Page 8 of May: Bloom & Bane

My back aches, the new muscles in my shoulders screaming under the weight of holding my petals steady. But every time I look down and see her chest rising in a slow, steady rhythm, the pain turns into a quiet sort of hum.

I’m no longer only a monster. I’m the shade she rests under.

By the third week of the Great Heat, my roots have found the cool, damp veins of the earth beneath the willow trees.

Droot is currently patrolling the perimeter of the peonies. His berry-stained nose twitches at every rustle of grass. He takes his job as The Sun’s Second Guardian very seriously.

To keep my mind from drifting, I’ve decided to carve. I don’t want to forget a single moment.

Using one sharp, opalescent claw, I reach past the edge of the glass to the dark stone beneath.

Day 17: The wind smells like rain, but none has fallen. You looked peaceful today. Droot found a blue beetle and named it Lunch. He popped it into his mouth, then decided they were friends instead… Lunch is no longer alive. But I can’t bring myself to tell him that.

Day 22: A hawk circled the willow trees today for an hour. I didn’t move… or breathe. Droot decided berries were more important than our safety.

Day 36: Droot tried to pick a fight with a puddle because it mimicked his ears. I find that if I speak low enough, the dark voice in my mind goes quiet, replaced by the rhythm of your breathing.

I look at the growing row of tally marks and words. They’re more than a simple calendar. They’re one of the only ways we can have a conversation.

“It’s hot today, Eden,” I whisper. “But the peonies are thriving. Sometimes I think they’re trying to outshine you. They never even had a chance.”

* * *

On Day 45, the sky is a deep, angry purple that matches the stains on Droot’s paws. The air is heavy enough to choke on. Rain slams against my wings. I tuck my chin and pull my petals tighter around the glass to create a waterproof seal. Thunder booms so loudly it makes my roots tremble in the mud. Droot dives into the leaves between my shins, his tiny heart thudding against my ankle.

Sky is angry, Sage! he chirps. The Sun is going to get wet!

“I won’t let her,” I groan, leaning my weight against the plinth as the wind tries to tear the wings from my back.

Lightning flashes, illuminating the grove in a wash of silver. My gaze snags on three figures huddled under the eaves of the trees at the edge of the clearing.

The lightning flashes again, and they are no longer standing beneath the trees. Through the gaps in the willow branches, they catch a glimpse of the crystal, and the fire-haired woman within it.

Their faces take on a different kind of hunger. They begin whispering, their hands moving to the hilts of their knives.

The wind carries their predatory laughter. “Think of what they would pay for her.”

“Or…” another one of them says. “Maybe we keep her for ourselves.”

The blood in my veins goes ice-cold. A roar stirs in my chest.

Sage? Droot whispers. Sage feels like… the bitter dirt.

“Stay down, Droot,” I rasp.

I surge upward, my wings snapping wide with a crack that rivals the thunder. Thorns erupt from my forearms.

Kill them, the voice in my mind seethes.

I rip my roots free from the earth and step out from the shadows. Golden liquid pours from where we were merged.

The men freeze.

“You think you have the right to touch her?” I ask, my voice echoing through the meadow. “You look at a defenseless woman and see something to take advantage of?”

I step closer.

They slowly back away.