He took a breath, and for a moment he was confident he would hold it all together, hold it in. But the recipe of anger and hurt and helplessness rushing through him proved too much, and he darted his foot out to kick one of the soup mugs into oblivion. It crashed somewhere nearby in the bracken, sounding like it might have shattered on a rock or dead branch.
It was at least enough of a release to put him in motion again, if nothing else. He took a few brisk steps toward the bramble where he had hunted for herbs, then turned back to the fireside and Alys, sinking down next to her and putting an arm around her shoulders, the only comfort he had ever known.
She let him lean against her despite his earlier heated words, asking for nothing in return. Almost like she knew exactly how the sight of a gesture between friends had swiftly cut to something at the heart of him that he hadn’t touched in years.
Griff’s parents might be as long gone as Mal’s own, but at least Griff had the elves. Alys had had Wynnie and Rhun, her own family, for longer than either of the boys did. But all Mal had ever had—his one constant for as far back as he could recall, even after Griff left—was Alys, who was as good as a sister to him.
“I didn’t mean to upset you,” Alys began tentatively, trying to work her mouth around some sort of apology. “I just thought—”
“It’s fine,” Mal said firmly, cutting her off, but he leaned against her a little more in a show of wordless forgiveness. “Me and Griff,” he muttered, shaking his head. “What a joke. That judgmental fuck has probably slept with half of Linden—half of Stormveil, too, for all we know. He can’t commit to anything, probably not even himself. And no, a guy he paid to sleep with doesn’t count. I’ve heard enough about how they got together.” He attempted to snort derisively, though it held none of his usual conviction as he stared into the flames. He didn’t really know what Griff was capable of, it turned out, because he’d never even known how the other man felt. There was so much he didn’t know.
“Him and his straight jobs and his stupid boyfriends,” Mal went on, because at least this rant was familiar. “And he wants to be the hero like his daddy, for what? So he can die young and have his name in a bunch of songs while everyone who ever cared about him picks up the pieces? No thanks.”
“I heard he sucked off twelve visiting knights from Kattan in a single evening once,” Alys murmured unhelpfully, a little drunk or high, or both. “Or was it eight?”
Looking away from her, outside the circle of their fire, he didn’t even recognize this world anymore—one in which Griff loved him. Didn’t know how to tell if it was real.
But the part of him that had kept that scarf all these years wanted him to figure it out, and it was getting louder, more demanding.
Mal reached for the whiskey bottle Griff hadn’t wanted to use on his leg and took a few gulps. He needed just enough to put himself back on the ground and into the welcome relief of darkness, where he was alone. Where he could count on himself to do what needed to be done. To survive.
Chapter ThirteenDark Signs
Griff wasn’t sure Mal remembered the deal they had struck about actually eating some breakfast, but while he didn’t touch any of their rations, he also didn’t pull out his flask upon waking—not even when Griff sat down by the dwindling remains of their fire to take a look at the cuts on his hands and properly wrap them while Alys ate her own breakfast in a rare moment of quiet contemplation.
“Turn your hands over for me,” Griff instructed, eyes down, waiting patiently until he was afforded a view of Mal’s livid-looking palms just across from him in the golden light of early morning. “We’re going to need to wrap these after I put some balm on them. And maybe we’ll put your mittens over the bandages to keep them extra dry.”
“That bad, huh?” Mal said without emotion as he, too, studied his bloody hands.
“Bad enough that I’m sure you’re wishing you’d stabbed me instead,” Griff admitted as he began to dig in his pack for the salve he’d brought. “Or maybe you wish you’d stabbed me a long time ago and been done with it. That might have been easier forme, too, because then I wouldn’t be out here, spilling blood and feelings all over you.”
He had finally let it out. Finally told Mal everything he had kept inside for too long, and the world hadn’t ended. Part of him was surprised to wake up and find how little had changed—but then, maybe the changing had started back in Mayfair, when Mal approached him that night. Or maybe Mal really couldn’t love anything as much as he loved gold.
Mal sighed, a hint of discomfort flitting over his face as Griff applied a dab of the balm and tried to smear the strong-smelling herbal mixture along the lines bisecting his palms with the lightest strokes possible. Still, he didn’t make any of the foul remarks Griff expected.
“A lot of things would be easier if we could change history,” Mal agreed on an exhale. “But we can’t. And I don’t want you dead, believe me. Far from it.” He tried to flex one of his swollen, crusty palms a little and blanched, immediately relaxing it again. “You’ve killed me in so many ways over the years, and then I saw what looked like … well, a lot more than it was, for a second, and hurting you back felt like the natural next act in the tragedy you started.”
Griff’s eyes rose to Mal’s, wondering what had bothered him so much about seeing him kiss anyone. He paused, another dab of salve on his fingers, not yet applying it. “You know I’m gay, right?” he said matter-of-factly. “Just so we’re clear. Alys knows too, and it’ll never be like that between us.” That part was easy. What was harder was admitting, “Back when you first got with your girlfriend at the time—Sage? Saffron? Sorrel? Sorry, I’ve tried really hard to forget her name. Anyway, I was crazy jealous because—because of how I felt about you. I couldn’t stomach seeing you kiss her. I overreacted.” He somehow resisted the urge to point outmuch like you did last night. “I said some stupid shit I didn’t mean, and then I went to live in Stormveil.”
Okay, so perhaps he still had Mal beat for overreaction of the century.
Mal regarded him back steadily, coolly, his voice lowering as if he were about to impart some terrible secret the world shouldn’t know. “You were my closest friend. And then you weren’t. When you left, I evolved.” Holding up those bloodied hands, palms still turned to Griff, he added, “This is it. This is me now, or what’s left of me. I don’t know whether I could love you. I’ve never even been with a man. I guess … I’ve never really thought about it much. But you should stay out here with us if you want to. I just need time. And when it comes to you and me, know that I can’t promise you a thing.”
Griff thought then, as he had on their several nights out on the plains, of how warm the hearth would be with Badger curled in front of it. He thought of a door opening, of arms that readily reached for him, and knew there was a chance he could still ride back and make amends with Liam. He thought of easy kisses and effortless laughter, pancakes and flowers on the table.
But there were flowers out here. Wild ones, strong and untamed, dancing in the wind.
If he had wanted easy, deep down, he never would have put his boots on that morning. He would still be in Linden.
He put his own hands on his knees, palms down, inviting Mal’s gaze there. “Work accidents,” he said, as he had the first time he’d been asked about those scars. “Because sometimes when I should be paying attention to whatever tool is in my hand, I’m thinking about me and you and how I let it all get so bad.”
Mal sat silently, seeming to take it all in. Then he offered his upturned palms to Griff’s salve again, his face more relaxed this time as Griff spread balm over the cuts.
“Bandages and mittens. Between my hands and your leg, we’re going to look like quite a set,” Mal finally said, a grin briefly tugging at his lips. But just as quickly, he was frowning again.“I’m afraid you’ll lose that leg if you don’t take good care of it. You’ll need to ride Little Griff for as long as the Mire permits, stay off it. And I can get you more herbs. We can still make good time without putting you in more pain.”
Beyond the repeated annoyance of the mule’s name, there was something more to Mal’s offer. Griff wasn’t sure exactly what, but he found himself smiling a little as he said, “Okay. You can get more herbs—thank you.”
Still, Mal continued to frown as Griff unwound a clean roll of bandages. It was a good thing he had packed so many, along with two precious vials of the cherry-red elven medicine he hoped they wouldn’t need.
