Page 178 of Starside

He must see that I’m about to collapse beneath the weight of his strength, but that doesn’t make him back down, no. It makes him furious.

He swings his blade ruthlessly, snarling as I stumble, like this is a test I’m failing, like he wants me to fight back. I try. I groan as I give him every bit of resistance he’s giving me, and he doesn’t hold back. He pushes against my metal until I’m sure it’s going to break. Until my entire body is shaking. He’s just a wall of metal, closing in.

Fuck. Him.

“I hate you,” I spit into his face, my bones screaming against his pressure, our swords clashed between us.

“Hate. Me.” He pushes against my blade. “Harder,” he growls.

Then his blade pulls back and slams against mine with such force, my back hits the cliff face. A gasp spills from my lips.

Our metals meet again, and this time he just stays there, pushing down, edge skimming mine, sinking toward me inch by inch, steel scraping, his masked face getting closer and closer. When he’s just a breath away, he thrusts hard, trying to make me fall apart. I almost do.

Then I bare my teeth and push against him with everything I have, my senses shredding at that sound, of two blades made of the very same metal, both refusing to yield. I manage to hold my own.

But he’s stronger. And his sword is getting closer to my throat.

He’s so close I can see those steel-gray eyes, buried beneath his mask. Hard and heartless. I glare at him with every piece of myself, every shard of my hatred, sharpened over many years, every unforgivable thing he’s ever done echoing through my mind. I wield it like a second blade.

And I guess I’m just as stubborn as my sword, because I don’t drop my weapon, I don’t admit defeat, even as my arms tremble, even as sweat spills down my brow, even as every muscle burns as he presses harder. Harder.

No. I spit in his face, and even though it lands on his mask, his eyes flash with fury.

He pulls back, to release his final blow, and again—I must really have a fucking death wish. Because instead of trying to strike him with my blade, I throw my weapon to the ground.

And launch at him with enough force that I actually manage to knock him down.

The air rushes out of his mouth as he lands hard, me atop his armor, and he could have his blade through my heart in a second, but I don’t care. I want to mark him. I want to rip his armor to pieces, I want to make him bleed, I want him to feel the fraction of loss and hurt that I do.

I swing at him wildly, pounding my fists against his chest, his mask, scraping and scratching, not even knowing if I’m reaching skin.

He lets me.

“They’re dead!” I scream, and all I’m doing is hurting myself, my knuckles going bloody, but I can’t stop. I don’t even feel my arms or hands anymore, just this growing hole of despair in my chest, and I—I can’t. I can’t keep it in any longer. It’s too much.

Any light that I found on this journey has been shattered and snuffed out, just like that orb. Just like waking up in a pile of ashes. I see flashes of it now, merging with the blood all around us.

Not again. Not again.

I’m breathing so hard, but I can’t get a full breath, and I can’t even see, the tears are blocking everything out, but I keep swinging, keep raging, until finally, he reaches up and takes both of my bloody hands in one of his, and says, “Enough.”

Just like that, the fight leaves me, and I collapse against him. And then I’m sobbing into his neck, trembling against his armor, and he doesn’t move. He remains very still, until finally, he gets up, me still atop him, has me retrieve my sword, and carries me out of this patch of woods.

Out of the bloodshed.

32

I don’t know how long Raker carried me, just that when I finally look up from his neck, sun is pouring down into the forest, right above us.

My body is curled tightly against his chest.

There’s a mess of vines blocking our path, and he shifts my weight to one arm, pulls his sword out with the other, slashes the vines to pieces, then sheaths it again. All in one smooth motion. Then both his arms are holding me again.

“Raker,” I say, and his focus doesn’t budge from in front of him. He’s alert and ready, just like he must be all the time on the battlefield, fighting countless rebels.

“Aris,” he says, the sound like ground stone.

I swallow. I still hate him. I hate that he didn’t even try to save those people.