Page 104 of Torn

Why wait? Merry closes her eyes, makes her choice, and feels it ripple across her body like a breeze. Temporarily wonderful while it lasts, it leaves her shaken afterward. Her tulle skirt ruffles around her limbs, and her hair tickles her shoulder, and a weight evaporates. All that’s left is Anger’s touch on her wrist, which is every power she’s ever needed.

When she opens her eyes, he fills her view with graphite and twilight.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he says. “I’m here.”

Merry bites her lip, keeps a straight face. “Good because…”

Footsteps stalk down the stairs, reverberations coursing through the cavernous underworld. The approaching noise culminates in the forms of Andrew’s disheveled white hair and Love’s windswept black tresses.

The couple descends into the vault, taking measured steps. With the quiver harnessed to her back, Love has her bow nocked. She’s aiming into the room while her valiant boyfriend stands guard beside her. The soul mates are a sight to behold, defensive but determined, baffled but intrigued.

His silver irises and her dark ones flit across the space, then lock on to the archers. Two pairs of eyes flash with astonishment. In this immunity of time, in this pocket of minutes between possibility and choice, they see.

Gracious, they see!

“Oh, my stars,” Wonder whispers.

Anger tenses beside Merry, disbelief stretching his features taut. It’s not a gale of longing, but a gust of caring. Merry’s heart eases, bolts falling from her chest and allowing it to beat normally.

Love—or Lily?—falters. Her hold on the longbow eases, and she has to juggle the weapon to keep it from dropping. Her pupils expand, skipping from one deity to the next.

Andrew’s mouth falls open. “You’ve got to be shitting me…”

Love blinks, shakes her head. Her voice quivers, cracks like she’s never heard herself speak before. “What’s happening?” she asks. “Who—who are you people?”

Anger and Wonder are immobile. They’re speechless, as if a single motion will destroy the spell.

Merry steps forward and grins. “We’reyourpeople.”

It takes them a mountainous moment to process, gazing at her in speculation—and interest. Andrew strikes her as the inquisitive sort, countless question marks leaping from his expression, from irises of infinite platinum. Merry inhales a selfless, minty fragrance and the soft texture of worn storybook pages, plus the tireless lilt of tenacity.

Love is the impulsive sort, the female’s attention as true and direct as an arrow, with the kind of piercing stare that won’t miss its target. She possesses a mischievous chin and a wily set to her mouth. Harnessed within that diminutive frame, she carries so much rebellion and restlessness.

The pair also strikes Merry as the visceral kind, willing to accept the fantastical, so long as they can intuit it for themselves. Together, Andrew and Love crank their heads sideways, a synchronized boldness as they examine the group anew.

It reminds Merry of fairytales, the way characters in those tales simply believe the magic they see. It may be a sign of Andrew’s inherent, magic-realism personality, and it may be a shadow of Love’s past prompting her not to flee. Wisps of recognition surface and spread, hints of their past expanding like a galaxy.

This couple makes it easy to identify the moment when the truth dawns on them. The fog evaporates, and a solar system of memories resurrect, their faces slackening with lucidity.

This time, Love really drops the bow and arrow. They smack the ground, the weapons convulsing and dissolving into nothing. In the formers’ wake, a mythical replacement manifests itself: iron archery glazed in magic.

Rumor has it, the Court had reclaimed Love’s weapons before she forsook her old life. Hopefully the rulers had stashed the relics somewhere unfrequented, then forgotten about them. With luck, the Court won’t notice the archery’s absence any time soon.

But they just might. And if they do, they’ll know.

In any event, these must be Love’s originals. Bound to the goddess heart and soul, they’ve returned to her at last. She checks the weapons on the floor, then twists to glimpse the quiver strapped to her person.

After that, she glances at her hands, verifying that this is real.

She whips toward Andrew, who’s gaping at her. Mesmerized, their hands begin to roam, seeking confirmation. Fingers sketch, and palms trace, and there’s just so many loving touches coming out of them.

Their chests leap and sink into shallow pants, tenderness radiating from them. That, and recognition as missing years flood the room.

“Andrew,” she whispers, as if saying it for the first time.

“Love,” he says, as if spotting an invisible star.

They lunge, wrapping themselves in one another. Trembling, they hug fiercely, their mouths fusing, their nostrils flaring. Sounds of grief and happiness spill from them as they kiss, their lips slanting and folding over one another.

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