8 – 2

When it's done, I feel better. Not good, I am still a canvas of cuts and bruises, but better. I breathe in, drawing deep the smells of medicine and Clarke's sweat. The beginnings of a smile start in the corners of my mouth, curving my lips up as they press into her neck. She hums and asks, “What's so funny?” I shake my head and burrow deeper into her hold. “Zira?” There's impatience in her prodding, and amusement, too. It's better by miles than the thick soak of tears her voice held before. I curl my fingers into the thickness of her ink-dark hair and keep my silence. Again, she says my name, this time as a warning, “Zira...”

“You stink,” I tell her, and the gentle sway of us together comes to a halt. The wrap of her arms around me doesn't loosen, nor does the pulse of her heart beneath my ear increase.

In fact, her retaliation comes in tugging a lock of my hair she's curled around a finger and saying, “I smell just fine. You stink.” I'm smiling in full, now, and she laughs, short and sweet through her nose. “And you're too tall,” she goes on, “and your face is ridiculous.”

I lift my face from the curve of her neck so I may look her in the eye and be properly disbelieving. They shine bright now, like the open sky, though still shot-red from earlier tears. I forget what I was going to say, and instead find myself smiling Eventually, “I'm glad you're all right.” comes out in a whisper.

She follows the curl of my ear with her fingers, tucking my hair behind it, before saying, “So am I.” Then she cups the back of my neck with that same hand and pulls me in, pressing her lips to my brow and breathing, “You've no idea,” into my skin. I say not that I've some idea, that my shoulder is damp with the tears-and-snot she shed. I've forgotten how to speak, it seems. All I can focus on is her hands on my neck and hip, her mouth on my brow.

It's strange, to be overcome by that now, but there is something different about this moment that I lack the experience to describe. The light of the lamp is soft and dim, painting her with a golden glow, as if the sun Herself blessed her with the favor of a gentle touch. She looks capable and strong, powerful and alive. Beautiful, unlike anyone I've seen before.

What would it be like, I wonder, to kiss her mouth? Would she welcome it? From our shared dreams, I know she might one day feel attraction for me. Has that day come? I search her eyes for my answer, and find in them contentment, relief, worry, and a deep well of tiredness. Of affection for me, a desire to to learn the taste of my kiss, I find nothing. My curiosity will have to wait, it would seem. I understand, even as my heart sinks. Besides, here and now are far, far indeed from what could be called the right time and place.

It is Adelaide who comes to us, interrupting our gentle, swaying dance with the low murmur of her voice and the insightful measure of her green, green eyes. “Feeling better?” she asks, and there's not a trace of any judgement or derision to be found in it. I don't why I expected to. When both Clarke and I nod, she smiles at us. “Good. That's good. Now,” She turns her attention to me, “I think it's time for that story, don't you?”

I am not so far from the mortal dread of that monstrous hunt that the idea of retelling it is one I find appealing. I have no doubt that my nightmares will take the shape of arms too-long and legs too-short, with the horns of a ram and a mane of dead, thorning brambles. The wound on my back will heal, but the ghost of the pain it caused will haunt me. Even with the warmth of Clarke's arms and the safety of these walls, I find myself reluctant to keep the promise I made. I open my mouth, and not a word comes out. I close it. I have to clear my throat before I can say, quick-and-quiet, “I do, yes.”

There is no hiding how I feel, not from her or Clarke. It's my magi who speaks first, voicing a question born from a protectiveness that settles warm and soothing into my heart. “Can't this wait until morning?”

Adelaide shakes her head, though sympathy shows clears in her bearing. She saw the extent of our injuries, after all, and played no small part in tending them. “If there's a danger to my family,” she says, “I want to know about it.” Her resemblance to my own mother is, in this moment, striking. She would never tolerate something hidden from her knowing, if it meant danger to me, the boys, or Father.

“I promised,” I say to Clarke. Then in an effort to lighten the frown she wears, tease, “you were snoring when I did.” I point at the dining table with my chin. “Right there.” She replies with a sound of deep offense and tugs once more on the lock of my hair she's curled around her finger. Still, she lets the matter drop and releases me from her hold. I feel deprived of her, for all that's not gone anywhere.

The moment passes, Adelaide says, “This way,” and leads us from the kitchen into a hall, lit only by the glow of a fire coming from an open door at its end. Bedrooms, probably. As we reach the open door, Adeliade raps its frame with her knuckles before entering.

“There she is,” Milo says, smile in his eyes and voice. He sits in one of the room's two armchairs, legs crossed at the knee. When he sees us behind her and takes in the redness in our eyes, his mouth twists. It turns upwards, like a smile, but is too filled of a sorrowful understanding to be called one. He knows what it's like to stand where we did, to feel as we have. It's why he says nothing of it, inviting us to sit on the room's only sofa, while Adelaide stands besides his chair. There's a nervous anticipation to her, impatience in the drum of her fingers against her folded arms.

She waits for us, for me, to begin. So with a deep breath, I do just that. From start to finish, Clarke holds my hand.

- - -

I tell them everything, from my last day with my family to what they actually wanted to hear; our flight from that dreadful thing. I hadn't meant to, but in searching for the proper place to begin, so that they may understand the full import of what happened, it all came tumbling from my mouth. By the time I was done, the gray-dawn light filtered through the gauzy curtain that covered the room's sole window. Adelaide had found a seat in the room's other armchair, and Clarke fell asleep again. Her loose, trusting weight on my side, head pillowed on my shoulder, helped more than I put to words. I finish with a dry mouth and a hoarse voice.

For a moment, the only sound is the crackle of embers in the dying hearthfire. The world outside has yet to begin waking. I look between them, these kind strangers who took us in and patched our hurts when they had every right to turn us away. I hope they believe me. I hope they understand. Milo gives me that same twist of his mouth from before and offers, “It's been a rough couple of weeks for you, huh?”

A shaky breath leaves me sinking into the ever more welcoming cushion of the sofa. He's right, and it's only after having laid it all out at once do I realize it. There's been a lot of good things on my walking road so far. One of them is fast asleep and drooling on my shoulder. Mostly, it's been bad: loss and infection, fire and smoke, shadows and blood.

The snap of bone breaking beneath horrid teeth poking from a lipless mouth. Pain and fear like no other in my life. Believing that I was going to die, and a faltering denial of it.

I want to go home. By the Lost's forsaken name and the blessed rising of the sun, I want to go home!

So why don't I? I haven't one anymore, not until the end of my road is reached. If ever I want to see my family again, to see how my brothers have grown and how my parents have aged, then there is only one way for me to go. South, the direction I'm not going. I really have made a mess of things. Milo sits patiently. Adelaide, less so. The rightful worry for her family has only grown in the telling of my tale.

To him, I nod. To her, I give nothing. Any reassurance would be a lie. Any promise of safety would be false. If the monster returns, as I fear it may, all I will be able to do is run and die. “Well,” he says, leaning forward to look me in the eye, “you're safe here.” There's nothing funny about the near-soundless huff of laughter that leaves my dry, cracked lips. He hears me, and smiles wry. Dips his head.

Adelaide says, “I have to ask,” and I turn my attention to her and the furrow of her brow. She asks what I haven't been able to answer, a question that's been haunting the depths of my mind since it happened. “Why did it let you go?”

“Baby,” Milo protests, sitting back to give her a reproachful look.

She ignores it, and him, to say, “If it's as fast as you say, it could've caught you whenver it wanted. It could've...it could've stopped you from getting to us. Why didn't it?”

I give her the only answer I have, “I don't know.” She nods, jaws working as she chews her thoughts over.

Then, “You said – you said 'it wanted to take its time'...like it was toying with you. How do you know that this,” she gestures around her, “isn't more of that?”

Dread curls cold in my belly. I sit so very, very still. “I don't.”

“Adelaide,” Milo says, and there's an edge to his voice now. A warning, maybe, for all that it hasn't risen above a murmur. She looks at him now, and there passes between a moment of such silence and weight that I feel as if I've intruded. His eyes are shadowed and firm. Hers are bright and fierce.

The offer is on the tip of my tongue. We'll go, as soon as we can. There it stays. Even if all of this is part of the monster's game, even if it is false hope given only to be cruelly torn away, I can't let it go. “Fine,” Adelaide concedes, “whatever happens, it's on all our heads.” She looks at me when she says our. I understand.

I also understand that there's no pain here. There's bandages and salves and a sofa with soft cushions. There's warmth and the illusion of safety, and the possibility of sleep. I can't let it go. I just can't.