Knowing that makes this hurt so much more. Because I might miss Heidi, but I have never denied Irida anything. And Irida loved Heidi almost from the moment she met her. Saw something in that fierce, guarded woman that made her want to claim her as family. The same thing I saw, I suppose. The same thing that made me willing to tear down every wall I've built to keep the world at bay.
"Tell her..." I start, then stop. What can I tell her? That the woman who played tea parties and braided her hair and made her laugh until her wings fluttered with joy is gone? That I drove her away by wanting too much, too fast?
That I love them both so goddamn much it's killing me?
"Tell her Heidi needed some time away," I finally manage. "That sometimes adults need space to think."
Thera makes a disgusted sound. "And how long are you planning to give her? Until you collapse? Until Irida has to watch her father waste away because he's too stubborn to fight for what he wants?"
"She doesn't want—" The words die in my throat because I can't finish that lie. Not even to myself.
Heidi wanted me. I felt it in every desperate sound she made, every arch of her back against my hands. Felt it in the way she surrendered completely, gave me her throat and trusted me not to break her. She wanted me just as much as I wanted her.
But wanting isn't enough. Not when she's spent her whole life learning that wanting leads to pain, that trusting someone means giving them the power to destroy you.
By the third day, I can barely stand upright. The bones in my body feel like they're made of lead, dragging me down with every step. My magic, usually as natural as breathing, sputters and dies when I try to call it. Even the simplest flame refuses to answer my summons.
I'm sitting in the library, pretending to read while actually just staring at the same page for the past hour, when Irida finds me. She climbs onto my lap without invitation, her small body warm and solid against my chest. Her wings rustle as she settles, the black feathers with their gold tips catching the lamplight.
"Dad, you're cold." She presses her tiny hands to my cheeks, and I can see the worry in her eyes. "Are you sick?"
"Just tired, little flame." The endearment comes out hoarse. Even talking to my daughter feels like lifting mountains.
She studies my face with the serious expression she gets when she's trying to figure out something complicated. "Is it because Heidi went away?"
The question drives straight through my chest like a blade. I close my eyes, trying to find words that won't break either of us.
"Dad misses her," I admit. Because I can't lie to Irida. Won't add that to the list of ways I'm failing as her father.
"Me too." Her voice is small, uncertain. "She said she'd help me make fire flowers for you. She said she'd braid my hair like the princesses in the stories."
Fuck.The word echoes through my head as I pull Irida closer, burying my face in her soft curls. She smells like sunshine and the cookies Thera sneaks her after dinner, like innocence and trust and everything good in my world.
Everything I'm apparently willing to sacrifice on the altar of my own misery.
"Can you make sparkles?" Irida pulls back to look at me hopefully. "Pretty ones? With lots of colors?"
I try. Gods help me, I try to summon even the smallest flame for my daughter. But my magic feels distant, muffled, like trying to grasp smoke with my bare hands. The most I can manage is a weak flicker that dies before it fully forms.
Irida's face falls. "Dad?"
The fear in her voice nearly breaks me completely. She's never seen me unable to call fire before. Never seen me weak or sick or anything less than the invincible father she believes me to be.
"I'm all right," I lie, smoothing her hair back from her face. "Just need some rest."
But we both know that's not true. She can feel the wrongness in me just like I can feel it in myself. The bond with Heidi isn'tjust magical—it's carved itself into the very fabric of who I am. And without her, I'm coming apart at the seams.
That night, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling and catalog all the ways I'm dying.
The physical symptoms are the easiest to identify. Nausea that makes food taste like ash. Trembling hands that can't hold a cup steady. Bones that ache like I've been beaten. A constant chill that no amount of blankets can touch.
But the emotional damage cuts deeper. Everything reminds me of her. The way she'd curl up in the chair by my fireplace, bare feet tucked beneath her, hair catching the light as she read. The sound of her laughter echoing through the halls when Irida said something particularly precocious. The fierce way she'd defend herself during our arguments, never backing down even when I towered over her with wings spread wide.
The way she looked at me sometimes when she thought I wasn't paying attention. Like I was something precious. Something worth keeping.
I roll over, pressing my face into the pillow, and try to convince myself this is just the bond talking. That these feelings are nothing more than magical compulsion, a trick of fate that's forcing us together against our will.
But I know that's a lie. Have known it for weeks.
