Page 118 of Through Battle and Blades (The Wolf Queen 2)

“C’mon,” Weyland said, taking my hand and tugging me up the stairs. “I want to carry you up, lass, and lie you on our bed. But I can’t. I just can’t.”

That exhaustion, that admission of defeat? We all felt the same. So we were forced to carry our own burdens up the steps and down the hall, into our room, the long corridor filling with people for once.

“Sleep, Darcy…”

Weyland’s voice was a thin note of complaint that barely cut through the frantic haze that clouded my mind as I shifted on the bed.

We’d laid down, or rather landed like felled trees on the big bed we shared, still filthy and that seemed to claw at me.

“I can’t.”

My voice was sharp, snappish, and I shot him a look of contrition as I jerked myself off the bed. He was lying spread out on the bed, making the process of resting seem as attractive as possible. I wanted to crawl into the safe harbour of his body, nestle down inside his arms and—

My thoughts were interrupted by a feeling of unease. Not of mystical origin, but of physical. My skin felt too tight, my armour too constrictive. My head was too light and my hands… I looked down at them, stopping where I was. That rusty red splash across the palm reminded me of what I’d done. The queen… Her stumble, my blade… The gurgle of her last breath as… I frowned, then stared at my hands, tracing the lines with my eyes, seeing every inch of dirt as a signifier.

“I killed her.”

“I thought this might happen.” Axe rolled to his feet and approached me, arms wide, but I shook my head.

“I killed the king. I killed Nordred and all of those men.”

“Don’t do this, lass,” he told me in a deep and reassuring voice. “Don’t let the dead get their hooks into you. You did what you had to, what you needed to, to survive.”

“But I couldn’t fucking kill him.” My eyes flicked around the room, taking in everything but seeing nothing. “If I’d just killed Callum—”

Strong hands hooked me around the waist and dragged me down into the tightly packed embrace of my mates. I flinched each time I felt them touch me, wanting to shove them off, yet worrying at the stains I would leave on them if I did.

But I had already. I grabbed Dane’s hands, turning them palm up and scouring them for signs. No stains there, none of the back, not even thin red lines around the nail beds. Because he hadn’t wielded the axe, my increasingly sluggish mind supplied, so I turned to Axe.

“No,” Axe told me, his hands going to my shoulders, but I didn’t listen. I twisted, turned in his grip, searching for the taint I knew must be there, until he used the grip he had on me to give me a little shake. “I know what you’re doing, lass, because we’ve all done it. When the immediate danger is over, when things stop still, that’s when it comes. All the horror, the guilt, the regret that you couldn’t allow yourself to feel before. What ruled you before is the part of you that wanted to survive, not matter what. But now?”

One hand pulled away so he could poke a finger into my chest.

“Now that you're safe, for the moment, the other part of your mind shoves forward.” His blue eyes stared into mine, but there was a gentleness there, an understanding. “The part that stops you from cutting down some bastard who pisses you off at the pub, or snatching away something that someone else has that you want. The sensible part, the civil part, the real Darcy. Give me a waterskin.”

Gael deposited one in his hand and Axe pulled the cork and then poured it onto a cloth that appeared from nowhere. Then, looking up into my eyes, he scrubbed my hands clean.

“You’ll take some time to process what’s happened. How can you not, love? You’ve fought two duels, been a soldier on the battlefield, saw your father die before you, then ours. You were threatened with rape, murder, violation at every turn.”

He dropped the cloth to the flagstones and I jumped at the sound of its splat.

“And when you wake up, you’ll have to fight to defend a city you’ve barely spent a few weeks in.”

His arms went around me and he held me close and, this time, I didn’t resist. I wanted his big, strong solidity more than my next shuddering breath.

“I still see them, half the bloody Granians I’ve put in the ground.” His voice was much quieter now, a comforting thrum. “I see the whites of their eyes flashing and their blunt teeth grimacing, right before a fountain of blood pours from between them. I hear their screams, their horses' screams, even. I feel the hot blast of their piss as they sag against me, taking their last breath. I smell the stink of their shit. Blood and shit, that’s all a battle is. The end results might be noble, but the process is fucking horrendous if you ask me.”

It wasn’t quite the consoling speech one might expect, but somehow it was all the better for it. I would’ve rebuffed any attempt to wave the issue away with some soft words, but this? His gruff recitation of his pain, of mine, was enough for me to sag in his grip until he collected me up and held me in his arms.

“Now, if you can’t sleep, why don’t you tell me about Eleanor?”

“Eleanor?” I croaked.

“The visions you were getting, they were all about her. They told us about Nordred, about your lineage, but surely that’s not all the Mother meant for you to see.”

“It seems like there must be more,” Dane agreed. “If the old queen’s story is important, then let's tell it to the end.”

The end… Those words seemed to reverberate around in my mind as I was laid down across Axe’s lap, everyone settling in for the wait. I blinked, my eyelids feeling so heavy, so perhaps that’s why the vision came so easily. I was halfway gone to dream anyway

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