“I just need to walk-to get away for a bit.” He said it with every element of patience he could summon from within.
“Until you what? Walk her right out of you?” She smiled, but it wasn’t a happy smile. “You’ll be walking a good long time to pull that off, til your feet bleed and your bones rub down to powder. Even then, you’ll be lucky to get her out of you before there’s nothing left to get her out of.”
Why am I talking to her about this? “This isn’t your concern,” he said.
“It kind of is. You are my general, too. Our expedition counts on you.”
He felt a great weariness. “I’m not some sort of communal property that belongs to the whole guild or the army. I’ll lead, but this is a day of rest.”
“And you’re looking so very restful.”
“Why are you here?” He spoke in near-silence, his words almost drowned out by the breaking of waves off the shore.
Aisling did not respond at first, and she turned to look back to the forest, staring into the dark spaces between the boughs of the trees, eyes piercing them as though she could see things hidden within. “Because you look like you could use a friend.”
“I have friends,” Cyrus said, too quickly.
“Do you?” She drew her gaze away from the woods and onto his eyes and he felt himself look away first. “I see a man who leads an army, and who hasn’t had a soul talk to him directly in days but the Elder of Sanctuary and myself. The Elder to relay commands and establish order, and myself-for my own reasons, of course.”
“I’d find great mystery in your words,” Cyrus said, looking away from her and back to the waves and the shore, “if not for the fact that I have known ‘your reasons’ for as long as I’ve known you. Your intentions have been made plain; you needn’t bother trying to be my friend when we both know that my friendship isn’t the part of me you’re interested in-”
She stepped in front of him, eyes blazing. “I’ve never been coy about my intentions toward you, but you fault me for it nonetheless. Would you prefer I dance around it, exchanging biting insults with you? That I berate you for little or no reason and never let a kind word break through my imposing facade?” She stepped closer to him and he caught the scent of her breath, cinnamon, as she brought her face only inches from his. “Are you so steeped in the way of pain and combat that you can’t accept honest, sweet words? Does every advance that interests you have to come couched in the agony of bladed phrase and stinging words?”
Her hand was on his cheek, her fingernails tracing delicate lines down his face. She leaned in closer to him, and he felt the pressure of her nails increase even as she lowered her voice to a whisper. “Do you want me to hurt you? Is that what it takes?” She held her hand still, the pressure constant, her nails pressing into his cheek.
His hand came up and seized her wrist, yanking it away. “No,” Cyrus said, throwing her hand away from him. “That’s not what I want.”
She edged closer and he felt the press of her against him through his armor. “Then what does it take?” Her soft breathing seemed to surround him, filling his senses, drowning out the crashing breakers and the chirps of the crickets. “I’m not her. I’ll never be her. But I could be …” He could feel her push against him, saw her stand on tiptoes to bring her lips to his, “… what you need right now.” He turned his head and her lips found his cheek, and the delicate kiss she left there sent a surge of feeling through his whole body. “I can do … what she hasn’t, what I know you need … it’s been a long time, hasn’t it …?”
“Long time,” he said, echoing her, the truth stumbling from his mouth. He wished he could force it back in there, along with everything else that had happened in the last month, but it was there, nonetheless.
Cyrus felt the moment fade, and as Aisling leaned up to kiss him he gently shook himself free of her. There was no anger in him; only wistfulness and a deep sorrow. “I’m sorry. I don’t need what you think I do-and I’m not what you need, either.”
She looked suddenly very small to his eyes, but she summoned her courage and spoke again. “Do you even know what you need right now?”
He thought about it and heard his own breath as he inhaled then exhaled, thinking. Inhale, exhale. “I don’t. But I don’t think that me-really me, inside, not my urges, but me-I don’t think that’s what I need.”
She nodded, but it was subtle and slight, a barely-there movement of her head. “If you don’t know what you need-really need-then how do you know what I need?”
Without waiting for him to answer she turned and soundlessly she stalked off into the grass, disappearing at the treeline with only a single glance back at him before she faded away behind a tree trunk.
The last look was nothing but regret, pure and longing-and with life of its own.
Chapter 7
The celebration went on throughout the day. Cyrus could hear it from where he stayed, out of sight down the shore, swinging Praelior at imaginary foes, feeling the sweat from his exertions rolling down his face.
It will not work, Cyrus … He saw himself in the Realm of Death, his blade cutting into the chest of a demon knight, his sword biting into the bulging muscles of the creature, its breath foul and heavy with the stink of fetid rot, of death itself, on the day that he challenged the might of Mortus, the God of Death, and survived …
It can never be, you and I … He brought Praelior around in a slice that he imagined caught the ready neck of a dark elven footsoldier, landing at the seam of his armor. In his mind he was back on the bridge in Termina on a long, cold night that followed a day filled with infinite promise. He could almost feel the chill, even in the tropical air.
For I am elf, and my life is long and my duties are as great as my sorrow … He brought the blade down on the skull of a foe who wasn’t there, a goblin, heard the satisfying crack of sword on skull in his mind’s eye. He remembered the night that he and Sanctuary had invaded Enterra, the night that he had claimed the scabbard that rode on his hip, that made Praelior whole, a weapon unmatched in the world of men, and he could sense the clinging desperation of the moment when Vara had died in the depths, when he’d watched Emperor Y’rakh drop her to the ground, her golden hair spilling onto the floor …
We will not, cannot be … He stopped and reversed his grip, holding Praelior above his head and thrust it toward the ground, burying it into the head of Ashan’agar, heard the howl of he who was once the Dragonlord, and remembered the feel of the wind on his face as he rode the back of the beast into the rocky ground of the Mountains of Nartanis.
Not ever … Cyrus felt himself in another place, before swords, before blades and armor, where the sand was thick with the blood of the fallen. He felt himself breathe heavy, cold air, the aroma of sweat around him. His eyes found his foes, and there were more of them than he could count. He felt the rush of fear, and tried to quiet it, but-
Not ever.
His eyes snapped open and he turned, Praelior pointed at a figure standing at a distance from him, hands open and outstretched. Cyrus’s eyes widened in the realization that he had moved on instinct, had known that someone was there unconsciously and acted before being truly aware of it himself. He saw who it was, and took a deep breath, then another, long, loud gasps, causing his chest to heave with the exertion he’d just undertaken. He looked at the arm that held Praelior and it trembled. He lowered the blade from where it pointed at a figure before him. “Odellan.”
“General,” Odellan said. He wasn’t wearing his helmet, but it was under his arm. The elf’s armor was polished to shine, the same set he wore when he was an Endrenshan-a Captain-in the Termina Guard. The surface of his breastplate was lines and art, carvings in the metal that gave it an artistic touch that Cyrus’s straightforward black armor lacked. Odellan’s helm was similarly adorned, with winged extensions that rose above his head and down on either side of his face as well. It rested now in the crook of his elbow, and the elf’s face was relaxed, his blond hair stirring in the sea breeze. “I didn’t mean to disturb your training.”