A HENRY STORY 2: Trials Of The Fallen Prince

XXV. Sorrow

"The air inside is not all toxic, you know?"

Unmoving atop the pillar, the flier caught sight of Kismet's silhouette in the faint light emanating from the steaming creek running below.

"What I mean is that you will not perish the moment you enter."

He raised his head from the cool stone, and his mouth opened, but his mind was void of words. All he knew was that he could not enter. Not for as long as—

"He has been conscious earlier."

The flier winced, shifting his gaze toward Kismet, who sat beneath the pillar and glanced up at him. An onslaught of questions flooded his mind—was his condition stable? Had he asked for him? Had he even remembered that he was here? Yet no words escaped his mouth.

"He will live." Kismet guessed the most pressing of his questions. "Most likely. Spinners are excellent medics if the price is fair. I cannot believe all the junk he has won in the arena has at last amounted to something."

The flier breathed a sigh of relief, only to feel a wave of shame wash over him. He had no right to feel relieved. Not he, who—

"And so I have come here," continued Kismet undauntedly, "so that you at last tell me what by all hells transpired after you left together. Or before you came here. Whenever this all has started. You will speak," she cried. "Because Henry will not—cannot—and I cannot live with this uncertainty a moment longer."

The flier stared down at her helplessly. His mouth opened, then closed again. His mind reeled, but there were no words. No thoughts. What . . . had happened? When had it all started? It had been good at one point. It had been good. They had been . . . happy? He had been . . . For the first time, after an eternity of gloom and desolation, he had been happy. And then something had happened. Something had changed. Something . . . "We bonded."

"My, how that concept must have changed since the last time I set foot in society."

"No." The flier agitatedly beat the air with his wings. "No, I mean . . . I do not mean the essence of bonding; I mean that is what changed. I . . . think."

"You think?"

The flier strained his mind. "I am not—" He shook his head, his voice breaking. "I mean, that is . . . when it changed. I think. It cannot be coincidental that I—"

"—That you decided it was a good idea to battle your bond to the death?"

"No," said the flier emphatically, pulling his wings around himself. He longed to curl together and hide from the relentless questioning, but . . . he was done hiding. Done lying. To others and especially to himself. "No," he repeated instead, unable to look her in the eye. "It cannot be coincidental that the way in which we affected each other underwent a shift."

Kismet was silent for a moment. "Fine," she said after a while, in a mellower voice. "Redemption lies plainly in truth, they say. Meaning, the path to healing lies in embracing one's mistakes and being truthful about them."

"I will lie no longer," the flier whispered. "No more lies. They were all lies. My own and hers, that—"

"Hers?"

For one heartbeat, the flier considered how wise it was to expose it all so freely to this gnawer, who was essentially a stranger. But . . . He shifted, staring into the sizzling creek. He was done with lies. Done, for good. And . . . Was it not their lack of openness, of vulnerability, that had led them this far? He pictured the boy's face, moments after he had dropped his blade, and felt a shiver down his spine.

"A gnawer," he admitted. "She . . . After we left you, we ventured to the Ice System and were caught in a flood. We were washed down a . . . waterfall." The flier shuddered, recalling the boy's arms around him and his hand clutching his claw. Don't let go.