Elowen lay propped against pillows, her body still drained from the poison, though her eyes stayed sharp and open, fixed on the flames. The blanket drawn over her legs felt like armor she didn’t remember putting on.
Cillian sat in the chair beside her, arms crossed tightly over his chest. He hadn’t spoken in what felt like an hour. He hadn’t looked at her, either, his eyes locked on the fire like it could offer answers neither of them had.
The silence wasn’t awkward—it was thick with everything they weren’t saying.
“You should go,” she murmured, breaking it first. Her voice was thin and rough. “They’ve already accused you of too much.”
He didn’t move. “I don’t care what they say.” “You should.” He turned his head slowly to face her. “You don’t need silence right now. You need someone who stays.”
Her laugh was soft and bitter. “You don’t even flinch when they threaten you.” “They’ve tried to kill you twice. I don’t scare easy.”
She looked away, her throat tightening. “That’s what worries me. They’ll keep trying, because I make them nervous.”
“You don’t just make them nervous,” he said. “You unmake them. Piece by piece. They don’t know what to do with you.”
“I don’t know what to do with me,” she whispered. He rose then, suddenly, like he couldn’t bear sitting still anymore. “You’re tired. You should rest.”
She reached for him before she could think better of it, her hand grasping his fingers tightly. “Don’t,” she said, and her voice broke around the word. “Not tonight.”
He stopped. He didn’t speak. His eyes searched hers, and for a moment, they just stood there—her hand wrapped around his, and something unspoken thrumming between them like a heartbeat out of rhythm.
Then she pulled him closer. Their lips met with a desperation neither of them fully understood. It wasn’t practiced or gentle. It was the kind of kiss born of too many stolen glances, too many unsaid truths. Her fingers tangled in the front of his tunic, and his hand cupped the back of her head like she might vanish if he let go. She kissed him like she’d earned nothing, and he kissed her like she’d earned everything.
But she broke it. Her breath hitched as she pulled back, her forehead resting against his. “I can’t,” she said softly, eyes shut tight. “I can’t be soft right now.”
He didn’t try to kiss her again. He didn’t move away. “You think softness is surrender.” “Isn’t it?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “Isn’t it weakness?” “No,” he said. “It’s just risk. And you’ve learned not to risk anything you can’t survive losing.”
She opened her eyes then. “And you? Are you something I can survive losing?” His answer came too fast. “No.”
That silence returned, but it didn’t hurt this time. It wrapped around them like warmth, like something deserved after too much cold. She eased back onto the pillows, her hand still laced with his, their fingers resting in the space between chair and bed. He didn’t let go.
They sat like that for a long while, saying nothing more, while the fire crackled low and the storm howled outside. The light flickered, throwing dancing shadows on the ceiling like ghosts. But inside the chamber, there was only fire and breath, and the weight of two people too afraid to want each other—and too tired not to.