Barracks (War of Hearts)

32- Forces

My vision blurs, and my head spins. In the recesses of memory, I am twelve again—swinging beneath a gnarled oak, laughter bubbling up as I tilt my head back. The sun filters through leaves, dappling my face. A burst of boyish laughter joins mine, followed by another voice shouting my name from a distance. His hair, tousled like Xavier's, catches the light. He waves at both of us, a mischievous grin tugging at his lips.

Gasping for air, I reach out, desperate to grasp something—anything. It's a paradox: too slow, yet fast as lightning. Details elude me, slipping through my fingers like sand.

And then, I feel them. Both men—Xavier and Aldaire—holding me. Their touch, familiar even with closed eyes. Cold skin, almost identical in size, but the currents that surge through them are distinct. Xavier's touch, steady and grounding. Aldaire's, electric, sparking something deeper.

"Are you okay?" Xavier's voice trembles with worry.

"I am."

"No, you aren't," Aldaire interjects. One man could carry me anywhere, yet neither releases their hold.

"Let's get her to sit," Aldaire insists.

I push his hand away from my waist. I don't want him near. The sensations he evokes—even in this state—are dangerous. Still, he persists, returning with a grip tighter than before.

"I'm fine," I reassure him. "Just dizzy."

"Are you sure?"

I nod.

"The girl is okay," Gina observes.

In my world, it's Xavier and Aldaire—two forces vying for a place in my heart. We're all twelve, perched on a swing under the ancient tree in Cormount.

"I apologize. Didn't mean to be trouble."

"It's fine, child," Aldaire's eyes hold centuries. "I've long shed my human skin, but watching this affect you—it's new. Patience, I have. Memories, not so much."

"Attention makes us feel special," Samantha chimes in, "but it shouldn't drown us."

Gina leans closer, her gaze sharp. "You aren't pregnant, honey, are you?"

Her intentions were as clear as the moon's reflection on still water. I read it in her eyes—the playful dance, the calculated moves. She toyed with Xavier and Aldaire, and they, unwitting participants, danced to her tune. But she was right; attention was a double-edged sword. Sometimes, I craved it, yearned to be heard, yet other times, solitude was my sanctuary. Pregnant? No, not yet. At least that's my from these men.

"I hope not," I chime in, joining their bemusement.

Xavier and Aldaire exchange puzzled glances, and suddenly, laughter erupts—a shared secret among us two.

Aldaire, ever the silent sentinel, guides me to the room. No words pass between us; our awkwardness hangs like a fragile thread. He ensures I'm settled on the bed before retreating. 

Xavier, barred from entry, hovers outside. Later he returns and is able to come inside. His concern etches lines on his face, but we communicate without words. Our eyes—those silent messengers—speak volumes.

I'm not sick. Or so I believe until the fever grips me in the dead of night.

Cecile appears, standing on the edge of my bed. Her touch—real, tangible—brushes my hair. Panic claws at my throat; I can't find my voice to scream for help.

The moon spills silver through the window, casting her face in pale luminescence. White hair braided like mine, each strand woven with secrets. She inches closer, day after day—night after night. Tonight, she stands before me, her presence undeniable.