A HENRY STORY 2: Trials Of The Fallen Prince

XXVII. Unbroken

The flier's head shot up. He had heard it quite clearly, but the source of the noise eluded him. Once more, he winced as the sharp sound of metal meeting stone echoed through the air. And again. And again.

He surveyed the area, yet Kismet was nowhere to be found. Since the earthquake, she had insisted on conducting the patrol rounds herself, claiming that he was still injured, no matter how many times he assured her that he felt recovered. It had been a whole week; they had long cleared the cave of debris, and . . . His ears twitched. Whatever Henry was doing up there, Kismet was not here to check on him.

The flier hesitated, yet when he listened for a voice—any voice—to guide him, there was none. The girl . . . Arya, had not spoken to him in ages, and he had long since banned Tonguetwist from his mind. The boy, he thought dazedly. Why was his boy not speaking?

His ears twitched again as the sound repeated. Henry . . . His eyes found the tunnel leading up to the hot spring. His boy was not in his head; he was here.

Without conscious thought, he lifted off the ground and headed toward the tunnel. Yet, upon reaching the entrance, he froze in place. Henry may be here, but he would not speak to him. He had not spoken to him in . . . in . . . The awareness of time passing had become muddled in his mind. Not in . . . For you. All . . . for you.

He jumped when the sound pierced his ears with an even greater intensity. Without consciously deciding to do so, the flier suddenly found himself at the entrance of the cave, where the hot spring awaited. "What . . . are you doing?"

One last time, the flier's ears rang with the clang of metal meeting stone. Mys slipped from Henry's hand, following his last jab at a rock. His eye widened in disbelief, as if the flier's presence here had taken him by surprise. As if he did not want the flier to—

"You are . . . here?"

The flier nodded, yet dared not draw nearer. "I have been here all along," he said gingerly. "Do you not remember? That being said, if you would like me to leave, I am—"

"Why . . . are you still here?"

In an instant, he retreated one step. What was he doing here? What did he even think he was . . . "Forgive—"

"No!"

Abruptly, the flier halted, his attention fully captured by his boy clutching the bandage secured around his abdomen. "No!" urged Henry again. "I do not mean leave; I mean . . . you . . ." He breathed in, sinking back against the wall. "Why are you still here?"

"I am . . ." He found himself stumped for a moment. Had he ever found an answer to this question? "But you . . ." In the brightness of the spring, the flier could finally examine his boy closer, and the sight filled him with horror. "You look even more unwell than after your first month in exile. How . . . much weight have you lost?"

But Henry ignored him. "Please answer me," he begged instead.

"I am . . ." The flier could not hold the intense gaze from his darkened eye. "Where else would I be?" he said at last.

"Anywhere . . . except with the parasite."

The flier's head flew up.

"I was right, no?" asked Henry without looking at him. When he attempted to pull his legs to his chest, he winced in pain. "In the arena, you meant to . . . kill the parasite; this made sense. But I could not make sense of anything you did since. Why did you not kill me? Why did you carry me out? Why . . ." His fist met the stone wall. "Why are you still here?!"

"I am—"

"If you hate me, if you wish to be rid of me, why are you here?" he wailed. "You refused my hand, and you killed me. It is fine, you know?" For a moment, his wailing abated, and the flier could not hold his boy's heartbreaking gaze. "You may hate me. You may even kill me. I told you that you may kill me. That it is fine if it is you. But I . . ." He pulled one leg to the uninjured side of his abdomen. "What are you waiting for here?" he whispered. "Why are you—"