Not wanting to push her, I remain in my chair, stealing alternating glances at her and Rook, my hand moving across the parchment almost as if it’s got a mind of its own.
I’m not sure how much time passes, but the fire has burned to embers when West finally speaks again, and somehow, I’ve managed to sketch a complete portrait of her and our stately stone gargoyle.
“Getting back in touch with your roots?” she asks, her voice low in the quiet darkness. “You’ve been in another world for an hour at least.”
I’m so relieved to see a faint smile touching her lips, I can’t help but grin right back at her.
“Before the invention of cameras,” I say, “this was how I spent most of my free time—scrounging around looking for something to draw with. Charcoal, pigments I mashed together out of plants. I could almost aways find something—even if it was just a charred piece of wood and a curl of tree bark to sketch upon.”
Westlyn draws her knees up and wraps her arms around them, her eyes softened by the amber glow of the smoldering fire. “You’ve always been an artist, huh? Since the very beginning.”
I nod. “It’s funny, though. I never considered myself an artist—that word always felt too formal to me. Something that required an apprenticeship with a master. For me, it always seemed like I was more of a… a messenger, if that makes sense? Like, the portrait or scene already exists somewhere, even if we can’t yet perceive it with our limited senses. So it’s my job to remove everything else in the way of that perception—to bring it to life for others to enjoy.” I glance down at the parchment in my lap. “When I sketch like this, I’m removing some of the empty space by adding in the shadows, and in that way, it just…becomes.” I shake my head, an uncharacteristic warmth blooming in my cheeks. It’s so rare that I ever talk about this stuff anymore—I forgot what it feels like to be shy. “I don’t know. It makes sense in my head.”
“No, I get it. I love that interpretation.” She glances around the cozy space, then up at Rook, his protective form looming over her. “Beauty is everywhere, always. Sometimes it’s hard to remember it’s there when all that other stuff is getting in the way. I think we could all use the reminder. Art is the very best messenger for that.”
My throat tightens at her words, and we slip into a comfortable silence again, a lone flame licking one of the logs in the fireplace before us, refusing to give up. In its flickering light, I see the shapes of us all—gargoyle wings and tails, West’s long dark hair, the apple trees in our orchard, the feathers of her ravens, the bones lining the shelves of Jude’s workshops, the sharp angles of Draegan’s face… All the light and shadow of our word.
The knot returns to my throat, and a wave of longing washes right through me.
For the first time since I became a gargoyle, I miss our life at Blackmoor.
Because for the first time since I became a gargoyle, I realize I had a life worth missing. Not a perfect life, but a real one. Three fiercely loyal brothers. Our home. Our apple trees.
And when Westlyn came to us, it felt like the only missing piece had just clicked into place. Like we’d all been saved.
And now we’re here, fighting for that life all over again. Fighting for the mere privilege to build and cherish something that should be ours by rights.
Rage brings a glaze of raw emotion to my eyes, blurring that lone flame before me. But before I can sink too far into my anger and despair, Westlyn’s pulling me right back to the surface.
Like she always does.
“Will you show it to me?” she whispers, and I turn to meet her gaze, her eyes brighter than they’ve been all night. “The sketch, I mean. Unless it’s private.”
Thrilled to be asked, I join her on the sofa, showing her the parchment.
She scans the portrait, a hand pressed to her chest. “Auggie, that’s… Wow. The details are so… And Rook… This is just… It’s beautiful. I mean, look at this!”
But I don’t look at it. I look at her. Only at her.
“You’rebeautiful,” I whisper, setting the parchment on a side table and tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. She’s still got her knees drawn up, and now I pull her in close, wrapping a protective wing around her, holding her tight. She melts into my embrace and lets out a long, shuddering sigh.
And then she falls apart in my arms.
* * *
“I’m sorry. Goddess, what a mess.” Westlyn finally sits up again, her eyes puffy from crying. “I shouldn’t have done that. I need to focus on solutions, not lose my shit at the first sign of—”
“Hey. None of that, now.” I tuck a finger under her chin, turning her gaze toward mine. “You can cry or scream or freak out all you want. Whatever you need to do, because witchling, this whole thing fuckingsucks. Rook is… I’m sure he’s hurting in there, and I can’t… Iwon’tlie to you about that. We’reallfucking hurting.”
She nods, snuggling in close again. “I just feel so helpless. I hate that feeling.”
“I know. I do, too.”
Devils balls, do I ever. And Verrick? Nothing gets his dick harder than making everyone else around him feel completely fucking helpless. He did it when he murdered our families and robbed us of our homeland. He did it when he cursed all the soldiers who fought by our sides to become gargoyles, and cursed the four of us to remain living as we watched all those friends and allies turn to stone and crumble.
Those brutalities… They were the hardest things I’ve ever had to witness.
But never before did I have to watch one of my brothers suffer that same fate.
