He takes my hand, laces our fingers together. His hand is huge and strong and dwarfs mine. I glimpse the black and red ink of a fresh tattoo above the silver cuff, stretching up his arm. “What do you want to do?”

I lean my head against his shoulder. “Leave this world and find another that won’t matter if I destroy it until I know for sure that I’m in control.”

“Ah. So, you think there are worlds that can be destroyed without mattering,” he mocks lightly.

“I could go to a barren planet with no life.”

“It doesn’t matter what you destroy, but that you destroy. There are two types of people in this world: those who can create and those who can’t. Creators are powerful, shaping the world around them. All beings crave power over their slice of existence. Those who can’t create do one of three things: convince themselves to accept a half-life of mediocrity and seething dissatisfaction, deriving enjoyment from whatever small acts of dominance they manage to achieve over their companions; find a creator to leech onto and exploit to enjoy a parasitic lifestyle; or destroy. One way or another, someone that can’t create will find a way to feel in control. Destruction feels like control.”

I pull back and look at him. “Your point?”

“You’re a creator, not a destroyer. Destruction destroys the destroyer. Always. Eventually. And badly.”

“Your point?”

“The Sinsar Dubh has leeched onto you. There’s no place you can run. The battle goes with you.”

“But I could minimize the fallout.”

“Only to yourself. You might not care as much if it were a stranger on some other world that the Book killed, but I doubt the stranger would care any less, nor would the people who care about that stranger.”

“Okay, not getting this. On the one hand, with the exception of creators, you just told me all people are essentially dickheads. Now you’re arguing for those dickheads.”

“I argue for nothing. I’m merely stating that whether you destroy here or on another world, you’re still destroying. That’s your battle—to destroy or not. Once you start splitting hairs, trying to convince yourself some things are more acceptable to destroy, you’ve already lost the most important war. There’s no advantage in moving your battle to unknown terrain.”

“You think I should stay here and fight, even if it costs the lives of people I love?”

“Your battle is half won. You’re sitting here with me. The Sinsar Dubh isn’t. Make that permanent.”

“But you’re not telling me how.”

“What does the Sinsar Dubh want?”

“I don’t know.” That’s what I’d been wondering before he came in. Trying to figure out its end goal so I could intercept and undermine.

“Yes, you do. It wants to be in the world, living, in control of itself. What do you want?”

“The same thing.”

“Why?”

“Because I could be happy if things ever stopped going wrong!”

“Things never stop going wrong. Life isn’t about waiting for peace to arrive, it’s about learning to thrive in the midst of war. There’s always another one on the way.” He was silent a moment then said, “Why does the Sinsar Dubh want to live?”

“Damned if I know,” I mutter. “Because it’s greedy? Bored? The alternative is not living?”

“Why do you?”

I look at him. Because I love people, I don’t say. And I want to spend the rest of my life with you, see what you do next, celebrate your victories, grieve your losses, make love to you. God, why am I always my clearest only when it looks like I might lose everything?

Because you still believe you can have everything, his dark eyes say. You can’t. We have nothing. Only the current moment. Once you understand that, you know what’s sacred and not, and never lose sight of it again.

“But you have forever. You have every moment.”

“No. Like you, I have but this one. Death isn’t the only foe that steals from you the things you prize. You think a monster has control of you.”

“It does.”

“It is in control only by your consent.”

Bristling, I unlace my fingers from his, rake my hands through my wet hair and say, “That’s not true. I didn’t choose the Book. I didn’t let it in. It took me as a fetus. There was no consenting or refusing.”

“There is now.”

“And your beast was so easy to subdue.” I say, acid-sweet and pissed. He’s acting like it should be simple. Like, why haven’t I defeated it yet?

“Never said it was. But I did it. And I didn’t sit around brooding, vacillating between committing suicide and running away. Both are unforgivable in my book.”

“Stay the hell out of my head,” I snap.

“How did you regain control?”

I worry my lower lip with my teeth for a moment then admit, “I don’t know that I did. It may have simply fallen asleep.”

“Wondered if that would happen.”

“But I was figuring things out at the same time. It was growing weaker and I was growing stronger.”

“And once it has rested?”

“That’s the million dollar question. So, how do I fight it?”

“Become it.”

I stare at him in disbelief.

“Remember the runes that fortified the Unseelie prison walls? They draw strength from resistance. Don’t resist. Become.” He stands and extends his hand. “Come.”