My understanding of the East Wind deepens to a frightening degree. I understand what it is to wake up each morning and know you are low, worse than low, not even worthy of acknowledgment. I understand, too, the difficulty in living your life around this truth. How parts must be stretched or lessened or locked away to accommodate this ravenous belief, which leaves air for nothing else.
Pushing to my feet, I return to the washroom. “Your clothes,” I say through the door.
It cracks open, allowing Eurus’ hand to slide through. Moments later, he emerges, lemon-scented steam clouding his back, beads of water clinging to the rising peaks of his beautiful wings.
But—his cloak. My heart sinks in sight of it, woven fabric draping him head to toe, for I had hoped he would go without, at least in the privacy of our suite.
As if sensing my shift in mood, Eurus comes forward. “What is it, bird?”
“Will you not remove your hood?” I ask quietly.
He glances toward the entrance of the suite. The set of his shoulders reminds me of a soldier readying himself for war.
“The door is locked,” I reassure him. “No one will see you but m-me.”
The East Wind is not easily swayed. Yet I ask him for this one thing, and he complies, pushing back his hood to reveal a countenance thrown into harsh relief in the late afternoon sun. The raised scarring crawls across his left cheek, the roundness of his chin, even to the edge of his sparse eyebrow. I recall meeting his brother, Zephyrus, and wondering how Eurus’ appearance compared to that of the green-eyed, curly-haired mortal. The differences between them make me ponder what his other brothers look like.
Lifting a hand, I cup his face. My thumb sweeps the rise of his sharp cheekbone. A quiet agony clouds his features, skin drawn taut and mouth condensed into a seam.
“Is this the only place you have scarring?” I question.
“No.” He stifles a shudder as I trail gentle fingertips along his jaw, down to the dip of his collarbone. “My chest and back, too.”
And if I were to tug aside his cloak, might I witness these scars, and map their swells and divots? But of course, I do not. I havesomepropriety. “They appear to be burn marks.”
Eurus leans closer so the flat of my hand curves around the side of his neck. This close, I can count the hairs bristling his jaw.
“They are,” he whispers, eyes half-lidded, hazed black, black, black. “After my successful mutilation, my father wanted to create something even greater, some creature impervious to harm—fire and flood, sword and spear.” The muscles of his throat contract beneath my palm. “As you can see, it didn’t work.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
The East Wind searches my face. “Why? You had nothing to do with it.”
A small, sad smile bows my mouth, and I drop my hand, already mourning the warmth of his skin. “It’s called empathy, Eurus. You should try it sometime.”
He snorts and begins tugging his hood forward, but I stay his hand. “Wait.” What, exactly, is there to fear in asking? Eurus is not Lady Clarisse. He will not lay a hand on me for speaking out of turn. “Have you considered attending tonight’s event just as you are—without the cloak?”
He regards me in thinly veiled surprise. I swallow, wondering if I have overstepped, if I even have the right to ask this of him.
He says, in a rare display of vulnerability, “You have seen the divine, bird: flawless miens, unblemished skin. I don’t wish to draw attention to myself. I know how unsightly my features are.”
“They’re not unsightly,” I argue.
“They will stare.”
“Only for a time. Eventually, they will get used to it, grow bored, and shift their focus elsewhere.”
Eurus tugs at his hood self-consciously. “I would rather not.”
Today, I am bold.
I step further into the East Wind’s space until we are chest to chest and I am peering up at him.You are nothing, he wrote to himself. I have never read something so untrue.
“Our suffering does not make us ugly,” I whisper. “The people that hurt us—theyare the ones with ugly hearts. You were hurt, yes, but you endured and will continue to endure. That is a beautiful thing.”
“And you,” he says lowly, his eyes singeing me from soles to scalp. “You, too, have endured.”
I have. I’m still here, still breathing. I may only be a mortal woman from Marles, but I try my best to do what’s right. I was not broken then, and I’m not broken now.
