Page 33 of Heir Of Sun And Moon
I find myself with a ridiculous nervous energy the next morning, so I work through my chores for the first time in a week. I clean my bed linens and wash the laundry. I dust and sweep and mop until I’m sweating from the exertion. Hunger rumbles in my stomach, so I make a plate of dried fruits, some nuts, and a slice of bread and head outside to the balcony to eat. Only a few wispy white clouds are painted above me, the sun shining brightly in the sky. As soon as I cross into its warmth, some of the tension constantly coiled within me begins to marginally ease.
I’m afraid, however, that if I relax too much, all the things I’m bottling up will rush to the surface with a force so strong that I won’t be able to recover. But even spending time outside, one of my favorite places to be, sets off so many memories and moments whenhewas here. My heart is in juxtaposition—I feel both everything and nothing. The aching loss of never seeing Alexi’s face again battles with the invading numbness I’ve come to prefer at the memory of his death. I’ve always felt some sort of loneliness and sadness because of how I’m forced to exist, but this feeling? It’s oppressive—like being trapped in a well and watching water slowly pour in, looking up at the sky and knowing you won’t be able to tread water long enough to survive.
I stay outside for a while, looking out to the edge of the forest in the distance. My mind wanders to the guard and the strangeness of him coming over tonight. Do I let him in the tower? What if his intentions are nefarious? I suppose Bella would protect me, but that would be a problem itself. My mind wars internally as I acknowledge that I’m so desperate for mortal interaction that I’m risking not only myself but Bella’s safety as well.
Sighing, I grab my plate and bring it inside to wash. Then I sit on the little seat by the window in the library and read until the sky turns from a light blue to a pale lavender. Closing my book, I lay my arms on the ledge and place my head atop them as I watch the horizon fade to pink. When the pitch black of night comes, only lit by the stars and moon gleaming brightly above, I make my way upstairs.
Sitting at my vanity in near darkness, the dancing flames of a candle my only source of light, I brush my hair out until it’s silky smooth—admiring my new brush as I do so. Frustration stings within when I tie my hair back into a low ponytail with a hair ribbon. I wish I had been taught to braid my hair; it would be nice to be able to style it differently every once in a while.Like when a handsome guard is coming over.
Tightness grips my chest at the thought, and I immediately blush, scared I’m going to look the wrong way in front of him. Or worse,saythe wrong thing. I don’t even know why I agreed to this when the only thing I am capable of is being alone. Setting the brush down, I nervously fidget with my dress. I picked one of the lovely pieces from Tienne and Erica in hopes of feeling more confident. Or maybe less like the truth of what I am—a scared, lonely, and battered girl in a tower. My eyes squeeze shut, and I hold my breath, willing those thoughts that have rushed to the surface back into those boxes in my mind. Four gentle knocks on the door startle me out of my concentration, nearly causing me to topple off the stool.
I look to where Bella is laying on the bed, ears perked but body relaxed. I don’t have to tell her to stay, she looks more than comfortable where she is. With my heart inexplicably pounding in my chest, I make my way down from the loft, rounding the three spirals before stepping onto the wood floor. My hand shakes as I step forward and grip the handle of the door.For the love of the gods, Rhea, calm down. I blow out a breath at my own command and slowly open the door to the guard.
His eyes immediately ensnare mine—like magnets being drawn together. His mouth is relaxed into a small smile, his body language and posture calm and open. Like he knows I’m nervous being around someone new, so he’s making it as easy as he can. But that’s a ridiculous thought because why would he do that? He doesn’t even know me.
“Hello again,” he says, that charming voice setting something small aflutter in me. He’s wearing all black again, no sword or armor in sight.
“Hello,” I repeat quietly, holding his gaze while I twist my dress nervously in my hand.
His eyes dart down to my hands for a second before he brings them back up to mine. He ponders something for a minute, his fingers flexing around a black bag in his grip. “Is it okay if we play the game on the landing?” he asks politely.
My shoulders ease down from my ears—a position I didn’t even realize I was holding. “Okay.” My voice is a shaky whisper. I find it annoying and I wish I wasn’t showing how off-kilter I feel.
The guard just smiles and steps back to take a seat on the stone landing, leaving plenty of room for me to take my own. I notice that there is a second torch lit on the wall behind him, both casting plenty of amber light as their flames cause our shadows to sway around us. One foot steps beyond the door, and a realization hits me so hard that I freeze where I am, half in and half out. The guard notices immediately, a dark brow lifting in question. My cheeks heat up as I clear my throat and prepare for his ridicule.
“This is my first time stepping out past the door,” I confess self-consciously.
The guard stills, halting his set up of the game. “Your first time stepping past the door… ever?” His tone is incredulous. It makes me feel even more humiliated that I’m an adult and have never evenattemptedto walk out onto the landing.
“Maybe this isn’t such a good idea,” I breathe, bringing my foot back inside. I can’t do this, I don’t know why I thought I could.
“Wait, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to come off as rude or insensitive. I just assumed…” he says, holding out a hand to stop me. His head shakes before he clears his throat. “I’m sorry.”
I force back the knot in my throat. Why does it feel like even the smallest things are too monumental to get through?
“I would still very much like to play, but if I’ve ruined it and you want to leave, I understand.” Several moments pass as I mull over his words and contemplate what to do. I don’t want to go back to the quiet tower with only my consuming thoughts for company. Tentatively, I step back out over the threshold and take a seat across from him as he smiles, looking relieved and even delighted. There’s a wooden board with nine squares broken up into three rows of three.
“Do you want to be the naughts or crosses?” he asks, holding a pile of pieces in each hand out to me. I lean over to get a better look and point to one of the heaps. “These are the crosses,” he tells me as he carefully sets the wooden pieces into my hand. The warmth of his touch brings an intense sort of awareness to where our skin meets. My eyes flick up to his, but he already has his gaze on me. He looks at me like he’s discovered something new—something exciting. I quickly bring my hand back to my chest, cradling the pieces that look like their namesake. He holds up his pieces—the naughts—which look like the letter “o.” “The point of the game is to try to get three in a row. You can get them by going across,” he points with his finger, dragging it from the left to the right side of the board, “or by going vertically or diagonally. You can also block a person from getting a three in a row by laying your piece down to break it up.” I nod in understanding, and he gestures with a hand towards me. “Why don’t you go first? Lay a piece down anywhere you want on the board.”
Contemplating my first move, I twirl the cross piece in my hand. I decide to go for the middle, as it is likely the easiest way to have a few chances at getting three in a row.
“Interesting choice,” he says, smiling at me before laying his piece down. He chooses a spot also in the middle row, on my left. I place a cross in my bottom right corner. He blocks my attempt at winning by placing his piece in my top left corner. I’m so focused on trying to find another spot for me to win, that I lay a piece down on the top right corner. He smiles as he lays his piece in the bottom left corner. “I win,” he exults.
I narrow my eyes at him and grab my pieces off the board. “I want to try again.”
He grins, clearing his pieces off. “Of course. But I will start this time, since I won.” He lays his first piece down in the middle.
I jokingly scoff, “That’s not very gentlemanly of you.” Following his lead, I place my next piece down as well.
“Good thing I never said I was a gentleman,” he replies, his voice low and teasing. His pupils flare for a second before he breaks eye contact and lays a second piece down on the board. Back and forth we go in silence, but it’s not awkward or heavy. The game ends in a tie, so we start over. We play nearly twenty games before a yawn breaks free from me. He’s won six times to my four, the rest of our matches ending in ties.
“I should probably call it a night,” he groans, stretching his arms overhead after our next game ends in yet another tie. I yawn again, covering my mouth with my hand while nodding. I hand him the pieces and fold up the board while he puts them back in their bags. When everything is cleaned up, we both stand and dust off our clothing. I take a step back over the threshold, leaning on the door frame as the guard keeps some distance from me.
Clearing my throat, I look up at him through my lashes. “Thank you for teaching me how to play,” I say, chewing on my bottom lip. His eyes catch the movement briefly before he glances away and nods.
“You’re welcome.” He halts, his head tilting and causing some of his dark hair to slide over his forehead. “Would it be ok if I came back?”
His question is genuine, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel my heart beat funny because of it. Do I trust him? No, not at all. But is it nice to have someone else here? Is it welcome to have somethingdifferentto break up the repetitive dullness that has me alternating between pretending to be fine and actively forcing myself to be? Is it a relief just to hear a voice other than my own?
