I’m fine. I’m safe.
He took a few involuntary steps toward her. Even in this incorporeal form, she was like gravity; he couldn’t have resisted her pull if he tried. And even in this form, he could see how tired she was. She had that hunted look he’d seen on the faces of alliance intelligence when they’d returned from missions. It was not a look he’d ever wanted to see her wear. His own expression was agonized.
“I hate this,” he said bitterly, coming to a stop a few feet from her, his hazel eyes searching her face. “Maybe he needs you now, but what happens when he decides he doesn’t? You have to get out of there…” but then she was asking about her mother, and Mace came up short. Nimueh. The other person he couldn’t save. He swallowed past the lump in his throat, wanting desperately to comfort her, to wipe away her tears. Instead he told her the truth. “She wouldn’t come with me, Ana. She said she couldn’t leave. I don’t know what happened after that.” Mace did not cry, but he felt like he might - everything hurt in the right places. But it was such a familiar pain, and this was such a familiar ritual, that it made him feel more emptiness than grief. I do not know what happened to your loved one, but I expect the worst. “I’m so sorry,” he said, as he always did. He meant it.
Even so, her words made him angry. “You shouldn’t be sorry, and you’re not fine, Ana. Nothing about any of this is fine.” Frustration edged his words – one hand scrubbed impatiently through his hair, growing longer and wilder by the day. She was closer now, but it was an illusion, and he wasn’t sure he’d ever see her in person again. He didn’t dare voice his fears aloud. The ache in his throat spread through his chest, his heart. “Tristan is a mess,” he answered, looking at her feet. “We got your gift. I don’t think he knows what to make of it. He still…he needs time.” He needed a lot more than time, but Mace wasn’t sure how to help him. He’d always been good in a crisis, not as good in the aftermath. The level of loss involved here was far beyond his realm of expertise.
Morgana startled like a rabbit, and Mace followed her gaze, catching a glimpse of a familiar tawny coat in the gathering dark. “It’s Josephine,” he murmured, reassuring, “keeping a perimeter. If anyone comes, she’ll know.” When she turned back toward him, the concern on her face was almost enough to crack him in two. He had to close his eyes a moment, take a deep breath. “I’m not hurt.” It was mostly true. “I’d feel a lot better if I could touch you. Convince myself you’re real.” His hand did rise, then, tracing the luminous outline of her face, feeling nothing but the cool night air. Longing pierced him like a knife. “How can I protect you, when I’m here and you’re there?”
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