Chapter 14
"Called Out in the Dark"
Iliana sipped at the cool water in her cup and glanced at the window where the darkness was thick and heavy as fall chased summer away. Soon days would be shorter, and winter would come. She drummed her nails idly along the bronze to hear the soft succession of clinks and searched for some sign of the moon, but the sky was mostly purple and blue, warming as the sun rose in the east. Night was only just yielding to day. The servants were not yet awake, and Aeneas was asleep in his chambers. He had been more tense and quiet during these days, the only sign that Ariston's absence worried him, for he otherwise kept up his brave front, smiling, reassuring, and confident, but with three of his four sons away from Alba Longa, it was clear the old King was ill at ease. Iliana could scarcely appreciate or empathize with his melancholy moods: she was too preoccupied facing the emptiness of her life. It had been four days since Ariston had left the gates with a contingent of Alban soldiers to halt Scipio's advance. Eyes were torn between looking north toward the Albula River or east to the Sabines Tribes, fearing they might ride to Umbria's aid and attack Alba Longa while Ariston was away. Iliana's gaze was the only directed out the kitchen window, across the city square, and to the forge where she saw the fires burning –proof that he lived and worked– but she had not heard or seen anything of the blacksmith.
Yet again foreboding crept into her bones since she had last seen him, almost a week, and she worried she had underestimated his apprehension. Last they had spoke, he had seemed so forlorn and reluctant to agree to this arrangement. But he was the one to broach the topic! her mind stubbornly retorted, and she was inclined to sympathize with it. Still, how could she be so blind? How could she not have known? She bowed her head and stared into the cup of water, through the clear liquid to the shape of the cup holding it, searching its grasp to understand why he hesitated.
What if he's fallen ill?
His wound could have become infected. He could be suffering without anyone to care for him. Her brow knit to imagine such a terrible situation, and she wished with every fiber of her being that it was not the case.
He's strong. He was faring well last you saw…
If her short years had taught her anything, it was the inconsistency of life. Illness could topple the greatest of men, and death was certain for all –even men as fearless and invincible as Hector –even women as strong and tender as her mother. She chewed uncertainly on her lip and took to wringing her hands about the chalice, rotating it round and round and round until her palms were rubbed raw and pink from the revolutions. Wincing and sighing, she gazed across her shoulder to the window where the sky was subtly lighter to hint at the passing of time while she remained lost in her thoughts and shielded away from what passed beyond these walls. She gathered herself to her feet and cautiously drew closer to the window to peek outside and toward the forge. The door was closed. Nothing was available for her to cast her eyes upon. The structure was as unassuming and calm as the rest of their lands. None of her countrymen treaded through the streets, but it was to early. They were asleep with their families. She wet her dry lips and swept her chestnut eyes up and down the empty streets and then to the forge.
She continued this thorough search twice, thrice, four times before she tore herself away from the window and sat down at the table once more to continue nursing her cup of water. She had avoided wine when she could since that night… She cringed and placed her face in her palms, resting her elbows on the table to support it dead weight. Surely that was the root of his distance. She had shown herself to be the sort of woman who drank, danced, and snuck into a man's home with the worst intentions, but she wasn't that woman! Her courage came in bursts and as easily sizzled away leaving her timid and blushing. That was the manner of woman she was: more a show of bravery than she could truly stand behind. It was an act. It was part of her role as a princess. Should she have been more timid? More reserved? Perhaps that was the sort of woman he desired –whom he would promise to marry and stand by his word.
"Why would you lie to me?" she wondered restlessly and stood yet again to pace to the window and peer across its threshold to the forge.
You said you would never hurt me… Were you afraid to hurt me?
"Then why offer it at all!"
She groaned under her breath and turned away from the window. She would drive herself mad if she continued in this way. She would spend the rest of her days at this window, wearing her spot in the floor, and gazing longingly at him.
"I'm tired of looking for you," she whispered, her eyes set upon the floor, and at the bottom of her anxiety and sorrow, a fresh thought occurred to her. "I can't always look for you…"
Her words landed on an empty room, but they were meant for her, to bolster her intent, and to give her the strength to carry out her brash plan. She would be brave. She would make a stand. Her insides were gripped by the unsteady hand of apprehension, the deep intuition of a woman warning her against this, but her bull-headed self made a brazen appearance. It promised action, and that was more seductive than any reasoning. Without warning, she hurried to her room to find a veil to cover her hair and features, and she quietly checked down the corridor where her father's chambers were. She could see nothing beneath the crack of the door, and she waited with breaths bated, pressed against the edge of wall, and listened to the creaks of their empty house in the first breath of morning. She waited, but only silence met her.
Drawing a steadying breath, she opened the door and slipped into the corridor which was forgivingly empty. Perhaps she might accomplish this with no one the wiser. Her audacious, stubborn head promised her it was possible even as her gut twisted tighter. Before it could spoil her conviction, she hurried down the corridor, through the atrium, and out of the home where the crisp, cool touch of night brushed across her skin. It seemed to light the nerves in her belly on fire, simmering inside her with misgivings, but above all, she needed to do this –for her sake, for her sanity! And she had already dared to step foot outside her home. She had committed herself to this action, and she was assured it was too late to retreat and to stew spineless and dissatisfied in her home.
No more!
She charged across the square, near running though she was too nervous and clumsy to dare, and she feared being too noisy. When she reached the door of the forge, she was almost startled by her own audacity that she was truly doing this, and at the same time, her courage spurred her to complete her task. It was too late to turn away. She would see this through to whatever end. Two fingers touched the rough wood and pushed, and she heard the sharp, quiet squeak of the door swinging upon its hinges. It parted a few inches, enough for her to peek inside and see the dim interior. The fire had died, but the embers glowed for the pit was kindled so often and kept burning at all hours to manage his work. Yet its angle shed little light. She was so concentrated on the work area that she realized rather delayed that she still stood on the outside. Fearful that someone might notice and that she was lingering too long, she pushed the door open farther and slipped inside the narrow space, feeling the door scratch across her chest as she squeezed through. She left the door ajar behind her because the outside shed some light on the space, and she stood for a moment, heart thundering through her chest, to consider the space.
The darkness looked alive, shifting and teaming with some energy, and the grip inside her felt like it might rip through her. Her mouth was dry, and her throat was caught. Only her heart hammered on its persistent pace, and she felt it trembling out through her limbs. Her hands tangled in the edges of her veil, and at last, her eyes adjusted to the darkness. She took a tentative step forward, glancing back and forth between her path and what lie ahead of her to be sure she didn't trip or run into something. For a moment, she briefly considered calling out to him and realized how foolish that would be, but what other option did she have?
He's asleep… Of course he's asleep!
Naturally this part of her plan had never occurred to her when she was pacing sleeplessly inside her home. She gritted her teeth and took another step. He will be so angry when he discovers what she's done, and a cool tremor of fear curled down her spine. But she needed to speak with him, and she knew the hours he kept. He seemed to immune to sleep by her assumptions, and yet it was clear, on this rare ill-timed occasion he was asleep while she crept through his empty home.
What are you doing? her good reason hissed at her, and she frankly had no answer to give it.
She was timidly, slowly tip toeing through the room, and after an eternity it seemed, she had made her way to the edge of the workspace where a doorway to her left opened up to his private quarters. She had only been in them once before when she was fleeing his home after the first time they had kissed, and then she had been too flustered and terrified to notice or remember its layout. She stepped toward it. The darkness was thicker and heavier in this space where the light didn't reach. Her hands were shaking and knotted tighter in the ends of her veil. She flexed them as if to still them and then understood it was impossible because her whole body was trembling. This was the most foolish thing she had ever done in her entire life, and she had half a mind to turn and run. But she couldn't. She had to see him. She had to know. If nothing else, he would have to face what he was doing to her…
She reached the threshold and peered into the darkness, yet again taking the time to let her sights adjust even if it seemed she were taking too long and being too slow. How long had she been in here already? Would the servants be waking soon to find her room empty? The thought spurred her to take the first step into his private quarters, and she stiffened immediately and looked from side to side with only her eyes first as if any movement might alert him to her. When nothing happened, she allowed her neck to turn so that she could assess the interior. Her eyes startled upon the small bed in the farthest corner across from her, and she nearly jumped herself to know that she had truly done it –found him sleeping and unaware. From the faint, poor lighting, she could make out the frame of the bed, the neglected blanket hanging over the edge alongside his shirt, and then his silhouette. He had fallen asleep on his belly with his long limbs strewn about him and the material still tied about his waist. Her cheeks burned even the darkness to know he was half-naked for her eyes to feast upon though the bandage tied about his chest interrupted the shade of his naked skin. She very carefully took a step closer, noticing something odd about his position, though she couldn't understand why it bothered her. Her curiosity grew, and she edged closer from which position she could see one of his arms hanging limp from the side of the bed. Under his fingertips an empty vessel was on its side. Had he been drinking?
She shook her head as she recalled how he had behaved with her when she had drunk too much. She had assumed him averse to it. Had she tortured him as well? Drove him to drink? She chewed her lip nervously, her anxiety coming to a crescendo as she found the corner of his bed and followed it up toward his limp arm. He had not strayed or moved in the slightest, and she did not know how to rouse him or even if she should.
Never approach a sleeping man, one of her fathers had warned her. Was it Hector or Aeneas? Surely Aeneas… She was too young to remember Hector, but being near Damian like this completely shattered her reason, and she found herself confused and unraveled by even these obvious details.
But then why had she come here? Suppose he awoke when she was retreating? What was she to say then? She released her lip and slowly drew a breath. One hand unwound from her veil and reached out. She saw it shaking even in the pale light. It was curling in on itself to avoid its duty, but she stretched it toward his naked shoulder and hesitated. Her fingers hovered above the surface of his skin. She could accidentally touch him, but her whole body had stilled like a statue.
What are you doing? her reason plagued her again.
She had no answer, and she touched his shoulder to wake him.
The next thing she felt was the mattress beneath her, a heavy weight across her waist, and the touch of something cold and wet on her neck. Her eyes blinked in confusion, opening and closing, and she focused through the darkness and discovered his pale face above her. Horror and surprise tore away the sleep from him with such haste that his face was contorted in an unpleasant, haggard look she couldn't understand. His black eyes were wide and wild staring down at her, and she heard something fall and clatter on the floor beside them. He tore the veil away from her hair, bundled it against her neck, and pressed down until she coughed with the weight of him bearing on her throat. Her gaze couldn't stray beyond his face. She had never seen him so pale, so paralyzed, like her. Her body felt numb, she could barely breathe for his weight, but the terror in his face sent a cold blade of intuition tearing through her. It ended at her neck beneath his pressure where she realized her skin was pulsing, throbbing, radiating, and her brow knit in confusion staring up at him, begging him to explain. His features were stony as she reached a blind hand up to touch the edge of her veil and dared beneath it. Her fingers met something damp and sticky on her skin… A tremor disrupted his features, his eyes seemed to waver, and she knew.
The numbness was fading as the panic set in, and she hurriedly grasped the veil and pressed it to her throat to stop the bleeding. She coughed again for her heart had picked up its pace. Her breathing was heaving to feed its speed, wheezing through her parted lips, and she choked on the sudden effort to inhale and exhale. Damian lifted one hand to assess the bloodstained veil beneath it, and without explanation, he removed his hands, leaving her alone to cup the veil to her wound, which she did trembling and white-knuckled. He stood from where he was pinning her down and rushed away, and she heard his footfalls on the floor, though she didn't dare lift her head to stare after him. The pain was sharp and growing agonizing with every passing second. The veil was wet and cold in her hands sopping up her blood. Her bottom lip trembled as she stared up at the ceiling, every piece of her shaking, but she hadn't dared to move. Her skin was cold, but her insides were alight with a collision of nerves, adrenaline, and alarm. The open wound was fire. Her eyes pricked and lost focus as hot tears pooled between her lashes, then falling from the edges down her temples and from the inner corners down her nose. They were cooled the moment the night air touched them but could not shatter her concentration on the char of fresh, raw pain at her neck. She clutched the veil tighter, feeling the dampness seep between her fingers, and her chest heaved with a sudden, shattering sob. Her eyes clenched shut, forcing the rest of the tears through her lashes, and she gritted her teeth to restrain another primal snivel.
She felt the weight of him return around her waist, and she opened her eyes eagerly just for a glimpse to know she was not alone –that perhaps he had returned with the healer or some other aid. Instead, she found her blacksmith alone, so pale, so stricken: his features seemed at once hollow and haunted. Too late did she realize the unyielding pressure of his knees on her elbows, forcing her hands to fall from her wound and open, stained with her own blood on either side of her head. He was heavy; he was hurting her; she whimpered faintly and struggled to adjust herself as if he might abandon her, but he was as oppressive and dense as a boulder weighing her down. She searched his face to understand why he would do this. Her gaze flickered away from his black, stony eyes when she noticed something glowing from the edge of her sights and found a hot iron in his hand. Immediately his purpose was clear, and the current of panic and terror electrified her to her core, like molten lead in her blood then weighing her in place so that she couldn't move even if Damian had released her. He would cauterize the wound.
Her chestnut eyes rushed to find him again, so wide and trembling, she felt they were pulsing from her face like the raw dread growing inside her belly. His own were hooded beneath his heavy, knit brow, and he drew away the veil from her neck to see the wound he had caused. His body shuddered, his spine curled, and yet he eased the hot stake closer to her.
"Please" croaked out of her gravelly throat, and his approach stilled as if on command. Swallowing thickly, she begged, staring up into his black eyes, tears falling down her temples, "Please…"
He inhaled shakily and funneled more of his weight into his knees, bruising her elbows and pinning her harder. He adjusted his grip on the rod and took her chin in his other hand, guiding her face away so that he could see her wound. Her jaw trembled in his hand. Her fingers curled into fists. The tears tumbled across her nose, stuck pieces of her hair to her face, and buried in the mattress.
"Please!" she pleaded like a gust of air from her lungs and jerked against his grip on her jaw, but his fingers bored into her skin to hold to her bone. Her heart was beating through her chest. She knew the fate in store for her, and she couldn't accept it. She sobbed, body contracting harshly even as he held her down, and she heaved unnaturally to breathe, choking on her own gasps for air and sucking in the tears lining her nose and mouth.
"Please!"
She groaned in her throat, feeling the heat of the iron near enough its radiating warmth touch her skin and warned of what was to come.
"Please… Please."
Her voice was growing hoarse and weak. The grip on her jaw had tightened until it felt like glass he could shatter, her hands were tingling as his knees cut off the circulation in her arms, and somewhere amid the sticky touch of tears and blood on her skin, the radiating pain in her neck and elbows and jaw, and the crude terror flooding her, a vain spark of hope hung stubborn in the base of her skull. He would stop for her.
"Plea—" Her final appeal was interrupted by the searing, scorching, all-consuming touch of the iron on her wound. The smell of blood and skin burning singed the air, swallowed by her shrill scream, and the whole of her body curled in agony. She had never felt pain so acute and severe. As soon as the iron touched her, it was drawn away. The wound was mangled, red, bloody, disgusting, but it was sealed. She writhed blindly, kicking her legs, fighting her hips beneath him, flexing her elbows as if she could manage to hit him, and yet she was completely powerless. She was reduced to primal sobs, whimpers, groans that did little to capture or expel the resounding echo and persistent throb of pain all through her. She needed to run. She needed to scream. She was pinned and overcome by the very man who promised he would never hurt her.
His grip on her jaw relaxed and allowed her to turn her head so that she faced him once more, and she fought the moment his forehead touched her own. His nose lined beside hers. He kissed the corner of her mouth. She growled and tried to buck him away.
"I'm so sorry," he whispered, voice grating up his throat as if he were struggling to speak.
Hot, agitated breaths shuddered through her nostrils for her teeth ground together. She groaned, her skin writhed with agony, and she was so furious and heartbroken that it was him. How can you do this to me! Her eyes fluttered in distress and locked onto the black orbs hanging heavy above her. Even in the dim light, they shone with sorrow and disgust and caught her attention to still her long enough to make out his pain manifested on his face. Yet the throbbing, shooting pang couldn't be soothed, even by his remorse, and her body writhed with the need to throw him off.
Not a moment later Damian was torn from her and thrown against a small table where he howled shortly as the wood embedded in his wound.
"Get off of her!" a voice bellowed thick and powerful as thunder through the space, and Iliana nearly recoiled with fright until she recognized Eber half-dressed, hollow-eyed, and standing spread and ready for battle in Damian's room. Their gazes met, both confused and startled by the other, and Eber saw the bloody mess on her neck, his face pinching in disgust and horror, as he growled out, "What have you done!"
A low groan, more wounded than menacing, responded as Damian struggled to find his feet. He was never given the chance. Eber charged him and slammed his burly fist into Damian's face. The blacksmith tumbled back, stumbled over his leaden feet, and grunted as his raw burnt back met the wall and Eber's fist found his face again. His blows were unending, there was a distinct crack, and then blood spewed out of Damian's nose, down his chin, and to his neck. Still the blacksmith didn't fight, only coughed and groaned and fell.
"Stop," Iliana begged shortly, grimacing at any movement that tested the wound on her neck.
Another man rushed into the room but made no move to stop Eber. He instead hurried to Iliana's side, knelt at the bed, and tried to attend to her wound.
"My Lady…"
She pushed away his open hand offering help and struggled to see past him to Damian coughing on the floor, the dark stain tainting the bandage around him, and she commanded forcefully, "Stop!" but her voice sounded so weak and hoarse. Fresh tears matted her lashes and dampened her cheeks. The sight of Eber kicking Damian in his wounded side was reduced to blurry shadows, yet she heard the sharp, weak groan of pain.
"Stop!"
The command was cusped on her tongue, but the harsh tone was that of a man shouting from the doorway. She blinked to clear her eyes of tears and struggled through the dim light and wavering lines of her gaze to make out Nereus' figure standing tense and furious. His blue eyes swept from Damian curled on the floor, nose, face, and chest bloody to his little sister sprawled across the blacksmith's bed. The implication was more than enough to sentence Damian to death without even considering the wound he had given her.
Iliana's blood ran cold, her burn pulsed hot, and she pleaded for her elder brother's attention, "Nereus… No." It's my fault! I did this!
"Pick him up," Nereus snapped sharply and seemed at once unraveled and strung together with rage. The room remained still as the order sifted through them. The Prince was not so patient. "Now!"
Eber with his bloodstained knuckles took one of Damian's shoulders, the villager helping Iliana took the other, and only then did the Princess notice the pale, terror-struck blonde boy standing in the corner. Pelicles who wouldn't dare enter far into the space and lingered about one of the far edges like a shadow clinging to the walls. Their regards locked briefly, but Pelicles' was too molten with anxiety to be held and filtered to the dirty floor. Both men heaved Damian to his feet. The blacksmith was unsteady, and his handlers were not gentle. They dragged him from the space, his heavy feet dragging behind him, and still, he did not fight or utter a word.
"Please," she whispered hoarsely, staring hollow-eyed and shaking after him. "Nereus—"
"Hush now!" her elder brother hissed as if reprimanding a dog with one, swift kick.
Iliana's tongue curled in all she wished to say: It was my fault! I should be punished!
"You'll have your chance to speak, but first…" The Alban Prince was at her side before she recognized his movement. She had been too concerned chasing the final glimpse of Damian and his captors disappearing through the threshold.
What will become of him?
"Look at the mess he made," Nereus said, seeming briefly sick to see his youngest sibling, his only sister with such a bloody mark on her slender neck. "Call the healer!" he commanded toward Pelicles who had yet to move. "Be swift about it!"
The boy stumbled over his feet and fell in a tangle of lithe limbs.
"Hurry," Nereus growled shortly.
Pelicles scurried to his feet and out the doorway, leaving Iliana alone with her brother whose uneven breath betrayed his stoic front.
"Please," she attempted yet again though this night she was mute and invisible to all those around her it seemed.
"Enough, Iliana!" He swallowed gruffly and shook his head as he pushed some of her chestnut curls away from the wound to better see it. "He will die for this…"
No!
Her eyes pulsed and warmed with tears, but she could not understand how her body produced them still. She was so exhausted, so frustrated, so hurt, and with a sudden burst like a gust of wind through her, she wished for Haemon to return. He would listen, he would understand, and if he believed her… Damian could live.
‡‡‡
She stumbled back several paces with the force of his hand on her shoulder, reminding her of her mistake –as though she could overlook it. There was nothing more humiliating or degrading than receiving a nudge for every error she made when she could not touch him unless he allowed it because she could never outmaneuver, overpower, or outpace him. Already she felt like an animal chasing its tail, becoming weary and out of breath from her own exertions, while he had barely moved. Haemon's chestnut eyes were darker and harder with concentration, ever a predator even when sparring with his weak, female companion. She glared at him from beneath her lashes, the mismatched gaze searing with insult, but he was unaffected by its burn. Aurora should never have consented to this, but with their newly consummated relationship, she had foolishly assumed it would be different. She had seen a more benevolent side to her betrothed who was becoming less a wall than a prism capable of assuming so many faces and levels and sides and angles that she could never anticipate the combination that would meet her in the morning, afternoon, or night. They had lingered around Lovisa longer than they should have with Haemon's excuses about the ground drying and the possible return of the rain, but Aurora held her own suspicions as to why he delayed. Moreover, she couldn't believe that she had yielded to him each night with no comment or complaint about their "marriage" which had been consummated before it was sanctioned. Here they were: feigning husband and wife and sparring in the foothills of the mountains where they had decided to make their camp.
"Come on," he prodded, less encouraging than impatient, and her lips turned down in a frown.
I can't! her mind retorted hotly, but she wouldn't speak the complaint aloud.
Already their time fleeing from Barion toward Latium had shown her that she was stronger than she knew. As Haemon had foretold, the sore ache was fading with each new day, and she could feel the muscles in her legs and back growing stronger. But mentally… she still felt weak compared to him. How could he hold so much and stand so tall? They had not spoken more about his past since that night, but she hadn't quite known how to press for answers without angering him. No matter the man who had bedded her nights ago, she was wary of this warrior's boundaries. She hadn't yet mapped out his limitations in her mind, and so she treaded softly in most areas to be sure she stayed on level ground. She couldn't risk angering him when she was already such a disappointment. She feared he would grow tired and abandon her like all the others who had sifted through her life. Atlan had been the only constant since her childhood, and now he was gone. She had nothing. Nothing but Haemon, and she was terrified more than she would acknowledge by how the thought of losing him gutted her insides. She was wholly dependent on him, and suppose he only kept her around so long as she was of use to him –in navigating him through these lands or as a companion to his bed… What else could she offer him?
"Aurora," he snapped to regain her attention, and her gaze pinned him from where it had veered to the side with her thoughts.
The anger receded to simmer in the base of her mind for she was more distracted by her nagging thoughts. She lost the motivation to practice and prove her worth to him, but she was sure he would be angry if she retreated. Her only option was to charge him and hope for leniency and maybe –if the gods were smiling on her- maybe he would end this embarrassment. She assessed his brawn stacked before her in search of a weakness but knew there was none. Her fingers nervously rearranged the hilt of the dagger in her hand. Only a man sure of his abilities and her limitations would arm her and encourage her to spar with him, or perhaps he knew she didn't have the courage to truly hurt him. She pursed her lips, glimpsing at his dark eyes, and dove forward. Her swing was fluid, slicing through the air, for he had already moved, and she quickly rebounded with her hand aiming for another attack. She swung, and he evaded: the same fruitless efforts were souring and making her lose her tact. Her movements were growing harsher and less aimed. She didn't care. Without warning, he caught her wrist, twisted her arm, and jerked her hand behind her back. The pain twisted up through her wrist and elbow to her shoulder, and she cried out and lost her footing, stumbling back into him where she added her weight to his hold on her and clenched her eyes shut. He could empower her one moment and strip her down the next. She was bare and breathing haggardly and gritting her teeth to withhold the sharp pain like he might break her wrist or take her arm.
"I can't always look over my shoulder to guard you," he said, low and even at her ear, and she winced as his hot breath rushed across her cheek though he held her still. He seemed to wait for the words to land as if he could watch them weave through her blonde head, and at length, he stole the dagger from her and released her.
Once her arm was returned to her, she rubbed idly at her sore wrist where his grip has left the skin pinkish and continued up the length of her arm to her shoulder. The muscles ached, but it was faint without his grip to encourage it. More sore was her pride since she knew she had lost control of herself and likely attacked her betrothed like a crazed woman. Paling and wincing, she glanced at Haemon from the corner of her eyes and discovered him considering his own injury. A thin, slight wisp rose on his forearm lined with blood, though it was scarcely more than a scratch, but her attention perked up when she understood she had been the cause. She had touched him!
He grumbled something indecipherable under his breath and dismissively released his arm to his side, and only then he noticed her mismatched eyes attached him. He frowned though she wasn't sure whether he was annoyed she had succeeded or if he were aggravated by the flicker of victory in her eyes.
Never one to let her gloat and waddle around with bloated confidence, he pricked her prime mood with one, derisive comment, "You need more than luck."
"Perhaps we shouldn't practice with weapons," she said, hinting that she was capable of more but restraining herself for his benefit. It was a laughably poor attempt to protect what little dignity she had left.
"When the time comes," he rejoined and held up the dagger between them, "you'll be armed. You should be accustomed to the feel. You can never hesitate."
"Even with you?" the question chirped from lips, and only upon hearing it did she worry about its connotations.
It seemed odd to reference any relation between them when she didn't entirely feel it had been knit. They were betrothed by an agreement that could very well have disintegrated the moment Savas betrayed them. They were fleeing for Samnium in hopes the king would offer them asylum. Though they had recently discovered some new ground to tread upon, a successful conversation between them was rare if not a battle in itself. She did not love him, but she didn't hate him either. She felt like she were hanging in the air from a leap of faith and waiting to see what if anything would catch her.
Smirking arrogantly as he sometimes could, he glanced at the scratch on his arm and remarked, "It takes far more than this to hurt me."
Suddenly the memory of his skin scattered with scars flitted through her mind, and her empty fingers twitched to remember the uneven texture that had intrigued and repulsed her. Even more compelling to her were the scars she couldn't see or touch from a past wrought with loss and pain like her own. Surely that was where they should begin building the bridge between them. Yet again she wondered about the nagging unanswered questions concerning his youth, but Haemon had abandoned her to her silent musings to attend to the meat roasting on the fire. He rotated the rods to let the meat char on another side, the fat and skin boiling and spitting and hissing, and he assumed his usual seat at one end of the fire while she helped herself to the other.
She drew her cloak about her and was grateful for the heavy woolen peasant robes Haemon had bought for her. They were poorly fashioned, of coarse material, but they were warm. She discovered her definition of comfort expanding with every night they spent in the wilderness, and Haemon was the more sparse. Though he had added another layer of cloth draped about him to keep him warm, he was otherwise mostly the same. She couldn't understand how he adjusted to the cold or how he had managed their money so well. She had never anticipated a crown prince to have the ability to barter for shelter, food, clothing, and more without a blunder to be noticed. How many were capable of that and to do so with his unapologetic determination? Did nothing scare him or daunt him? His courage was contagious, and she was reticent to admit she had no dreams, no nightmares, no terrors while sleeping at his side in Lovisa. That was a rare feat, and she preferred to blame it on her severe exhaustion or their room away from the woods rather than his proximity. Still, she wondered whether her sleepless nights would resume now that they were in the forest and without a bed to coral them… Would he try to touch her here –tonight? The thought made her skin prick to attention as though excited by the possibility, and she chastised herself, feeling her cheeks flush subtly and her stomach twist with nerves. Perhaps she was becoming as mercurial as him –capable of loathing him one moment and yearning for him the next.
"How far is the High Pass?" he wondered idly, leaned back, and rested an arm on his knee.
Aurora's chin bobbed parallel to the ground, skewering him with a sudden burst of attention thrown his way, and she ebbed slightly and looked toward the fire as she realized the neutrality of his question. "Four or five days' ride," she answered. "Perhaps longer depending on the weather and the trail."
"What do you know of Samnium's lands?"
"Little," she confessed. "I was taught about my lands when I was young, but I suppose my father never thought it necessary to teach his youngest daughter about those territories outside our borders. I doubt he ever anticipated I would be forced to flee…" She chewed unconsciously on her lower lip, remembered her mother's reprimanding when she was child for this quirk, and quickly released her lip. Still, the thoughts filtered through her mind, sifting back and forth until she wondered, "Do you think we'll make it to Samnium?"
"Yes," Haemon answered immediately, but his arrogant answer sounded hollow to her. Men were always indomitable until they were defeated.
"Savas will search everywhere for us. He won't stop 'til he's found us."
"He won't expect us to make for Samnium. He'll underestimate us and will not catch us nor know where we've gone until my army is marching from Alba Longa."
"You plan to fight him?" she asked, unable to mask her surprise. His bold statements after her bedded her had been dismissed as pillow talk, and she couldn't anticipate the jolt of nerves as he repeated them in the light of day.
His chestnut eyes glanced up from the fire to look at her, and he smirked briefly. "He deceived and tried to kill me… Yes, I will march and crush him, and I have the benefit of holding the rightful heir."
She blinked uncertainly, knowing what he was promising and somehow confused by it. Was this his purpose in keeping her safe –so that he might claim the Apulian throne by her name and extend his family's power? A flush of anger swept through her, yet she couldn't voice it. It made her sick to think of her life spent as a pawn for other men's fortunes.
I am the living child of Lycaon, the granddaughter of Gallad, the lost heir to the Apulian throne!
She'd lived in the shadows of the forests like that scared little girl who had watched her family die for Savas' greed, but now… now she was the queen. That was her destiny, and she would not surrender it to this bastard prince! Her teeth gritted as the thoughts raced through her, each more persuasive than the last, and she nearly pounced to her feet and denounced him. But she needed him as much as he needed her. Her time would come. Her chance would come, and she wouldn't hesitate. She kept her tongue still and eased her chin toward her chest, letting her mismatched eyes watch the flames lick at the impending darkness. Night would fall soon, and then dawn would come.
Author's Note: Happy New Year my lovelies! SURPRISE! Were you shocked? Was it on purpose? What's going to happen to Damina? Oooohhhhh I'm so excited to reveal something about our mysterious blacksmith in the next chapter :) Hope you all are as enthusiastic as I am!
Thanks to AmyLNelson and klandgraf2007 as always for the sweet reviews!
Amy: The climax! Ok I think it's climactic. It's sort of on-going. There will be much more revealed in the next chapter :) Ahhh I'm glad you think I'm creative and not crazy. I swear I have to map out the story chapter by chapter before starting to write it or else I know I'll get confused or forget something! Hopefully I surprised you though :) And of course the weird tense relationship between Aurora and Haemon continues... hehe! Awww I'm so happy you got the job placement in Italy! You'll have to enjoy the pasta, museums, and men for me ;) I'm still sick unfortunately, but hopefully this chapter didn't suffer as a result. Let me know what you think! xoxo
klandgraf: You kill me always reviewing each chapter! You're such a sweetheart :) I'm kinda glad to leave you a bit speechless with the last chapter about Haemon and Aurora "finding" some common ground together haha That's always my key in life, and I feel like no one is ever as intense and awesome as Arwa and Maximus were hahaha Isn't that horrible to admit? Damian is a good guy definitely, but he is funny how he kinda tries to tell Iliana what to do for her own good. It's all for a good cause, but it seems like he might have ruined it all with this chapter! Or maybe Iliana ruined it all with her impatience and nerves and irrational decisions, but I think as woman we've all been there! It seemed like a good idea at the time haha And yes, now that Atlan's been captured, no one will know about Haemon until/if Ascanius arrives home! duh duh duh! Hope you made some popcorn and ate it haha That's adorable :) Thanks so much for the review, and I hope you liked this chapter! xoxo
