Weight of the World

Chapter Forty-Four

—Border of Belanen, Andavaran—

He could still remember it, the feeling of her lips brushing over his. Even after all these years, how could he possibly forget what it felt like to hold her close? She had been his first love, after all. Alistair bowed his head, a low sigh escaping him. So many regrets weighed on his heart, but of them, none weighed heavier than the one concerning Ori. Those memories of those last few minutes they had spent together haunted him, day and night. The signs were there. Her innocence glaring. And yet, he had condemned her without proof.

And now, she was gone.

When The Voice had come to tell him of her death, Alistair had expected it to be some cruel joke. Ori was unstoppable. She was the Savior, the one who could do the impossible. His doubts were quelched a short time later with the arrival of the Shadow of the Creator. Alistair had spoken to Ori's uncle a few times, and he knew well the older man would never lie about such a thing. When Corlis Marcellus had confirmed that the Savior had, indeed, died, Alistair had sequestered himself in the Chapel of Light for days. He had spent them in vigil, kneeling before a statue of the Savior, praying that this wasn't real. But in his heart, he knew. Ori was gone.

And so, Alistair had resolved himself to carry on, for her. He was one of the few who had known her personally, who could keep her memory alive. So, he would live, he would fight, for her.

Alistair blinked, startled when the beast beneath his hand let out a ragged breath. He didn't know why, but since they had taken down the dragon by the King of Bones, Alistair had felt compelled to sit with the beast when he had the time. He shouldn't be concerned with its recovery, he knew. It had tried to kill his entire camp, and he knew many thought poorly of his decision. But when he had seen the beast lying there, about to die, he had immediately thought of Ori and knew that, if she had been there, she would have saved the dragon. And so, he had ordered his healers to do their best while he kept a watchful eye over the beast.

"You know, black dragons are the rarest of their kind," a voice joined him at the far edge of camp. The dragon was too large to be housed anywhere within the camp, and so, the dragon remained exactly where he had fallen, looming almost like a mountain there.

Alistair glanced up to find his friend, Hilda, making her way toward him. They had known each other since childhood, and so, she had no fear of approaching him even in his moments of solitude. Once, when they were little, his mother had suggested making Hilda his future bride. The thought had been terrifying and appalling. He had outright refused at the dinner with her family, sending Hilda fleeing from the room in a fit of tears. His mother had been furious, and rightly so. To dishonor a woman so was unforgivable. There were far politer ways to refuse, but he had been young, only twelve summers, and he hadn't known any better. It was his father who had encouraged him to go and find Hilda, to apologize as a way of making amends with her family.

When he found her, Hilda's tears had stopped and rather than greeting him with respect or sobs, she had, instead, punched him. She had demanded to know exactly what was wrong with her to not meet with his princely standards. He hadn't known what to say at first, listening to her scream at him for being so rude to her when there was nothing wrong with her at all. When she had finally quieted, he had taken her over to the fountain in the garden, sitting with her as he explained that, no, there was nothing wrong with her. Anyone would be lucky to have her as a bride. She was beautiful and smart. Funny and strong. But she was like a sister to him. They had both taken their first steps together and had grown up together in the castle. When he thought of her, he imagined her with him always, just not in the way his parents expected.