To Never Say Goodbye (28)

The light was so pervasive. It pierced through the dense foliage, casting scattered orange hues that illuminated an otherwise private conversation.

There were moments when the flickering light made him glance over his shoulder, half-expecting to see one of them standing there. Deep down, a part of him clung to the hope that either of them would appear. But hope, he knew, was a frivolous thing.

The old magus remained silent, reaching into his sleeve to produce a flawless yellow flower. The stem, cut an inch from its receptacle, wept with a deep purple ichor.

“You want me to poison her?”

“She trusts you. If there were—”

Without giving the chance for anything else to be said, he took the flower from the magus and returned to the small camp nestled in the glade.

Adrian lay fast asleep, cocooned in his bedroll, while the pages of his journal absorbed the spilled ink from a toppled bottle. She, too, slumbered, lying on his bedroll; the blanket bundled beside her.

He withdrew his waterskin from his satchel, pouring a mouthful or two into a cup. Along with the flower, he added a handful of clover sprigs and set it by the fire to steep. Settling beside her, he gently draped the blanket back over her shoulder – he hoped she wouldn’t wake.

“Eliza?” She spoke his name with such warmth; at any other moment, it would have filled him with such joy.

“Sorry, I got up to make tea. Want some?”

She nodded, propping herself up and nestling against his chest.

Straining to reach the cup, he tried not to disturb her. As he cradled it in his hand, its warmth seeped into his skin, burning him ever so slightly and reminding him of what was about to occur. He handed it to her, smiling as best he could.

“Don’t worry, I’ve already had some.”

She took a sip, and he watched the steam cling to her breath as she contentedly sighed. She spoke as if her dreams were becoming real. As she finished another sip, he gently took the cup from her.

“I had a dream,” she murmured, wistfully surrendering to sleep.

He set the cup aside, allowing her to speak, holding her close. She spoke of blissfully impossible things: a house on a hill, a garden with rows of flowers, Adrian’s visits, their shared life, lemon curd pastries. Each detail seemed to materialise from her dreams, becoming vivid in his imagination as well.

With a gentle yawn, she asked, “It’ll happen one day, right?”

All he could muster was, “I promise.”