But her next question stopped me cold.
“Rohak,” she whispered, eyes wide. “Why is your nose bleeding.”
It was less a question and more of a statement. My previous mounting desire instantly faded, my shoulders slumping as it felt like my entire strength was drained by that one statement. I half-heartedly wiped at my nose, knowing that a streak of blood would be left on the back of my hand.
I sighed heavily before sinking into the couch across the room and gesturing for Faylinn to sit beside me.
She perched on the edge of the sofa, still clutching that journal, and a stray curl fell across her forehead. Her hazel eyes bored into my own, filled with an intensity and deep concern that I’d only seen when her village, Isrun, was massacred last spring.
“Rohak,” Faylinn said again, her tone soft yet stern. “Speak.”
“Bossy thing, aren’t you?” I teased, but there was no heart in it, especially when Faylinn just fixed me with a look bordering on murderous.
“When did it start?” she asked when it was clear I wasn’t going to be forthcoming with answers on my own.
“Tonight,” I admitted as I watched the blood drip from my nose to land on my hands in little jagged-edged circles.
“Tonight,” she deadpanned. “Before or after your magic almost killed me?”
I flinched at her honesty and the recollection of my actions a mere hour previous.
“Before,” I admitted, still refusing to look in her eyes. I didn’t want to see the truth there.
“Did you notice any other symptoms before you started bleeding?”
I hesitated again before nodding curtly.
“Yes.”
“How long ago? What symptoms?”
How did I tell her that I’d been experiencing symptoms for decades? That I thought it was normal to have a constant headache, only made worse when drawing my power. That I heard my power call to me like the sirens of our ancient tales called to unsuspecting sailors.
Faylinn sighed, the silence stretching between us.
I cracked my neck before wiping my nose on the handkerchief Faylinn gave to me. This time, when I confessed, I would look her in the eyes.
“For decades,” I admitted softly as her eyes widened almost comically.
“Decades?” she whispered. “How . . . why . . .” Faylinn stuttered over her words, and I could see her mind working overtime in her intelligent hazel eyes.
“How did I ward it off?” I asked dryly as Faylinn nodded her head, her mouth set into a terse line with her brow furrowed. I shrugged. “I’m not sure. Honestly, for a long time I thought it was the gods rewarding me for my piousness.”
I laughed bitterly at that.
“If that was a gift, then this is surely recompense for deeds that went unpunished.” Faylinn tentatively rested one slender hand on my forearm, physically bridging the gap between us that earlier felt like a chasm.
Why did I push her away for so long? She could have helped me. We could have discussed this together. I almost growled at my stupidity but held back, not wanting to scare Faylinn away. Again. I rather enjoyed having her touch me.
“I’m almost afraid to ask your symptoms,” she muttered quietly, and I shot her a brief smile. Ever the scholar, Faylinn.
“The usual of early-stage Mage Sickness,” I explained. “Headaches that increased in frequency and potency. Shaking and nausea when I drew my power or when I released it.” I paused, wondering if I should tell her about the voice. While I was embarrassed about the situation and more concerned that either she or Alois would force me to Bond, I felt the urge to confess everything to her. To lay it all out in the open so we could start on a fresh slate together.
“I hear a voice,” I admitted quietly, my free hand snaking out to grab hers that was still resting on my forearm. She was slightly cold to the touch, so I squeezed her hand slightly, hoping to warm it with my own. Faylinn seemed to nestle closer to me on the couch, both of us drawing comfort from each other.
At least, that’s what I’d like to think was happening.
“You hear a voice?” She chewed her lip, her eyebrows nearly bunched together in thought. “I need to write this down,” she mumbled as she carefully extracted her hand from my grasp and pulled a charcoal pencil from her waistband. While I felt the lossof her hand on my arm, I was enraptured by her movements. The way she deftly flipped the journal open to a blank page, the strokes she made with the pencil—some loopy and cursive, others sharp and angled. She didn’t write in, what I would consider, a logical way. Notes and thoughts were at all angles and places on the paper, her words creating art.
