I accept it. I will continue to accept it, even if it costs me.
I open my eyes again, looking down at him. He deserves the truth. The thought is immediate, followed just as quickly by another.
He deserves the freedom to choose without it.
The conflict sits deep, unresolved and heavy.
I could tell myself I am withholding the information because it is incomplete. Because Solan’s findings are not confirmed. Because giving Pax hope based on uncertainty would be cruel.
That would be a cleaner justification. It would also be a lie.
The truth is simpler: If Pax knows there is a way home, he will consider it. If he considers it, I may lose him.
My fingers press more forcefully against his back before I relax.
I am not afraid of dying. I am afraid of him leaving. The distinction matters.
I study his face as he sleeps, the lines of tension that have finally eased, and how his expression has softened in rest. He trusts this space. He trusts me. The weight of that trust presses heavy in my chest.
I have never wanted something so completely.
Not power.
Not victory.
Not even survival.
Only him.
I lean down slightly, pressing a slow, careful kiss against his temple. He stirs faintly but does not wake, his body instinctively shifting closer, as if even in sleep, he seeks contact.
My chest tightens again.
I cannot remain here. Sleep will not come. The thoughts will not quiet.
Carefully, I begin to disentangle myself from him. It requires precision. His grip on me strengthens reflexively as I shift, his body resisting the separation even in unconsciousness. I move slowly, easing his arm away, adjusting his weight so the absence is gradual rather than abrupt.
He exhales softly, settling back into the furs.
For a moment, I remain still, watching him, ensuring he does not wake. He does not, so I stand.
The room feels colder when I am not close to him. The bond stretches slightly with the distance, not painful, but noticeable. A quiet awareness that he is there and I am here.
I dress without sound, movements efficient and controlled. Armour is unnecessary. Weapons are not. Habit dictates both.
I pause once more at the edge of the bed before I leave the sanctity of our room.
Dathanor is quieter at this hour.
The living stone glows low, casting soft illumination through the corridors and open spaces. Movement is minimal. A few guards. A few late workers. All of them step aside without question as I pass.
I do not slow.
The work remains, just as the problem remains. And the rifts.
If there is even a possibility of discovering the secret of the rifts, I will understand it. I will control it. I will decide what becomes of it.
Not chance.
