Mare
"It was probably nothing," Harrick pants out, wheezing the worst of all. We stopped several blocks away from the airforce, now arranged in a tight circle inside of the Samos' abandoned home, in a windowless room. I was surprised that there was residence so close to the plane base, but it makes sense; they were once Norta's main supplier of welded objects. "But, for a second or two, I mislaid my grip on Mare's cloaking. The explosion that caught you was the most powerful," Harrick goes on, directing his concerns towards me, "and between that and your lightning, the bond fractured."
I gulp down saliva, unsure of how to respond. He couldn't help it, obviously, Harrick had been veiling us for nearly a half an hour before that and shouldn't have managed that much in the first place. This entire scheme would be thrust up to nearly impossible without him, guards waylaying in the shadows, expecting us.
"Neither a freaking camera or a person could've seen anything through those fumes," Cameron assures Harrick, who wears a frenzied expression that is certainly there, though the candlelight doesn't reach him. While a light bulb encased in a decorative glass is bracketed to the ceiling directly above us, no one flips its switch, for unease that the palace monitors the electrical intake of the mansion.
She, hopefully, is right. The smoke was dense and the fire still burned furiously when we fled the crime scene. But if Maven picks up on a sole glint of purple sparks, I'm done for.
"It doesn't matter," I sigh, shaking my head though none can bear witness to it. "They'll guess who caused it without blinking. It was too big of a catastrophe to be an accident, though the monarchy might try passing it off as one. Or else they'll lay full blame to the Guard, maybe pin Tiberias for fanning the flames."
"For Heaven's sake, Mare," Farley growls out, speaking to me for the first time since before we left the jet. She's stricken with anger, anger for my stupidity in staying in that barrack a moment longer than I had to. She didn't comment when I walked out of the fire, fully well. In fact, no one did, stunned with bewilderment or irritation, some cases a mix. Tyton was the only one to come to my side, his face pale with worry. "He isn't here. You can call him Cal."
Reciprocated ire builds up for her saying such a thing during this mission. "Of all times," I say, nothing more than a croak, letting my emotions get the best of me.
"Of all times," Farley repeats scornfully. "We all know that an ember lingers in your heart, Mare Barrow," she divulges, uttering my name like I'm a total stranger. "So what is he?" Farley rotates her hand so that her palm is exposed, and jerks her arm upward, gesturing to Tyton. My organs grow cold.
The flame-small in comparison to the explosions-splutters, as if it too is shocked by the revelation. "What did I ever do to you?" I whisper, retaliating with a bitterness of my own.
"Don't you see what you're doing?" She asks, the sting of words dying down a bit. "I've tried to keep my mouth shut, to be a bystander and allow you to draw your own conclusions..." she trails off, dropping her hands to her hips, refraining from those hand gestures. "I worry how far you'll go to fill this gaping hole in your heart."
All I can do is blink lazily, as though coming out of a slumber overslept. I try to find the words to express a denial, but my jaw refuses to budge, steel nails hammering it together. Eyes stinging with anger, sadness, and everything between, I turn my back to my peers-whose gazes collide with my back, awaiting justification. "Whether in Whitefire or here, I won't be resting tonight and I doubt any of you will either," I explain, veering off topic entirely. "I assume we'll be leaving before the Kingsguard has a chance to regroup."
"Yes," Davidson agrees quietly, uncomfortable with the emotional torrent. "Five minutes and I expect all of you downstairs, at the main doors."
I nod my head mutely and I can only suspect the others do the same. The sunshine left hours ago, yet for us, the night is still young. The selfish and wide-eyed part of me tugs at me to leave this darkened room, to pad down the hallways in an untraceable sequence so that not a soul can scold me for cruelty, or whatever else I should be blamed for.
Regrettably-that childish part decides right away- I press against the propped-open sheet of iron, creating room for the others to exit. Tyton leans on a bookshelf on the opposite angle of the room; just a moment ago he stood at my side.
I stare at the quivering flame that weakens as time progresses, the wax transforming from a solid to a syrupy liquid, its color the sole property that I can rely on. Farley is the last to leave, with crossed arms and an unreadable face. She even goes so far as to close the door, lightly though. If silence wasn't a ground rule, she'd whip it shut, generate as much sound that a door can.
I can't meet his gaze, can't make eye contact with a man that is nothing if not perfect. Because I'm ashamed of the kiss I returned not two days past. I was stupid, so stupid, stupid even now for choosing the righteous path for once and facing him.
"What am I to you?" He asks the dreaded question, articulating it with a loathsome slowness.
Absentmindedly, I pinch the cartilage of my ear right above where my scarlet gemmed earring would've been pierced into. There isn't a puncture, though; instead, it continues to be pure, without mark. From there, I graze my fingers downwardly, to touch each of the other stones, their backings gone raw from overuse of years and years. Unlike my newest and invisible red jewel, the older ones are fake, constructed from plastic and scratched in places from the crashes I've taken.
"It was too soon, wasn't it?" I tell him, staying at my place by the door.
"What am I to you?" Tyton repeats, edging closer to me. His proximity sets me on edge and I have nowhere to escape to, being backed up against a wall. It's too late to run.
"I don't know," I admit through gritted teeth, pushing myself into the cool plating, yearning for it to bend to fit my shape, to encompass me altogether. "A distraction? I desire to know that isn't what it is deep-down inside of my heart. I validated it with the aspiration to allow you to fix me, to make me whole again. So then I really could love you with all of my being."
The illumination from the fire shrivels away from Tyton as he nears, as though it fears him. But, no, of course, that would be absolutely silly. Just a trick of the mind. "At least you intervened and cut things short before things escalated," he murmurs, the shadowed half of his face towards me. "Friends," Tyton echoes, conjuring forth the term used when I cut our afternoon-relationship short.
"Was that really just yesterday, that you kissed me?" I ask, recalling the moment that is barricaded by so many other events that have happened between that second and the present. "It seems like months past."
"And you kissed me back," Tyton slaps on the part of the story that was my fault; is my fault.
Though I've told him that we're just friends, a mutual longing of sorts drifts through the air that separates us. It has, since the moment he admitted his feelings towards me. If I hadn't allowed the reckless and lustful and greedy part of me to sway my actions, I would've told him to keep away, to protect both of us. In lieu, I've used him as a crutch, a wall to hide behind.
"You're right," I cave in, not bothering to tell him that I was being feebleminded. "And I won't blame you if thereafter the masquerade, you return to Monfort and live your days out happily, putting all the distance in the world to sever us. Because you deserve so much more than a crippled girl like me." Finally finding it in me to collide into his smoldering gaze, I watch his hazel eyes, displaced certainty shining.
"That's not what I want." His voice is hardly there. Tyton approaches me, the wax's flame shining as though it's the sun and Tyton is the horizon, with fragments of the light poking out from his right side. He eclipses it thoroughly when he shifts his position to stand parallel at my front. "I want to be your remedy, I want to fix you."
He collects my war-torn hands in his own, holding them so gently that one would think they were feathers. Using his pointer finger, Tyton traces an imaginary line upon my wrist, circling around one and then the other. "I cannot fathom those months you spent with him," Tyton begins. The little sprigs of hair that grow on my skin stand up as he touches the borderline of my palm and the underside of my arm. "Does this hurt you?" He inquires, dipping his head towards our intertwined fingers.
I can still call to mind Maven running his finger over the manacles that I was clad in, not that dissimilar from Tyton's movement. "It's gotten better. Something so small shouldn't disturb me like it does..." I fold my bottom lip under its counterpart, my boldness finally catching up to me. Usually, I wouldn't be so mentally exhausted that I could avoid such confessions. "Yet it does."
"It's not silly. Having that weight bound to you for so long," Tyton pauses, alleviating his push on my wrist so that it's more of a tickle than a touch. "You got used to it, and now you spend every waking moment assuming that it'll come back."
A shout is heard from downstairs, Farley or Davidson yelling to indicate that our time is up.
Tyton says something about there not being enough time, and I get out of the door's route, in order for him to withdraw to the others. But whatever is spoken never reaches processing, as I ponder his suggestion.
Replacing his fingers with mine, I make a circuit with my thumb and middle finger, pinching my wrist tighter than the manacles ever did. Thumb overlaps to connect with fingernail, my grasp constricting until I thoroughly dig into the bones of my lower arm. I stare at the hand, my fingers encasing the margin separating hand and arm; traitorous little things, those fingers are, pretending to be my bane. Not satisfied, I close my eyes. Otherwise, the candlelight would blare, a signal of reality. Tighter. Tighter.
A stream of bullets hits me, each a memory lived while adorned with shackles, lived within the presence of Maven. I focus on his sapphire irises, a seething clash of fire and ice inside of them. The pupils are definite, orbs of oily black that so desperately want to corrupt the striking yet tortured blue. Bleed into the irises, altering them forever.
Right below lay bags of skin, gray from the war that is fought inside Maven's eyes. Gray like mine, the infection of fatigue spreading farther than any humans' should. Somedays, I recall, he looked better. Must've been powder, like the concoction Farley gave me. Maven will never allow himself to appear weak from the public's perspective, putting on a portrayal of morale and wit, utilizing however many pounds of cosmetics are necessary.
I pick apart feature after feature, devising inferences and known facts, but I always go back to his eyes. Light charcoal crooked streaks criss-cross one another, spiraling outwards from the center of the pandemonium, extending to the edges of the pointed ovals. Overworked veins.
My unyielding grip has slackened, I recognize now and quickly try to refasten my fingers to their previous strength. Yet regardless of how vehemently I anchor them together, I cannot retain my energy, my bones not wanting to stay in place. The wrist itself feels numb, immune to any pain and flashbacks I inflict upon it. Everything is empty.
Relenting, I drop both hands to my hips, a navy blue bruise left behind, a ring of darkness clawed onto my skin. No one else is at fault for this one.