True to druid fashion, he ignored me.
“Your Holiness,” I tried again, head rotating with his movements. “Druid Vetrius.”
He stopped, the three blades of his helm slanting to the side. “I’m preparing for what must be done.”
It was then I saw the needle he clasped in his hand.
“No,” I breathed, bracing for the inevitable. After everything, after the sky had fallen and the gods had spared us, it would end as it was always meant to. I hoped he would remember this moment, that he would see my face when he closed his eyes at night, that the image of my lifeless body would haunt him as he lay in the same bed where I had died. If he meant to attempt another offering, I would go to it as I had gone to the first—without a cower, without a wince.
A sharp sniff.
“I thought you and needles were old friends, Seamstress?” he crooned, holding it up to the light. “Now cease trying to murder me with your eyes and listen to what I am about to tell you.” He padded to the bed and sank into the chair, my eyes fixed on his mesh. “I said stop trying to murder me, not do it harder.”
I glanced at his throat, masked by chain, to where his laugh had reverberated from. It was a sport to imagine all the ways I could tear it from him.
“I am sure I do not know what you mean,” I sneered, continuing my scrutiny, searching for a chink in the armour. Historso was exposed, only a linen shirt lying between his flesh and my teeth.
“More lies.” He sighed, the chain of his veil jostling with the shake of his head. “It is a wonder you can even speak with the weight of them pressing on your chest.”
I glanced to my neckline at the same time as he.
“It is no concern of yours what I have on my chest,” I hissed, teeth gritted.
“You really need to stop talking about your chest.”
“I—you… That is not what I—”
“Shh.” An impossibly large hand gripped the bottom of my face, smothering my nose and mouth, silencing my protests. I squirmed, gasped, kicked my feet, bunching the linens as I did in a futile attempt to escape. Held fast by the chains, with no other option at my disposal, I bit. I bit downhard, letting my teeth sink in as far as they would go.
He didn’t so much as flinch, but released some pressure, allowing me to draw in a mouthful of air through the gaps in his fingers. I unclasped my jaw, watching in horror as the thin line of spit stretched and stretched as he moved his hand away, the long trail of it a tether between us.
Eyes upturned, I glared into his mask of metal as he raised his hand to his face, the trail of my saliva now a thin thread on his wrist. He held it there, fingers splayed, palm outward, as if offering it to me. As if I could take it or swat it away.
“You bit me.”
“No.”
“You bit me,” he repeated, rotating his hand so I could see the angry red marks, like two crescent moons.
“I…” Chains rattled with my fidgeting. “You were going to suffocate me.”
“Another of your lies? Tell me, laurel; were you a seamstress or an actress? What else could explain these dramatics?”
I stared at him, mouth agape. Did death no longer faze him? Was he so steeped in it, so saturated by it, that murdering a woman in his own sheets was as mundane as changing the bed linens?
“Dramatics? You are about to end my life. Forgive me if I may seem a little hysterical.”
His helm left his hand to confront me with its gleam.
“Kill you? I am not inclined to bring another tower down upon our heads. The templum has had enough renovations for today.” His shoulders raised in a disbelieving scoff, almost a chuckle. “You actually bit me.” He turned his palm this way and that, inspecting my mark with a perverse curiosity.
“Yes, I bit you,” I admitted, eager to move on. “You aren’t about to offer me? The needle…” I inclined my head towards his other hand, where its sharp point glinted in the sconce light. Following my gaze, his helm hung to one side, limp as if in exasperation.
“The needle, Seamstress, is to sew up your hand.” He motioned to the items on the table: a strip of leather, boiled gut string, gauze, and a small glass bottle, its clear contents swirling with herbs I did not recognise.
My face burned.
“How was I to guess that?” I snapped, too tired, in too much pain, too drained of any ability to care about my tone any longer. This strange druid seemed not to care either, considering my head was still attached to my neck.
