Page 10 of Lux

I could die like this here, with him. But then I wouldn’t be able to experience new things. New observations about him, my Caspian. Like the fact that once he recalls that water needs soap to clean, he snaps into action with clinical efficiency. With a rag fished from Daven Wick’s borrowed things, he helps me wash with more care than even I utilized while performing my chores around the Citadel.

I slaved over those floors. I strived to ensure that every last inch gleamed and shone.

Compared to the way he treats my body, I woefully failed. He worships this pale, gaunt frame. He utilizes a care that leaves me breathless. Yet I can tell from his expression alone that he doesn’t intend to treat me any differently than what comes to him naturally. So studious he looks. How I would imagine an artist would, slaving over their artwork.

Or so I assume.

Eventually he looks up and notices me staring. His hand grips the rag tighter, leaving it pressed into my lower back.

“You are laughing,” he warns, still cautious. Am I mocking him?

Never.

“I am happy,” I say. It sounds so strange on my tongue. A foreign word I’ve never spoken. A mind state that requires near-constant giggles and laughter.

A word that makes him frown and eye me in a new, unsettling way. It’s like he’s noticing my appearance for the first time. The face atop the body he’s washed with utter reverence. Too-bigeyes. Dark hair, clinging to me like a cape. Twitching pink lips and crooked, broken smile.

He looks at me, this abominable creature. This half-something, half-fae thing. He looks at me and for the first time in my life I don’t feel unworthy of being seen.

In his eyes, I am something beautiful. Something worthy of being touched.

And he is worthy, too. Worthy of laughter and giggles and anything else I could possibly give him. I’d offer him the world if I could. He could have my tears too if he wanted them.

“I like your laugh,” he says, his expression stern, his voice brusque. Business-like. He then stands and extends his hand to me. I take it and step out of the tub into the suddenly chilly air. I stand still as he wraps me in a fuzzy strip of cloth and then helps me into the clothing Daven Wick provided.

A big, bright shirt like Colleen’s in sunflower yellow. A long, green skirt that swishes as I walk. I love them. Soft and warm and bright.

He picked them for me due to their color alone. It inspired a thought he couldn’t shake: how would I look draped in fabric sunlight? I can't tell what he thinks of his creation in person. He merely tilts his head while those red eyes roam my body from head to toe.

Watching him, I note all of the ways the mortal realm has affected him as well. He’s more alert, and constantly on edge. Bathed in dried blood, he somehow seems less intimidating than he did when he cornered me in the archives. He seems lost here. Unsure.

“I should wash you,” I say, steering him to the bathtub.

He doesn’t resist, and I take my time to inspect him in every way I can. He’s so tall that even though he sits on the rim of the tub, he still towers over me as I crouch beside him. He doesn’t seem to care or notice the water temperature I bathe him with. He just watches me, his gaze stoic, limbs rigid and unmoving.

But beneath my touch... He stirs to life, adjusting himself to my cleansing swipes. It is necessary for me to remove some of his clothing, and with every part of him bared, my throat tightens. The weight of my heart grows heavier, and my tongue becomes damp, so that I have to swallow repeatedly. After I wipe him down, I can't keep myself from lingering, tracing my fingers along his muscular chest. His skin is porcelain, unblemished by any flaw. Not a single scar, not even a pimple or birthmark. He is perfect. In a trembling voice, I tell him so. Perfection in living form.

That compliment doesn’t seem to offend him. He merely nods, his voice a low, rumbling rasp. “I am.”

All vamryre are taught to think so, and embrace their physical perfection. Yet, I can’t risk asking him next, “How long? How long have you been a vamryre?” He remains silent as my fingers traipse over his breastbone and ghost across a pale nipple.

As I approach the crest of his ribcage, however, he gently bats my hand aside and stands.

In no time, he redresses himself without requiring my assistance. Then dons a leather jacket with a low hood. Wearing it, he can navigate the warehouse fully and in silence, we fall into the task of moving Altaris’s boxes out of sight and opening up this space.

Our space.

I’ve never had one to call my own before. I’ll accept such a gift even from someone like Altaris. A whole space to call my own. A winding room with echoing floors and beautiful windows that display swathes of the outside city. A shadowy alley. A flat, gray yard overgrown with weeds. The brick of a nearby building.

Even if we travel to the other realm, we will come back. We must. I will promise myself that much at least.

In silence, Caspian and I continue to wander, and look and inspect.

But in contrast to my awe, he is brooding. Impatient. Unimpressed.

“Too many points of entry,” he says, scowling at a window. His hood protects him from the worst of the sunlight, not that it seems to bother him. The amount of glass does.

“Too much space,” he adds while standing in the center of the room. “Too many obstacles.”

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