Asherah.

Like a song in my head, I couldn’t stop hearing it. Callan spoke with kindness and certainty, and in many ways, I believed the things he said. He promised he would help me recover my memories. I didn’t know how he would do that; they weren’t tangible things, but I trusted him for reasons defying logic. He was everything familiar and more, and I couldn’t explain or make sense of it. The way his eyes met mine when he brought me food in the morning, and the soft tone in his voice when he asked how I was feeling—it felt like a dream, yet as our fingers brushed as light as feathers in passing, I knew it was real. Moreso was how Charon stayed on his heels the way he had with Alin. It was almost eerie, like an echo of everything I knew, and yet the morning still managed to be lonely and foreign.

I scratched at the side of my head as I stared across the open field stretching from the back porch. I’d sat alone for at least an hour, lost in my thoughts while dawn broke, the scarlet glow of the sun on the horizon lighting the sky, beautiful and glorious; the morning burned away the night and the vicious dreams that had plagued me since they'd brought me here. Despite the midnight horrors, the rising light of day soothed it, and it was as truly exquisite as it was on the rare occasions that I saw it at the outpost. Most mornings, unlike those occupied by Charon and Callan monitoring my recovery, were a testament to the full devotion we had to training. Every person in the outpost shoved food in as fast as possible and then raced to the combat or weapons field. A sad smile pushed at my cheeks, but then dropped into a heavy frown. I set my chin on my arms, wrapped tight around my legs. I had no doubt they worried about me. Roya was my best friend, and I couldn’t bring myself to believe she let a day pass when she didn’t think of me and wondered what happened. I was sure Sig would want answers, too. Of course, Ezra and Milo would have one hell of a tale to tell about the man who kicked in the door and swept me away in the night. I couldn't barely imagine the excuses they'd come up with for not coming after me.

Would anyone believe them? After what happened, the way we escaped with our lives by the skin of our teeth—no, we didn’t all escape. The Viper Corps was far stronger than our training had prepared us to face, and because of that, Matti and Gaelin… I shut my eyes. My chest tightened as I held my breath and swallowed down what I didn’t dare say, what I didn’t dare think too loud. Breathing out slowly through pursed lips, I looked across the field, playing through that night and watching the invisible serpent soldiers slithering through the abandoned town again. The mission was a failure, and we took too many losses. They had to return to the outpost. That was the plan if something went wrong, and damn, did a lot of things go wrong? We made so many mistakes. Too many, and there was no way to recover from it. My heart clenched. Would they circle back for Gaelin and Matti? Would they come looking for me? Or would they count me among the dead? I had no way to know. It wasn’t as if I could peek into their minds or look through their eyes and know for myself. I wrapped my arms tight around my middle and rocked forward. I wished with every part of myself to know, if only a little, that they wanted to find me.

Worse than not knowing was the violent chill twisting like barbed wire beneath my skin from words I couldn’t shake. I’d mulled it over and picked it apart at least a hundred times. Still, it made no sense, and when I asked Charon what he’d meant when he said Milo had done something to me, he stared at me as if I was speaking in tongues. Then he would sigh and remind me how I needed to rest. The venom was still clearing from my veins, and when it passed, so too would much of the mental fog. I lifted my thumb to my lips and bit at the calloused skin. It was strange watching Charon in his delicate precision, opening sterile packages and ensuring every surface was immaculately clean. Once he’d set everything up and scrubbed his hands, it was like he was walking into an operating room. But his peculiarity didn’t end there. He made such an effort to avoid so much as grazing the bookshelf that it was as if the old volumes of encyclopedias and novels with spines too worn to read the titles were a threat. His ability was spectacular and inconvenient in ways I was only starting to understand. Anything he touched, he could connect with and see and know the history of that item in an instant. I’d only ever met a few people in the outpost who could do such a thing. Many of them, artificers as we called them, were responsible for investigations. Most investigations were mundane and were rarely unusual events. Nevertheless, artificers weren’t combating soldiers.

Charon was different, though. He found a unique use for his ability by extending it to weapons. He was a proverbial expert in anything he touched, so long as it was old enough that someone had used it. Callan brought him something different every day. Every time he left and then returned from wherever it was he'd went, there was always a new gift of sorts—something he wanted Charon to touch, to try out and report on. Then, when he was satisfied with the results, Callan would hide away in his room or the study or kitchen and work through stacks of paper, muttering to himself and scribbling down notes between exasperated rubs of his jaw and heavy sighs. He’d stay there, distracted and busy, until he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer, then retreat to bed. Charon was endless in his support of whatever it was Callan was doing; quick with coffee, insults, and crude innuendos eliciting a moment's break from the staunch composure of a man buried in his work. All the while I sat in silence, watching these men carrying on with their lives, unsure as to where I fit in or if I had anything worthy of saying if I had the energy to say anything at all.

They spent their days talking and working, unbothered as if there were no war, no Razen, and no lingering questions about what had happened to me, or what to do with me in consequence. They never seemed to circle back to the root of the issue, though; the one question I had that neither would answer. If Milo had done something to me, how did they know and what exactly did they think he did? I nibbled on my lower lip, wanting to trust them, but wasn't sure I could despite the pull from my chest that said I should—that I could. Hadn’t I only met Charon a year or so ago? I didn't know him any better than Callan no matter how they spoke to me, as if we'd known each other for lifetimes. Sure, maybe the problem was that I didn’t remember him or Callan, and they clearly remembered me, but that was because of the fall. I’d heard the story a hundred times at least, and I was pretty sure I remembered it. And I did—I know I did! There I was, riding my horse, and then I fell and hit my head. The world went dark and too did my past. I woke up, not knowing who I was or where I belonged in the world. There was only Milo, and he took care of me. He was there, worried about my injuries, and… I couldn’t recall everything he said, but he was good to me. He took me home and in return, I gave him a place to stay, whether he liked it or not. We protected each other for years, and he watched the movement of the Razen and prepared me for the day they'd come and we'd have to leave.

It didn't matter if I couldn't hold a job or broke my wrist on the farm (and lied about it until he realized I couldn't even make a fist), Milo was there and came to my rescue when I needed him most. I breathed out hard and fast. No, that wasn’t true. He tried to take care of me the best he could, protecting me often from myself, and mostly, he had the right idea. He watched my back and took caution at every turn, but I spent more time protecting and saving him when things went wrong. In the end, I considered, the problem was that he was always running away. From fires, Vipers, me. I bit hard on my thumb and cringed as I considered the possibility that Charon was telling the trust. What if Milo had done something to me and that's why I couldn't remember anything before him? How would I even know? Did it even matter? To him and Callan, it did, but did it matter to me? I knew who I was, and whoever I’d been was in the past. That person was stupid and clumsy and fell off a horse. Maybe I deserved to forget if I was so careless. Besides, I wasn’t so fragile anymore. I’d taken enough punches to the head from Stuart that a fall off a horse was nothing.

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The frustrating part came when Callan and Charon, from time to time and mostly over dinner, would mention something from the past; things I didn’t remember. It was never anything important. Sometimes it was foods I liked, other times it was meaningless conversations. Regardless, it drove me mad. It was like talking about a ghost, and I didn’t want to hear it. That first night when I'd awoke, confused and disoriented, I snapped and furiously told them not to talk about it anymore. The stories were nothing but stories, and I wasn’t that person. She was long gone, and the last thing I wanted was to live in her shadow and memory as some sort of totem replacement. They were silent for a long time, and in the few days that followed, they were careful about what they said, making sure they didn't bring it up again in a way that upset me. As a result, dinners were quiet most nights—well, all three of them, anyway—-and even as I picked at my food, trying to feign the slightest appetite, my stomach churned with guilt. I hardly knew them, and yet they did as I said without question, trusting me more than I trusted them. They looked at me as if expecting me to tell them what to do, to lead them. I was no leader. Milo was; he always knew what to do. He could get me anywhere I wanted to go.

Except to Jean. We never made it there.

I scrubbed my hands over my face, the callouses catching on the scabs along my jaw and across my cheek. Healing would have been easier if Ezra had come with me. Maybe. The fragments of memory that invaded my senses after a session with him were never comfortable, and the dizzying thoughts cast in a haze of gold that came with them left me unsettled for days on end and intruded on my dreams. The last thing I would want would be to face Callan afterward, holding my breath as if he didn't smell just like those visions—those wonderful, tantalizing visions and sensations of rough and yet carefully placed hands in dangerously sensual place, warm breath along my skin, and delicious kisses I could barely recall the taste of and… facing him with those nestling into my mind was more than I could handle without turning red as beet. It would be nothing short of mortifying, as if it wasn’t already. Every time I had to see him, I pressed back the swell of feelings I didn’t understand. Every bit of me yearned to touch him. I wanted to be wrapped up in him. Still, he terrified me with the way he commanded an entire room simply by standing in it. I was small and unimportant compared to him. At his side, though his gaze was soft and smile gentle, I felt like little more than a stray he’d picked up and cared for because I couldn’t care for myself. Wounded and broken, I was slow to heal despite how fast I’d healed in the past. In that pub, my broiled flesh was fine again after only a few minutes, and I’d not died when I should have on that train. I should have been gone before Ezra ever appeared to help.

I couldn’t decide if that meant I was lucky or cursed. Living was hard, but I didn’t want to die. Sure, if it happened, I couldn’t do anything about it, but I didn’t go chasing after it. I accepted the reality that it could happen and when those damned Vipers chased me, I had accepted it would happen. I made peace with it for the sake of my friends. If they lived, they could finish what I started. My friends would stick to their jobs because I needed them to, because it was what needed to happen for us, for those we lost, for everyone. My mouth filled with a bitter taste. They hadn't continued on to find Jean. That wasn't the play if… No, they turned back, headed to the outpost to face whatever hell awaited them, and there would be hell to pay when Commander Talya learned of how they snuck out. She’d be livid and demand an explanation and want the missing accounted for. Maybe she would look to recover Matti and Gaelin. Maybe it would matter to her; but then again, maybe it wouldn’t. They were nothing but green soldiers who went against orders and paid the price for it. There was no honor in that, as far as officers saw it. I sank back down and stared at the field. I couldn’t run in circles forever, but it didn't do any good. My friends were gone, some dead, and some having left me for dead. If I were, then Charon’s words wouldn't haunt me. I couldn’t find a moment’s peace from them, and I wondered how I’d never noticed what was right in front of me. Too much of me didn’t want to question Milo. It was easier to believe he had nothing to hide, even when I knew there was plenty he didn't tell me. I shut my eyes and played back everything he'd ever said to me. Not once did he ever tell me how he felt, and getting him to open up about his past was worse than using a razor as a toothbrush.

There was no point in ruminating any longer. It was exhausting. All I accomplished was making myself feel even more tired than I already was from recovering. I stood up from my place on the porch, cradling myself for a bit of warmth against the cool morning, and turned away from the rising sun. The morning sky’s vibrant red had faded to orange and yellow hues as it spread through the edges of the trees. Dew glittered on the overgrown grass in the field. The distant rattle of cicadas filled the air. I watched as the last of the birds flew away, squawking and squalling in flight. It was peaceful and quiet. And familiar. While there were no tall grasses or horses on a hill, it was close enough and felt almost the same as the last place I'd found peace. There was a slow and steady serenity here that I wasn't sure I deserved. Maybe I hadn’t survived the Viper bite, and this was some sort of heaven, or place like it, where I could heal. I didn’t have to run anymore. All I had was the long, fading, shadow across the floorboards, an empty stomach, and a soft bed waiting for me to return. That wasn’t so bad, and if this was heaven, I wanted to stay as long as I could before it kicked me out for everything I’d done.

I went to the door and opened it with a slow pull, not wanting to wake anyone. As gently as possible, I shut it behind me and kept my steps light as I crossed through the open kitchen. The house wasn’t especially big, but it wasn’t as small as the outpost lodging, either. To say the state of it was immaculate would have insulted the perfection of care it received. Too many times I’d seen the way Stuart and Tristan kept their rooms. It was hard to believe two men could live in a house alone, and it looked so tidy. I hurried up the steps, as quiet as a mouse. Not a single board squeaked along the way. At the top of the stairs, I stopped and stared down the long hallway. As far as I could tell, no one was awake yet and the four bedroom doors remained shut. Charon’s room was at the far end, Callan’s was at the top of the steps, and mine was the first one on the left. Or at least, it was the room I was occupying. I couldn’t exactly say it was mine. I didn’t live there.

It was a simple room with a large double-pane window overlooking an open street toward rows of other houses. Comfortable blankets covered the bed, and the furniture all matched; handsome with dark stained wood. I had a private bathroom, and I was grateful for not having to share. Even more so, I was thankful for the large walk-in closet I had to myself. It opened with a set of French doors. Inside, a tall full-length mirror and an attractive velour divan sat near the window framed with cornflower blue drapes. The shelves and drawers were all empty without a single trace of dust. The only exception to the barren space was a folded stack of clothes Charon had set on the top of a dresser. He'd stated dryly that I could wear those clothes whenever I got around to bathing, then rechecked my shoulder before I turned in for the night, deeming it healed enough that it was safe for water. Before leaving my room, he'd made it clear how much he hoped I felt inspired to bathe in the near, if not immediate, future.

I gathered up the stack and tried not to see the ragged mess in the mirror. My hair dangled in ropes of knots, and my clothes were filthy. Ripped down the front, my shirt hung open as if it were missing buttons. My cheeks heated. How embarrassing! I sat with my chest bared to two men I didn’t know. For days I’d wandered more naked than clothed in a venom-induced haze. At least they’d been polite enough to not say anything about it. Or at least, they didn’t say anything to me to make me feel ashamed. Still, they’d seen more than their fair share of my exposed body, and I didn’t want to think about that again for the rest of my life. I groaned and dragged my feet the entire way to the bathroom. I didn’t bother shutting the door as I tossed the clothes on the corner of the sink and stripped off the rags I’d donned for too long. They smelled awful and were unsalvageable. Trying to fix the shirt and pants with patches and clever hemming was more trouble than it was worth. The best place for them was the trash. I sighed. Maybe a bath would do me some good. Then I could breathe, free from my racing thoughts, before Callan and Charon started their day.