Page 51 of Raisa's Cursed Ravens
The stream babbles on, washing our sweat and blood and the last traces of my shame downstream.
She’s the first to move. She curls into my chest, pressing her ear to my heartbeat. Her body is soft and warm and alive.
I wrap both arms around her, holding her as tight as I can.
There is no guilt this time, and no regret. There’s just the warm weight of her in my arms and more peace than I’ve ever known.
We don’t move fora long time.
She dozes, her face pressed to my chest, one arm thrown across my stomach like she means to anchor me there forever. I listen to her breathing, the soft, warm exhale against my skin. The world is quiet. Just the buzz of insects and the low drone of water rushing over stone.
Eventually, she stirs, blinking the sleep from her eyes.
“Why did you have to kill them?” she asks, her voice soft but clear. “Couldn’t we have just…hidden?”
I stiffen. It’s not the question I expected. It’s not the one I want.
“They would have found us,” I say. “Or found the others. The king’s men never stop, Raisa.”
She sits up, her hair a dark snarl over her shoulders, her legs curled under her. “You didn’t hesitate.”
“I never do.”
She studies me, searching for something in my face. “Is that what you are, then? Just a killer?”
I want to say yes, but the word sticks.
“I’m whatever I need to be,” I say instead. “I’m whatever keeps us alive.”
She nods, but she’s not satisfied with the answer.
“What did my father do to make you hate him?” she asks, the words hot and sharp, as if she understands far more than we’d like.
I freeze. I don’t want to answer, but the truth burns a hole in my chest.
“Took more than we could afford to lose,” I say. The words feel like knives, but I force them out anyway. “He made us what we are.”
She pulls away, wrapping her arms around herself.
“I don’t understand,” she says. “Explain.”
I shake my head. “Some stories aren’t mine to tell.”
She glares, and for a second, I think she’ll hit me.
“I’m not a child,” she finally says, her voice shaking. “I deserve to know.”
She’s right, but I can’t give her what she wants. Not yet.
I stand, pulling my pants back on, then toss her shirt to her. She pulls it on, tying it up with jerky, angry motions.
We walk side by side, neither of us willing to close the gap. Her shoulders are tense, her head held high.
I want to tell her everything. I want to tell her nothing.
When the camp comes into sight, she stops, turning to face me.
“Will you tell me someday?” she asks.
