The crunching and shifting of snow under boots became louder as the seconds passed. Whomever it was, they cared not for silence. But who would have caught up to him? And from the south?
Just before she broke through the shadows, Feren recognized the gait.
He looked to her sternly. "Rosa."
"I don't even get a 'good morning'? It's bloody cold out here. A warmer greeting would be nice," the girl rebutted absently, adjusting her coat as she continued to walk by him.
"Where exactly are you going?" Feren demanded. Rosa had turned directly onto his path west.
She stopped to turn her head. "With you, obviously." A quick once-over determined that she was, in fact, dressed for travel.
Feren huffed a laugh and pushed past her. "I don't think so."
The sound of her boots starting up again to follow him grated on his ears. "You know you can't stop me. Unless you want to drag me back to Remalda, that is." The upturn of her tone made it seem as if the idea intrigued her. "I'm going back to Firica."
"What for?"
"Well, the same as you. I have unfinished business with the council. And it was much more fun to play with them in their own homes than it is to wait here. Don't you agree?"
Feren turned so quickly, Rosa approached on his chest before she noticed. She settled a step back with ease. "Take your own route. I have no need of a witch on my heels."
"I can help you and you know it," Rosa insisted, adjusting the pack slung on her shoulder before crossing her arms. "I won't play any games. I'll leave you and all the other Voerr and Elves alone. It's a very specific group of people that I'm after. And, knowing you, you'll make a right mess of things plundering your way in tooth-and-sword."
Feren rolled his eyes.
"I'd planned to return, already. You will have to work with me eventually. Things would go much more smoothly if we went together from the start."
His eyes narrowed at her. While Feren did not trust her character, he was positive that more than anything, Rosa hated the same people he did.
"The enemy of your enemy is your friend," she reminded him in a sing-songy tune. "Besides –" she lifted a glass bottle from within her coat – "Who better than a witch to keep us warm?" The cork was removed with a pop and she took a swig of the brandy. Feren refused it.
"Move on, then," he growled, submitting to her stubbornness. "There's ground to cover."
***
Amelia woke early that morning as Feren began to shift. He had been on his back, her arm drifted over him in sleep, staring up at the ceiling. The embers in the fireplace still had a warm glow to them that offered light enough to see the reflection in his open eyes. She wondered if he had even slept at all.
Knowing Feren was awake, she retracted her arm from his body. He turned, then, and rose to gather his things. The pit in her stomach grew with the sudden distance. What he'd been telling her this whole time was true.
She walked with him down the hall to the mouth of Remalda. It was bitter cold outside; the sun still hours from rising. But the night sky was clear; there were no clouds or threats of storm or snow. Only a breeze that was enough to cut under her single layer of robe.
"I'll be back for you," he promised again, gently caressing the side of her face as he set a kiss on her forehead. "I swear it."
"Be safe," she echoed. Tears stung behind her eyes and she bit her lip to keep them from spilling, making her unable to finish the last word. Please.
He must've known the tears that were waiting. Must've heard the break in her voice that would have interrupted her next sentence. His arms wrapped around her, and for one more moment, she was warm in his embrace. "I love you, Amelia."
Her lips parted to say it back, to return her feelings, but nothing would come. Instead, she touched her hand to the nape of his neck and gave him the only thing she really could to keep him well for the journey: her spirits. And the entire time she held him, let her energy transfer through the barriers of their skin, she silently whispered, I love you, I love you, I love you.
This was her acceptance. The replacement to the words that had been drowning her all night — pushing her to him, driving her to give all of herself as one last act of forgiveness, of vulnerability, of pleading — the words chanting over and over again as she stripped her clothes, took his lips with hers, closed her limbs around him: Don't leave me. Don't leave me. Don't leave me.
But he'd never heard her pleas last night. She couldn't bear to say them aloud; to plant that seed of guilt into his heart as he sat on the threshold of danger and purpose. So there, she said something different. Voiced the root of her real fear. And she tried her best to feel it in every inch of her soul — to emanate it and let it grow within her to the point of spilling over, push it in his direction through her chest and her hands so that there could be no doubt in his mind or soul:
"I love you, Feren."
After another brief meeting of his lips to her skin, Feren turned away. There was no final "Goodbye", no "See you soon". There was no empty hanging promise that would indicate whether this was "Bye, forever" or "Bye, until next week" aside from his preceding, "I'll be back". Maybe later that would be a good thing. Maybe it meant that their future was open, not damned to commitment of gain or loss. But in that moment, it hurt. It hurt like nothing else.
Amelia stood and watched him go. And as she watched his figure shrink into the distance, softly lit by moonlight against the white ground, she imagined that this must have been a fraction of what he'd felt watching her be driven away by carriage just those few years ago. He'd sent his spirit with her, Grey, until she was too far for him to reach. She did nothing for him then, for fear that if she'd summoned even one animal, she'd slump there in the hall unable to return to their bed. She'd given him every spare drop she could muster and hoped that it would last him well.
She returned to their bed, now cold and empty, but she couldn't get in. Instead, she pulled their blanket around her shoulders. His scent still lingered there. And after a few deep breaths to calm her shaking nerves and fighting the sudden and fleeting urge to chase him, she lifted her head.
There would be no turning around. They'd be lucky if they were reunited within weeks. Months. They'd be lucky if they were reunited at all.
He wouldn't want her to sit around and wallow in her depression. She had all the space in the world to maintain her magic and help restore what was left of Constentine. This piece of her country they were in — it was only a small portion of what was out there; only a fraction of the people remaining. There were more. She had more family in other places. She had friends somewhere. It was no use remaining in Remalda, where the seekers needed to be. There was no immediate threat here — and even if there was, Amelia would be of no use against it. But she could be useful in other places — she could help all of them fill their stores of food and assist in replenishing the earth with her spirits. She could learn of healing and assist Mubarak in his studies. She could find Asha and Clari — figure out this problem with Kynoleva — she could even go further east to the elvish territories of Sarmon. They needed friends — they needed allies if this really was to turn into all-out war. At a minimum, they needed a place to go if the lands of Constentine never recovered.
Amelia stood and dressed herself, pulling her hair back into a braid for the first time in months. Then she stripped the bed of its sheets and scuffed the fire with ash.
She had work to do.
It was time to take care of her people.
Chapter Twenty-Six: Turn Around
Start from the beginning
