That made him open his eyes, despite the stabbing pain. “How can you not be sorry? Papa… our home… gods, you were in Ballanor’s room.”
She gave a small grunt that was strangely reminiscent of Tristan and frowned as she carefully framed her words before replying. “I’m sad about Papa and our home. But Val, Papa’s heart… it hasn’t been good this past year. He’s gone to Mama now. And our home, well, it was just a place. We have a new home now, here with your brothers. With Tristan.”
He gave a tiny shake of denial and closed his eyes again. They weren’t his brothers. Not anymore. And he still had a few things to say to Tristan.
Nim sighed. “They’ll come round. They just…. It’s hard for them. If they accept that they were wrong about everything, then they have to feel responsible for what happened to you. And to her. They don’t want to believe something like that was happening in the palace, right under their noses, and they never realized.”
Assholes. They were responsible. Responsible for abandoning him after Ravenstone. Responsible for leaving Alanna with Ballanor when they rescued everyone else. It wasn’t Nimmy’s fault, it was Tristan’s. He tried to tell her, but the words came out in a mumbled slur of exhaustion.
“Before you go to sleep, I have something for you,” Nim said softly. There was a gentle pressure on his hand as she slipped something cold and heavy onto his little finger.
Gods. His signet ring. He hadn’t imagined that he’d ever get it back. He curled his fingers to keep it safe. The burning in his eyes was worse. Fuck.
A throat cleared from the entrance. “Can I come in?” Rafe had obviously been sent in to brave Nim’s wrath.
Val didn’t bother to answer, and eventually Nim sighed and did it for him. “Are you planning to be helpful?”
Rafe’s tone sounded amused. “Yes. Only help, I promise.”
“Fine, then,” Nim replied testily.
Val kept his eyes shut. He was too tired to get involved, and he didn’t really care.
A few seconds later, he heard Rafe settling himself to sit next to Nim, and a reassuring hand landed on his shoulder. He was immediately filled with a flowing sense of peaceful warmth, and he felt himself relaxing back into the bedroll as the tangled knots within his aching muscles slowly unraveled and the disorienting prickle of fever faded into exhaustion.
He could hear Rafe and Nim talking, but their voices seemed impossibly far away.
“Jeremiel is going back to the Nephilim Temple in Kaerlud to see if anyone there knows anything.”
“Thanks, Rafe.”
Rafe cleared his throat. “You might want to go and see how Tristan’s doing.”
Nim sniffed pointedly and didn’t move.
Rafe chuckled. “He’s fully battle scaled and is currently wearing a trench by pacing around the fire. I saw claws.”
Nim chuckled, and Val could feel her soften next to him.
Her fingers squeezed his hand gently. “Is that okay, Val? If I leave you for a minute?”
His eyes flew open as a rush of irrational terror spiked through him. He didn’t want her to go. Didn’t want her to let go of his hand. Didn’t want to be left alone in the dark.
Fuck.
He wanted to be sick. But the mortification was worse. His tremors came back in a slow roll of agony, and Nim paused beside him.
“It’s okay, Nim, I’ve got him.” Rafe’s hand moved to his forehead, and just as quickly as it had risen, the awful, shameful panic subsided.
Val took a long, slow breath and managed to give Nim a small nod. She looked conflicted, but he waved her away. “Go.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Go.”
She squeezed his hand again and then let go and padded softly out of the tent.
He took a moment to get himself together and then tried to push Rafe’s hand away. “You can go too.”
