Chapter 38: Everly

Chapter

Thirty-Eight

EVERLY

The gentle light of dawn filters through the cracks in the tent flap, waking me the following day. As I sit up, my eyes fall on a neatly folded pile of clothes draped over a nearby chair. A new cloak rests on top, along with a small dagger.

Cenric?

The events of yesterday replay in my mind as I drag myself out of bed and stumble to the washing stand. I pour water into the basin, then add lavender and lemon balm.

As I wash, I can't shake the image of Finn's lifeless body. I scrub harder, as if I could wash away the memory along with the dirt. But there's no erasing what happened. No changing anything.

Finn is gone.

Sadness burrows beneath my skin as I dry myself off. I reach for my new clothes, marveling at their fine quality. The fabric is soft and luxurious against my skin—nicer than anything I have ever owned. Even the surcoat is more elaborate than my usual attire.

From the nearby table, I grab a brush and work it through my curls. The last thing I need is to look like I ran through a lightning storm.

After I braid my hair, I slip the sheathed dagger into my sleeve, then leave the tent.

I join Morwen, Brennah, Ava, and Feyona at the cooking fire, my heart as heavy as the iron pots they are tending. The scent of simmering oats fills the air, but the comforting aroma can't lift my spirits. I grab a long wooden spoon and stir one of the massive cauldrons of porridge.

Excitement shimmers in Brennah's eyes as she looks over at me. "Have you seen Cenric?" Before I can answer, she continues, her voice far too cheerful. "He was training with some of the younger warriors yesterday. All I could think about is how much I really want to kiss him."

I force myself to keep stirring.

"And those arms of his," Brennah says, "I bet he could lift me with one hand tied behind his back."

Everything in me wants to snap at her, to tell her to be quiet, but I bite my tongue. It's not her fault. She doesn't know how much I love him.

"Brennah, dear," Morwen interjects gently, "perhaps we could talk about something else? There's more to life than handsome warriors."

Brennah pouts but doesn't argue.

As we continue preparing the meal, my mind wanders to Finn. My hand trembles, and I nearly lose my grip on the spoon.

"Everly?" Ava's voice breaks through my thoughts. "Are you all right? You look pale."

"I'm fine," I lie, forcing a smile that feels more like a grimace. "I just didn't sleep well."

Empathically, Feyona reaches over and squeezes my arm. "We all have those kinds of nights, especially in times like these."

If only she knew.

I return to my task, stirring the porridge with renewed vigor. If only it could make this pain go away, this ache in my chest, this sadness.

"Do you know what happened to Finn?" Brennah asks, her voice cutting through my thoughts like a knife. "I saw the funeral pyre last night, and I asked one of the warriors who it was. He said Finn, but nothing more."

The spoon slips from my grasp, clattering against the side of the pot.

"I..." Tears well up in my eyes as I swallow. I blink rapidly, trying to hold them back, but it's no use. They fall anyway.

"Oh no, Everly, what's wrong?" Brennah asks, her voice thick with worry.

I open my mouth to respond, but no words come out. How can I possibly explain what happened ?

"That's quite enough of that," Morwen says, her clear blue eyes sharp as she looks at Brennah. "Everly, why don't you go fetch some more firewood? We'll need it to keep these fires going."

Grateful for the escape, I hurry away from the cooking area. As I walk, I hear Morwen's voice behind me, gently but firmly redirecting the conversation. "Now, Brennah, let me show you how to properly season this porridge. It's an old family recipe..."

Tears blur my vision as I make my way to the woodpile at the edge of the camp. Frustrated, I wipe them away, not wanting to cry anymore, not wanting to shatter.

If I fall apart, I'll never be able to return to my family. Never be able to embrace them again. Never be able to tell them how much I love them.

My hands tremble as I reach for a log. The rough bark scrapes against my palms, but I ignore it.

What is a little pain when Finn is dead?

I gather an armful of wood, then walk through the snow to Morwen's tent. I drop the wood near the cooking fires, barely pausing before turning back for more.

The cold seeps into my bones as I make my way back to the woodpile. Sweat trickles down my back, and my muscles scream in protest as I lift another load, but I keep going, keep pushing myself. I need this, crave it even.

As I stumble back, the wood grows heavier with each step. Still, I push on, determined to work myself to the point of collapse, if that's what it takes to quiet my mind.

Anything is better than this pain .

"Everly," Morwen calls. "That's enough firewood. Come help with the cooking."

Without pausing, I walk to the cooking area, grab a knife, and attack a pile of vegetables with fierce determination. Carrots, onions, potatoes—they all fall victim to my relentless pace.

When the vegetables are done, I move to kneading dough. I throw my whole body into the task, working the dough with such force that the table creaks beneath my efforts. Flour coats my hands, my arms, even my face, but I don't care.

As the day wears on, I tackle every task with the same frenzied energy. I scrub pots until my hands are raw, haul water from the well until my shoulders ache, and stoke fires until my face is flushed and sweaty.

But no matter how hard I work, how much I exhaust myself, Finn's face still haunts me.

I glare at the setting sun when I finish for the day. I could join everyone else around the fires, but the thought of food makes my stomach churn.

A light dusting of snow crunches beneath my boots as I walk toward my tent. I pass by several large structures and a supply wagon before spotting six terracotta jars stacked inside a cart.

I pause, glancing around to make sure no one's watching. My heart pounds as I grab one of the jars. I tuck it against my hip, then continue to my tent.

Guilt gnaws at me as I clutch the stolen wine to my body. I shouldn't have taken it, but the thought of facing another sleepless night is unbearable .

Inside my tent, I pull the plug with trembling hands. The rich aroma of fermented grapes fills the air as I take a long swig.

I sink onto my bed, cradling the jar in my lap. Finn's face fills my vision. Then, in an instant, it changes. His eyes go wide with shock, his mouth opens in a silent scream. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out the image.

Another sip of wine. Then another. The alcohol warms my stomach but does little to chase away the chill in my soul.

So, I keep drinking until oblivion takes over, and I fall asleep.