-tinged exhalation mingles with mine, his breath slips into my parted mouth. The scent of his skin once threatened to drag me back under the black waves of memory. Now? I do not think it would be so terrible a thing, to drown.
Softly, the East Wind murmurs, “How would I go about doing that?”
“You give yourself compassion,” I whisper. “You acknowledge you did the best that you could. You commit to loving yourself wholeheartedly.You do not allow those deceitful thoughts to take over. You see yourself as others see you.” I swallow, force out the rest. “AsIsee you.”
A gentleness blurs the harder lines bracketing his mouth. It becomes a fire-bright warmth, a yearning. “And how do you see me, bird?”
It is too complex a thing, to arrange all that I know about the East Wind like fixings of a brew. For he is forceful and he is hesitant. He is renowned and unknowable. He is wounded, terribly so, yet healing, too. He will not always reach first, but he will capture my hand should I do so instead. He is rigid in his beliefs, but they have softened over time, perhaps even altered shape. He is all-powerful, yet he has not one friend.
The truth, I’ve found, is not so complex. “You are many things, Eurus,” I say. “Just when I believe I’ve started to understand you, I learn there is yet another facet to uncover.” It is something that cannot be described, only experienced and known. The East Wind, whom I fear I have given my heart to. He hasn’t the slightest clue.
“You are many things as well, bird.” As though handling glass, Eurus cups my face with tender pressure and delicate fingertips. “Kind and gentle, compassionate and generous, practical and bright, and,” he adds with a quirked mouth, “beautiful, but especially when angry.”
I laugh, and he laughs, and the levity, though brief, brings a much-desired optimism to our temporary shelter. How I long to close the distance, but desire cannot be born from a single individual. It must be shared.
“Bird.” His eyes crimp with affection. “Min.” Thumb pressed to my chin, he draws it downward, gaze fixated on my mouth. “How long do I have before my strength gives out?”
“A day, maybe two?” Might a different antidote slow the poison? But that would mean leaving him to search for ingredients, and I would almost certainly lose my sense of direction, or stumble across another contender, or both. Our greatest chance of survival is sticking together, working toward a common plan: killing the other competitors before they kill us.
He shivers, his eyelids fluttering shut. “I’m cold.”
“I know.” And the worst has yet to come.
While I help Eurus settle next to the fire, the low tolling of the bell ripples out over the night-encased forest.
“What does that sound mean?” I ask him as I remove his wet boots and socks and set them near the licking flames. The fabric of my clothes has begun to stiffen with dryness.
“It means that one of the participants has fallen,” he mumbles drowsily.
That was the seventh instance of the bell. If we are lucky, it will have claimed one of the Fates. I wonder if Arin is still alive. Part of me hopes that he is not. I certainly do not want to be responsible for his death. We must outplay, out compete, and outlast the four remaining competitors. The Council of Gods will not make it easy. Whoever walks through that door must earn it.
The hours wane. The night deepens. I stack the logs and build the fire high, great, smoky plumes belching toward the cave ceiling. As Eurus continues to quake from the poison moving through his bloodstream, I stare at his shivering form. My mouth goes dry, and a crackling awareness consumes me. Only when skin touches skin might there be relief from the cold.
And so I strip. Buttons undone, nightgown removed and tossed aside, so that my exposed flesh shivers in the brisk air. When I stand in nothing but my undergarments, I crouch at the East Wind’s side, fingertips hovering over his shoulder. I do not know why I hesitate. It is worth a try. Anything is worth a try.
“Eurus.” Instead of his shoulder, I brush his cheek. It is icy and bloodless. “We need to remove your wet clothes.”
Rolling onto his back with a groan, he blinks up at me, brow scrunched as his eyes struggle to focus. “Bird?”
I clear my throat awkwardly before removing his cloak. The strange fabric, something like leather but softer, is almost completely dry, as if it has repelled the water. Beneath it, he wears charcoal trousers and a plain, long-sleeved shirt. I undo four buttons before he stiffens in realization. “What are you doing?” he growls in alarm.
“Undressing you.” The steadiness of my voice pleases me. My heart, however, is a different story. “Your cloak is dry. You can put it back on after your clothes are removed.”
He grabs my wrist. I shake him off. He is not thinking clearly. That is fine. I’ve enough faculties to think for the both of us.
As I bare his chest, the breath leaves my lungs so violently I feel faint. The sheer enormity of his torso is a canvas of skin dusted in black hair, marred by a significant scar dripping down the entirety of his left side like a spill of shiny white paint.
I am not a particularly violent person, but I’m certain I could kill Eurus’ father in this moment. The sight of Eurus’ chest sickens me, for there is scarring, and then there is this: a hot melting of skin that has bubbled and blistered and cooled.
“Boiling oil.”
My gaze leaps to his. “Excuse me?”
“My father,” Eurus grinds out, “poured boiling oil over me. He wanted to see how high my pain tolerance was and gave me a potion that suppressed my body’s ability to heal. This is the aftermath, what I must carry even though he is gone from this world.” He studies the scarring in disgust. “It is ugly.”
“No, it is beautiful.”
He shakes his head, saying nothing.
