Page 162 of War

This fucking endless evening.

“You are in my arms, and yet I sense you are far, far away from me,” War says. “I don’t like this distance, wife.”

At least he feels how remote I am. He can stop me from physically leaving his side, but he cannot prevent me from emotionally retreating.

The two of us stay like that for what feels like hours. I don’t think either of us sleep, but we don’t get up either.

A chasm has opened up between us—or maybe it was always there, but now it can’t be ignored.

When the first sounds of rousing men break the silence outside, War reluctantly withdraws his hand and sits up. I hear him sigh.

According to the rest of camp, they’re invading Mansoura today. None of them know that Mansoura has already been taken and purged of its living. All that’s left is to raid homes and steal goods from the dead.

I’m curious how War’s going to handle this. So curious, in fact, that once the horseman rises from bed, I stop pretending to be asleep and sit up myself.

He lumbers over to his leather armor, which he’s arranged near the pallet. His enormous sword is laid out next to it, the monstrous blade sheathed in its crimson scabbard. I’m halfway surprised he brought the blade into the tent after the big production he made about removing all the weapons from this place.

A dark, desperate thought grips me at the sight of that sword.

Caught in the hooks of my own mind, I get up, padding over to the blade, drawn in by it.

War pauses right in the middle of putting on his chest plate, his eyes locked on me. He removed all but one weapon from this room, and now his wife is approaching it. I’m sure last night’s worries about me trying to hurt myself are now rearing their ugly heads, but he doesn’t take the blade.

I kneel in front of his sword. Grabbing the hilt, I pull the weapon out a little from its scabbard. Emblazoned onto the steel is more of that strange writing that decorates War’s knuckles and chest. These characters don’t glow, but I can tell the language is the same. The language of God.

“Miriam.” It’s a warning.

I glance over at War, and there’s an edge to his violent, violent eyes.

“I’m not going to kill myself,” I say.

He doesn’t relax, and I kind of enjoy his unease.

Turning back to the blade, I run my fingers over the alien markings. Then, seemingly of their own accord, my fingers slide to the edge of the blade.

“Miriam.” My last warning.

I run my thumb over the sword’s edge, then curse when I feel the steel nick my skin. The fucker’ssharp.

I stick my finger in my mouth just as the horseman snatches the weapon from my grip.

“It likes the taste of blood,” War says, like his weapon might suddenly grow teeth and eat me whole.

He finishes putting on his armor, keeping himself between me and his sword. Lastly, he secures his blade to his back.

Outside, the noise is getting louder.

“I need to go.” War steps in close. I can tell he wants to kiss me—or at least touch me—but he doesn’t. The horseman may not be human, but he understands enough about human drives to know to stay away from me. Still, his eyes look regretful.

He waits a moment or two for me to say something, and I consider it—

I hope you don’t come back.

May your enemies cut you down.

Rot in misery, asshole.

But my white hot anger is long gone, and it’s hard to muster up the energy to stay mad.

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