Deathless (Editing)

Chapter 13: Instruments of Darkness

Blood-soaked days spent in the infirmary passed like honey through an hourglass. Blood soaked the cuffs of my garment, streaked down my apron, and dotted the hem of my dress. Whoever thought to make the medical staff's garments white clearly hated the washers.

After clamping an artery, I stepped back to evaluate the system of glistening intestines in their beauty. Sometimes, I couldn't help but marvel at the intricacy of the body and its many winding and complex systems.

Dr. Sand's clipped tones and forceful commands, however, always managed to cut through my wonder, like hot steel through butter.

When we were done, he dismissed me after 18 punishing hours of surgery.

The days had lapped since I last sought respite at the cabin I shared with Giselle, and, when I stepped through the massive wooden doors of the infirmary and onto the dirt roads of the camp, I was expecting sun and bright blue sky, instead, only the warm shades of twilight greeted me.

The camp was still roaring with activity. There were still men hauling supplies through the streets. There were still horses and riders darting into the nearby stables. The gray dampness of the clay still glistened, pocked with still rainwater.

My eyes stung as I wound my way toward the cabins. Slowly activity peeled away as I continued down the cobblestone path. The scenery became darker and grim. The warmth of twilight soon gave way to the chill of shadow. The trees near the cabins loomed with their skeletal, twisted frames and black bark.

Maybe it was all in my mind. Maybe it was dread that crowded me when I made my way to the cabin: dread at the darkness that filled my nights; dread at the beautiful boy who controlled the darkness; dread at the comfort I was soon coming to find in his voice, in his gaze, in his regards.

I had not seen the Lord High Commander in the flesh in weeks. Not since the feast night, where he kissed my knuckles as if they were made of glass. But, every night, we did battle. Light and dark. Life and death. It was a constant struggle. He was my better, and he knew how to push me until the edge of exhaustion, but no further. It was the perfect amount of horrible.

A deep gasping breath drew me from my dread.

You're overdoing it.

I blinked. Briefly, I wondered if I had thought those words or heard them.

"You're overdoing it." It was a man's voice.

"Tolly?" I blinked. Hard. He was a sight for sore eyes. I had barely known him, but, here, at camp, he was my oldest association, and it had been so long since our paths last crossed. I had vanished into the world of the dying, the darkness, and he had been sent away to the Killing Fields shortly after the feast.

"No Sir Bartholomew?" he mocked, lips slanting upward in a sly grin.

I was too tired for formalities. "That too," I exhaled. "What do you want?" I tried hard to force an edge to my voice, but my exhaustion blunted the impact. Maybe I secretly wanted to see him. It felt familiar, easy, like an imitation of companionship.

Tolly tracked my movements closely. I wasn't sure what to make of his expression; it was equal parts empathy and disdain. "I survived." He bent his head lower, and I blinked again, not understanding why he was bridging the gap between us.

"I see." Reflexively, I took a small step back. My gaze darted to the left, then to the right, then slightly ahead, past Tolly. There was no one nearby to hear us. There was no one at all. So why was he leaning into me, invading my space?

"You're my betrothed," he murmured, angling his head toward mine. "I was expecting a grand reception."

My brows furrowed, and I pulled back. Tolly may have been my oldest acquaintance at camp, but we were not intimate.