“Solveig,” he whispered. The fog of his breath lingered in the air above him.
Her gaze softened, though she didn’t smile. She also didn’t come closer.
“Get up,” she ordered.
Right, he had to stand. Pain lanced his spine, but he wouldn’t show her—she had endured it silently and so would he.
Westley got to his feet, painstakingly slow, surprised his legs didn’t give out. He swore they’d been broken a moment ago. He tried to reach for the bond, knowing he wouldn’t feel it but desperate for it regardless.
She shook her head, holding his gaze, as though she knew what he was doing. An answer to his unasked question. She couldn’t feel him or hear him either.
He hated it.
Once, he’d wished their bond would disappear, had wished he couldn’t hear her or feel her. Now he’d do just about anything for her presence to fill his soul.
Why wasn’t she coming closer? His confused thoughts must have been written on his face because she laid her open palm on an invisible wall, showing that she couldn’t get through.
Understanding dawned as he took in his punishment, his isolation.
How many souls had been lost to this lake of legend? His muddled thoughts conjured up any scrap of buried knowledge of Nastrond, any way to escape its power.
The only way to stop the endless suffering was through forgiveness. Solveig had to forgive him, and he had to forgive himself. Or maybe she already had. She could see him, after all—the lake showed him to her and she was there, entreating him to go on.
Taking a deep breath, he placed one foot in the water. It was cold, near the point of freezing, soaking into his boot. He took another step, and as soon as both feet were planted in the lake, the pain of shackles dug into his wrists and ankles, the short chains preventing him from moving forward.
He dropped to the ground on all fours under the weight. Phantom blood dripped from where the irons dug into his wrists. Assuming it was all in his mind, as with the other injuries he’d endured so far, he lifted his hand to his face to make sure.
His eyes widened at the sight before him.
Blood poured out of him, streaming from his wrists and ankles. And then the lashing began.
Each crack of the whip lanced his back with white-hot pain as he struggled to keep moving forward. The lake devoured his blood and screams—accepting the payment for his sins.
Solveig banged on the invisible wall, her eyes wide with horror as she watched his suffering—as he had done nothing but watch hers.
Westley wanted to laugh at the punishment, but with the onslaught of the whip, he could do no more than cry out at the unbearable pain. His resolve to keep quiet in case Solveig could hear snapped. There was no way to endure this kind of torture in complete silence.
Tears flowed freely down his face as he struggled to move forward.
The lake was shallow, only engulfing his hands and wrists as he crawled towards the one he’d hurt the most. His heart’s promise—the one his soul knew before he was even born. He broke her, and fate was punishing him for it.
He committed every lash, every moment to memory.
An eternity of pain passed, but he did not stop moving—he couldn’t.
He crawled to where she waited for him, crouching behind the invisible wall, never moving, never taking her gaze away. Westley knew on a physical level, the pain of her torture was much worse, but seeing the agony in her eyes as he suffered—that was nearly unbearable.
At one point she must’ve realized what was happening. It was when he felt the blood drip from his face, the sting of a blade slicing down his cheek. She reached her hand up to touch her scar as recognition and fresh horror seeped into her expression.
He could see it, the guilt. And even without the connection between them, he knew that as much as she had hated him for the cave, she loved him now. Even if she hadn’t said it out loud.
She did not want him enduring this.
But he would. He would do it because it was the only path to redemption—the only way to her. This was the legend of Lake Nastrond.
A life for a life, pain for pain. Justice demanded a price. One he would gladly pay.
The perpetrator must pay for their crimes, even if those debts took centuries, an eternity, to repay. Though he felt as though he deserved a longer sentence, the lake was letting him move towards her.
