Page 29 of The Last War We Ever Fought

Seven poppies

The evening’s moonlight was as elegant as moonlight could ever be. But it became even more impeccable when it fell over her body. Sunken in the middle of the pond she’d found near camp, Rowan had tipped her head back, letting the silver shine cast shadows all over her face.

“You will shrivel like a prune if you stay in there any longer,” he said.

She didn’t look surprised at hearing his voice, probably having heard him approach or maybe expected him to be there. “You will bleed red like a beet if you do not stay where you are.”

“Maybe I don’t bleed red. Maybe I bleed black,” Elijah said, approaching the edge of the pond and squatting down. “Come out and I will let you find out.”

She sank further down, only her eyes visible above the water surface. Eyes that were making Elijah rethink the offer. And perhaps make another one.

“I won’t look.”

That made her rise up again, not to come out, but to say, “Because I will pluck your eyes out.”

“What a horrible thing to say to someone,” he said, feigning upset.

Eyes mad and mouth pulled into a snarl, she jumped, coming almost out of the water entirely. To Elijah’s unfortunate luck, she realised the state of her nakedness too soon, covering her chest with both arms. “Leave.”

Without intention, his expression fell and so did his gaze. No longer on her face. No longer on the strength she carried in her expression. But on the scars littering her skin from the neck down. Her arms. Her stomach. Her shoulders.

She ducked down in the water again, breathing hard. “Pass me my towel.”

Somehow, he’d managed to get up and grab her towel, and then stepped in the pond, fully clothed. Once he was near enough, he opened the towel for her. And for some reason, she quietly turned round and let him wrap it over her shoulders. Just not before he had gotten to face the rest of her scars on her back.

He’d seen many scars on many bodies in many lifetimes.

They’d never bothered him. He had many of his own, too.

But her scars weren’t just scars. They became his wounds.

Elijah sat at the edge of the pond, staring at the silvery waters quiet down as Rowan left them to get dressed. “You should let someone stitch the wound on your shoulder.”

There was a pause in her movement. “It will heal just fine as long as I keep it clean.”

“Rowan,” he called her name like a prayer made to a cruel god who would not listen—the cruel god she was would never listen to someone like him.

Rowan’s back was still to him. Her shoulders started to raise faster, more uncontrollably, so unlike her controlled self. He could hear her rapid breaths even from where he stood. “Quit thinking I’m her,” was all she said, picking up the rest of her clothes and heading towards the forest.

But he wasn’t thinking she was her.

He wasn’t thinking at all.

He had not followed after her, but he’d stood by the entrance of her tent for the past hour and a half. Expecting to smell the scent of disinfectant or hear her struggle to sow her wound up.

There was none of it.

Tired of waiting, he stepped inside her tidy small space made up of a foldable mattress, table, chair, small stool, two buckets and a bag.

She sat up from the bed, scooting away from him and reaching for a dagger hidden under her pillow.

Unbothered by her threats, he reached her small table and dug through her small mound of possessions until he managed to find a box with a needle, thread, gauze and some disinfectant that all soldiers were usually given. None if it looked used, all still in its sterile packaging.

“I’ll do it myself,” she said, lifting her palm to him.

“You can’t or you would have already done so.”

“I can,” she answered quickly, breathing fast. “I swear I can. Just give it to me.” When he didn’t move or give in to her request, a look of desperation crossed her lifeless face. “Please.” She let out a trembling sigh, and repeated, “Please.”