He had walked the long road down to Thrallkeld alone. Challenged Renaud alone. Spent months healing in the witch’s hut alone. Traveled back to Linden to reclaim what was left of his life alone.
Maybe Griff hadn’t been there for him in Thrallkeld. No one had. But he had always been able to rely on himself. And he needed himself now more than ever, needed to choose himself again if he was going to keep choosing Griff too.
He didn’t hear the flask as it splashed into the water like a leaping fish.
But it came right back up again. He had unthinkingly screwed the cap back on after draining it, and now it was too light for the dramatic drowning he had envisioned for his faithful companion. With a frustrated sigh, he stood and shed the rest of his clothes before diving into the creek. The cold sent a shiver rushing over his skin as he swam a few strokes out to where the flask now bobbed tauntingly, gleaming more gold than silver in the morning light. He tried to grab it, but it slipped right out of his bandaged hands a few times. He muttered curses at it until he grasped it again.
He didn’t tip it to his tongue for a farewell taste. He unscrewed the cap and plunged it under the surface until there was nothing left to keep it afloat.
As bubbles rose and the flask grew heavy, he remembered some more.
Rhun, his stiff gait and his whispers, the odd times he would play music or help with dinner or take the boys on walks. The promises of safety and a love that would never leave—promisesMal never trusted after that, because love of such a kind was something he could only give to himself.
Kage, cloaked and hooded as he stood outside Mal’s window late one night, recruiting him into service at the not-really-a-tea-shop.
The nasty scar on Griff’s stomach.
What didn’t stay had never really belonged to him, he reflected as the flask finally dropped out of his hands and buried itself in the dark silt of the creek bottom, all his old hurts and mistakes swept over by the sea of memory.
Back on his rock, hunched over and hugging his knees, Mal thought about curses. Some were real, woven by magic. But he had only been cursing himself. Been doing it for years. His curse was little more than a feeling, one he’d conjured for himself while being haunted by too many wounds from the past.
Which made it his to break too.
It belonged at the bottom of the creek with the flask.
Rising up onto his knees, he drew his hunting knife and bent over the water.
And just as Tansy had once done for him, he cut his hair close to the scalp, hacking away until all his tangled problems and unbreakable knots were nothing more than a flurry of gold flakes on the creek’s surface. He watched as the mess was swept along in the slow current, sometimes swirling in little eddies, while he felt the smooth, warm fuzz left on top of his head.
It wasn’t as even as he’d hoped; it would grow back choppy and unruly. But his. And fresh. Plenty of room for new growth.
He stood, pulling on his pants and shirt, and headed back to camp, where the others were picking through their dwindling rations for a quick breakfast, ready to press on to the lake that was glimmering through the trees to the east.
Griff’s eyes widened a touch as he took in Mal’s new look, a smile breaking over his face a moment later as he declared, “Change looks good on you.”
Mal, who hadn’t needed anyone’s approval of his new hair anyway, didn’t realize he was smiling until after he had slipped comfortably into the spot made for him at Griff’s side, leaning against the other man while he grabbed his share of jerky.
“Any tea left before we get going?” Mal asked hopefully, his expression catlike and contented as Griff rubbed his fingers over his fuzzy head.
The request wasn’t so unusual as to raise any eyebrows.
But when the flask didn’t emerge from Mal’s inner pocket to pour a healthy serving into the mug he was handed, Griff’s gaze lingered on him curiously.
“Alys,” Mal said with some effort, “would you do me—us,” he amended, thinking of how Griff never took him up on his offers to hit the flask and finally realizing what that must mean, “a favor, and go dump the rest of that bottle in the creek?” He pointed to the large amber bottle he had brought with them. “I’m done with all that. Who wants easy, anyway? Might as well dry out while we’re hauling this treasure back and my side is all fucked up.”
“Can I hug you?” Alys asked, her voice thick.
He nodded, and she threw her arms around him for a moment before heading off to dispose of the bottle. Muffin, tucked into the top of her shirt, gazed warily at Mal and then out at the wider world.
As the two men watched the proceedings, Griff drew Mal in against his side and said for the third time in nearly as many days, like a deluge of rain after a drought, “I’m so proud of you.” But a line of worry creased his brow all the same as he added, “But you’ll be more than thirsty soon. It’s going to be hell. You’re going to sweat out what feels like that whole bottle and then some. It’ll feel like you have the bad fever all over again by tomorrow, and probably for a couple days after that, speaking from experience. It might mean an extra night or two of camping out here, so I hope that fits in your deadline.”
Mal’s eyes glinted with his usual determination as he stood and then helped Griff to his feet, keeping the other man’s hand in his as he declared, “Well, let’s go make the most of today, and whatever happens after that will be tomorrow’s problem.”
And with a sore side and curious green-eyed ghosts watching from between the trees, counting down his remaining time again, Mal did things the hard way and started sweating out the whiskey as they found an old rowboat at the lake’s edge and cleared it for use.
The water was dark, flat, and still, no skeletal hands reaching up from the depths as they rowed out to the small island dotted with scrub and thorns and the long-neglected barrows of the ancients. Mal had insisted on the three of them going together, him and Alys paddling across with Griff sitting in the middle, which meant that ferrying each load of crusty old armor and gold and gem-studded weaponry took longer than it should have.
Yet no ghosts appeared to admonish him; those who watched from a distance as the trio rowed the last load to shore merely raised a filmy hand in acknowledgment, or bowed, or gave a nod. It seemed Mal was finally getting a little respect from his audience—that, or after killing the wraith, at least a silent truce from the Shadow Queen, since he had put her enemy to rest. He wondered if it would hold all the way home.
