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The waves lapped against the side of the ship. The sky listened.
She closed her eyes. Probed at that place in the back of her head, the place she’d thought was empty. You’re still here, aren’t You?
A pause, reluctant. Yes.
“Fuck.” This time, Lore said it loudly enough that a few of her fellow prisoners stirred around her feet. “Fuck!”
The mad hemlock Queen, talking to herself in the moonlight.
You’re going to the Burnt Isles, close to the Fount. Nyxara sounded weary. You will still feed His power, there. Near to its source.
Lore pushed her teeth painfully together, keeping the rest of the conversation silent. What did I do wrong? You told me to kill Him, and I killed us both!
You died, yes. Technically. But you never crossed the threshold. You took it back. Death does not accept half measures, Lore. A sigh deep in her head. He still has two deaths, and must feel them both.
Lore’s fingers tightened on the railing, the old wood creaking beneath the force of her grip. What do you mean, He still has two deaths?
Silence, long enough for her to know the answer even though Nyxara’s vows meant She couldn’t say it outright. They were of a kind, Lore and the Buried Goddess. Both trying to find loopholes. Both grasping at half measures.
Lore stared forward as the prow of the prison ship pushed through dark water. As the fog and ash of the Burnt Isles closed around the deck, surrounding her in the scent of smoke.
“You did the same thing,” she whispered, speaking aloud rather than just in her mind. “You tried to save him. His body is still here, somewhere. Still living.”
Nothing from the goddess in her head but a long, shuddering sigh.
Bastian
He woke to waves.
Being trapped in his own body while Apollius took it over was like slowly drowning in a golden ocean. Occasionally, he would surface, sometimes even enough to briefly take control, to speak with his own mouth, move his own limbs. Usually, it was only enough to see out of his eyes, to see exactly what the god was doing while he wore Bastian like a costume.
He could do without that, really.
So he saw that Lore was alive. Saw her wounds mended, though there would be a scar on her temple like a sunburst where something had hit her; it only made her beauty fiercer, belied her softness. Lore wasn’t soft, but she looked it, all gentle and curved. He loved that.
But he also saw his own hand sign the order that sent her to the Burnt Isles. He railed, screamed, clawed for the surface, but control kept slipping out of his grasp.
It grew more slippery all the time.
Quiet, boy. Apollius’s voice wasn’t really a voice, not here—it was a vibration in the golden current, reverberating in every pocket of space. You’re done.
And he would be, if he didn’t have them to think about. Lore, who he’d do anything for, even though she’d never quite need him like he needed her. And Gabe, who he’d done his best to shield from the god in his head, who’d been caught in the crossfire anyway. Two people he loved, two people he could so easily doom.
The golden current closed over him again.
Below
The bloom was withered. It lay in the dark, petals bedraggled, the red color nearly drained away. Not that it could be seen in the dark, anyway. Not by anyone who didn’t have eyes grown used to dimness.
She stared at the flower, lips pressed together. She’d left this place, unable to face what she’d done, who she’d been. But something had drawn her back, the knowledge that she was needed. She was asked for.
She picked up the rose her daughter had thrown down the well.
Then she began to plan.
