Lightbringer

“I know what has been done to you,” she told him firmly. It was difficult to speak. She put a metal stamp on every word. “I know what you’ve endured. You have my pity. You do not have my trust.”

He nodded, his mouth held tightly. He had been expecting her to say that. Against her palms, she could feel the muscles of his jaw working.

Too many words crowded her throat, many of them brutal. She could have screamed with frustration. This was moving too fast for both of them. There was too much hurt between them, too many lies and too many days apart.

“But you do have my love,” she said furiously, as if it were a curse.

Simon watched her, hardly breathing. He did not blink.

“I wish you had nothing of mine,” Eliana said through her teeth. Her cheeks burned with anger, and her heart ached in too many places. “Not my love, not my anger, not my memories. I wish you hadn’t seen what he did to me. I wish…”

She could no longer speak. Simon reached up to cover her hands with his own. He barely touched her; she was an eggshell in his palms.

“I wish I could hurt you as you hurt me,” she whispered. “I wish I didn’t want you still or care for you at all. I wish all I wanted was to help you find your power again.” She shook her head. Her voice teetered on the edge of something sharp. “But I want more than that. Even now, even after everything.”

When Simon closed his eyes, tears slipped out. He turned his face into her palm, whispered her name against her fingers.

She watched his mouth, fighting ferociously against her own misery. It split her vision into diamonds. “He hurt me,” she said softly. “I called for you. I screamed for you to help me.”

Simon let out a single sob. Fumbling, he reached for her. His face against her ribs, his hands clutching her shirt. The tender weight of his palms sent a fierce bite of joy up her arms. Her instincts were at war. To leave him aching, to lean into his warmth. Two paths and no answers.

“God, I know,” he said, voice muffled. “I heard you. I heard every word, Eliana. I heard it every time he hurt you, and I could do nothing. There were times he made me watch, and you were so delirious with pain you didn’t even realize I was there.”

His words spilled like shards of glass against her belly. Each one stabbed her, and yet she clutched his shoulders, held him fast, wished she could press him inside her until he no longer existed anywhere else.

She held his shoulders and watched the wall as he wept. His tears were as silent as hers, his body rigid. They were both used to that, she supposed. They were used to hiding the signs of their pain.

And suddenly, she could no longer bear to remain standing. She didn’t care that she had wanted to hurt him, that for months she had watched him stalk through the palace and imagined his murder at her hands.

She bowed her head to kiss his crown. “I’ll miss you,” she told him, not meaning to say it, and then a sob burst out of her, unexpected and savage. She could hardly breathe; tears seized her like fists.

There was more to say, more than could ever be said, but Ludivine was shut away in her eerie candlelit room, fighting for every moment. There was no time to say anything more, no time to mend or heal. Not forgiveness, Ludivine had said. Only acceptance. And Eliana had come to Simon’s room determined to do nothing but talk, to work at opening her power to him and helping him search once more for his.

But when he turned his face up to hers, his hands trembling at her sleeves, Eliana lost all sense of the wrath she wished he deserved and knew he did not, and she met his mouth gladly.

He waited until she had settled in his lap before wrapping his arms around her. The sensation nearly split her chest in two. Such a solid cocoon of warmth. She cried out against his lips, opened her mouth to receive his kisses. They spilled inside her like knives warmed by fire. Hot steel glinting red, blades that slipped and sliced. He smelled of salt and smoke, murmured her name until she wore the syllables on her skin.

This would bring no relief, Eliana knew, even as she clung to him. His fingers found her, and she clenched her thighs around his arm. They would finish, and they would ache in body and in heart, everything they had locked away now once again unleashed. His power would return if they were lucky, or maybe unlucky, and then he would send her back to do the impossible thing she must do, and she would never see this version of him again, never see any of them again. If she succeeded, if her unborn self survived, she would grow up in Old Celdaria, ignorant of everything she had once been, or had never been.

She wove her fingers into Simon’s hair, pulled hard so he would look up at her. His eyes landed on her face, just as searing hot as she remembered, and his hand moved just as it had the first time until the fire rising inside her spilled over, roaring. Despair came fast on its heels, and she knew she could not stop, not yet, not ever.

Frantic, she moved to lie flat on her back and then pulled him atop her. Guided him into place, hooked her legs around his. He must have sensed her desperation, the wild sorrow building in her chest like a storm spinning with pitiless thunder. He moved sharp and hard, as if he could imbue in her the memory of every night they would never have. An apology for every time he had hurt her. A plea for forgiveness that would never come.

She arched up against him, tightened the grip of her thighs. Tugged at his hair, dug her fingernails into the scarred flesh of his back. When he latched on to her throat, sucking gently on her skin, she whispered for more, begged him, commanded him. Her mind was a cascading shower of light. She knew nothing but him—the map of his scars under her palms, the rough plane of his jaw scraping her cheek, his mouth on every trembling slope of her body. His hoarse voice, hot against her ear, and how beautifully it cracked open under the weight of her name.

After, cooling in the damp sheets, soft and sticky in the nest of his arms, Eliana pressed her face against his chest. Her jaw aching with tension, her legs and arms heavy and tired, she listened to the steady rhythm of his heart.

“I don’t love you,” she whispered fiercely against his skin.

A moment passed. Then she felt Simon’s hand cup the back of her head, cradling her to him. His lips touched her brow.

“I know,” he replied, his voice choked with sadness. “I don’t love you either.”

40



   Simon

“In the stars I draw your hair

In the moon I find your eyes

In my blood I hold your name

In my bones I feel your lies.”

—Traditional Kirvayan folk song

At first, when he woke, Simon could do nothing but look at her.

He’d kept his eyes open for as long as he could, relishing the sound of her breathing. But exhaustion had finally pulled him under into a light sleep that left him, as it always did, fighting through a wilderness of dark dreams.