The Usurper's Throne

40

I wept into his arms for hours. Finally, my chest began to ache, so I pulled back. He let me go reluctantly. Then he cracked his back, twisting his torso. I caught sight of the wound on his head.

"How is your head?" I asked. Worry seized my heart. Elijah was one of the few friends I had left. What if he died?

"It's healing," Elijah said casually.

Fear was still pounding. "Are you taking antibiotics? Are you sure you won't get an infection?" What if he died? What if he died because he was trying to help me?

Elijah started rubbing my wings again. "Hey, I'm okay. It's healing. The last thing you need to do is worry about me."

That didn't stop my worry. If I wasn't trapped at the castle, Elijah wouldn't have had to rescue me, and he wouldn't have gotten hurt. "I'm sorry," I said quietly, shame blazing across my face.

"For what?" he asked, a shadow of confusion crossing his face.

"For your head. If I wasn't up there, you wouldn't have—"

Elijah lifted a hand. "Naomi, stop. This wasn't your fault. Some dude bashed me on the head. It's very clearly his fault." He stopped and thought about it for a few seconds. "My uncle was right," he said simply.

"About what?" I asked.

He looked at me. "It's not right to blame ourselves for things that aren't our fault. You have nothing to apologize for."

I nodded smally. Images flashed through my brain. Horror. "Elijah, can we please talk about something unrelated to all of this?" I asked desperately.

"If you could have any job, what would it be?" Elijah asked. He leaned back and threw an arm over my shoulder, pulling me a bit closer. I wasn't going to complain.

I blinked up at him. He had agreed and moved forward in some step. "What?"

He smiled. "If you could have any job, what would it be?"

A job? "I don't know," I said.

"Well, what have you done in the past?"

"Kitchen stuff," I said, trying my best to keep the memories at bay.

"Did you enjoy it? Enough to do it again?"

I shook my head. "Uh, no. I hated it...Well, I didn't think it was the worst thing ever. It was consistent. Repetitive. What have you done?"

He smiled. "I cut Christmas trees every fall and winter."

"You were a lumberjack?" I asked skeptically.

He laughed. "Yeah, I guess I was. And I have the flannel to prove it," he joked.

I stared at him. "Since when were you funny?" I asked.

He smiled again. "Since...well, I've always been funny. Just ask Roger."

"I've never seen you...laugh before. I'm pretty sure. Unless I, like, kicked your butt with some wind and you laughed to cover your hurt pride," I said venturing into a dangerous zone: joking. He deserved laughter.

He laughed loudly. "Wow. Throwing shade on me, are you? I can only recall somewhere between 1 and nine times that you knocked me onto my butt."

"Somewhere between one and nine times?" I asked, giving him a small smile. Seeing me smile made him laugh.

"As a lumberjack," he said, "I'd come home covered in sap every day. The house reeked of it."

"The entire castle?" I asked skeptically.