37. Hector

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

HECTOR

W hat a fucking condition he'd forced on me. I had to live or he wouldn't?

I had no choice.

Yes, presumably, if I were dead, I wouldn't be all that aware of whether or not Killian's heart still beat, but I couldn't stand the thought of losing him. I'd never leaned much on the promise of the gods for some sort of afterlife. What mattered to me was Killian and knowing that he was there with me.

The healer did not try to drag me from his side, though I got the sense that Brett had cautioned her against it. I had no intention of being parted from him for a second. If I could just keep my eyes on him, he'd keep breathing.

There was no way he'd dare stop while I watched.

Thankfully, the bed was large enough that I didn't have to crowd him, and we stayed in it, holding hands, entirely useless as people came in and out with food and medicine and—gods, I was glad I didn't have to keep track myself.

One evening, Paris finished reading to us and slipped out of the room. Killian stared at me, as alert as I'd seen him since he'd been wounded.

"Why does he do that?"

"Read to us?"

"Mm," he hummed.

I shrugged. "I asked him to."

"Really?"

"Well, I asked him to tell me a story. It seemed like something he could do that might make him feel better while I was stuck in bed, and—it's nice, isn't it?"

"It is if you like it," Killian muttered, warmth radiating from his eyes that filled me up and coiled in my belly.

"Our father used to tell stories to Paris and Helena before bed. I was always jealous. Not of the stories, precisely. Just that they got to be his children while I was his..."

"Heir?"

I shook my head, dropping back against the pillows to stare at the ceiling and avoid his shrewd gaze. "Partner. In his grief and his business and—everything. I didn't realize at the time—it seemed so normal for us. Looking back now, it was... heavy. Exhausting. I'm glad Paris and Helena were spared having to grow too quickly, but?—"

"You weren't."

My lips twitched. "No."

When I turned to meet Killian's eye, it was with the full understanding that Killian had not been afforded an easy childhood either. Seeing that understanding reflected back at me—no, I could not stand to lose him.

Days passed slowly. The healer had left tonics to help Killian sleep, incense that burned sweet and herbal that was meant to dull the senses.

Fruits from the Duck Clan and the bone broth that Rosaline made seemed to work together to make me more myself. At the very least, I didn't ache so much.

The moment I could get out of bed, I did. If I could show Killian how seriously I meant to recover, perhaps it'd push him in that direction. I was holding him to his word, and if I managed this, then he damn well would too.

"We're out of water," I said, lifting the pitcher. "I'll be right back."

A few minutes away. A set of stairs.

The slow, creaky way down was too much, and I managed it anyway, only to find Brett and Paris in the kitchen.

My brother was leaning on the counter, glaring at his husband. Brett only glanced at me for a moment before he flinched and went out into the garden behind the house where Rosaline kept her chickens.

"I'm sorry, did I interrupt something?"

Paris shook his head. "He's... just being strange. He'll get over it."

"Anything I can help with?"

Paris sent me a sharp look, like he thought I didn't have any business out of bed, much less offering help. But after a moment, he slumped and chewed his lip. "Brett feels guilty. The attackers were on Hawk land. If Killian hadn't been there?—"

Paris shuddered. This was why I'd never allow him to serve time on the wall.

"No one is blaming Brett."

"But our clan would've had to fight, might've lost people. We weren't prepared."

"And I'm certain Killian would tell you that the southerners never should've gotten past the wall, that we weren't fortified enough to repel them, that our attention waned during the council meeting and all that's followed. Blame serves no one here."

Paris took a slow breath through his nose. "You're right. He'll... move past this. It'd help if Killian?—"

"He'll recover," I promised. It was the only option I could contemplate.

A soft smile lit Paris's face. That was my little brother—one dose of optimism was all he needed to pull himself out of a spiral. "What about you? Are you starting to feel better?"

"Much," I said. If my own smile was a bit tight, a bit forced, well, I was still upright and I'd navigated the damned stairs, so I was the picture of health.

"Perhaps you could try to fly?" Paris suggested. "It might help. The shift isn't so hard, and if you manage it, maybe it'll... recenter your body as it is now. Steady everything."

No.

There was no Nemeda for me without Killian. If I didn't have him, I had no interest in a bird, whether it be owl, goose, or pigeon.

I shook my head. "I'm not—ready for that yet. I still feel?—"

I was losing my mind, clearly. All I could do was shake my head.

I went for the water pump against the outside wall. "I just need water," I mumbled.

Paris didn't stop me as I tried to slip past him and escape.

From the bed, Killian smirked up at me. He was still pale, still pitiful, but that smirk made my heart thump hard.

"You made it back," he said, voice slightly raspy.

I hummed. "Quite the arduous journey, to be sure. Let me pour you a drink."

The next morning, there was a knock on the door.

Helena had softened to Killian since he'd gotten injured. It likely didn't hurt that he'd gotten harmed in defense of the Hawk Clan, but it was more than that. The significant looks she'd shared with Minerva before the Raven Chief offered to fly south to carry word to the Crane Clan said Helena was thinking of war and what Minerva risked in fighting it.

When she came into our room, Helena was wearing a serious expression. She must've had news.

I wanted to talk to her privately, leave Killian to rest while he recovered, but I knew how being held apart and kept in the dark felt. It wouldn't make him better, to wonder how his people fared without him.

"Minerva's made it safely to the wall," Helena offered without prompting. "She didn't see any other southerners on the way down. She and Nia have matters in hand while you recover, Killian." She looked at me. "They're fortifying the coast and the river mouths with your bolt throwers. Abram's overseeing the work."

I nodded. "Good. He has a better sense than me about where they'd be used best."

Killian huffed through his nose. "No one has more sense than you."

"Except Abram," I countered.

His lips twitched. "Except maybe Abram."

"I'm not sure either one of you has any damned sense," Helena muttered.

A moment later, she shook herself. "Sorry. It's just—" She waved her hand imperiously at the pair of us, the mess we were.

Killian snorted. "Your point's well taken, Raven owl."

Helena's eyelids fluttered in surprise, but pleasure fell over her like a shroud, and she lifted her chin up. She must've liked the moniker.

"Good," she said. "Then you'll do better. Fewer brushes with death. No blades to your vitals."

"I'll do my best," Killian swore.

Under the covers, I gripped his hand tight. We were capable of better, I was sure, but what was best? The idea still eluded me, like an itch in my mind I couldn't quite put my finger on.

The answer wasn't letting the Hawk Clan militarize, surrendering the whole of Nemeda to war.

We'd find another way. I just had to figure out what was missing first.