Fitful restless thoughts had followed Elyna into dreamless sleep. Her leg throbbed and she was too hot. When she closed her eyes she saw red and felt the incessant beat of pain in her leg. The young woman tried focusing on the cool pearl of the ring, pressed against her lip and the soft movements from within her own body. She drifted and woke as the door opened once more. Her back to the entrance she refused to turn and welcome her visitor with a look or any sign of acknowledgment. She hated him. With every slow beat of her pulse she reminded herself that she hated Marcus Krome. She hated her Uncle and the force of her venom gave her strength.
“You always looked so delicate when you’re sleeping,” it was a deep voice and it sent shockwaves down her spine.
Elyna closed her eyes. No. It couldn’t be. She begged whichever Immortal was listening and received no response.
“We both know what a lie that’d be though,” he pulled the chair over and it screeched along the wooden floor.
The woman turned and sat up in a careful movement. Edging to press her back to the wall. Tired eyes moved over the familiar form and her heart tied itself in knots with her stomach. So here he was, alive after all. As though her voice was stolen, the young Skyrider traced the lines of his face and the jaw hidden behind a scruffy beard. Piercing blue eyes and a soft mouth, at odds to the hard body and the wide shoulders and chest. The Hangman, Yoreth Blackwood. Not dead. Alive. In her room. He studied her and seemed disappointed in his assessment.
With her knees bent, she could tuck the end of her dress underneath her dress and so she did. Hiding herself from him. Blood stained the fabric along her thigh and hip and she pressed a hand to the wound, trying to ease the pain with pressure. Heat travelled down her spine and she knew that she must look a mess. Coated with sweat, tears dried in tracks down her cheeks. Hair tangled and left trailing loose down her back. Never, in all of her imaginings or worst nightmare had she wanted to meet Yoreth on these terms. Why was he here?
Silence stretched between them, time measured only by the sound of movement beyond the door. Guards changing, talking or playing dice. Food prepared and dished out. The house was filled with the Qe’Dreki. What did you say to a man who you’d spent years mourning? He wasn’t dead and she didn’t know how to answer that betrayal or how to understand it. How many trials had she known he was alive? Not enough. Not enough to put aside all the anguish his death had caused her. The deep down loss that even now, with him sat across the room, her soul couldn’t simply ignore. She wanted to snuff any emotive connection to the man out, like a candle flame. Love wasn’t like that though. He had been hers to love, across the ocean until her own heart stopped beating. It wasn’t a love she could undo no matter how much pain it had caused her. Finally, she remembered to breath and the air came jagged into her lungs.
“Fuck off, Yoreth.”
Anger. Anger was a good emotion.