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Morrow believes that without his arm, he is an inadequate protector.
"You can protect her just fine. Your magic is not reliant on your hands," I remind him, sinking to the bed next to him.
"I can't wrap her in my arms," he says sadly. "Every step forward I've taken with her has been through mud. It's been slow and arduous, and don't get me wrong, it is so worth it, but this?How do I come back from this?" He holds his residual limb up in the air and glares at it.
I wish I could tell Morrow how Tulip feels, but I cannot betray her confidence. These two dancing around one another is already painful, and now, with both of them feeling so hurt and broken about the situation, it's nearly more than I can stand.
In Ytopie, I knew Morrow better than the others. Though he kept to himself, as the presiding Summer Seasonale, I was the one who all others came to, the one who oversaw the education of newly revealed Summer fae. Morrow is several decades younger than me, and I remember vividly when he revealed. There were talks of his power being enough to be the presiding Summer, but he never wanted to be in any sort of spotlight, so he never challenged me for my position.
Instead, Morrow learned what he needed to and then went back to his home, never venturing out for drinks, never making questionable mistakes after a night of drunken revelry. Once, he came to me and asked me for help locating an older text from a relative of his, and I pointed him to the Patrician's library. That was the last time I saw him before he was marched by Stone into the garrison. I barely had my wits about me, restrained in a tunnel, but it was hard not to be shocked when I saw him come in.
What business did he have with Stone, anyway?
Imagine my shock when I reunite and find him pining for Tulip Goldtide. She's pure sunshine, loudly asserting herpresence no matter where she goes. And it seems Morrow has been ensnared within her rays, hopeless to resist her.
His muscular shoulders bunch, and he is hunched over with dejection and worry. Since losing his arm, he has put on a good face. I cannot imagine anyone else would have taken it in such stride. But even the strongest of us have doubts, fears, and concerns, and Morrow is no different. His life has been upended, and he now has to learn how to exist without a part of him that was there from birth. A part that has always felt so incredibly necessary that he may not know how to adapt to being without it.
"I truly don't think there is anything that you need to come back from," I finally say, placing my hand between his shoulders on the dark linen shirt he wears. "This changes nothing about who you are as a man."
"It changes everything!" he roars, throwing my hand off of him. "Don't you get it? I cannot pull her to my chest and pin her there when she has a nightmare. I can't braid her hair. I will never be able to grab her face in both hands and kiss her until her knees give out." He spins to look at me, eyes shimmering with tears that he's battling to keep from falling. "I can't hold our future kids. I can't love her the way she deserves."
I pull him into my arms despite his protests and rub his back as his shoulders shake. With his face buried in my shirt, I can barely hear the words, "It's over before it even had a chance to begin."
Losing track of time is easy with Morrow in my arms, all of his grief, fear, and painfrom the loss of his limb spilling onto my shirt, moistening it with all the emotions he can't put words to. It's curious that Morrow has come to me to divulge these secret feelings and hurt when it's not as if I am particularly close to him.
I could wax poetic about why when I have never been the person that others confide in. Instead, I'll embrace this role that I have been thrust into and perform it to the best of my abilities. ,
When Morrow's cries slow, his body going slack as the pressure of all of his emotions drifts from his shoulders, I softly say, "This is not an ending, Morrow."
He looks up at me, eyes red-rimmed, and snorts. "I didn't much take you for a liar, Zeph. Shady drunk, but not a liar."
I wince at his brutal, if accurate, depiction of my flaws. "I'm not lying," I implore. "I need you to trust me on this. This has not changed at all the good you could be for her. Do not let your injury ruin your chance for love."
He pushes to his feet, shaking his head. Every trace of the man who sobbed on my shirt is gone, and in his place is the stoic, strong warrior that I've glimpsed as we fought.
"Zeph, I admire your positivity, but come the fuck on. A woman like that has so many options. You weren't with us when we visited Pran, but she had men tripping over themselves to be near her. Even in Feria, Quade had his eyes on her." He looks down at the stub where his forearm used to attach to his elbow. "The odds were alreadystacked againstme."
"That is not-"
He cuts me off. "I profess my dedication and devotion to the Shadowweaver, Viola Mistflow, God of all Seasons." He walks across the room to the door and wrenches it open. "There. Now all of this is a sacrifice for devotion. Keep your fucking mouth shut."
Chapter 26
Viola
"Explain it to me again," I say, rubbing my temples.
Zeph has all four journals spread out in front of me; each opened to a page right at the end of the book. We're only a few hours away from docking at the Cliffs of Barez, and we're trying to develop a plan to bring these Gods back to Krillium.
"It looks like each ritual is coded by the high priest," he says, indicating a passage at the end of the journal with the snowflake symbol.
"We didn't realize this when we were planning to bring back Himureal," Mace says, leaning over me to grab the journal. "Stone must have just been guessing."
"'To return to darkness it must be greeted by its counter and embracing the shadows that exist within a person,'" I quote, reading over Mace's shoulder. His hair is curling over his ear and I lean close to brush it away and nip the end of his earlobe as I do it. His shocked expression at my outward show of affection has me coughing to cover a laugh before I speak again. "I did embrace my shadows, but Himureal called me his equal. That is not the same as a counter."
Tulip kicks her feet from her position sitting on the edge of the table. She has her back to us, but she's still listening. "A counter is someone who can challenge the person. I would think an equal is the most likely to challenge."
"'Only one who comes from the curse of loving the dark,'" Mace continues, scrunching his nose. "The curse of loving the dark?"
