Chapter 38-5

"Cohen." "That's it?" Her brow furrowed as she watched blood trickle down my bare leg. "And now you." "You—Goddess, Nadia. And here you were thinking you'd die in the arena. With an ability like that..." I shook my head. "Talk about exploiting your opponent's weaknesses." "Can I—Let me heal it." She held out her hand, her expression nervous as she said, "I'm sorry, I just wanted to show you. It's hard to explain. And I needed someone to know. Because—Because what if I accidentally hurt Cohen and that's why he won't wake up?" I placed my hand in hers, letting her take a closer look at the cut she'd reopened. "I don't believe for one second that you hurt Cohen." "Maybe not intentionally, but—" "At all." She pursed her lips and ran her fingers over the gash. It stung slightly before that healing warmth flooded through me and the cut began to knit together—the skin like brand new, even the scar gone. "Who did that to you?" "Caine." Nadia's gaze darkened and sat back on her heels. "He has a lot of sins to pay for, doesn't he?" "Countless sins." It fell silent between us, the quiet heavy, but not uncomfortable. I stretched my fingers out before me, my eyes locked on the smooth skin that had once been marred by a scar. Strange, I thought, how the physical evidence could be gone and yet the emotional trauma of it still lingered—the memory of what Caine had done hadn't faded with Nadia's touch. It was possible that it never would. My mother had always been quiet about her sufferings—especially about what it had been like to lose my father. But even without her words, I knew she still lived with memories, and the lack of closure that came with never getting to bury your spouse. She'd watched him walk down the dirt pathway from our house and disappear beyond the tree line. And then he'd just been gone. Dead. She'd gotten a letter. She'd wept. And then she'd avoided ever speaking of it again. That was it. Done. My father, her husband, was just gone. And she'd carried on. A widow. A mother to three young children. Alone in the wilderness of Varos. In a country where it was illegal for women to hunt. Where she could only survive by believing that tomorrow would be better than today. I looked down at the healed cut, the place where Caine had bled me weeks ago—and I understood that I'd learned to handle my demons the way my mother had. She'd taught me a great many valuable things. My mother had instructed me on how to survive when all you wanted to do was curl up and die. Renee Benson had taught me to love deeply—even when that love could be ripped from you, could be snatched away at any moment and forced to die in an arena. She'd taught me to fight fiercely for others who were less fortunate and for myself. But more than that, she'd taught me to cling to tomorrow with a white-knuckled grip. And those were lessons I was still constantly learning. They were lessons I tended to forget, to dimiss in the face of the trials I was facing—both in the arena and out of it. But looking down at the patch of smooth skin where that scar had once been, I wondered if my mother's strength was not in her denial of her trauma and heartbreak, but could instead be found in her ability to face those things. Maybe she didn't keep silent because she couldn't bear to speak about my father's death, but because that darkness was behind her. It was her yesterday. And she was living today. She had to let go of it—to look that sorrow dead in the eye and learn to put them in her past—in order to make it to the tomorrow she craved to see. It seemed like sometimes I could forget the things I'd done and had done to me. There were moments when I could banish the dark memories to some far-off corner of my mind. I'd feel that hurt curl into a ball, like a wounded beast, a festering wound. And it would wait. That aching sorrow in my bones, the flood of memories I worked to suppress, would wait until my guard was down and then it would strike. Then, I relived it all again. I would see my own heartache in the heartache of others. In Isla's having to leave Annalise. In Nadia's futile attempts to save Cohen. In Dellacov's choice to go to Pellarmus instead going to the girl he loved. In the cuts on Heidi's wrist, fading but never entirely healed. In Uri being chained to a throne. In the stain of blood on my nightgown. In the anguish on Kai's face as he'd been forced to choose between me and a people he'd only just begun to lead. I saw myself in all of it. And for the first time, I wasn't afraid. For the first time, I looked past it. I saw tomorrow. One day at a time. One day at a time until I was far enough away that the sting of my past didn't blind me. I could do that. I would do that. I balled my hand in fist, hiding my mark and the blood crusted skin of my palm. I said to Nadia, "When Cohen wakes up, we should have a plan for what will happen next. Britta mentioned a factory producing tacet and clearly, she has a ring of spies. We should—we should meet with her. You, me, and Heidi. We've got to be done waiting." She lifted her red-rimmed eyes to mine. "But what if he doesn't wake up?" "He will." I swallowed and leaned over the tub, turning the faucet on. Nadia watched as scrubbed the blood from hand. "He will wake up," I said again. "And when he does, he'll be able to join the fight again." I offered her a small smile. "Between you with that ability and Cohen with his throwing knives, Caine won't know what hit him. We've got to be ready to move." She got to her feet and offered me her hand. "Alright, but first, I think I should probably get you back into fighting shape—okay?" I nodded and took her hand, letting her help me up from the edge of the bath tub. "Okay."