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And now, stars, what have I done? Sorrow trembles in the back of my throat as my teeth close over my lower lip. I remember the old god’s face as it turned toward the rising moon, wreathed in the scent of dust and ash as the walls of the tower collapsed beneath its claws.
Honestly, what choice did I have? I glance up at Phaedron and try to swallow the heat rising in my chest. He was furious with me, yes, but that was all. Furious, not dangerous. He raised his hand, but then he looked horrified and backed away. Stars, he even apologized.
And didn’t he have reason to be angry? I made the decision for him, didn’t I? He told me I couldn’t go to his world, that it would destroy me, and yet here I am.
“I’m sorry,” I say. My voice trembles, so the words feel weak and unfinished. “I shouldn’t have pushed you through the portal. I just, I didn’t know what else to do.”
Phaedron shrugs, and his illusion shirt flickers. For just a heartbeat, I see the warm skin of his chest beneath the magical weave.
“I understand,” he replies, as his smile fades. “I should never have reacted the way I did. I’m sorry.”
His voice fades, and silence fills the room, lapping at the rough wooden walls. I want to say something to fix this expectant quiet, these cold shadows between us, but my mind is as empty as the moon shining on still water. I remember standing at the window of our room in the Silver City, wrapped in the fading light of the setting sun, staring up into Phaedron’s eyes. The way I felt when his lips opened for mine, like I’d never be cold again.
Now those lips are pressed together into a tight line, and I very much doubt he’ll ever want to kiss me again. I open my mouth, close it, and then open it again, trying to will the words to come.
“So,” I stammer. “This is the Lands Below.”
Phaedron’s lips twist upward, but the expression on his mouth isn’t exactly a smile. “Home sweet home,” he replies, with a bitterness I wasn’t expecting.
I let my gaze fall to the basin on the floor and the white cloth beside it. “What’s that?” I ask, as if I hadn’t just seen him drag that cloth across his naked back.
“Nothing,” he replies.
His expression twists like he’s just bitten something sour, and he runs his left arm lightly across the right side of his body. He’s wearing an illusion shirt, yes, but he didn’t remake his right arm. I wonder if that means he feels comfortable with me, or if perhaps he’s just exhausted from dragging me here and doesn’t have the effort to sustain an illusion that complex.
“My arm,” Phaedron says, suddenly and quietly, like he’s sharing something he’s ashamed of. “It… hurts.”
His left hand wraps around his right shoulder like he’s trying to hold something together, and his brow furrows.
“It’s not even here, and it hurts,” he continues. “Charay said she’d heard of that, of pain in something that you’ve lost.”
My eyes sting like there’s something caught under the lids. I nod, trying not to think of Phaedron in the snow with blood pooling around him.
“Sometimes water helps,” Phaedron says, almost apologetically, as his eyes trace the basin of water on the floor.
“Oh,” I reply. I feel like the air has been squeezed from my chest. “Is there anything I can do?”
Phaedron shakes his head, but the answer comes to me as soon as the words leave my lips. I push off from the narrow bed frame, walk across the rough wooden floor, and then sink to my knees beside Phaedron. I pick up the white cloth, dip it in the basin of warm water, and then meet Phaedron’s gaze.
“Let me,” I say.
There’s a strange look in Phaedron’s eyes, almost like he’s afraid.
“I’ll close my eyes,” I say. “No peeking, I promise. You can even keep your illusion on.”
Phaedron’s lips part, but no sound comes out. I close my eyes and wait, my fingers sinking into the white cloth as it floats in the chipped basin of warm water, the world reduced to the soft gray darkness behind my eyelids.
“Okay,” Phaedron whispers.
His fingers brush my arm, sending a tremor of heat through my core. They trace a path toward my wrist, then reach into the basin to close gently around my fingers. Phaedron cups my hand in his and lifts it from the water. My heart flutters inside its cage, and I have to remind myself to breathe.
And then the cloth in my hand meets the warmth of Phaedron’s shoulder. His fingers release mine. I almost sigh as I trace his skin through the wet cloth pressed against my palm. The scent of his illusion is gone, and now the air is only filled with him, with the heady, spicy aroma that permeates his cloak and makes me feel like I’ve had one too many glasses of wine.
I trace the curve of his collarbone, letting my fingers reach past the cloth to trail along his skin. His breath catches when I touch the first tangled barb of scar tissue, and I pull away, letting my hand drop back into the basin of warm water. It takes me a moment of closed-eye fumbling to find his back again, and I run the cloth down his skin as lightly as I can, a whisper of a touch. It’s only when I turn back to the basin that I realize he’d been holding his breath.
“You okay?” I ask, lifting the cloth from the water.
“Yes,” Phaedron replies.
