Love Will Bury Us | aemond targaryen

Chapter 8

I CAN GIVE YOU MY
LONELINESS, MY DARKNESS

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It was the smell that hit her first when she mounted the beast—the stench of rotting flesh and smoke so heavy it nearly made her retch. When she put her hands on the hot scales, her fingers found torn pieces of skin still dampened by fresh blood. With a bile in her throat, Alyssa shut her eyes. Not seeing the damage didn't seem to make it hurt any less. Blindfyre reeked of death; if she chose to look, she'd see it, too, and nothing filled her with dread more than that thought.

She forced herself to stay still; forced her body into submission, fighting the urge to flee, if only to find fresh air. Within her mind, she travelled back to the warm days in the middle of summer and endless fields where she'd sit with Rhaena, grass staining their dresses green, flowery scent providing solace. Her sister would spend hours trying to teach her the names of the flowers, never discouraged by Alyssa's repeated mistakes. There, under the sun, they'd braid each other's hair and weave delicate petals into the plaits. Fingers dirtied with soil, they'd laugh and sing and be, and nothing could ruin it. They were safe and together, and together felt invincible. There had never been any spilled blood, then. Their hands and minds had been clean, void of permanent stains. Alyssa wished it had stayed like this forever; wished she'd never known the unbearable smell of copper and shade of crimson beneath her nails, and fear so overwhelming it squeezed her chest, claws digging into her heart, attempting to pull it out.

Days like that were long gone; now, it felt as though the sun would never shine again. Now, all the flowers were dead. But they were alive, she reminded herself, eyes focused on Blindfyre. They were still alive.

There was no icy wind to bite into her cheeks, and yet they hurt nonetheless, perhaps burned by the scorching tears that left wet trails behind. It felt, she realised, just like her very first time on dragonback had—unsteady breath, racing heart, trembling palms. She had been crying then, too, although the tears hadn't tasted of bitterness. It felt like her last, when Blindfyre's wings seemed too weak to slice through air. They shook as they moved, any balance and stability forgotten; without the security of straps, Alyssa would have long fallen off. Ages ago, she would ridicule them, always so full of the desperate wish to not be separated from bare dragon scales, the want to feel them underneath her skin. She'd demand the saddle be removed, if only for one flight, to truly become one being with Blindfyre. Her father, though, never allowed it, adapting the kind of tone that Alyssa couldn't quite muster the courage to disobey. Now, the saddle between their bodies she had once hated became a promise of safety. It was more than a little ironic. Almost everything these days was.

Once, what now felt like a mere whisper of not yet bloodied past, too distant to be clear anymore, the sky had been a safe haven. Now the air shook, the swaying no longer comfortable; even the moon, so enchanting in the way it brushed through the coal wings and silver strands, seemed to mock her. Alyssa never looked away from the pale, shining spot—not if she could help it, too mesmerised to pay attention to anything else but the way her heart swelled, reaching higher, always higher, to one day touch it. But the moon was no longer a companion, only a stranger, and even with thousands of stars lightning up the skies, Alyssa was all alone.

The arrival at the remote island was almost entirely separated from reality, as though Alyssa had become caught in one of her nightmares, awaiting an escape from its clutches. Blindfyre had moved on his own, not once demanding her assistance, driven by motives that remained unspoken yet understood by them both. She had sensed his desperation; had felt it deep inside her own chest, in the way her breath would hitch in sync with his. He had been fast—faster than ever before, and than she had known him capable of. There had been no grace in the way he moved; no illusion of composure, for he never needed to act in front of her. His heart was her own, after all.