“They’ll be hungry this winter when the north wind blows and the ice comes,” the Breccan said, and his voice was hoarse, fading. “They’ll starve if you don’t feed them, Torin.”
He turned into ash and blew through his wife’s fingers. His daughters wept and cried for him.
“Da! Da!”
Their voices cut into Torin like three different blades. They needed a healer, and he searched for Sidra in the mist.
“Sidra?” he called, but there was no answer. He realized that these were wounds for him alone to heal, and he looked at his hands, overcome. He thought about what she had once said to him: What will you choose for your hands? His eyes crowded with tears.
“Sidra,” he said, his heart beating a lament. “Sidra,” he whispered, and as he woke the sound of her name broke the darkness and his silence.
He lay in the bed for a shocked moment, drenched through with sweat. It was just before dawn, the coldest and loneliest hour, one that Torin was far too familiar with.
He dared to say her name again, his voice rough-hewn from disuse.
“Sidra?”
She woke.
She sat up in the bed, and her breaths were heavy, as if she had also been captive to a terrible dream. “Torin?”
He slipped from the bed and stumbled into the common room, feeling her presence behind him. She rushed to spark a candle, and they stared at each other in the faint light.
Torin moved to sit at the table, trembling. He rubbed his hands over his face.
“I need to confess to you, Sid.”
Her apprehension was evident as she whispered, “Should I make some tea first?”
“No. Come here, please.”
She set down the candle, her eyes wide, wary of what he was going to tell her. She stood an arm’s length away from him, her chemise slipping from her shoulder.
He couldn’t bear the distance, and he reached for her. She took a step closer to stand between his knees. His hands settled on her waist.
“I’ve made many mistakes in my life,” he began. “But I refuse to let this one get the best of me. I’ve never said this to you, and I didn’t realize how much I desired to speak such truth to you, every sunrise and every sunset, until my voice was taken.” He paused. He was parched, and he longed to drink her in. “I love you, Sidra. My love for you knows no bounds.”
She was quiet. But she touched his hair, and he felt reassured by the gesture.
“I have told you of my struggles,” he said. “I continue to relive the last time I spoke to you. I was angry about the trade and the notion of peace Adaira was striving for. I was angry because it made me feel guilty for all the things I’ve done. When you told me that you would heal a Breccan in need … the indignation within me rose and I couldn’t see past it. All I could see was the terror of the raids I have fought off. All I could think of were the nights I have surrendered being with you in order to keep the east secure. All I could feel was the pain in my old wounds. Because of that, I couldn’t see that you were right. You have the ability to behold our enemy as a person in need. You see what I cannot, Sidra. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what I said to you that day, and I’m sorry that I didn’t listen when you spoke.”
Sidra exhaled. “Torin …”
He was waiting for her to respond, feeling like his heart was unmoored. Gently, he eased her down to his lap. Her eyes were aligned with his, her breaths mingling with his own.
“In the past,” she began, “I’d look at Maisie and think of who she would become in five years, ten years, thirty years, fifty years. I’d think of what her life on the isle would be like. I’d think about the legacy I wanted to leave for her. Would she be full of fear? Of hatred? Or would she be full of what we’ve taught her? Would she be compassionate? Would she be swift to listen, to learn and change?”
“I want a life for Maisie that is better than my own,” Torin agreed, as if their daughter were asleep in the next room. “I want to change. But my bones are old, my heart is selfish, my spirit is weary. I look at me and I look at you, and I see two different dreams. I am death. And you, Sidra …” He reached out to touch her face, softly, as if she might vanish beneath his fingers. “You are life.”
She closed her eyes beneath his caress. When his hand eased away, she looked at him and whispered, “Does that mean we cannot exist as one?”
He had been waiting for her to ask this. He had yearned to answer her in the orchard, when she had made it evident that they were vastly contrasting souls.