Tugging at the blanket beside me, I balled up the blood-soaked portion and tossed that corner over and away from Neirin so that what lay across him was clean and dry.
Checking that the quilt wasn’t too close to the fireplace, I curled under it beside Neirin’s unconscious form and cradled his head against my breasts. I ran my fingers through his hair andhummed to him, a tune from my childhood that brought back a faint image of my mother.
The quilt draped below his shoulder, revealing the top of his tattoo along his chest and at the base of his neck. I trailed my fingers along the bold black marks to his shoulder. Our bond. He was mine, and I was his. And he was going to die in my arms.
32
EVERA
I stood in a forest.Pale moonlight cast the wood in monochrome shades of gray, black, and silver. Snow was falling, flecking the frozen dirt and chilling the air. The flakes glittered as they slowly descended.
I wore a thick winter cloak lined with fur that tickled my face, and when I exhaled, my breath fogged. Barefoot, I moved through the trees. They towered around me, their trunks dark and ominous. Drawing nearer to one, I placed my hand on its bark.
Beneath my fingers, a sticky liquid caused me to draw back. Crimson stained my hand, the only color in a world of gray. The tang of iron filled my senses, and I stepped back, vision faltering as the tree before me became the only one left in the woods. Its surface dripped, the substance thick and choking.Blood. Where it met the earth, the snow steamed and began to melt, creating little holes and ravines of red in the otherwise flawless white.
The tree itself was dying, melting into itself, branches warping. Swallowing, I retreated another step and then another, needing to create distance between myself and the formidable sight. Calix’s echoing words came back to me, ringing in my ears.Neirin is dying.
My back hit something firm, and arms wrapped around my shoulders. Panic flooded me, but the voice in my ear was reassuring, familiar. I turned in Neirin’s embrace and gazed into his watchful eyes. They shone like the moon, silver-flecked with stardust.
Alive. He is alive. Isn’t he?
Vaguely, I was aware that the scenes before me were unreal, not true, contrived by my imagination.
“Quiet, love.” His words were a warning, hushed, and one of his hands cupped my mouth. Blood coated his bare skin, and warmth emanated from him.
My body trembled. When I looked past him, I found us on a hillside with nothing but blanketing snow and hazy skies. His palm over my lips was firm but gentle. In his presence, a formidable sense of security befell me, even as the ominous nature of our surroundings and the intensity of his eyes set my heart racing.Even as I swallowed the knowledge that none of this was real.
Keeping his brace over my mouth, Neirin’s other hand lowered. It bunched the cloth of my cloak and drew it up. As he had the night of the festival, he trailed along the scabbard at my thigh. Warmth flooded me, both from his touch and from his acceptance. Pressing my forehead to his chest, I hooded my eyes. I parted my lips to speak, to apologize for not giving him the comfort he’d asked for, for letting myself believe I could fix something that I clearly could not, for causing him more pain. But the warmth of Neirin’s hand held my words back.
“Quiet.” The command was firmer this time.
A knock on the door stirred me from my dream. My eyes shot open, and I muffled a gasp against the hand clasped over my mouth. Uprooted, I squirmed, but the steady weight above me held me firm to the floor.
Neirin’s sharp eyes met mine, and I stilled. Despite the paleness of his complexion, the warmth of life emanated from him. The strength with which he held himself above me alone should not have been possible, yet … there was magic within him, within his blood. My heart caught and fumbled over itself, and the events of the past hours rushed back to me with more clarity as the haze of my sleep left. The restraint of emotion, the fight for strength, the sureness of loss. I shuddered, wanting nothing more than to be held, to be comforted by him, even though he had been the one to face death and prevail, not I.
His trailing touch at my thigh drew my thoughts briefly back to my dream. One word remained, an echo in my mind.Quiet.
The rapping at the door came again, and Neirin withdrew my dagger and rose to his knees, one between my thighs, and the other at my side. When he addressed me with his eyes once more, I nodded subtly and he removed his hand from my mouth.
The deep burgundy of dried blood coated his body, streaking the line of his jaw and beneath his cheekbones, where I’d held his face. The strands of his hair curled about his ears in crimson-tinted clumps.
Rising to my elbows, my gaze fell to his wound. Angry, swollen flesh tugged at the stitches, and in areas , bruising showed in deep purple hues. Despite this, the threads held, even as Neirin’s heavy breaths swelled through his chest and to his belly. The raggedness of his breathing spoke of the pain he still felt, though I sensed a complete absence of sensations through our bond. His gaze was focused and intent.
Following it, I turned my head to face the door. The sound came again, and bracing his weight on a shaking arm, Neirin pushed to his feet. A muscle at his jaw flexed, and he wavered momentarily before stepping to the wall to steady himself. Head hung, he panted and adjusted his hold on the dagger. When he raised his gaze to the door again, determination lined the set ofhis brows. Using the wall to support himself, he moved away from me, his steps creaking on the wooden floorboards.
The knocking came again. Neirin opened the latch and swung open the door in a fluid movement, standing without the support of the wall, and any prior trace of weakness vanished. His was the pose of a man accustomed to withstanding a great deal of pain, to holding himself as a wall of defense despite it. My heart caught at his strength, and at the implications of what he’d been through in his life.
“You’re not dead.” Maerel’s statement came on a breath. Shock and perhaps relief, too.
Grunting, Neirin stepped back and lowered the blade. The tension in the air settled with the motion. He returned to the wall and braced himself against it, the effects of his brief efforts showing more clearly now as his breath came on a shudder and fresh red blood trickled from his wound.
“I am grateful to see you, too, Maerel,” Neirin huffed. The edge of wit in his tone brought me fully to, and I stood, my muscles sore from sleeping on the hard ground.
“You need to sit down,” I said as I went to him, my voice raw.
The innkeeper’s gaze trailed down Neirin’s body unabashedly as I approached, sending a prick of— It wasn’t quite jealousy, for I knew that Neirin belonged to me alone, but something similar. Something inside of me that snarled, that raked, as deep and primal as the old magic that marked us.
No, I’m being absurd. Maerel is likely only gazing down to his wound. And what does it matter anyway?
