by Beth Alvarez
She frowned, but stepped back to watch him work. He got in several strikes before she noticed the damp, dark discoloration on the haft of the axe. “Not fast enough, I'd say.” She caught his arm and pried his hand from the tool to inspect his palm. A number of scales had been torn loose, leaving raw, bleeding patches in the palm of his hand.
He pulled away. “I've had worse.”
“Perhaps, but if you're going to be out here in the dirt, you're not going to leave that exposed. Whether or not you're feeling better, I'd rather not risk infection so soon after healing you.” She picked up her skirts and started back toward the well, though she paused after a few steps to glance over her shoulder. “Coming?”
Daemon rolled his eyes, but he leaned his axe against the half-cut log and followed her.
She gestured for him to take a place on one of the makeshift seats as she dug around in her satchel. “Did you bring any gloves? If you're going to keep working, it'd be best for you to cover the bandages. That way they won't tear.”
He snorted. “If I'd brought gloves, I would've put them on before starting work.”
Firal uncorked a bottle and poured a bit of medication onto a cloth as she knelt beside his feet. Before he got comfortable, she caught hold of one of his hands and dabbed the cloth against his palm. He jumped and hissed when the tincture touched his raw flesh. She struggled to restrain a smirk. “Well, that will teach you to come prepared, I suppose. Does it sting a bit? Good, that means it's working.”
“How much of your healing involves not hurting afterward?” He twitched and growled under his breath as she worked the salve across the bloody patches of missing scales.
“I save those treatments for people who haven't angered me.” She held tight to his fingers as she retrieved her gauze and set to wrapping his hand. His blisters were in normal enough places. He did not have as many fingers as she supposed he ought, but the tendons and fleshy pads seemed to be similar enough to those in a normal man's hand. When she had more time, she would have to study the anatomy of his hands and feet more closely. With the gauze twisted between each of his fingers and wrapped around his palm, she knotted the bandage and tucked in the ends before gesturing for him to present his other hand. He obliged.
“So are we speaking again?” he asked, voice low.
She shrugged. “You were the one who decided to hide.”
“I was going to tell you.” He flinched again at the medicine's sting. “I wasn't planning on keeping it a secret forever. I just... I wanted it to be the right time. I wanted to be sure, instead of just relying on hope.”
Her heart made an uncomfortable lump in her throat. She kept her eyes on her work. “Hope for what?”
“That you'd be willing to accept me like this.”
She paused, then forced herself to keep working. He no longer reacted to the medicine on his abrasions. When she said nothing, he went on.
“You have to understand, I've spent my whole life hiding this. Afraid of being found out, afraid of being treated like I'm different—”
“You are different,” she interrupted.
“I'm not,” he protested. “What makes me different? My body? A shell? That shouldn't define me. I'm tired of being perceived as a monster because of something I can't help. I didn't choose to be this way. All I ever wanted was just to be a man. Normal. Like everyone else.”
“If that's what you want, why do you keep hiding?” She twisted bandages around his hand. “All you're doing is distancing yourself, making it easier for people to see you as being unlike them. Just stop hiding. Things will change.” She pulled the knot in the gauze tight and cut off the excess with the small knife Minna had packed for her. It was a wonder how the woman thought of things that never crossed her mind.
He rubbed at the bandaging on one hand and then the other. “It's not that easy.”
“Nothing is easy. Speaking to you like this isn't easy.” Firal stuffed her things back into her satchel with one hand. “At first, I didn't believe I had the strength to speak to you at all.”
“I don't expect you to forgive me. I don't deserve it.”
“None of us do.” Firal reached up to touch him. Her fingertips slid against the cold steel of his mask. “Which is why the best thing we can do is extend grace to those who haven't earned it.”
His eyes flickered behind the featureless steel. The shifting colors showed hints of anxiety, fear. “I hurt you.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “And nothing will undo that. But holding a grudge won't change things, either.”
“I just regret that I—”
“Shh,” she interrupted, cradling his jaw with a gentle hand and smiling when he relaxed into her touch. “I think you worry too much.”
His eyes slid closed. She let her hand linger a moment more before she snatched the mask from his face.
Daemon spat a curse and lunged after it. She scrambled to her feet and danced backwards, holding it at arm's length.
“Give it back!” he snarled.
“I will not!” Her amber eyes flashed. “Stop using it as a crutch! You think this makes any difference in what people think of you?” She shook the mask at him, flung it it to the ground, and planted a foot atop it.
The work site around them grew deathly still. Daemon didn't come any closer, but her skin rose in gooseflesh and hair prickled on the back of her neck as she felt dozens of eyes fall upon them.
His clawed fists clenched tight at his sides and his head turned, almost imperceptibly, to let his snake-slitted eyes rove the faces around them.
“No one here cares what you look like.” Firal kept her chin up, willing herself to look at nothing but him. “Most of them wouldn't recognize you, anyway. This isn't the capital, or the temple, where you've built a name and reputation for yourself.”
Slowly, his eyes drifted back to her. For once they held no expression, no glimmer of emotion to betray what he might be thinking. He said nothing. She almost wished he had. Swallowing against the fluttering knot of fear in her throat, she drew her foot away from his mask and took a slow step back.
He moved forward and knelt to take it, his eyes never leaving her face.
“These people have always viewed you as a man, Daemon.” Her voice softened and she leaned down to cradle his face in her hands. His skin was soft and surprisingly smooth beneath her thumbs as they traced over his features, eliciting memories of when she'd touched him the same way during their travels. “You're the only one who sees anything else.”
He pulled away, head down as he fitted the dusty mask back over his face. “We'll speak tonight,” he said gruffly, pushing himself up from the ground. The ruin-folk hurried back to their work, the clatter of tools and din of voices resuming as if nothing had happened.
Firal frowned at his back as he walked away, rubbing her arms as if that could keep her from shaking. “All right,” she breathed, though no one was close enough to hear.
Bonfires in the street cast a flickering, ruddy light onto the new buildings, their incomplete walls and wooden skeletons throwing strange shadows out behind them. Had Daemon not said they would speak, Firal would have returned to her home in Core. Instead, she paced the dusty main street, watching workmen and their families pitch their tents for the night. Few of them paid her any mind, and those who did spared little more than a glance and friendly nod. She didn't mind; it was better to avoid attention after the brief spectacle she'd caused that afternoon.
The largest bonfire stood near the well. Numerous tents ringed the space around it and Firal wondered at where they'd come from. She already knew the soldiers camped frequently in the ruins, but she hadn't imagined how ready the ruin-folk were to return to the surface.
An iron cookpot beside the fire filled the air with the pleasant scent of sweet potato stew. Her stomach growled in response and Firal headed that direction. There were no proper chairs, but people sat on blocks of stone and logs. Daemon sat among them, his face bare. He met her eyes briefly before his atte
ntion returned to the bowl of stew he cradled in one clawed hand.
“So you're not ignoring what I said.” She twitched her skirts out of the way as she sat next to him.
“It does make it easier to eat.” He shoveled a spoonful into his mouth.
Nearby, some of the ruin-folk exchanged nudges and murmurs and slipped away with their food. More than one of the married women gave her long, meaningful glances, and she caught one sullen frown from a girl closer to her own age. Firal raised a brow in response. She wasn't sure if she appreciated the privacy or if their hasty retreat bothered her. Putting it out of her head, she leaned forward to take an empty wooden bowl from beside the fire and scooped a helping of stew from the pot.
Daemon stared into the fire as she returned to his side. “They've been laughing over what you did this afternoon.” His tone was level, without a hint of the agitation she'd expected.
She bit her lip, uncertain if she should reply, unsure if he would continue. When a moment passed and he did not speak again, she changed the subject between bites of food. “How are your hands?”
“Well enough, though they'll be a bit raw until I shed.”
Her nose crinkled. “You shed?”
“Twice a year or so. Peel like a snake.” He gave her an amused look. “Does that surprise you?”
“A little,” she admitted. “Though I guess it shouldn't.”
A silence fell between them and she didn't try to break it. Daemon seemed more interested in his food than conversation, so they ate in peace, listening to the cheerful voices in the rest of the camp. He set his bowl on the ground when it was empty, but didn't leave. It didn't take long before she'd had her fill and put down her bowl, as well.
He did not speak.
Worrying her lip, she excused herself to retrieve her satchel from where she'd left it beside the well. She returned to Daemon's side as she fished inside it.
He raised a brow at her.
She drew several vials from her bag before she found the right one. “I promised you a salve for your scales. I made an oil that should help. It's been ready for a while.” She hesitated before adding, “I just didn't know if I could talk to you yet.”
He grimaced. “I'm sorry.”
“I can see now why you didn't want to tell me. Especially after the way everyone looked at us this afternoon. I don't agree with the decision, but I understand.” She tugged at his sleeve a moment before he rolled it up for her. She uncorked the vial and drizzled thick oil across her fingertips. It was uncomfortably cool, despite the warm herbal fragrance. She rubbed her fingers together to warm it before she slathered it on his arm where the glossy green scales emerged from red and irritated flesh in rough, uneven patches.
“Are you still angry?” He rolled up his other sleeve, watching as she rubbed the oil into his skin.
“I wasn't angry to begin with.” Her brow furrowed and the corners of her lips pulled down, but she gave her head a shake. “I was surprised. And deeply hurt. And very confused. All this time, all the ideas I'd formed about you... After I learned about your father, I thought that was why you'd always been so distant, always absent at peculiar times, always secretive about your life. I never would have imagined it was something like this.”
“I don't think anyone would.” He grew quiet for a time, just long enough for her to begin to feel uncomfortable before he spoke again. “There were times I thought I might tell you. More frequently, at the end. Especially when we were in the ruins together. But I've grown so used to never having anything I want.”
“But you were raised as royalty,” she said, dripping oil on her fingers again. She waited for it to warm before she applied it to his other arm. “You had everything.”
“I never had you.”
An icy chill rolled down her spine at the stark honesty of his words, even as her heart tried to climb into her throat. Memories flashed through her mind unbidden, accompanied by a tumult of emotions. The jokes and pranks, the way she'd blush and stammer when caught by one, the way she'd stifle her feelings each time her best friend pined for him. Kytenia had expressed her interest first. Kytenia had always been prettier. Always the better option. “I'm not Kyt.”
He took her hand and rubbed the oil from her fingers. “I know.”
“She's my best friend,” she objected weakly.
“I know that, too.” He spoke slowly, as if testing the words. “I haven't missed the way she looks at me. Or, at who she thinks I am. But she doesn't know me.”
“Do I?” Bitterness seeped into her voice.
Leaning closer, he drew her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “I don't know if I can answer that.”
She struggled to find words, a flush rising into her cheeks.
Daemon traced shapes on the back of her hand with his claws, watching the trails of oil they made. “I never said anything, though I wanted to. It's not like the world we live in would ever let you be with someone—something—like me.” He paused, flashing her a rueful smile. “I thought it would be easier if I made you hate me.”
Firal shrugged. “I don't know that I care much for the world we live in, anymore. I'm not sure I intend to go back. I...” She trailed off, gazing at the fire. “I like it here. I'm happy here.”
He laced his fingers with hers and gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Stay with me.”
“I wasn't planning on going anywhere. I think I belong in Core.”
“That's not what I mean,” he said. “Stay with me. Marry me.”
Out of everything she'd expected, every possibility of where the conversation could have gone, that direction had never crossed her mind. For a moment, she wasn't even certain she'd heard him right. “What?” she managed, unable to tear her eyes away. His expression was gentle, sincere.
“Marry me,” he repeated, holding her hand fast. His claws barely brushed her skin, despite the strength of his grip. “I can't offer you a lot, not here. I can't live the life my father expects, I can't give you riches or a place in his palace, fine clothes or jewels. I can't guarantee you a comfortable home, probably can't even give you children, but—”
Her head spun. She held a finger to his lips. “You're not making this a very good proposal,” she said, trying to inject mirth into her tone. “What can you give me?”
“Love.” Uncertainty burned in his eyes and in the way his brow knit together. “I've tried so hard not to love you. I've tried since the very beginning, the very first time I saw you in the temple. I've never failed so miserably at anything in my life.”
Firal tried to speak, but a growing lump in her throat stifled her voice. It took every ounce of her strength to keep the tears that stung her eyes from brimming over. She tried to blink them away. Despite her best efforts, she still choked on tears when she tried to speak. “I've never been loved.” The confession stirred an ache in her heart. It had hurt throughout her entire life, knowing she was unwanted from the moment she'd been abandoned at the temple for training.
Cradling her face in clawed hands, he hushed her and turned her head, forced her to look at him. “You have been loved for years. Just because you didn't know it doesn't mean it's not true.”
She blinked faster, hot tears spilling over her dark eyelashes. “What of Lumia, then?”
“Lumia,” he murmured, shaking his head. “Lumia was the first to accept me as I am. She gave me hope. I owe her that, but nothing more.”
“And what of me?” she asked.
Daemon brushed a strand of hair from her face. “I already told you. I'll take you for my wife, if you'll have me.”
She studied him for a long time; studied how his eyes glowed, even in the firelight. How the faintest shadow of a beard lined his jaw and his dark hair fell in tangled strands about his face. “Ran—” She stopped short and swallowed hard at the myriad of emotions that stole her words.
“Is that what you would call me?” His claws rasped gently against her skin, the gauze wrapped around his knuckles soft besid
e the slick texture of his scales. She took his hand in both of hers. Her fingertips traced the scar on the back of his hand, just visible beneath the edge of the bandages.
“Rune,” she whispered.
“Rune?”
Stroking the outline of the scar, she nodded. “A new name. A new you. No more hiding behind two faces. No more Daemon. No more Ran.”
“Firal, I—”
She silenced him with fingertips pressed to his lips and laid her head against his shoulder. His arms crushed her to his chest before she realized he'd moved. One scaled finger tilted her chin upward, his mouth seeking hers with a hungry need. She clutched his shirt to keep her hands from trembling, though it did nothing to lessen the roar of her pulse in her ears. His chest beneath her fists was more real, more solid than anything had ever been. His claws tangled in her hair and his kisses begged her lips to part. She complied, sighing softly beneath the warmth of his mouth, the softness of his tongue. The sensations made her knees weak. Tracing his jawline with a fingertip when he pulled back, she smiled up at him through the darkness. “Yes,” she whispered, daring to lean in and steal a kiss. “You asked me to marry you. I say yes.”
He all but hauled her to her feet. “Find a rope. I'll gather everyone.”
Firal gaped. “What, here? Right now?”
“I don't want to wake another morning without you beside me.”
“What about Minna? Oh, we don't even have flowers, or seeds to exchange!” She held tight to his hand when he tried to walk away.
Daemon snorted. “Minna will forgive you.”
“But I haven't a dress! And your father! What of him? And—”
“My father would be thrilled. Will be, when he hears. I promise.” He gave her hand a squeeze before he let go.
Before she knew it, they stood beside the fire, ringed by ruin-folk as one of Daemon's officers wrapped their wrists with a rope in place of the traditional chain of flowers.
“Repeat together, after me,” the officer prompted, leading them through the vows Minna had taught her in a lesson on culture that now seemed long ago. Firal blushed, though she never looked away, a strange wash of comfort pouring over her as she heard the words echoed simultaneously in her voice and Daemon's.