Page 168 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
“Wendy—”
“Hold me,”I say.“And tell me I did my best.”
Everything crumbles around me. I am in a world of make-believe, of red and white. The boy stands over me. It’s the first time I’ve seen him from above.
“Take my hand,”he says, reaching for me.“Take my hand, and I will bring you through this.”
I look at his hand, outstretched. He thinks he can save me. He pleads, he begs, but I can barely feel it.
I’m tired.
It’s a nice sort of tired. The peaceful kind.
But even my own mind won’t believe that.
Even my own mind denies what I long for.
I shake my head, denying his hand.“I don’t want to make it through this.”
“Wendy!”
“I give up,”I cut him off, bracing for the impact.“I give up.”
The boy says nothing, only picks me up, slinging me over his shoulder like a coat. I don’t fight because I don’t believe in what he can do.
The boy walks through this strange world. It looks like ours, except everything is tinged. The trees are red; the floors are white. The walls shatter slowly, the academy crumbling around me, and the boy runs. The trees fall; the buildings collapse. The boy pants.
Slowly, the whole facade falters. The white and red crumble into a ceaseless darkness.
“You can’t save me,”I say with a smile, feeling as my consciousness slips from existence.“It’s over.”
Chapter 31
War is Sweet to Those
Who Never Fought
A
breath of fresh air becomes a fish out of water—it doesn’t feel right. I breathe, and I breathe, and I breathe.
It doesn’t feel right.
Darkness. Lucian. Nothing.
Icarthus—the Arcane who stole my body and told Lucian he was his father.
Nothing.
Memories assault my mind. My voice tells Lucian that his father is not his father, his mother not his mother. That he was made to destroy Desdemona.
Desdemona.
She sits in front of me. Black liquid trickles down her neck. Then she looks at me, expecting something. At least, Ithinkshe’s expecting something.
Because I cannotfeelit.
Why can I not feel her?
