Whispers Waltz Around Our Dreams . . .
The relief of her beloved accepting her touch, of him moving to accommodate her trembling body, had Losa exhaling with a shiver, eyes drifting shut. Hurricane’s muscles were firm as iron under his midnight robes, and yet there no embrace more comforting than him curling around her like a protective wall, his cologne surrounding her. At the first brush of a kiss on her face, Losa whimpered and snuggled closer. Breathing him in. Feeling him, the slide of tendons over muscle, the ripple of strength under flesh, sensations that under normal circumstances would have the rainbow damsel short of breath and hotter than the fire she’d been named for. When Hurricane spoke, voice rough and raw, Losa wanted nothing more than to take back her weakness and reassure him that she was fine, everything was all right, and he had nothing to apologize for. That he was already the very best, and could do no better. Another failure of hers: allowing the soldier she’d chosen as her true mate to think he was not enough. For every tender swipe of his tongue on her canvas, Losa nuzzled gently against him . . . she didn’t deserve this brave, savage, loving knight, who was moved to sorrow as soon as she betrayed her selfish sadness . . .
Gods, she adored him. Losa had never wanted anything or anyone the way she desired Hurricane.
And because she loved him so, she knew that she could not put up this shameless act any longer.
“No I . . . I c-can’t!” An abrupt surge of revulsion rose up like a massive cresting wave inside her guts, foaming edge spilling forward and sending an acid flood up the base of her throat, and her stomach clenched as if she’d vomit a stream of bile, and Losa squirmed and pushed against Hurricane’s side to free herself so she could dash toward a bush and dry-heave into the dry brittle leaves. Every pastel hair on her nape stood on end, a forest of dawn-pink and soft lavender and creamy orange. Her lightning-veined limbs trembled, barely supporting her - the pain of her withdrawn emotions manifesting physically into an ache that seemed to smolder in her bones. Arcus Irae weren’t meant to isolate themselves. They were not made to ruminate on negativity, even their own, for that kind of ugly chaotic energy infected them like a disease. It clashed with the innate goodness of their magic, the healing aura they projected the same way they breathed: effortlessly, thoughtlessly. The more Losa locked her soul up - squeezing it into submission inside the cage of her ribs - the more her spirit’s wounds festered. Twisted. Sobs wracked against the sound of her gagging. Red-hot shame blazed under her fur like a fever. Losa had done this to herself. She’d submitted to a histrionic selfish wish - the desire to punish herself - because she’d failed so hard and so often and nobody had held her accountable for any of it and she was too scared to grieve because her presence may taint the other rainbows just like Duma had tainted her -
“I can’t . . . d-do this an-ny more . . .” The Dawnfire dancer could hardly breath past the violent jumping of her chest, the unbearable tension that pulled either end of her larynx so ruthlessly it felt as if her throat would snap. She didn’t know if the convulsions ripping through her were from her abdomen trying to expell poison that wasn’t there, or from the hopeless weeping she could not stop. And Hurricane was seeing all of this. Losa had held herself together, all those thin little stitches, for all these horrid months, and instead of gradually revealing her sorrows she was unloading them all at once in an eruption of disgusting self-pity. Perhaps a small part of Losa felt safe enough to be hideous around the glorious gladiator . . . after all, Hurricane had seen all her worst moments before. He’d survived her pointless tantrums, her bratty demands, the stunts she pulled just to challenge the mettle and patience of her guards. Even when Losa needed to wear her mask for everyone else, she could be herself with Hurricane. Her Torneach Mhutair, her Thunder Killer. He knew her frustrations. He understood her fire, her dangerous passions. And Losa wanted to believe - so desperately her heart could crack - that if she explained herself, Hurricane would understand this outburst, too.
“I t-tried to h-h-hold it back but I . . .” Her thoughts were fish swimming too fast, and Losa clutched clumsily at them in the current. “I w-wanted to free them-m, but was that right? V-Vera and Fairuz died. They were children, and I k-ki-k . . .” Losa swallowed deeply. She still hadn’t turned to face Hurricane. But she could feel the intensity of his lightning-colored eyes on her spine. Knowing he’d immediately shut her down if she said “I killed them,” the ex-princess tried to amend her words, find a truthful statement that would still accurately explain the horror of guilt she drowned under. “At least they were safe back home . . .” Safe. Slaves, but safe. Relatively speaking. A shudder passed down her back, a vision of Duma’s blazing eyes laughing at her tears as he explained his plans, told her they’d already been carried out, that the Arcus Irae had a new purpose. Somewhere their god-damned bond writhed within her, tying her to that bastard’s madness even from this great distance. A serpent coiled restlessly in its bed.
As much as Losa wanted to blame her debasement on her soulmate bond with Duma, something held her back. The root of her disease was a component of that bond, not a symptom of it. Losa had known that something was amiss as soon as the first rainbows crossed into Blossom Forest; she didn’t want to admit that this deformation of her soul might have begun long before Fairuz and Vera died.
“Hurricane, I’m . . . I’m . . .” Now at last she faced him again, her face stricken, tears pouring soundlessly past her high cheekbones. “I’m not right. Something is wrong with me, and I don’t know what it is. I lost the peace I’m supposed to have. We were in the mountains - Quiturah and I - and someone attacked us-” Her throat closed up on the word “attacked.” She turned her mask away, afraid of Hurricane’s reaction to the news. “There was nothing I can do. I’m supposed to be able to calm others, soothe their aggressive impulses, but he just kept getting angrier and . . . and it wasn’t until Zawyne showed up, and all she said was ‘stop’ and he did. Just like that. Why couldn’t I make that happen? What did I do wrong?” Her shoulders started shaking, her cries ramping back up.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t go to you. I’m sorry I stayed away.” Suddenly Losa sprang forward, throwing her cobalt-gloved forelimbs around Hurricane’s neck like the pup she used to be, weeping openly into the midnight plane of his shoulder. “Why am I so grotesque? Why do you put up with me?!” Losa’s heart had tried to protect itself with rage since she was little - and that fury had devoured plenty of tinder throughout her lifetime. Both she and the colossal guard had faced countless challenges to feed their respective anger, their railing against injustice, and it was that shared storm that brought them together again and again when everything else around them was destroyed from their force of their own passions. Her sobs shredded into a long snarl that she muffled in Hurricane’s obsidian fur, claws clenching through his pelt.
☽Arcus Irae Princess | Sister to Zawyne | Chained to Duma | Bound to Hurricane | xathira☾
