Page 45 of Alchemised
“Any other questions?” He arched an eyebrow as if daring her.
“No,” she said quickly, looking away. “You’ve done enough.”
CHAPTER 8
LUC HOLDFAST SAT ON THE ROOFTOP OF the Alchemy Tower, hunched back against the tilt of the tiles as he absently spun an opium pipe in his fingers. The spire of the Tower, lit with the Eternal Flame, burned above him, a beacon of white light.
The sun was setting, the world hued with bronze shadows as Helena clambered across to join him.
He was so gaunt, he already looked older than his father. The war had chewed him down to the bone. The tendons along his neck stood out like cords when he swallowed, looked over, and then away again.
“What happened to us, Hel?” he asked as she crouched down beside him.
She stared at the horizon, past all the towers, towards the south.
“A war,” she said.
“You used to believe in me. What did I do to make you stop?” His voice was faraway.
“I still believe in you, Luc,” she said. “But we have to win this war; we can’t make choices because we want a certain story to tell later. There’s too much at stake.”
“No,” he said. “This is how we win. This is how we’ve always won. My father, my grandfather, all the Principates going all the way back to Orion. They won by trusting that good would triumph over evil, and I have to do the same.”
His thumb flicked against his index finger, ignition rings sparking. Pale flames flared to life, filling his palm, a light like a small sun. His fingers closed around them, leaving only a tongue of fire along a fingertip as he tucked the opium pipe between his lips and brought the flame close to the bowl.
Helena looked away, listening to him inhale.
“What if it’s not that simple, though?” she said. “Everyone who wins says they were good, but they’re the ones who tell the story. They get to choose how we’ll remember it. What if it’s never that simple?”
He shook his head. “Orion became sun-blessed because he refused to break his faith.”
Helena exhaled, burying her face in her hands.
She heard his rings spark, and the pipe hissed as the opium vaporised.
“Luc—please, let me help you.” She tried to reach towards him.
He flinched away. “Don’t—touch me.”
He was teetering dangerously close to that immense fall, as if the Abyss still called to him. She didn’t know how to draw him back anymore, what to say that he’d still hear.
“Do you remember what I promised you, Luc, that night you came out here?” she asked, her voice pleading.
He gave no response. His gaze had settled back into a dim stupor, the sunset limning his gaunt features as though gilding him.
“I promised I’d do anything for you.” She curled her fingers into a fist. “Maybe you didn’t realise how far I was willing to go.”
THE MEMORY OF LUC LINGERED in Helena’s mind when she woke in the morning.
She lay in bed, replaying it. It was a forgotten memory, which should have frightened her, but there seemed to be no information in it that Ferron could find useful, and she missed Luc desperately, even if it was a memory bitter as seawater.
He’d been smoking opium. How had that happened? He must have been horrifically injured to be allowed drugs like that. His great-aunt Ilva, who’d acted as steward for the Principate when Luc was at the front, had always been reluctant to allow him drugs, preferring to utilise Helena’s abilities than to risk addiction.
But he wouldn’t even let Helena touch him.
She lay in bed, turning the memory over and over, taking note of every detail. The evening light, the way it bronzed his features and illuminated his eyes. The nervous, intense way his fingers moved as he’d sparked his rings, bringing the flames to life.
She’d loved his pyromancy. It always felt more like magic than alchemy, the way he could make fire an extension of himself with those sun-bright flames.
