Page 89 of These Immortal Truths
She pants, taking a moment to study him now that she’s not fighting against his weight, and feels her heart stutter.
There is bruising on his jaw, swelling around his eyes, that wasn’t there before. Her fingers fight with the buttons of his shirt, but they’re trembling so terribly that it takes her twice as long as it should. Each one that gives way shows more damage, cuts only partially healed wrapping around his ribs, bruises so deep they border on black. By the time she undoes the last one, her tears are dripping onto his chest.
There’s no wondering why he was forced to wait so long to return for her, not anymore. The evidence is painted on his body and appearing more and more gruesome as the illusion fades. She understands why he didn’t want to show her. There’s a tearing in her chest, a guilt lodged so deeply between her lungs she’s almost certain she’ll never be rid of it.
The farmhouse is just as cozy as all his other getaways she’s seen over the years, the wide planked floors covered in beautifully woven rugs and the walls lined with artwork from seemingly every corner of the world. Little trinkets and treasures as abundant as the dots of color painting the meadow outside. What it’s lacking, Anna finds, is food.
Aside from a few tins of cookies and other confectionery, she can find no ingredients for anything heartier. It shouldn’t surprise her—the memory of the stew he cooked for her still burns her tongue. She’s certain he never bothered to learn. Khiran is many things, but he’s never been one to invest his time on something he can have someone else do better. An easy feat for someone who can be anywhere at anytime, but not for her.
She helps herself to cookies the first day. They’re light and sweet—almond cookies. She eats the entire tin.
On the second day, she goes out into the meadow, gathers pine needles for tea and a basketful of bilberries, wood sorrel, and dandelion buds. Khiran is still unconscious when she returns, hours later.She brews a cup of tea, drags a beautifully upholstered wingback to his bedside, and waits.
And waits.
Until, on the evening of the third day, she wakes from a nap to find his blue-green eyes fixed and staring at her.
“You’re awake,” she breathes. An obvious observation, but it feels more real and less like a dream to say it out loud.
His smile is weak but teasing. “So are you.”
She presses the back of her hand to his forehead, even though he hasn’t hinted that he could even succumb to fever the entire time he was out. She remembers their conversation on her porch, the light of the fireflies dancing in his eyes, when she learned that his weaknesses were her strengths.
It seems we landed on opposite sides of that particular coin.
There will be no fevers for him, no sickness to make him burn, but his body shows every bruising blow that hers does not. She turns her hand, lets her palm rest against his cheek. “Don’t do that again.”
“I make no such promises,” he murmurs, resting his hand over hers. “But for you, I will try.”
Anna suspects it’s the closest she’ll ever get from him.
“I’m fine, Anna,” he grouses.
“You’ve been unconscious for three days.” She pushes a cup of tea into his hands, the steam gently coiling over the porcelain rim. “Drink.”
He accepts it grudgingly, frowning into the amber water. “Pine?”
Anna nods, already pouring another cup. “Yes. From the trees outside.”
Eyes closing, his expression sours into realization. “I’ve never thought to stock this place with food. You must be starving.”
“Not really.” She shrugs. “I foraged what I could. There’s plenty of berries in season. Also, I’m afraid you’re out of almond cookies.”
His lips quirk, but the shadows in his eyes remain. “Once I’m able, I’ll bring you whatever food you’d like.”
She watches him bring the cup to his lips, sipping the tea without complaint despite it having cooled. “You can’t use your magic, can you?” He glances at her, and she nods to his chest. “You haven’t tried to hide them.”
He looks down, cringing at the bruised and damaged flesh staring back at him. “Yes, well, there wouldn’t be much point now, would there?”
Anna shakes her head, voice soft. “I wish you wouldn’t do that.”
“Do what?”
Steer away from the answer she’s looking for. Her sigh is a short huff of breath. “You can’t use it at all, can you?” she repeats, firm enough for him to know she won’t be distracted into dropping it.
His lips thin. “No. I’m afraid I’ll need a bit of time to recover before I can draw on it.”
Nodding, Anna eyes the fading bruises circling his neck. His body is healing faster than a human’s would, but it’s still slower than she’d like. She knows if he had the magic to spare, they would already be gone. No illusion needed. “How long?”
