abate.
I sink within myself faster than I ever have. Pause when I notice the silver thread of hair snarled around my hand and wrist.
Is this the problem? This damn hair-thing I’ve been tangled with since Bothaim?
Ripping it free with savage gusto, I charge toward the lake, where I crack a hole with my fist and stuff the tendril down. Heaving breath, I wait to feel … better.
The feeling doesn’t ease. Not even a little.
I look over my shoulder—
There’s something else here.
Snarling, I root through the dark rocks scattered across my shore, tossing them about, slicing my hands on all the sharp edges.
Determinedto hunt the culprit down.
I roll a hefty stone, whipping my hand up against a flood of light that threatens to blind me. Slowly, I lower it, eyes popping wide when I see a luminous silver splinter wedged in the shore—No.
Inme.
How did I not notice this before?
I grip it, heart hitching at how cold it is. Cold like—
NO.
I push that thought away andtug. But no matter how hard I yank, the splinter doesn’t budge.
“Fuck!”
Guess I can either leave it here, slowly grow around it until the pain eases … or slice it out. Discard it.
Easy answer.
I snatch a stone shard and begin hacking the surrounding matter, whichis softer than I’d anticipated. Conveniently so. I slice … slice …slice, aware of myself whittling down, becoming harder.
Sharper.
My lips pull back, teeth bared, feeling each cut like a slice to my soul. But rather than mourn the loss of the tender stuff I’m slitting free, Irelishit.
Who needs that shit anyway?
The lump comes loose.
Though that ache is still there, it’s more an open wound. Less like a weight pinning me down.
Wounds I can weather. After all, wounds are the hands that shaped me.
A savage smile peels across my face as I lift the lump—surprisingly heavy for its size—and charge toward my lake.
Refusing to look in the direction of the swishing silver light now shafting up from beneath the ice, I drop the lump in my pre-punched hole.
Plop.
It plummets into the darkness, shrinking until it’s as small as the argent speckle in Líri’s eyes.
For a moment, my Other doesn’t move. Stays just beneath the surface, as though she’s watching me through the murk. Probably waiting for something.
