Wolf's-own: Weregild Page 13

  He wasn't talking to Fen now; he was talking to Jacin. Malick had wanted exactly this, only days ago, and now that he had it, Umeia's voice wanted to crowd into his head, warning, but he wouldn't let it. He knew what he was doing, but the doing was a little harder than he'd thought it would be. He wondered if this great chunk of misery in his chest was what people meant when they talked about broken hearts. A man far too young who'd lost far too much, was in danger of losing even more, losing it all, too many fates yoked to his back, and too much time spent killing—or trying to kill—the emotions needed to deal with it all, and yet still feeling far too much.

  He wasn't equipped. It was breaking him.

  No. It had already broken him—Malick had watched him shatter—and now Fen was groping about, trying to find all the pieces to put himself back together again, and failing.

  "It doesn't have to be,” Malick told him and slipped his hand up to cup Fen's jaw, brushing his thumb lightly over a sharp cheekbone. “This is bigger than you, Fen. You don't have to carry it all yourself."

  A tear slipped from the corner of Fen's eye, meandered down the side of his nose. Malick swept it away with his thumb, and then the one that came after it.

  "She was wrong,” Fen murmured. “It isn't suicide."

  Malick kept his mien neutral—no doubt, no belief—and only hummed a noncommittal, “Hmm.” Because there was a lot Fen didn't know about himself, and Malick knew what a death wish looked like.

  "It isn't,” Fen insisted, his voice steadier than it had been, and he finally looked up, met Malick's gaze squarely. “She thinks she can read me, but she can't. She thinks she understands, but she doesn't."

  "All right,” Malick said calmly. Because Fen believed what he was saying, even if Malick didn't. “Then why don't you explain it to me?"

  Fen looked away again, his brow creasing in mild frustration. “I'll hold up my end,” he told Malick, fingers twitching slightly in Malick's grip, but he didn't pull his hand away. Not exactly an answer to Malick's question, but... maybe Fen thought it was. “I'll kill Asai. As soon as I can walk. I swore it and I will. You can't let Umeia withdraw her oath. You can't."

  Ah. Yes, Malick supposed, in a way, it was an answer to his question. But not the whole of it.

  "And what happens after that, Fen?” By the way Fen's frown deepened and he lifted his gaze to Malick's, questioning, Malick thought it was quite likely Fen had never thought beyond “Save my family, kill Asai.” Which was more of an answer than Malick thought he really wanted, but it wasn't anything he hadn't already had shoved in his face two nights ago, and then again this morning. “When your mother's put to rest, when your brothers and sister are safe, when Asai is dead—what happens then?"

  Fen's mouth opened, but nothing came out of it, and he stared for several long, heavy moments before he looked away again. “I don't know,” he whispered.

  "No?” Malick's eyebrows rose a little. “You wanted to save the Jin once. Have you changed your mind?"

  A weary snort, and Fen rolled his eyes. “It was shit fed to me that I swallowed because I was in l—” His teeth clenched. “The Jin can't be saved. And if they could, I'm not the one to do it. I'm noth....” He trailed off, looked away again, and paused while he rethought what he was going to say. “I'm no one's savior. I'm Untouchable. Mad. A Ghost."

  "And yet I'm touching you,” Malick said softly, squeezing Fen's hand again. “You're the Voice of the Ancestors."

  A spark of Fen pushed itself through Jacin's more temperate gaze. “Like I said—mad."

  Malick had been waiting for it, gently guiding the conversation to this particular end point, laden with potential. True surrender; complete submission. He needed it, and he needed Fen to give it to him, and it had nothing to do with Malick's own ego this time. It was the only way he was going to be able to save Fen from himself. And strangely, that was right now more important than Umeia's doubts and perfidy, Asai's plots, Yakuli's significance, or even the Balance itself. Malick told himself it was because he needed Fen whole, unbroken, he needed that diamond inside him and he needed it deadly sharp, but Umeia's voice kept trying to break through, and Malick once again clamped his mind down against it.

  "You're not,” he said forcefully, “they are. And I can help you.” He pushed himself up on his elbow, disentangled his hand from Fen's and pushed him to his back. Contrarily gentle, Malick laid his hand flat to Fen's scarred chest and pressed his palm in until he felt the rhythmic thump of Fen's heart. “I can help you make sense of it, Fen, but you have to let me."

  Like Malick had just punched him in the gut, Fen gasped, eyes shut, like all the pain had just ramped up again, blindsided him. His heart lurched and jolted beneath Malick's palm. “So quiet,” Fen breathed, “I... I don't....” He shook his head, helpless, before his eyes snapped open, narrowed, and his glittering gaze latched onto Malick's, nearly feral.

  Bloody hell, he was quick, even in this strange, not-quite-Fen fugue he was in—before Malick even saw him move, Fen's arm had snapped up and his hand had latched onto Malick's nape, dragged him down. The move was too sudden, too importunate. Malick didn't have a chance to even try for leverage; his knee came up to try and brace himself and knocked into Fen's right leg. Malick winced, but Fen didn't even seem to notice, just pushed a harsh, “Please,” into Malick's mouth, hoarse and grating as Fen lifted his head, kissed Malick, rough and desperate.

  Malick let him, went with it, allowed his mouth to open, accommodated without reserve or complaint when Fen's tongue pushed in. Groaned a little when Fen's hand gripped a fistful of hair and tugged, pulling Malick in, then twisted himself frantically until his hip pressed into Malick's groin. And when that didn't make Malick pounce him, fuck him into the mattress, Fen tried latching onto Malick through his trousers, except, instead of the rush of lust Fen no doubt intended, a rush of... something else hit Malick instead: anger mixed with a strange sort of hurt he couldn't fathom, and that twist in his chest clenched itself into a tight fist.

  Damn it, he ought to give Fen what he was asking for, just to teach him a bloody lesson.

  No.

  Not like this.

  Umeia had lost count at forty-five when she'd stitched up the mangled mess that was Fen's leg—Leu's idiots had taken an actual chunk out of his calf muscle, and miraculous healing or no, it had to still be hurting him—then another twenty or so on his arm, and he'd spent nearly two days in fever-induced delirium. He'd been awake less than half an hour, and already, he was trying to get around Malick by throwing sex at him like he'd throw a dog a bone. Fen had some pretty fucked up ideas about what sex was for, and Malick had no intention of proving him right.

  Malick pulled back—and how had he gotten to be the one who was apparently bent on some convoluted idea of honor here?—kept pulling back even as Fen's grip tightened, strengthened, tried to keep him in place. Yanking painfully at Malick's hair and digging his fingers into the sinew and muscle of his neck. Fen's other hand came up, latched onto Malick's shirt, and bunched it into a grip Malick wouldn't have thought Fen capable of, not after how sick he'd been, how weak.

  "Please,” Fen said again, too fraught and forlorn, a heavy note of the same despair in his voice that Malick had seen in his eyes for the first time in the middle of the night on a lonely road by the coast.

  Every fiber of Malick wanted to answer to it, soothe it, but this wasn't the way, not right now. He used his position, and quite a lot more force than he would have thought, and pressed Fen down into the mattress as gently as he could while still managing to drag himself up and back.

  "Fen,” he said, almost a shout, but not quite, “I'm not going to take it from you. I won't take away the quiet."

  Bordering on frantic—a pale shadow of how he'd been the other night, but it had the potential to get there—Fen's gaze caromed about, looking for escape, perhaps, then settled quite suddenly on the cupboard beside the bed. Hung there. Stilled. Malick frowned and followed Fen's stare, but all he saw was the lamp
and a dead moth lying beneath it.

  "Oh,” Fen said, too shaky and stricken with grief, and he... sagged. He turned his head and looked up at Malick. Wary. Disbelieving. His eyes were wet—shameless want and entreaty—and so full of distrustful misery it nearly knocked Malick's breath from him.

  "I won't take it from you,” Malick repeated. “Not until you're ready. And when you're ready, I'll give you a way to keep it if you want to, a way for you to choose. But you will have to listen. You will have to let me hear what you hear."

  The aching hope that had just begun to unfurl in Fen's gaze curled in on itself, shattered. He shook his head, both hands still clutching at Malick. “Everything's a fucking trade, isn't it?” That familiar rage was sliding into his eyes, but the despondency still had too firm a foothold to let it bloom. “Temshiel, maijin, Balance, like I'm supposed to give a fuck. You'll save them if I kill Asai. You'll give me the quiet if I—” Fen's jaw clenched, chin trembling, and he was too obviously trying desperately to hold back the tears that were running freely from his eyes. “I would've anyway,” he whispered. “I was all right, I didn't know what I was even missing anymore, I'd forgotten what quiet was like, and then you... you... damn you!” His hands tightened again, the one at Malick's nape digging in painfully, and his face twisted in outrage and betrayal. “I would have done it anyway!” he cried, right in Malick's face. “You didn't have to... have to do this to me, I would have—"

  "Fen—"

  "I don't want to listen anymore.” Strained and raw, and Fen all at once stilled. His grip on Malick loosened, but didn't let go. “I can't.” Intense and just this side of afraid. “You ruined it. If I have to hear it I'll be as mad as they are."

  "Not if you let me help you,” Malick told him as gently but persuasively as he could, because if he tried to force this, Fen probably really would lose his mind altogether, and for good this time. Malick shouldn't care, not if Fen still did what Malick needed him to do, but.... “I won't let it happen,” he told Fen. “It won't send you mad. Not if you let me show you.” He took his hand away from Fen's chest, released him, and instead moved it up to rest against Fen's cheek, heartened just a little when Fen's eyes closed and his head turned just the slightest bit into Malick's palm. “You trusted me this far,” he said, brushing his knuckles over Fen's cheek. “Just a little more."

  Fen shook his head, huffed a hopeless snort. “I've never trusted you."

  It should have pissed Malick off, but it didn't. Because there was a lot Fen didn't know about himself. And Jacin trusted everyone, no matter how they repeatedly gutted him for it.

  "D'you even give a shit?” Fen asked, dull and beaten, but not broken. Not broken. “You were supposed to pretend you love me. That was the deal."

  So quiet, so thin, like a fine-honed blade slipping through Malick's ribs. He couldn't speak.

  "Did you do it on purpose?” Fen pressed, resentment seeping into the soft tone, twisting it harder. “Did you give it to me just so you could take it away? Make me beg so you could refuse?"

  Like it had done when Joori had voiced an accusation too similar, it curled anger in Malick's gut, only this time it was laced through with that same odd hurt he'd felt a moment ago, sharper now. Resonant. And he had no idea why.

  Not broken. The anger inside Fen's indictment proved it. That was the important thing. Malick repeated that to himself—twice. He should be feeling quite satisfied. He felt rather vile.

  "Whose dog are you, Fen?” Malick asked, his tone gentler than the harsh question should merit.

  Fen looked away, gaze sliding to the moth's husk again, hollow. Slowly, he let go of both Malick's neck and his shirt, arms flopping bonelessly to the mattress. “Yours,” he breathed. Defeated. Eyes still glued to the dead moth on the cupboard. “Fuck you,” he whispered, but it was dull and flat.

  Mine.

  Painful to look at, this surrender, but necessary.

  Mine, Malick thought, bleak with anger that had no real direction and self-rebuke that most certainly did. Mine.

  Somehow, it didn't have the sweet ring to it he'd been imagining.

  "I need a wash,” Fen mumbled, the tone just catching the usual cool disdain and annoyance, almost like his normal self, but not quite. Still, it lifted a tiny weight from Malick's chest. “And I need to piss.” The glare Fen turned on Malick somehow brought everything to just outside of right. “Your dog needs a walk."

  Not broken. Mine.

  Umeia's voice finally stopped its warning drone in Malick's head, and went silent.

  It didn't make Malick smile, but it came damned close.

  * * * *

  Everything hurt. It seemed like the ghost of every wound he'd ever had was rising up to haunt him. He couldn't recall it ever affecting him this way before. He couldn't recall ever feeling it like this before. Maybe it was because he didn't have the screeching to distract him from it. Maybe it was because he'd never been attacked by a pack of maijin before. Maybe it was because the wounds were scattered, too many, all up and down his leg—and his arm too, now that he was paying attention—when always before there'd been a single, neat pinpoint of near-sanity.

  Maybe there was just too much room in his head now, and his mind was trying to fill up all the corners left empty by the quiet.

  Jacin shunted a growl to the back of his throat ‘til it strangled itself, and tried not to enjoy the swath of heat all along his back, the steady breaths rhythmically pushing against him, swaying him in a cadence that would probably normally induce sleep, but he'd been doing that for almost two days, and there were things he had to do. His head had been light when Malick had helped him down the hall to the too-small washroom they all shared, and lightheadedness would simply not do. So he'd eaten the noodles and cabbage with broth Malick had told him to eat, drank the tea and cherry elixir Malick had told him to drink, obedient and compliant—all the while keeping a hold, making sure a hold was kept on him, shameless and beyond humiliation by now, personal space apparently a thing of the past and not really missed—and tried not to feel too much like he was the trained dog Malick wouldn't shut up about.

  Anyway, what did it matter? He was, apparently, incapable of functioning on his own. Better he be the lackey of a Temshiel than a maijin. For all the good he was currently doing anyone. Quite frankly, he couldn't understand why Malick thought he'd be useful at all. He'd already failed to kill Asai twice, and damn Shig to the suns for exposing those failures so cruelly. But Malick had come through on his promise, Jacin's family was here and safe, and Jacin had every intention of coming through on his. Because if he didn't hold up his end of the bargain....

  An involuntary shudder wracked through him—dead hazel eyes and blood matted through tangled gold—and he rode it out, waited for all the flares and throbs of his body to settle back down to their steady sharp hum. Not his pain, that was what this was, why it refused to check itself like it had always done before. It wasn't his, it had been inflicted by someone else, and he'd had no control over it, and somehow, that distinction took it from pain to pain.

  There was something profound in there somewhere, but Jacin had no idea what.

  Brittle. He felt brittle. Cold, frosted over and breakable.

  He opened his eyes, squinting a little against the low-wicked lamplight, gaze going immediately and unwillingly to the dead moth on the cupboard, and again, he had no idea why. He couldn't stop staring at it, like it was supposed to mean something to him, but if it was, he'd forgotten, and anyway, it made him uncomfortable, so it was probably best. He wished he could turn over, but the trip to the toilet had nearly undone him, and he'd been trying his best not to move too much since he'd been dumped back to the mattress with a groan. Anyway, if he turned over, he wouldn't be able to pretend that the body at his back was some nameless, faceless someone who wanted nothing more from him than his presence. He'd be forced to acknowledge that he was actually sleeping with Malick, and liking it, and concede that he was pretty much willing to do anything to ke
ep Malick and what he offered right where he was.

  Damn it. If there was anything at all good about a scattered mind and constantly trying to concentrate through too much noise, it was that it only allowed him to focus on one thing at a time, and he'd hardly ever chosen to concentrate on anything that made him uneasy—not unless Beishin had told him to. Now that there was no noise, his own thoughts shrieked just as loudly and made just as much sense.

  He'd forgotten how to think like a normal person, that must be it, and every thought brought corresponding emotion with it. He poked and nudged suspiciously at the edges of it all, tried to find focal points inside it, but his mind wouldn't stop running away from him. It was too much.

  "You're luckier than you know,” he whispered to the husk of the moth, and he rolled his eyes at himself. No wonder Shig accused him of attempted suicide.

  "It isn't suicide,” he told the moth. It wasn't. Not that he had any real attachment to life, but his family did, and there were things he needed to do to make sure they kept hold of it. He couldn't die. He wasn't done yet. And if he died before he'd kept up his end of Malick's bargain, who knew what would happen to them? Temshiel weren't exactly known for their concern for mortals. He believed Malick would ensure their safety—he'd told Jacin tonight that their passage out of Ada was already arranged, thank every god—but if Jacin didn't do what he'd promised, he had no illusions that the bargain would hold. They'd see that his mother was found and her spirit put to rest because Jacin had fulfilled his end of that bargain—he'd joined them, and even thrown in sex as a dubious bonus—but he hadn't fulfilled his end of this one yet. He couldn't die yet. Shig was right about at least that, though he was loath to admit it: dying would be a failure right now, and the worst kind of failure for Joori and Morin and Caidi.

  Living is your sacrifice. He remembered that from... somewhere. Probably because it felt so true. It made him tired all over again. He'd do it, though. Like everything else, there was very little choice.