Alexis

Nightmares are no match for our endless exhaustion. It is a simple miracle, but a much appreciated one. Small blessings are often the most important.

We fall asleep curled into each other, drawing out our warmth. I dream of nothing and it is peaceful.

I wake well into the afternoon, as I can judge by the placement of the sun in the sky. Aiden is not in bed with me, but the panic that induces in me is short lived. I hear shuffling through the corridors, carried from the other end of the house. And the bed sheets still smell like him.

There is a moment when I step into the kitchen when he does not yet know I am there. Aiden is fiercely scrubbing at the crust on the walls. His lips are pursed together in concentration. His hair is swept out of his face, reddish locks kissing the curve of his ear. Even from here I can see the beautiful green hue of his eyes, focused scrutinously on the task at hand.

Even now he is trying to save me from my demons.

“Good morning,” I say, my voice still coarse with sleep. He jumps slightly, eyes widening, clearly not hearing my entrance. A dusty blush sweeps across his cheeks and he clears his throat. I wonder if he could feel me admiring him. That thought makes me smile. There’s something particularly handsome about the way he straightens, the bite of his lip and the loose hair that falls into his face.

“Morning,” he says, smiling shyly back.

I stroll over, overtaken by a warm, flooding feeling, to wrap my arms around his shoulders, pressing a chaste kiss to the side of his temple. Aiden twists in my arms, fitting his head under my chin, with a content sigh.

“We have to talk,” he says.

I make a grunt of protest. “Just a minute longer.”

“Alex,” Aiden chuckles. But the sound dies quickly into something far more serious. I know what he’s going to say. I’m dreading it.

“How much longer?” He asks. “How many days?”

“Don’t,” I say.

“I want to know.”

I unfurl myself from him, enough to see the look on his face.

“We have a plan.”

“So not much longer,” he says. His brows wrinkle together in worry, his teeth stabbing into his lower lip.

“It doesn’t matter how many days,” I say calmly. “Because it’s not going to happen.”

“What’s the plan?”

He listens acutely, that stain of worry on his face growing deeper.

“You think it’s going to work?” He asks.

“It has before.”

Aiden looks over at the couch, and then at the small table in the dual kitchen and dining room. “That’s not what I asked.”

I want nothing more than to take his hand right now and run far away where nothing bad will ever find us. Instead, I say, “It will work. It has to.” His hand remains at his side.

“There’s something else,” I add, unable to fight the distaste in my voice. “We may have allies.”

Aiden perks up at this, lips falling open in surprise.

“That’s great!” he says, sputtering. And then he pauses, quirking a brow. “So why do you look like you hate the idea?”

“Because I don’t know if we can trust them. And they only agreed to help if I show them proof.”

Aiden blinks. “You mean me.” I look away. “Obviously we’re doing this,” he says. And I wish he weren't so eager to throw himself head first into every stupid idea that could cause him harm, no matter the odds. I wish, for once, he would take the safe way out, even if he thinks it makes him a coward. Even if I know it's futile in the end.

“It’s dangerous. The last thing I want is to announce to the world that you’re a high profile soldier.”

Aiden’s expression softens. His lips quirk up, a sad smile tugging the corners of his eyes with them. A shadow drags across his face. “Lysander and Lowell have already accomplished that for us.”

As much as I want to argue, I can’t. We are desperate. I am desperate.

“They have an army?” He asks and I nod. “What kind of rebellion has an army?”

“It’s not a rebellion,” I say. “It’s a province.”

I see a look of shock, then horror, then confusion across his face.

“Atlas?” He says, eyebrows knitted tighter together.

“No. Niamh.”

He searches for the name in the vault of his memory. He doesn’t remember. Many don’t. They made sure of that.

“The Lost City,” I say. “The Second Province.”

***

It’s a long journey back, in the scorching desert heat. The sun takes its toll on Aiden, on even me - protected by my darker, tawny skin - though nowhere near as brutal. His shoulders have been burned raw, red and painful-looking. Cherry colored and freckled.

“We’re here.”

Anyone else would think I was pulling some kind of practical joke. We’re surrounded by hills of coarse sand, separated only by sparse cacti and desert willow. But Aiden stretches out a hand.

“I’ve never felt an enchantment like this,” he whispers.

I follow the instructions I was given. I say the foreign chant, I draw the rune in the sand with my fingers. Through the mirage of heat above the desert surface, a glimpse of the other side takes shape, in the confines of a doorway.

Aiden takes my reaching hand. And we step through into a room of mirrors. The conditioned air is enough to make him lean heavy against me in relief.

A guard marches before us, waiting for us to state our case. She is armed, but must recognize me because her weapon is not yet drawn. “We’re here to see Renee,” I say.

“Who is “we”?”

“Alexis Irías and Aiden Brooks.”

Renee is sitting in her office, hidden behind files and mounds of paperwork. She looks up when we enter. Upon seeing Aiden, she pushes herself to her feet.

“You have not come alone this time,” she remarks. 

“I have not lied to you.”

“We will see.” She steps around the desk, her voice softening when she greets Aiden.

“I am Renee. What is your name?” She asks.

“Aiden.”

She stares at the burns on his shoulders, arms, and on the bridge of his nose.

“I am sorry to have made you come all this way. May I?”

The president takes Aiden’s wrist with gentle movements and turns it slowly, eyes tracing over each of the runes.

“These are very intricately done,” she hums. “Not many have this kind of skill. Tell me, who was your healer?”

While there is a genuine curiosity to her question, I know this is a way of discerning his former loyalties. She expects him to say the name of an Alloy healer, or perhaps an Atlas rebel.

“Ignis,” he says instead, with full confidence. I bite back a smile.

Her eyes round themselves. “Ah,” she says. And I know she does not believe it, even though it is the truth.

“You don’t believe me,” Aiden says, just as quick to pick up on her tone.

Renee turns over his other arm, eyeing the sigil on his wrist. This one is not as perfectly done. This one Aiden chose. She lets him go.

“It is like saying an angel came to me last night and braided my hair while I slept. Tell me, are you Allonian?”

“I am not.”

“Atlas?”

“Do I look Atlan?”

“Freshwater?”

Aiden’s eyes flit to mine. No one uses that term, not anymore. He doesn’t even know what it means.

“That word is outdated,” I say in Aril, unsure if she even knows the tongue.

“And why does this offend you, soldier?” She replies in the same language, just as sharply.

“Because you are implying him to be sheltered.”

“So he is mortal?”

“You already do not believe him to be the Heir.”

“Of course he is not the Heir. He is mortal, you said it yourself.”

“Not anymore.”

I turn to Aiden, and pause. There is a look much similar to awe on his face, his uptilted eyes and the curve of his lips.

“What a beautiful language,” he breathes, and I blink, feeling suddenly very shy. It is not a feeling I am familiar with, but I have never considered my native tongue to be beautiful. It is a rough language, too many sharp edges to stumble over. My mother’s language is the one I associate with beauty. It is all liquid on the tongue, curved and soft and melodic.

Aiden rests a hand on the curve of my bicep, a call for calmness.

“She says, because you were born mortal, that you cannot be the Son of Fire.”

“And why is that?” he asks her, not in an accusatory tone, but with genuine confusion.

“She thinks mortals are giftless.”

“The two are not mutually exclusive.”

“No,” I agree, staring Renee down from where I stand. “They're not.”

Aiden’s eyes are focused on the rune creeping up Renee’s neck, a visible shee against dark skin when she tucks her hair behind her ear.

“You-” he blinks. “-were Alloy-born?”

Renee’s expression shifts, just slightly. She seems fond of Aiden, even if she doesn’t believe him to be who we say he is. She has a soft spot for her people, and for the preservation of innocence. As much as she scorns his shelteredness, she also cherishes it, and wants the same privilege for those under her protection. I can see it all in the gentle slant of her eyes, the lift of her lips.

“No," she says. "But we all have history here. My people and I, we have lived through horror, more than our fair share of it. Which is why I will not risk their lives or safety by forcing them to re-enter it.”

“I understand,” says Aiden. “I do. And we would not be asking for your help if the situation were not absolutely dire. Despite the prophecy, without an army we are useless against the Alloy’s forces.”

“And you have my deepest regrets. But a fairytale is not enough to change my mind.”

Aiden takes a breath. I follow the rise and fall of his chest with my eyes, feeling the sigh between my own lungs. “You don’t believe in it, do you? Not only that I am the Son of Fire but that… the Son of Fire exists at all?”

Renee looks Aiden in the eyes and replies in Aril, “If there is a God, She has abandoned us.”

I do not translate.

Aiden decides to let his actions speak for him. The candles around the room ignite in a wave of heat. Renee remains unconvinced, an immovable object. She leans back against her desk.

“It’s an impressive illusion,” she offers. Her eyes stay narrowed.

“It’s not an illusion,” I scowl. Aiden is much more patient than I, however, and only smiles, albeit sadly.

“How do I convince a person who does not want to be convinced?” He reaches beneath the hem of his shirt and unclasps the band of leather from his sheath, arming himself with his dagger. Renee is immediately on the defense, ready to attack if need be, but he quickly spins the blade on his palm, so that the handle is reaching out to her. Now I’m the wary one.

I’m quick to step between the two, but Aiden rests a hand on my back, running reassuring circles between my shoulderblades.

Renee lifts his blade to the light, eyebrows lifting slightly.

“Why would you show your blade to a potential enemy?” She says, though I can tell she feels the strange enchantment of the weapon. Hell, I can feel it even from here, the sharp prickle of heat running over my skin. Her fingers trace alongside the edge, delicately mapping out its energy.

“You are not my enemy, Renee.”

Her eyes and fingers trace the engraved designs of the dagger hilt and blade with intensity.

“But why-?”

The president looks up and pauses, breath hitching in her throat. Her eyes widen at the sight of him, his bright flame-like hair and beautiful green eyes turned red, the very veins beneath his fair skin pulsing with a glow of light that pulses through his body like a brilliant stream of running water. Even I forget how to breathe, and I’ve gotten somewhat accustomed to this unique form of his.

He looks like an angel. Like something terrifying and beautiful.

No illusion could ever scrape the surface of the beauty of something like this, not even one of Ezra’s. Renee knows this, she must with the way her jaw hangs slack, her hand trembling around the knife.

Aiden was once a scrawny, hot-headed trainee. All bones and recklessness, like a fire that burns too hot too quickly.

But right now, all I see is assurance and bravery. A tall and steady flame. He has always been strong, but now he is unshakeable.

“To show you the holes in my hands.”

***