Page 9 of Of Realms and Chaos

A triumphant smile graced my lips as, together, Padon and I raised Bellamy’s decapitated head in victory.

“Soon, my love.”

***

Screams filled the air as I jolted up.

Someone was in danger. Someone needed me.

My arms flailed, reaching for my dagger—for something to protect myself with. To protect everyone with.

The weight on my stomach tightened, and in my ear, a husky voice whispered, “I am here, Princess. I have you.”

Bellamy.

A nightmare—just a nightmare. My imagination was so horribly talented when it came to conjuring terror to wreak havoc in my mind. Still, it had felt so real.

A look down revealed it was his arm around me. I was naked, my clothes likely left behind in the library, but my amethyst necklace still rested just below my collarbones, the silver wiring wrapping it tightly. On instinct, my hand reached up and grasped it.

Bellamy’s hand encircled my own, his thumb rubbing the jagged stone as he sat up with me.

“He will always be with you, Princess. Just as you will always be with him.” He spoke those words with such conviction that I had no other choice but to nod. “Would you like to talk about it?”

I knew he was referencing my nightmare, but I was not eager to tell him about it. Guilt ate at me for dreaming of a creature so vile, the way his lips caressed mine nearly sending me into a panic once more.

It was not real. How could it have been?

Still, I was sure I would never forget the way Bellamy’s head looked in my hand or the smile on my face as I held it.

“Do demons feel the call of Eternity?” I asked, avoiding his question entirely.

I could not talk about what I had seen. What was worse, I could not shake the eerie feeling that Bellamy might not survive me. But if I knew he would end up in Eternity, would hear it beckoning him home one day in the very distant future and choose his Ending, then perhaps I would not be so prone to this fear. Or inclined to imagine him in that foreign world with his head dangling between my fingers.

Bellamy hesitated, as if he was contemplating the right way to phrase his answer, and maybe he was. There was no denying that he still held many secrets, ones which I would not know until I met his king—his father.

I did not assume that something as simple as the afterlife would be one of them though.

“Demons believe that, upon death, one’s magic and soul returns to the home of the gods. That is why we burn the bodies of the fallen. We do not wish to banish them to a lifetime of wandering a world they have left behind, so we release them to The Above. However, demons and fae age differently—vastly so. Demons can, and do, live for thousands of years, but there is a limit to life. The oldest demon I have met was just over two millennia. From what I understand of the death of a demon, there is no call from the ethers when it is one’s time to pass. Demons just cease to exist within this plane.”

It was not the answer I was hoping for. Yet it was exactly the answer I should have expected. Smooth and somewhat vague, not presenting any true answers or reassuring me that he might live long enough to see me end this war before it begins. Long enough to allow me to find him once more. Any future we might have will be far away, a distant thought that might materialize if given time. Though, in his defense, I asked an equally ambiguous and dismissive question.

“What do you believe?” I asked, mustering up the courage I would need for the answer.

This time, he did not pause, did not need a moment to think through his answer.

“I believe in you. I believe that this life is far greater than anything that might occur after because here I have you. Here, I possess the only thing that will ever matter.” He paused, his hand letting go of my necklace to lie flat on my chest. “Your heart.”

That very heart began beating at a ferocious pace, feeling as if it might leap from my chest.

Stupid, sappy demon.

I leaned into his warmth, placing a kiss to his lips. There was a desperation to the love I felt for him, one that had grown in the last few months but had heightened since I realized that this small pocket of time might be all we ever possessed.

I needed him like I needed air, and there was only so long I could go before my lungs gave out.

How he always managed to say the right thing, I was not sure. Perhaps it was the magic of his ancestor, Asta, whose spoken words could convince masses to comply. Or maybe he was secretly a poet. His paintings were the perfect example of his affinity towards the arts, so I would not be surprised if he were.

I could easily picture him hiding in a dark room while writing sonnets about how annoying Henry could be and the art of ripping hearts from the chests of one’s enemies. Or how much he adores whoever discovered kohl. Composing the music for that one would have to be my job, as I also owed thanks to that individual. There were not many things that could beat the way his eyes looked when lined with black.

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