Page 95 of Seducing the Sorcerer
Fenn gritted his teeth. He couldn’t do it. He had to do it.
He walked over to Jasper on legs that weren’t his own. Every fibre of his being was screaming at him to drop the gun, to run in the opposite direction. But that didn’t matter. It was war. Jasper had to die. Fenn’s arm was trembling. Too much to trust. To be sure of doing the job properly, he’d have to touch the gun to Jasper’s head.
The muzzle of the gun just parted Jasper’s fair hair. It was a little darker underneath, the colour of fresh hay. Sweat beaded the boy’s pale forehead and he was breathing in gasps, through clenched teeth.
Fenn closed his own eyes. He couldn’t look.
One squeeze of the finger and Jasper would no longer be a problem. One death now might prevent thousands of deaths later on. Everything was at stake. Freedom. Hope. Life.
All Fenn had to do was move one single finger.
One tiny movement and it would be done.
“Fenn, give me the gun,” Morgrim said behind him. His voice was stronger, more normal.
Fenn turned, opening his eyes. Morgrim was hobbling towards him, hand extended. Relief washed through Fenn, so powerful he felt he’d collapse. Morgrim was taking over. And how many men had he killed? Wasn’t the sort of question Fenn had asked at dinner. Should have, considering who Morgrim was. But Morgrim’s face was set. Thousands, probably.
Morgrim took the gun, flicked the hammer to un-cock it, and tossed it away.
Behind Fenn, Jasper gasped.
For a moment, Fenn couldn’t believe what Morgrim had done. Then he thought about what it meant and grief and fury and relief washed through him, and at the end he was left with fury. With Morgrim. For everything. For taking the gun. For not shooting Jasper. For losing his magic. For letting himself be kidnapped. For being who he was.
“The fuck you doing?” Fenn snarled.
“Don’t,” Morgrim said.
“You going to do it, then?”
“No.”
“Got to.” Fenn wanted to shake him. “He knows. So we got to. Won’t get any easier.”
Morgrim shook his head. He had a ripening black eye, his lips were cracked, and there were red marks on his cheeks where the gag had bitten. A cut on his cheek had bled all across his face. There were pine needles in his hair, startlingly orange against the black. A tear glistened in his lashes and fell, drawing a line on his dusty face.
Fenn reached out and was holding him and nothing else mattered.
Not Jasper and whether he should die. Not war or soldiers or the fact that Fenn was going to have to give up the worple horse. Not even the fact that Morgrim likely didn’t love him, or not in the way Fenn wanted. None of these things were as important as the warmth of Morgrim’s body and the shape and the size of him, and the fact that he was alive, still breathing and warm and present in the world.
Morgrim made a gasping noise in his ear, maybe a sob, maybe just struggling for breath. His arms were around Fenn’s waist and he was leaning into the embrace as if he’d fall if it was taken away. Fenn stroked his back the way he’d soothe a frightened horse.
“All right,” Fenn found himself saying. “All right, all right. Everything will be all right.” He was saying it as much for his own benefit as for Morgrim’s.
And it was so good to hold Morgrim again and to know that whatever came next, they’d had this moment together, a moment that felt so essential that the knowledge that it could easily have not happened was like a yawing abyss at their feet that somehow, miraculously, they had managed to avoid.
As if by some magic of unspoken mutual consent, they both shifted back at the same moment. Morgrim wiped his face with the cuff of his robe and made himself look even filthier.
“You came,” Morgrim said.
“You knew I would.”
“No, but I hoped.”
“I shouldn’t have left like that. Storming off. Sorry.”
“Fenn! You’ve nothing to apologise for. I’m the one who’s sorry. Asking—no, demanding—your horse! Gods, what was I thinking?”
“No, you’re right. You should have it.”
