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“I know you think that, but you have a lot of catching up to do.” Hedda peeled herself from the mattress and backed away. “Let it happen. I’ll be in the Great Hall, and I swear to wake you up as soon as they’re done. For now, there’s nothing to do but wait.”
Fern’s hand twitched on her head, the Fae already snoring.
It does mean more energy for the chasm later.
True. Even if it felt ridiculous as anything to be told she’d slept for days straight just to immediately find herself laying down again.
“Fine, if you promise.”
“Promise.”
Lunara was asleep before Hedda made it to the door.
Brand felt the stares drilling into his back as they reentered the Great Hall, the hidden door sinking back into the wall behind them with a soft click.
Whether because of all he recounted or what he did to himself, it was impossible to say.
Hedda was lounging in his stone seat beside the throne, lost in thought until she wasn’t. She sat up and gaped, then cleared her throat. “Right. I’m just going to…” With that, she got up and left the hall without another word, Faldir right on her heels.
Brilliant.
“Don’t worry about her, lad.” Magnus clapped him on the shoulder. “She’s just surprised, is all.”
Hedda wasn’t the one he was worried about.
Brand shrugged off his brother’s hold and made for the doors. “I’m going to bed.”
They were in their meeting for hours, Lyriat forcing him to relive every single detail. Twice. More than that, for some of it. He was dead on his feet and in no mood for anyone’s shite.
“Lovely. You do know it’s not even suppertime yet, aye?”
Lazy, afternoon rays filtered into the Hall, the evergreens’ long shadows stretching across bench and table. As soft and sweet as the twinkling dust motes. He wanted no part of it.
“I’m aware, Magnus. It changes nothing.”
“Alright, you wee shite.” Mag threw his hands up in surrender. “Don’t bite my head off. I’ll tell the kitchen to send our food upstairs.”
“Fine.”
Anything, as long as he could be alone for a little while.
He was halfway across the room, so close to escape, when Lyriat called out. “Bal and Nyri are not your fault, Brand.”
Weeping fuck. Even devastated and missing half his family, he was offering comfort that Brand didn’t deserve. Didn’t want.
He clenched his teeth, frozen in place and unable to turn around. “I know that.”
“And I know you.” A hand landed on his nape, Lyriat squeezing as he rounded Brand. “Tell me, did you attack the Horned City with a horde of dreadwyrms? Were you the one who kidnapped them? Do you know where they are and are hiding it even now?”
Therein lay the problem.
“I want to say fuck no, but I can’t because I don’t bloody remember!”
Lyriat gave him a good shake. “Listen to yourself! Ignore for a moment that you’re missing time. Would you, Brandir aht Bordoroth, Fourth Imperial Son, ever do that?”
“Never,” he growled. “But I would’ve said the same about closing a fucking Dread Chasm and visiting its horrors on another realm, too, and look where we are now. I no longer know myself well enough to answer these kinds of questions.”
He despised the feel of his own skin, too conscious of what was crawling beneath it. Even Lyriat’s simple touch was its own kind of torture, the love and familiarity too easy. Too unconditional. Knowing himself wasn’t even an option.
