"At the touch of love, everyone becomes a poet."
-Plato
"We're screwed."
Monty is surprised by how dry Harper's tone is as they watch Arkadia be swallowed by the flames. All their hard work, all their hopes for survival, and it's gone. He realizes that he feels just as hollow as Harper sounds.
He wants to fall to his knees, to curse and scream, but all emotion has been drained from him in that instant.
He puts an arm around her, but he doesn't know if he's trying to support her or himself.
"We're screwed," she says. "That was our last hope, and now…"
"We didn't have a chance to make it on there anyway," he says, and he hates himself for the bitterness in his tone.
Harper's fingers curl around his hand, offering it a gentle squeeze. "What do we do now?" she wonders.
Monty sighs. He wishes he had the answer. He knows about the experiment the others are running, the attempt to recreate Nightblood. He doesn't know how much faith he's willing to put in their efforts, but he knows he has to at least hope. Otherwise, as Harper has said, they're screwed.
But he can't bring himself to tell her that. She's looking to him for comfort, not for truth.
"We do what we always do," he says. "We keep going. We look for answers and solutions. We wake up in each other's arms. We make love every chance that we get. We keep living because that's what we do best. And if we die, at least we die together."
Harper raises her brows, a teasing smile tugging at her lips. "That was surprisingly eloquent," she chuckles, and that sound somehow gives him hope.
With a smile, he kisses her gently. "I guess you bring out the best in me."