Loveless/ a POWERLESS fanfiction story

Chapter 29: Brian

I help her wake a few hours before dawn.

Her face looks tired, almost colorless in the dim pre-dawn light. For a moment, she's lost, still caught in the lingering haze of sleep, and she gazes at me with a faint confusion, as if surprised to find herself having spent the night curled up on my lap. But that expression quickly shifts. Realization crashes over her with such force that her shoulders stiffen abruptly, and her gaze empties, as though something inside her is shattering all over again.

"Sadie..." she whispers, disbelief lacing her voice.

The image of Sadie's body flashes in my mind—dusty with soil and surrounded by small forest flowers hastily placed on her improvised grave, the site of her brutal demise. They'd tried to bury her here, in the dense thickets of the forest. If the wolves hadn't caught the scent of blood, and if we hadn't stumbled upon it in time, Sadie's family might never have known where to search for her remains.

Barbarity, teetering on the edge of madness.

I place my hands on Blair's shoulders, giving them a gentle squeeze as I lean down to catch her gaze.

"Easy," I say, holding her eyes with mine. "The Watcher has already gone to the camp. She'll make sure Sadie is brought back to the palace."

Blair draws a sharp breath, and I can see the fragile balance she's clinging to—teetering between the brink of hysteria and the crushing realization that she can't afford to lose control.

She shakes her head, her lips trembling. She wants to say something, but the words stick in her throat. I know she needs more time to steady herself, but time is a luxury we don't have.

"Blair," I continue, my voice firm. "We have to move. All the participants will gather at the clearing at the forest's edge by dawn."

Tears fill her eyes again, but she nods and slowly rises. I can see the tremor in her body—whether from the cold, exhaustion, or grief, I can't say—but she takes a step, then another. Her movements are mechanical, like she's no longer in control of her own body. Each step seems to cost her dearly, and I clench my jaw, forcing myself not to reveal how much it bothers me to see her like this.

Powerlessness —that's what she embodies now. In her current state, she won't be able to do anything. Not fight. Not defend herself. Not win. This isn't just a setback—it's a disaster. Her failure would be the death knell for all my plans.

We walk through the forest, the silence pressing down on us like a weight. Mist clings to the ground, masking the tree roots and turning the path into a shifting, almost otherworldly space. Somewhere in the distance, the faint rustle of wind can be heard, but even that seems muted, as if the forest itself is holding its breath.

Blair suddenly stops. Her shoulders rise and fall with the rhythm of her heavy breathing.

"I can't," she whispers, her voice so faint it feels like it might break under the weight of her words. It sounds like she's delivering a sentence upon herself.

I step in front of her, blocking her view, forcing her to focus on me. Her eyes are filled with fear and pain, but beneath the surface, I catch a glimpse of something else. Anger. It flickers like a dim ember, buried beneath the layers of grief. That's good. That might save her.

"You can," I say, my tone sharp, like a lash, but deliberately laced with warmth. I need her to fight.

She shakes her head, her lips trembling, tears glistening on her cheeks.

"She was everything I had," she whispers, her voice raw, fractured. "And now... I have nothing."

"You're still alive, Blair," I say, stepping closer so she can't look away. "And one of them," I gesture metaphorically toward the woods, "killed her. One of them," my voice sharpens, "left her in that forest."

My words sting, and I see her shoulders start to tremble, her fists clench. Her eyes are full of tears and fury. She wants to scream, to strike me, to unleash everything tearing her apart inside. But instead, she exhales and turns away because she no longer has the strength.

But now, thanks to me, she has a purpose.

We continue walking in silence.  I hear her quiet sobs as she tries to contain her pain, and I can feel how much her state unbalances me.

I shouldn't think about her like this. I shouldn't let her weakness stir something in me that I've buried for so long. And though I know her pain is real, that she can't simply shut it off on command, none of it matters.

I need her to be strong.

Otherwise, I'll lose everything.

Again.

The forest starts to thin, and ahead, the first rays of light cut through the thick, gray haze of dawn. The moss beneath our feet grows sparser, and the path transitions to earth strewn with fallen leaves and roots that catch at our boots. The air is cold and damp, filling my lungs almost to the point of pain.

I sense her slowing down, but I don't say anything. There will be a time for words. When her steps lose rhythm entirely, I grab her hand, turning her to face me, forcing her to stop. Her palm is ice-cold, like that of a corpse, and the thought makes me grip her fingers a little tighter.

"Listen to me," I say, holding her gaze. My voice is firm, almost harsh. "They'll be watching you. They'll be looking for weakness. Don't let them see it."

Her eyes meet mine. They're cold, almost lifeless, like the murky surface of a frozen lake. But I catch a flicker of something deep within—maybe anger, maybe despair. She nods.

"I'll manage," she says quietly, as if speaking more to herself than to me.

This is the only moment of vulnerability I can allow her. I have to trust her. She has to stand. My life depends on it. Everything I...

I let go of her hand, although everything inside me protests. I want to hold her so that she doesn't collapse right here, on this path. She moves forward, her back straight, but her steps still betray the inner battle she's fighting. I remain where I am, watching her retreating figure, my thoughts growing darker, like steel needles piercing my mind.

Suddenly, she stops and turns. Her face is more focused now, and her eyes no longer hold emptiness but something sharp, almost cruel.

"Brian," she says, her voice unexpectedly steady. My lungs feel like they've stopped working as I catch her gaze. "I'll manage."

Her expression shifts into one I recognize instantly—a blend of determination and fury, quiet pain and loud hatred. And in that moment, I understand exactly what she's feeling. Because once, I felt it too.

I was twelve. My father's body was growing cold in my arms, his face as pale as hers is now. He was dying, and I had to go to the marketplace to sell his catch from the day before, so my bedridden mother and I could eat.

So if Blair asked me now whether I believe she can do it, I'd answer without hesitation: yes, I do. Because I've seen what a person with empty eyes and a shattered heart is capable of.

Because once, I was  too.