Thread of Ash and Fire

Ch. 39: Lonely Hearts

Days slipped away.

Isolde slept on a bed of pine needles and snow. The wind felt like a frozen brand, stinging her wet cheeks. Her mouth tasted of salt. She drifted in and out of sleep, struggling against the suffocating daylight. The darkness was better. Softer, somehow. She felt nothing at all when she was sleeping.

Axel appeared sometimes. He brought tins of water, raising her head. She choked on the liquid, spilling half of it down her chest. Her throat was too raw to swallow. Perhaps she was ill, Isolde thought hopefully; maybe she would die soon.

"Isolde." Axel's voice was rough. "We need to move."

She closed her eyes.

"What can I get you?"

Jules. Her mind swam. Bring me Jules.

Axel muttered something in Loxian, lowering her head. The pine needles scratched her cheek. A frozen metal ring burned her chest. And then the darkness dragged her under again, carrying her by the ankles.

In the morning, Isolde woke.

She blinked. Sunshine spilled through the canopy of trees, painting the pine needles in gold. Someone had put a fur cloak under her head. She sat up gingerly, testing her muscles; they were stiff from disuse.

"Ah," a voice said. "You're awake."

Axel knelt by a fire. His dark hair was messy, and his eyes were bloodshot. A long scratch ran from his eyebrow to his jaw. He poked at a pot dangling over the fire; his hands were crusted with dried blood.

Isolde's throat felt scratchy. "How long was I...?"

"Three days," Axel said.

He stirred whatever was in the pot. Isolde raised a hand to her head; her temples pounded. The events of the week came back to her in a rush.

"They're dead," Isolde said.

Crushing grief punched the air from her lungs. She couldn't breathe. Couldn't speak. Axel rose, wiping his hands on his trousers.

"Sit," Axel said. "I've made oatmeal."

Her stomach churned. "I can't."

"You have to."

Isolde buried her head in her hands. "I feel sick."

Axel's voice was flat. "That's because you're hungry and dehydrated. Look at me, Isolde." Slowly, she raised her head. His blue eyes were steady. "It's going to hurt like hell. I know that. But you know what I keep thinking?"

Isolde curled her knees into her chest. Axel picked up the stick.

"Mal would want me to fight on."

"I should have killed him," Isolde whispered.

She thought of Halson's tight grip. Why had she set her knife down on the counter? Why hadn't she thought to pick it up again? Then Mal would still be alive. And Julian... The smell of oatmeal hit her, so strong that she almost gagged.

"It's not your fault," Axel said.

Her hands shook. "I had the chance. I couldn't do it."

"Taking a life is one of the most difficult things to do. It says a lot about your character that you hesitated."

"It wasn't that." Isolde swallowed. "Halson once..." She balled her hands into fists. "He did something to me. And every time I look at him, it's like I'm back in that same room. And he's doing it again and again."