Saving the Immortal

Chapter Twenty-One: The Call to War

I had scarcely regained my strength enough to sit upright without assistance when the news arrived.

A neighboring kingdom — one whose name had meant little to me before that morning, though it would come to mean considerably more in the weeks that followed — had declared war upon the Northern Reach, their armies already massing at the border with an aggression that left no room for diplomatic delay. The messenger who delivered this news to the throne room did so with a breathlessness that spoke plainly of how swiftly the situation had escalated, and I learned of the full weight of it only when Ruselon returned to our chambers that evening with an expression considerably graver than any I had witnessed from him since our first meeting upon the cathedral steps.

"Every son of the king is to accompany him to battle," he said, without preamble, sitting heavily upon the edge of our bed. "Custom demands it. When war threatens the kingdom, the royal bloodline fights alongside the common soldiers, or else risks appearing cowardly before both allies and enemies alike."

I felt something cold settle into my chest immediately.

"You as well," I said, though it was not truly a question.

"I as well," he confirmed.

I said nothing for a long moment, my hands twisting together in my lap, the fever's lingering weakness suddenly feeling considerably less significant than the fear now building within me.

"When do you depart," I asked finally.

"Three days," he said. "The army must be assembled and provisioned properly before we march. Three days, and then—" He did not finish the sentence, though I understood well enough what remained unspoken.

"You could refuse," I said, knowing even as I spoke it how foolish the suggestion sounded. "Your power alone—"

"Would only confirm every fear this kingdom already holds about me," he said quietly, "should I use it upon a battlefield without restraint. I have spent my entire existence proving I am not the weapon my nature suggests I should be. I cannot undo that now, not even to spare myself the risk of an ordinary blade."

"An ordinary blade could still kill you," I said, my voice rising with a fear I could no longer properly contain.

"It could," he agreed, his voice carrying none of the reassurance I had hoped for. "I am considerably harder to kill than most men, Ivy, but I am not entirely beyond death's reach. No creature born, whatever its heritage, ever truly is."

I rose from the bed, still unsteady on my feet, and crossed to where he sat, taking his face gently between my hands.

"You cannot simply tell me that," I said, my voice breaking now despite every effort to hold it steady, "and expect me to remain calm."

"I would not lie to you," he said quietly. "Not even to spare your comfort. You deserve better than comfortable falsehoods, Ivy, whatever fear the truth might cost you."

"I nearly lost you to a fever I caused through my own carelessness," I said. "And now you tell me I might lose you entirely to a war I have no power whatsoever to prevent."

"You did not cause that fever," he said, his hands coming up to cover mine where they still rested against his face. "And I do not intend to be lost to this war either, if it can be helped."

"You cannot promise that," I said.

"No," he agreed. "I cannot. I wish I could offer you more certainty than that. But I can promise you this — I will fight to return to you with everything I possess, restraint or no restraint, custom or no custom. I have very little left in this existence that I have ever wanted to survive for. I do not intend to lose the first thing I have found that I do."

I pressed my forehead against his, tears finally slipping free despite every effort I had made to hold them back.

"Three days," I said quietly.

"Three days," he confirmed.

"Then I intend to make certain," I said, "that you have every reason in existence to fight your way back to me."

Something in his expression softened at that, the weight of the coming war momentarily easing beneath something considerably warmer, and he drew me carefully into his arms, holding me with a gentleness that spoke of everything neither of us had yet properly said aloud.

"Three days," he murmured again, into my hair, as though repeating it might somehow slow the passage of time itself. "I intend to spend every one of them well."

Outside the window, the palace continued its preparations for war, soldiers gathering in the courtyards below, banners already being readied for a march that would, within the span of a single sunrise, carry my husband away from me and toward a battlefield I could do nothing whatsoever to protect him from.

I held him tighter, and said nothing further.

There was, I understood, nothing left to say that mattered more than simply holding on to what little time remained.