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" I'm not your problem anymore,
So who am I offending, now?
You were me crown,
Now I'm in exile seeing you out "
―I DREAM OF him.
I dream of his hazel eyes and the feeling of his lips on my skin, I dream of him gifting me dresses and gorging me with jewels of which I always tease him for, I dream of him giving me one last kiss, voicing the words I love you before disappearing like sand slipping between my fingers.
Always to wake up alone with Zoya gently easing broth into my mouth, giving me sardonic insults to distract me from the pain before I see Tamar raise her hands and my eyes black out.
I dream of him when I'm not dreaming, I dream of him when I am.
I call his name those nights I wake up in the darkness alone, reaching out to no avail.
My joints ache, harsh reality hitting me when I see the caves and surroundings of what must be beneath the ground, and I wonder if I've truly died. Maybe I was buried with Zoya in tears and Alina watching with a stricken expression.
Maybe the job wasn't done, and I'll have to finish it off myself, alone in my tomb with the smell of my rotting body, reaching for someone who's gone.
For a moment, I really think I've been buried alive, and all I can think about is the fact that they haven't even done me the grace of burying me next to Nikolai.
That is, until I see Zoya enter the cavern with an irritated expression on her look. I'm sure that I'll suffer through some of her insults before dying, at least.
"You're finally awake," she grumbles, sitting down, her kefta muddied. Somehow, her hair is still impeccable, her lashes thick and dark, pale eyes piercingly beautiful as ever.
That, at least, will never change.
A shred of my old life.
I'll hold onto Zoya until the day I die.
"Zoya?" I croak, my voice weak.
"Easy, Yi." She slowly coaxes a few sips of broth into my mouth before helping me into a sitting position. I realize I'm on a makeshift cot, crates together with a cloth swathed over them.
That explains the agonizingly sore back.
I release a loud groan, rolling my neck and ankles out. I accept the bowl of broth from Zoya, drinking it greedily to her disdain. I'm almost grateful for her harsh insults about my appearance because if she cares about something that unfixable, then we must be out of other things to worry about.
