Page 80 of The Wicked Lies of Habren Faire
I’m so tired of riddles and games and half-truths, so I wait in silence until Neirin decides what he wants to tell me himself. What hetrulywants to tell me.
“I’d say I wasn’t thinking, but I was thinking quite a lot—about myself mainly. I admit, everything went too far.Itook it too far. I don’t expect you to bother listening to me, let alone for you to understand or care, but you don’t know what it is to be stuck.” He stuffs his uninjured hand in his pocket, draws his shoulders up. “And don’t tell me I’ve never suffered, because of my big house and my title: it’s a different suffering to yours, but it’s suffering nonetheless. The teg experience misery; we just don’t get the gray hairs to show for it. I lose friends for a decade, and when I find them, they’re exactly as foolish as they were when I left them.
“That’s why I like humans so much,” Neirin continues, stepping closer to me, his injured hand hanging within reach of mine. “We’ve been watching you all for centuries, and every year there’s something new. And it just keeps getting faster with every generation. Our land is suspended, perfect. Time happens around us and never dares to come near.”
When I look up, Neirin returns my smile in kind. “Your will is made of more iron than that ring on your finger. I wish I hadn’t challenged it. I’m… sorry.”
I rub the band with my thumb. “What are you sorry for?”
His eyes are almost pained as they meet mine. “You’re going to make me say it? Of course you are”—he knows me too well at this point. He sighs, but it’s not petulant as usual. He just sounds tired, and sad. “I’m sorry I manipulated you and your sister, and thatI misled you repeatedly. Most of all I’m sorry that I broke what little trust you gave me. I never deserved it in the first place.”
“I cannot forgive you now,” I say, “but I don’t have it in me to carry any more anger and regret into Y Lle Tywyll. I want to let something go.”
His little finger brushes mine, far too close to the iron ring, and then wraps around, locking us together. Neirin doesn’t let go.
“Going in there,” I say, “feels like an anchor on my back. I keep thinking about all the things I’ll never get to see, never get to do.
I get angry at the future and the people who’ll be there, and all the things they’ll know that I can’t even dream.”
“Then be there.” He stares ahead.
My hand moves of its own accord, finding his face. Cold fingers lay upon his frozen cheek and gently lead him down to look at me. We’re so close we’re sharing breath, so close that I can see the sheen of sweat on his forehead and the glassy, lost look in his eyes. He’s never been more mortal, and to me, never so wonderful.
Neirin swallows, and I feel the bones of his jaw move against my hand as he leans into my touch. “Don’t go.”
My brows notch. The coal in his hand presses against my own skin. “If I don’t stop the sickness, you’ll end up like the others.”
You could still die, even if I win, I think, then clamp down on the idea and refuse to give it breath.
“And if you go down to Y Lle Tywyll,you’ll die,” he says desperately, like each word pains him. “I… I don’t want you to die. Not now and not in sixty years of old age. I think I shall spend the rest of my life missing you, so if that life can either be short or long, I would prefer it to be short.”
My free hand lands on his chest, fingers burrowing into the frills of his shirt, trying to find the person beneath. The fabric is damp from sweat, his body rigid and close to breaking beneath it. I dig justdeep enough and am rewarded with his labored breath, stopping at my touch.
“I must go.”
“Why?”
“Because it needs to be done,” I say. “Because I want to do something right.”
“What if you die—”
“What if I don’t?” I’m almost on tiptoes, trying to meet his gaze as he turns. I grip his face tighter, force him back to me until I can see my own face reflected in his eyes, imploring him to believe in me, if nothing else. “What if my sister and I walk out of this house and all this goes away? Or if I do die, at least it will have been for something, for people that I love, and not at the end of a life wasted in Llanadwen, with all those what-ifs piled up at the foot of my bed.”
“I won’t stop you. I only ask that, when you emerge, you consider forgiving me. I can be many awful things, but I can’t live with being someone you hate.” Neirin closes his eyes. “You’re going to try and be a hero, aren’t you?”
I pause. “I’m going to save my sister, and you. If I become a hero too, so be it.”
“I think I preferred you when you were mean. Heroism doesn’t suit you,” Neirin says plainly. “Heroes rarely end up happy.”
I realize—slowly, then all at once—that Neirin really must care for me.
You probably understood that before I did. Don’t hate me for making you wait so long.
I lift onto my toes and grasp Neirin’s coat collar with one hand, pulling him down to my height in a fluid motion. He looks startled—almost as much as I am by my own boldness—especially when I press my mouth to his.
This is where I confess: I’ve never done this before, and I don’t have any idea what to do next. It’s more of an attack than a kiss.
I hold still for a moment, lips closed and rigid over his. His arms go limp at his sides. My stomach lurches, and I yank my head away, a thousand excuses on my tongue. And yet, he’s smiling.
