The arrow she’d shot had first gone through Tristan’s body—which he’d thrown in front of the arrow to protect Scarlet—yet he was fine, save for the abnormally green hue his eyes had taken on since that day.
And Scarlet’s body—which had been pierced through her heart despite Tristan’s best efforts—had fallen dead. Yet shortly after, her body completely disappeared.
Gabriel could not explain either phenomenon. A body that heals itself was almost as mysterious as a body that vanishes. But Tristan seemed to care little about his ability to self-heal
“Bodies do not vanish!” Tristan repeated, and the ring of desperation in his voice had Gabriel drawing in a long, patient breath. Tristan had loved Scarlet and, when he was sent away from her, asked Gabriel to marry and care for her on his behalf.
Only to have Scarlet die on their wedding day.
“You should go to bed, brother,” Gabriel said. “You are too drunk for conversation.”
“On the contrary, brother. I am not drunk enough.” He turned his attention to the wall and muttered, “I am never drunk enough.”
Gabriel watched as Tristan walked the length of the side wall, his footfalls echoing around the room as he stared intently at the royal weapons hung in pride alongside tapestries and flags.
“I know you’re in pain, Tristan. And I know you loved Scarlet. I loved her too—”
Tristan’s eyes shot across the room and ran through Gabriel like a blade. “You do not know love as I know love.”
Gabriel sighed and leaned back in the throne. “Are we going to be dramatic now? Maybe I shall call for some wine of my own and we can both wallow and aimlessly fight through our miserable drunkenness.”
Tristan turned a hazy smile to him. “Ah, yes. You are the earl now. I forget this sometimes. Earl Archer.” Though he tried to pronounce the title carefully, it slurred on his lips.
Tristan’s eyes went back to the wall and he reached above his head to lift a sword from its hook. He took another pull of wine before tossing the jug to the floor, a trickle of red liquid dripping from its spout.
“I enjoy weapons.” Tristan turned the sword over in his loose hands. “They make me feel powerful. Capable.”
Curse the stars, was he rambling now?
“Yes, well, that particular weapon is an heirloom, so if you would be so kind as to replace it—“
“Did you touch her?” Tristan’s lax body language stiffened, but his eyes stayed on the blade.
“What?” Gabriel tried to sound exasperated, but his stomach tightened ever so slightly. This was not a conversation he wanted to have with a drunk Tristan—especially when that drunk Tristan was holding a sharp object.
“Scarlet.” He ran a lazy finger down the edge of the sword. “Did you touch her?”
Gabriel paused for a long moment. “Does it matter?”
Tristan inhaled long and slow through his nostrils as he looked up at the ceiling. “I haven’t decided.”
Rubbing the side of his face, Gabriel said, “You are drunk. Now is not the time…”
“Did she touch you?”
Oh, for the love.
“Tristan, we were engaged. And might I remind you, it was your idea for me to marry her.”
“Yes.” Tristan shifted the sword to his other hand. “I believe I asked you to care for her. To protect her.”
Gabriel moved uncomfortably in his seat.
“Yet somehow,” Tristan continued, looking at the hilt of the blade as he squeezed the handle, “Scarlet ended up dead.”
Tension filled the room.
Tristan’s voice was deceptively soft as he looked at Gabriel. “You let your whore kill the woman I loved.”
“I did not let Raven do anything. Scarlet was my wife—”
Just like that, Tristan was upon him, the sword pointed right at Gabriel’s throat and held by the very steady hand of a very broken man.
Tristan’s voice was low and hard, his slur completely gone. “She was not your wife.” His eyes darkened. “She was not yours at all.”
Gabriel did not breathe for fear the movement would bring his throat against the blade. He knew Tristan would never harm him, but he also knew what it felt like to lose a loved one.
Just months ago, when word had come that Tristan had died in battle, Gabriel had been turned inside out and made hollow and fierce with the notion that he would never again see his brother. To lose his best friend—to lose a piece of his blood and soul—had been unfathomable. Tristan’s “death” had nearly destroyed Gabriel.
And it seemed Scarlet’s death was wreaking the same havoc upon Tristan; breaking him down, emptying all he was, driving him to desperation.
It was not Tristan who stood with a blade to Gabriel’s throat, but rather his broken heart. Gabriel understood this, even if Tristan did not.
Calmly, slowly, Gabriel answered, “I did not touch her.”
It was the truth and, although he knew it would not ease the ache in his brother’s chest, Gabriel knew it would at least remove the sword from his neck.
Tristan paused. Then whipped away from Gabriel, dropping the sword to the ground as he started for the throne room doors.
Gabriel ran a hand across his face. Whatever would he do with his wrecked, unstable brother with new, green eyes and a body that could magically heal itself—
“Wait.” Gabriel called after Tristan, a memory hitting him. “Do you remember when we were young and we saw that boy by the caves nearly cut his hand off?” Gabriel leaned forward in his seat. “It was a bloody, mangled mess and we watched him hold his hand in place while it healed. Do you remember?”
Tristan turned around and squinted. “Vaguely.”
“What if your body’s ability to heal itself is somehow linked to whatever that boy was able to do?”
“I do not care about my body, healing or otherwise.”
“Perhaps not now, but someday you may.” Feeling reenergized, Gabriel stood from the throne and made his way to the doors. “Sober up, brother. Tomorrow, we are going for a ride.”
Damn the happy sun.
Tristan’s head ached for wine as he rode alongside Gabriel to wherever the hell they were headed as the rising sun bit into his eyes.
A new day. A new nothing.
“Is it not nice to leave the castle?” Gabriel took a deep breath. “You lived as a dead soul this week, brother. Wallowing in darkness, consumed with sadness. I think this outing will be good for you.”
“I was not dead,” Tristan said, though he wished he were.
As a memory of Scarlet snaked inside his chest, he clamped down on the tight emotion it brought. He would not think of her.
Alive or dead. In his arms or gone forever.
He would not think of her at all.