Chapter 9: A Thread of Light
Darkness held her, heavy and thick like the bottom of a well. Isabelle drifted, weightless yet burdened, as if pulled by the hands of shadows she couldn't see. The cold settled around her, seeping through her bones and numbing her limbs, but beyond it all, a faint warmth flickered—just out of reach. It felt familiar, a tether to a life she'd once known but couldn't quite grasp but a faint warmth flickered somewhere beyond the edges of her mind—a distant ember calling her back.
Laurent's face appeared, young and wide-eyed, his lips moving with words she couldn't hear. His eyes were shadowed, pleading. Stay with me, Isa… Her heart ached as his face slipped away into the darkness, leaving her with only the echo of his voice.
The scene shifted, slipping between fragmented memories: her sister's laughter, a soft light filtering through the old abbey's stained glass, the distant hum of her own voice in prayer.
Her vision flickered like an old film reel. She was at a nightclub in Paris. The sharp, pulsing lights and heavy scent of smoke and liquor filled her senses. She moved among faceless men, her fingers slipping effortlessly into pockets with a practiced grace. She'd been a ghost back then, drifting through lives she never lingered in, picking up fragments of strangers before vanishing into the night.
She could feel a hand grasping hers, pulling her through the narrow, winding streets of Paris. Quinn's laughter, rough and reckless, spilling out as they ran, hearts pounding. There was snow on the ground.
Her apartment. It was quiet, empty, the walls closing in around her like a cage. Her eyes drifted down to her wrists, her fingers tracing the delicate blue veins beneath the skin. They seemed so fragile, so thin. She could remember thinking how simple it would be, how quiet.
As the blade bit into her skin, a sudden wave of nausea hit her, jolting her out of her trance. She pulled back, the knife slipping from her grasp and clattering to the floor. Her hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide, her heart pounding so hard she thought it might burst. She had stumbled back, her knees giving out as she sank to the floor, tears spilling down her cheeks, a mix of fear and shame washing over her.
The darkness shifted, pulling her back, offering brief glimpses of her life like fragments in a broken mirror.
She was at the abbey now, her hands folded in prayer, the quiet sanctuary a stark contrast to the chaos she'd once thrived in. The hum of whispered prayers drifted into the silence, a lifeline she had clung to. The walls of the abbey were cool, solid, grounding her in moments when her past threatened to drag her under.
She felt herself moving again, swept into another memory. Daryl's face appeared, rough and solemn, as he spoke about fireflies—Ohio, he'd called it, some distant place she'd never seen. He had tried to explain the way the fields lit up in the summer, thousands of tiny lights weaving together like a tapestry. She remembered the soft look in his eyes, the way his voice had softened, as if he could see it right there in front of him. She had wanted, desperately, to go there with him, to see something untouched by the world's cruelty.
A murmur in the darkness called her back. Laurent. She could feel his small hand in hers, his warmth, his quiet resilience a balm to her old wounds.
The darkness pulled her back, but not to despair this time—to warmth, to a memory that made her heart race even now.
She was on the bay, the sun dipping low in the sky, casting the water in hues of gold and deep orange. The air was still, a quiet so profound that it seemed to cradle them, wrapping around the two of them as they stood side by side. She remembered the weight of the silence, the way it held every word unspoken between them, the soft rustle of the breeze against their clothes.
Daryl had been beside her, his expression shadowed but softened, his gaze faraway as he looked out over the horizon. The tension that usually clung to him had fallen away in that moment, leaving something raw, almost vulnerable. She could feel her heartbeat pounding, so loud she'd thought he might hear it, and yet, she couldn't look away. Something about his quiet presence had always drawn her closer, like the tide pulling toward the shore.
He leaned in, her lips meeting his softly, a tentative kiss that held all the things she hadn't been able to say.
Then it twisted, turning sharp, a flash of a knife, the roughness of stone beneath her knees, and a figure standing over her—Losang's cold eyes piercing through her, pulling her back into the helplessness of that moment.
Her heart raced, and she tried to run, but her feet felt stuck as if rooted in the ground. Faces faded in and out of view, and then… a shadow loomed beside her, tall and steady. She looked up, recognizing Daryl, his presence as fierce as the weight of survival in his eyes. He didn't speak, but his gaze grounded her, calming the storm raging inside.
I need you to wake up, she thought she heard him say, or perhaps it was her own voice willing herself to return.
Je t'aime…
She felt the rough stubble of his jaw in her palm.
And suddenly, everything faded to black.
Daryl sat slouched in the chair beside Isabelle's bed, his elbows on his knees, hands hanging loosely as he watched her. The quiet of the room pressed down around him, every breath she took keeping him grounded, yet stretching his patience thin. She was there, so close—but out of reach.
His gaze drifted over her face, pale against the pillow, her cheek bruised and bandaged. The split in her lip, healing but still raw. A few strands of her hair were sticking to her forehead. He resisted the urge to reach out and move them, his fingers clenching reflexively against his thighs. The silence grew, and in it, his mind slipped back to those moments before all this, before he'd watched her fight for each breath.
He'd felt her gaze on him, searching his face, and there, she'd pressed her lips to his—a simple touch that had silenced the world around them.
The two of them, bound by chains in the dark, damp showers. Their arms chained to the wall. Only being able to hear her voice and her shaky breaths echo through the stone. He remembered the steady pulse of her heartbeat through her fingers, her warmth so close it had almost felt like it was his own.
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his thumb grazing over a nick in his palm. It was strange to think of that warmth as distant now, like something he couldn't quite grasp again. It was like holding smoke, like trying to keep her here with only his presence, though he knew it was foolish.
"Isabelle," he muttered, barely a whisper, but the weight of it was more than he could've said out loud. A feeling settled in his chest, one he couldn't shake. He leaned back, rubbing a hand over his face, and exhaled deeply.
Daryl closed his eyes briefly, letting the silence settle around him, heavy and unrelenting. He could still feel the chill of that cell in his bones, the damp stone pressing against his back, and the quiet desperation in Isabelle's voice as they'd both hung there, bloodied and broken, with only the steady rhythm of each other's breathing to hold onto.
His hand drifted toward her, hesitating just inches above her fingers. It felt wrong not to have her reaching back, to feel her there but somehow so far away. He was used to the bruises, the scars—those he could fix, or at least mend. But this… this quiet waiting was something different.
She looked so fragile lying there, and he was torn between the need to protect her and the helplessness of not knowing how. He felt the sting of the tears well up in his eyes, but he didn't allow them the satisfaction of spilling over. He gritted his teeth, swallowing back the tightness in his throat as he reached out and slid his hand under hers, his fingers curling gently around her cool, unmoving palm.
His thumb brushed over her knuckles, rough against her delicate skin.
"I need you to wake up." He murmured, his voice barely breaking through the stillness. "Laurent needs you. We both do." He waited, his gaze fixed on her face, hoping for a twitch, a shift, any sign that she could hear him, that she was somewhere beyond the silence fighting her way back.
He looked down at their hands, his thumb tracing circles against her knuckles, as if that simple touch could somehow will her back. Memories washed over him—her laugh, quiet but genuine, the way her eyes softened whenever she looked at Laurent, the fire in her voice when she challenged him. She was a fighter, damn it. He knew that as well as he knew himself.
He leaned forward, resting his forehead on their intertwined hands. The world around him blurred, the weight of everything they'd been through pressing down on his shoulders. If sheer will could bring her back, he'd sit there for days, months if that's what it took. He wasn't going anywhere. He'd stay with her, holding on, until she could hold on for herself.
After a while, he spoke again, a murmur barely above a breath. "I don't know what you're seein' or where you are right now… but don't let go. Find your way back." He closed his eyes, resting there, his thumb still brushing against her skin, silently hoping his words might reach her, that somewhere in the darkness, she'd feel that faint warmth and follow it back home.
Isabelle's eyelids fluttered open, her senses slowly emerging from the murky depths of unconsciousness. She tried to blink away the darkness, her vision blurred and sluggish, as if it was the first time she was able to see. The room was dim, bathed only in the gentle, wavering glow of a fire smoldering across the room, casting shadows that shifted with each flicker of the flame.
Her body felt foreign, stiff and sore, every muscle aching from disuse. She took a shallow breath, the cool air biting against her throat and lungs, and felt the faintest pull of pain across her ribs. Slowly, her awareness expanded, her gaze drifting from the fire's soft glow to the man lying beside her.
Daryl was there, his form silhouetted by the firelight. His head was resting on his arm, close enough that she could feel the quiet warmth radiating from him, grounding her in the moment. Shadows softened the rugged lines of his face, giving him an unexpected peace, almost vulnerable in the gentle embrace of sleep.
She tried to shift, wincing at the sharp, insistent pain that flared in her stomach. Her fingers instinctively moved toward her midsection, but the stiffness of bandages met her touch. She licked her dry lips, the faint, unexpected sweetness of honey lingering there, softening the rawness in her throat. Confused, she closed her eyes briefly, allowing herself to sink into the strange comfort it brought, as if it were a reminder of something tender amidst the pain.
Her gaze drifted slowly, her eyes adjusting to the dim glow of the fire as they took in her surroundings. The room was unfamiliar yet oddly comforting, filled with the soft, muted hues of nightfall and shadow. Heavy wooden beams stretched across the ceiling above her, and the flickering firelight cast a warm, amber glow on the walls, illuminating little details—the worn edges of an armchair, a bundle of cloth resting on a table, the glint of metal from a bowl on the nightstand.
Her gaze drifted back to Daryl, his form steady and familiar beside her. His chest rose and fell in a slow, even rhythm, his brow untroubled, the tension she so often saw in him softened in the quiet.
Carefully, she stretched her fingers toward him, her fingertips just grazing his arm, hesitant but drawn to the warmth radiating from him. The contact was faint, but it was enough. As if sensing her touch, he stirred, his eyes fluttering open, immediately finding her in the dim light.
His eyes widened, just for a heartbeat, the sleep slipping from them as he realized she was awake. He pushed himself up slowly, the surprise and relief mingling in his gaze, the shadow of exhaustion still lingering in the lines around his eyes.
"Hey…," he whispered, the word thick with a roughness she hadn't heard before.
She gave a faint smile, her voice a quiet rasp. "Hey." She attempted a weak smile, but grimaced as she felt the skin pull tight on her cheek.
He reached out, his hand settling over hers, his touch both tentative and steady, as if he were afraid she might slip away again. "You've been out for a few days," he murmured, his thumb brushing lightly over her knuckles. "Thought… maybe you weren't comin' back."
The flickering fire cast shadows that danced over his face, deepening the raw honesty in his eyes. Isabelle felt a swell of gratitude, a warmth that spread from his touch to the aching places inside her.
"Guess… I'm tougher than I look," she whispered, managing a soft laugh that came out weak but real. She could see the tension in his face ease just slightly, his lips twitching in a barely-there smile. She took a deep steadying breath. "Where's Laurent?"
Daryl's face softened, and he gave a slight nod, "He's safe," he assured her. "He's in the next room asleep. Carol is with him. He's barely left your side since you've been out."
Relief washed over Isabelle, and she closed her eyes briefly, a small smile tugging at her lips. "Thank you," she whispered. "I was afraid he'd be alone."
"Never," Daryl replied firmly. "Kid's tough, but he misses you."
She opened her eyes to meet his steady gaze. She thought for a second, confusion apparent in her eyes. "Carol…?"
Daryl gave a nod, his gaze steady but gentle. "You've got a lot to catch up on. Tomorrow."
A soft chuckle escaped her, though it felt strange in her weakened state. "Tomorrow," she repeated, letting the word linger between them like a promise. The exhaustion was already creeping in, her strength ebbing as quickly as it had come.
Daryl's hand remained steady on hers. "Get some rest," he murmured, his voice gentle but laced with that quiet resolve she had come to recognize. "I'll be here."
Her eyes fluttered closed, the warmth of his hand the last thing she felt as she drifted back into sleep, comforted by the knowledge that she wasn't alone—that she was tethered to something, to someone, once more.