Of Caverns and Casters ✓ [TLRQ #1]

Chapter 62 - Leavi

He goes limp.

Panic shoots through me, and I press my ear against his chest. Please, please, please...

The soft, unsteady thump of his heartbeat pricks my eyes with tears, and I blow out a shaky breath. "You're okay," I murmur. "You're still okay."

I lie there for a minute, letting my head move with the rhythm of his breaths. It's comforting, this tangible reassurance of life. I could almost fall asleep here and dream up a world where death doesn't chase us.

Blood dribbles from his nose, and I pull back, wiping it away with his handkerchief. My hand shakes as I set the cloth aside.

His last words to me echo in my head like the bell for a funeral service. I think the spell was too strong. I refuse to let that mean what it sounds so very much like.

That he's dying.

"No." Despite myself, my voice shakes.

Trembling fingers pull my hair into a loose bun. He's going to be fine. He can't die, not from this, not from some stupid spell, not after everything we went through to get him away from Veradeaux. He's not dying.

I straighten the already even covers. He'll be fine.

All he needs is some rest.

* * *

His nose is pouring again. It's been five hours, and he has yet to wake up. Not a word, not a flutter of his eyes or a restless toss. No. It's been five hours, and except for the frail rise and fall of his chest, he looks like nothing more than the cadavers I dissected in lab.

I hold the handkerchief to his nose until the blood stops trickling, then gently wipe it away. His skin is clammy under my fingers, and I tuck the blankets up higher around his shoulders.

A tear drops, dampening a spot on the quilt. Surprised, I dash my eyes.

"He's fine, stupid girl," I mutter to myself. "He'll be fine. He said so himself."

I think the spell was too strong. He said that too. An honest admission from a frightened boy, not a pretense to keep someone else from worrying.

I think the spell was too strong.

"Then why did you cast it, you—" My voice breaks. "You—" My throat tightens, closing off the words. Hero, my mind finishes. He's a hero, a stupid, compassionate, reckless hero who put his life on the line to save someone else's. "Don't do that again," I order, my voice thick.

I'm not sure he'll get a chance to listen.

* * *

A candle on his bedside table holds back the darkness coating the room. The wind has finally stopped howling outside, leaving everything dangerously quiet.

My hand hesitates above his neck, not wanting to take his pulse because I know what I'm going to find. We may all tell ourselves lies, but the dangerous ones—the ones that hide what we must know, no matter how much we don't want to—those have to die. I know that rest has done nothing for him, no matter how much I want to believe it should, can, will. The reality is, it hasn't.

My fingers tremble closer. Air shakes his chest like the faintest movement of an autumn leaf on a listless day. I don't want to know what the beat of his heart has to say, don't want it to let me guess when the leaf will fall. But sometimes, lies have to die. Sometimes we have to kill them.

My hand descends, but curls away at the last second. Instead, it sweeps to his temple, brushing his hair back. His skin is waxen but still warm. For now, there's still life in him.

I withdraw my fingers, letting them fall into my lap. His pulse won't tell me anything I don't already know, and I refuse to use its meter as a clock for how long he has left. He is alive. Right now, he is alive. And that's all the truth that matters.

I squeeze my eyes shut and wait.