Evylin frowned with a self-mocking grimace. “Glad to know it doesn’t get any better.”
“Is it that bad?” Ethenn asked nervously.
“It’s hard to understand,” Evylin said.
“But Ilain has read it, right?” he asked.
“Six times, apparently.”
“Then can’t she just tell us what’s in it?”
“I don’t recommend making that request,” Brea said. “Not unless you want to hear her lecture from night until morning, waxing poetic about the beauty and bliss of Bonding, conveniently forgetting to leave out the unpleasant parts.”
“What unpleasant parts?” Evylin and Ethenn asked in unison.
Brea brushed back one of the braids that had loosened from her bun during their training. “I’m not the most knowledgeable on the subject, so don’t think I have all the answers,” she said. “Bad or good. But as the Alliance desires me to Bond, they’ve given me a reasonable education on the subject, and there’s one great con that no one likes to discuss. In fact, I’m sure it’s why Fishere wouldn’t have approved you and Ilain Bonding before we left even if it would aid our mission,” she told Ethenn.
Evylin and Ethenn listened with bated breath.
“When one member of the Bonded couple dies,” she explained, “their counterpart experiences the death within themselves too. Depending on the length of the Bond, the living partner goes into a catatonic state while the soul heals. The longer the Bond, the longer the recovery needed. The hope is to last a century together. At that point, the death of one will kill the other outright. But if it’s before that...”
Brea shook her head while her companions stared at her in abject horror. “If it’s before the century mark,” she concluded, “the living partner will fall into the stasis for an unknown period of time solely to provide the soul time to heal. When they finally wake, they will never be the same, and they will have to grieve in a world they don’t know.”
Evylin clamped her gaping mouth shut enough to ask, “Are you saying that if Jonn or I die, the other will lose their mind in grief?”
“Essentially,” Brea said with a lazy shrug. “Though with the short length of your Bond, it isn’t likely that it’d be any longerthan a year of stasis. And youcouldattempt to Bond again, though it isn’t recommended.”
“I thought Ilain said you could only Bond once,” Evylin said.
“You can only have one Bond at a time,” Brea clarified. “Should your Bond break, you are able to pursue a second if you wish to risk it. It’s only been done once, according to what Ilain said, and it didn’t end well.”
Evylin chewed on her bottom lip while Ethenn grimaced.
Brea looked adequately reassured by their somber moods. “So you can see why some wouldn’t wish to risk such a thing, particularly not when you aren’t decidedly in love with your partner.”
“Yes,” Evylin muttered. “I can.”
The problem was, now, she worried that she’d trapped herself and Deckard into something they shouldn’t have agreed to. Already, losing Deckard would have been devastating to her. She still struggled to let go of Ryen and Hewitt’s loss. This...
The death of a Bond was a depth of depression that Evylin didn’t think she’d survive.
Now, having a constant sense of Deckard’s presence—feeling him within her very soul—how could she live without it? Their Bond was strange, uncomfortable, and unknown, but it was also wonderful, fascinating, and reassuring. To have this connection ripped away from her would hurt far worse than anything she’d yet to experience.
Each second that passed spread more regret into Evylin’s veins. They’d faced so much danger already, and they were pressing even deeper into the heart of peril. What would happen if one of them died during this mission? Could Evylin handle waking after potentially years of unconsciousness only to discover herself devoid of her husband? And what of Deckard himself? She’d pressed him into their Bond. What if she died and left him to endure that broken desolation alone?
What a foolish, impulsive decision she’d made.
Evylin thought she should confess this revelation to Deckard. He deserved to know what they faced. And he deserved an apology.
From the start of their relationship, Deckard had made sacrifice after sacrifice for her. He’d married a stranger, promised to provide a happy life for her, and proceeded to grant her the adventure she sought despite his clear desire for a simpler life. Had she ever asked him what he wanted? Never once had she taken the time to discoverhisdesires.
She knew Deckard well enough to know that he wanted more from life. He’d left Stocburrough because it wasn’t enough. He’d remained single for far longer than his peers because no woman was enough for his high standards. He’d dedicated every second of his existence to bettering himself becausehewasn’t enough.
Just as she’d desired “more,” he had too. It was part of what drew her to him. Unlike most men she’d met, he aspired to grander things.
What she didn’t know was what “more” looked like for him.
Then again, she still didn’t know what it looked like for herself either.
