It is not easy to think about falling when I am flying. Beneath me, muddy trenches pockmark the barren land, defensive structures sutured into the brown earth. Nyatrix clutches me to her chest like I’m some sacred prize, not a lamb she was willing to slaughter only a few moments ago.
A heavy wind buffets us—the Godwinds, I realize, a powerful, unrelenting vortex left behind by the War of the Sundering. I feel Nyatrix’s chest muscles tense and fight against the hard leftward tilt. She grunts, pulling me even closer, her long-fingered hand cupping the side of my face as if to protect me from the battering winds. I do not know why she bothers.
“I’m going to land,” she shouts over the din.
I say nothing. What is there to say? What choice do I have? What choice have Ieverhad?
The scorched grounds reach up toward us, and I can think of nothing but graves. I wonder, if I asked nicely, would Nyatrix find a soft, green spot and lay me down there? Let the soil fill my throat; let the flowers bloom on my bones?
Her landing is less graceful with the Godwinds grabbing at us, and she stumbles, going down on her knees. I squeeze my eyes shut, turning my face into her chest as I pull my arms up around my face. Asphodels fill my nose with their spicy sweetness as Nyatrix staggers, twisting her torso to take the brunt of the fall.
For a moment, we lie there in a tangle—the knight with her back pressed to the ground, my body flung across hers, my skirts wound about her legs. Her inhales are deep, quick pants, my chest rising with each of them as if her lungs were my own.
“Sorry,” she grunts. I try to pull myself away from the heat of her muscular form, my mind going soft and weak, but one of her powerful arms bands around my waist. “Let me help.”
I open my mouth to protest, but she’s already sliding out from beneath me. Down on one knee, she plucks my cane from the sandy soil and hands it to me. I clutch it against my chest, watching her with wide eyes, knowing full well how vulnerable I am in this position—laid out flat on my back, only her arm between me and the ground.
“What’s the best way to do this? I don’t want to hurt you,” Nyatrix says, peering down at me.
For a moment, I can only process the gray bruise of the dawn sky, the winds tugging at her loose hair, the intensity of her gaze. The stolen sword sits on the sand by her feet, and her wings have vanished.
“What?” I ask in a strangled syllable.
“Your back,” she says, her brow furrowing. “You flogged yourself. And you use a cane, which I assume is for a leg or hip injury? So how can I get you up without hurting you?”
Silence unfurls between us, nothing but the howl of the Godwinds across the sloping hills. The direction shifts in a sharp turn, and the wind thins to a whistle as it races through the ruins of a small stone structure about fifteen paces from us.
I don’t know how to explain to her that I don’t care about more pain. That all I am is pain, all I know is pain. Everything I ever loved is gone. I’ve abandoned my Church—willingly or not—and I have no idea if I’ll ever be forgiven. I don’t care about getting back up. I’ll stay down where I belong: in the dirt.
“Please,” I say through parched lips, watching the pale dawn begin to seep across the horizon. Is even the sky a different color than I believed? “Like I already said, just leave me.”
She moves then, wolf-like, her body hovering over mine, palms planted on either side of my shoulders, her arms caging me in. “I’m not going to abandon you in the middle of the Sundered Lands,” she says.
“Why not?” I ask, a sob tearing up from my chest. The words are barely more than pathetic blubbering—even more evidence that she should leave me behind. “You were willing to slit my throat not too long ago. Surely leaving me behind is even easier.”
Something in her face softens as I speak, her gaze darting away for a moment. With a long, low sigh, she slips one hand under the back of my head with a gentleness that makes no sense. It has no place coming from the Lupa Nox. It has no place in the wind-battered hills of the Sundered Lands. And it has no right to be wasted on something like me.
Her other hand wraps around my waist. “I’m going to help you sit up, all right?” she says. Unlike everyone else, Nyatrix waits for my response. She’s not telling me what she’s going to do to my body. She’s asking.
Slowly, I nod.
She does as she’s promised with minimal pain, lifting me into an upright position as though I weigh little more than a feather. I lean forward over my legs and, with my hands, lift my left one—which I cannot move independently—to shift it into a more comfortable angle.
I look around, shielding my eyes from the Godwinds with one hand. There is nothing but hopelessness before me. The stained horizon lies far in the distance. Presumably, Liminalia—the Cursed seat of the Sepulchyre—is out there somewhere, behind the sooty, sandy hills that rise and fall like headstones. In some places, old stone ruins peek from the earth. All this destruction,this horror, leaked into the earth by the Sepulchyre during the war.
I think of Saintess Lucia’s statue in the gardens. The morning dew clinging to heads of hydrangea, the sharp scent of freshly picked spearmint, the blackberry stains on lace sleeves, the orchards in their midsummer splendor. The garnet tears on her face and the Sainting I thought was upon me.
I cleaved and butchered so many things from deep within myself for a taste of that saintliness.
The sorrow devours me, as I always knew it would. A wild howl escapes my mouth, and I fold forward, wrapping my arms around my body. And then I weep in front of the Lupa Nox. Shame flushes me, my skin prickling hot and itchy despite the cold winds, but I cannot stop. She says nothing, though I think she settles down into a crouch next to me.
Finally, I raise my head, the Sundered Lands no more than a dark smear through my tears. Perhaps after I blink, I will be back in my chambers in Cathedral Hill. Perhaps all of this will be a dream.
Instead, it’s the Lupa Nox before me, her features gone sharp and serious, though there is a gleam in her eyes I don’t think I’ve seen since she discovered I flogged myself. Her beautiful mouth parts as she reaches out to cup my jaw. My traitorous body keens for her.
“Little dove,” she murmurs, those eyes searching mine again. This time—I cannot explain it—I think she finds what she’s looking for. “You’re not sad. Not really.”
I stare at her, my breath coming in uneven, heavy gasps, the Godwinds tearing at our clothes. She leans close, almost as if to kiss me.
