Starside

Maybe I just let her die.

I mean - who doesn't know how to fucking swim?

I stare at her, laid out on the crust of dirt in the center of this pitch-black lake, water dripping down my armor, my teeth sliding against each other behind my mask in utter annoyance.

I should have already killed her.

I shouldn't have spoken to her, back in the king's castle.

I shouldn't have saved her when she was about to break her neck on those stairs at the inn.

I shouldn't have agreed to work with her.

I don't need that damned map. I need the sword still strapped to her back, the one that weighed her down like a fucking anchor in that lake.

I bet she can't even hold it upright.

My eyes narrow as I remember the white-hot shock of seeing that sword slide up through the ground, into her hand, and shattering pure silver just as effectively as my own.

Countless mortals, immortals, and even gods have perished in the search for that sword.

Now this weakling who can't even swim has claimed it.

Not for long, the merciless part of my head whispers.

I frown at her body, prone and lifeless. It would be so easy to just... do nothing. She would be dead in mere seconds. I'd be free to claim the sword and go on my merry way. I've killed more people than anyone in history. This should be easy. Especially knowing what she is to me.

My blood boils at how it isn't easy at all.

Fuck. Me.

With a deep sigh, I step toward her, I flip her onto her back with my foot, keeping as much distance between us as possible. It was bad enough that I had to fish her from the lake and carry her here.

I've never been so grateful for my armor. I'm starting to think even an entire suit of metal and mask won't be enough of a barrier between us, though.

Her eyes-

No. I'm not going to think about her ridiculous eyes. Or the stubborn set of her jaw. Or anything else about this woman I have every reason to hate. To let die-

Yet.

I kneel next to her, metal clanking, echoing across the lake where those demons are waiting. I grumble, before pressing both of my hands over her chest. And pushing.

Shit. She's so fucking fragile. She's far too thin. I frown, wondering if I broke her ribs by accident, when she jolts upright, retching water.

Mouth to mouth would have been where the shred of mercy I haven't seemed to snuff out would have ended. I would have left her here to die.

I would never dare get that close to anyone - least of all her.

But it seems I don't need to. She coughs and spasms as I stand over her, watching, and say, "Of course you can't fucking swim."

Then she has the nerve to look up and glare at me with those irritatingly blue eyes that remind me of a past life and a world that doesn't exist the way it once did. Now my home is dull and devoid of everything that made it good. Her eyes though... their shade-

Shut the fuck up, I tell myself.

"Of course, mere hours into working together, you almost get us both killed. Over an illusion." I mean really, how much of a fool is she? I shake my head and curse-her or myself for being even more of an idiot for working with her, I'm not particularly sure.

Those eyes gleam with tears, and I don't have enough of a heart left to feel bad about it. Not when she's been my enemy since long before I ever met her. Her voice is pure hostility as she says, "You... you are a bastard. Do you know that?"

I blink. Then I nearly laugh in shock. No one has dared speak to me with such rancor in centuries. Especially not a half-starved mortal.

Does she know how easily I can kill her? Does she know how I will, once I build up the nerve to do what I should have the first time I saw her in the rain, at the training camps?

I tilt my head and do not back down. She looks right at me, like she can find my eyes, even in the darkness of this hood. I swallow, despite myself. "What an interesting way to thank me for saving your pathetic life."

If I don't kill her, I posit, something else here will do the job for me. She is so frail, it really is a wonder she hasn't died yet.

Her clothes hang off her body, and she's modest to the point of impracticality, wearing two shirts, one with a collar up to her throat. It seems she doesn't like to show her skin.

I move my thoughts firmly away from her and her skin.

"Thank you?" She barks a laugh, and I raise a brow. Is she truly that bold?

Or simply stupid?

She must know of my reputation. Hell, she met me. She knows I would not hesitate to kill someone.

Normally, anyway.

Still, she continues, "We both know you would let me drown in an instant if you didn't need the map."

The map isn't why I've decided to recklessly work with her, but it isn't exactly a disadvantage. It's been a long while since I've explored Starside. Her memory of the parchment that she - smartly, I admit - threw into the fire will make this journey at least slightly easier.

She shivers, and I almost - almost - feel a lick of pity. It's quickly smothered by the truth of why I hate her.

I step away, putting distance between us, digging my sword into the dirt to relieve some of this tension in my bones that has started to form in her proximity. It's because I know what I must do, I tell myself. It has nothing to do with the fact that I'm strangely fascinated with this weak mortal.

I sit down, scowling as I banish all those idiotic thoughts.

The heiress curls forward, fingers digging into the dirt, jolting as if she's about to retch again. That's when she notices the ring of demons at the edge of the lake.

Finally.

I sigh. What kind of idiot has my fate been tied to?

A monumental one, I think, as she reaches back for the sword I'm now confident she can't hold with any skill.

The fact that her instinet is to fight, though...

Interesting.

She isn't what I expected from a Great House heiress. I haven't met many, admittedly. And I know, of course, what happened to her house, though I'm still wondering how she survived when everyone else perished.

I expected a brat.

Admittedly, she fucking is one.

But not in the ways I expected. I watched her during the fight to the Platform. The mortal with her hair tied back, keeping her head down, playing the part of a weak spectator to get close to the front. I scowled as I watched. Pathetic.

A man groped her-and I watched her tense. I wondered if she would do something about it, so far from the Platform. She didn't. She kept walking.

I watched her reveal her weapon when the boy was in danger.

My teeth slid together. It was hard to hate her in that moment.

I finished the job of saving that boy during the first part of the Culling, in the forest, in the bloody race toward the horses.

Me and that fucking shred of merey.

The child reminded me of myself at his age - desperate to do anything to help his family. Misguided. So, I gave him a fistful of silver coins and told him to go home.

He did.

Back at the Platform, I kept watching and was slightly surprised at the heiress' skill with a blade. She fought with the instinct of someone who trained regularly. Her stance was shit, but she was fast, and brave, her jaw setting and eyes gleaming as she turned and faced everyone who came at her head-on.

Most of the work was done by her superior blade, though.

Interesting how she had a shred of paladian. I knew she lived with that blacksmith who had returned from the previous Questral with an empty goblet.

It seems he did, in fact, return with something of value.

It was just a scrap of metal compared to my own blade, but still, the sword on my back yawned awake, as if sensing a comrade close by.

My teeth slid together again.

I watched her duel until the dirt was blood-drenched mud at her feet. Then I watched the ass who groped her hurdle from the crowd. I'll admit the corner of my mouth lifted when she cut the bastard's hands off.

No, she is not what I expected of an heiress.

She is breakable and unprepared yet has the confidence of a king's guard. Or that's what she presents, anyway. I suppose it's just a mask she wears, not so dissimilar to my own.

No. Fuck, no.

We are not the same.

Even if she was able to claim the blade that has been hidden for so long, some had begun doubting its existence.

I never doubted it was real. I could feel the other half of my own out there.

Waiting to be discovered.

Waiting to be made whole again.

"Don't waste what little energy you possess," I bite out, watching those pretty fingers - so useless for holding a blade - meet her metal. I should leave it at that, but I feel the need to explain, though I haven't explained myself in centuries.

"They cannot cross. They'll be gone when the sun rises."

She looks over at me, and I tense. Her eyes aren't on me at all, though.

They're on my sword.

I raise my brow beneath my hood.

Is she thinking about taking it?

Interesting.

She really is a fucking idiot.

No... later, when I watch her curl around her sword, sleeping beside it like some fool might embrace a lover, I realize she is afraid I will steal her sword.

She should be.