A pause, then words that were stones thrown into the tranquil mirror of an unbroken lake. “Are you not afraid?”
“Terrified,” she admitted, thinking of the violent stab of vulnerability that had hit her just that morning. “But you know what? Fuck fear. I won’t allow it to steal my life from me—and you shouldn’t, either.” No, she didn’t understand the hell that had shaped Aodhan, but she’d been through her own hell, had firsthand knowledge of the cage such horror could create. “Fly hard and fast, Aodhan. You never know what you’ll see. And what’s the worst that could happen?”
Aodhan’s response was quiet and bloody. “I could crash to the earth, my wings broken and my body a fleshy pulp.”
“But imagine what you’d experience in the interim . . . and ask yourself if safe aloneness is all you ever wish to know.”
Leaving the solemn angel to his thoughts when he didn’t respond, she squared her shoulders and made her way back inside the Tower, and to the first of the strictly guarded floors that held the wounded angels. The majority remained in the healing comas Keir had induced, their bodies shattered into pieces, but the faces of those who were conscious lit up the instant she came into view.
Calling her “Consort,” they asked her for news of what was happening in the city and with their squadrons and apologized for being unable to rise from their beds. It was the first time she’d had real personal contact with many of the fighters who defended the Tower, and it humbled her that they saw her visit as an honor, for she was “consort to their liege.”
Thankful for Keir’s quiet whisper that so concisely explained a response she’d been struggling to understand, Elena settled in. As she spoke to the injured in the hours that followed, she began to comprehend another aspect of her responsibilities when it came to her position by Raphael’s side. She was no doubt the weakest angel in the room in terms of power, but that wasn’t who the men and women around her saw, wasn’t what they needed from her.
“Take a deep breath,” Keir murmured when she walked out to the corridor after seeing the brutal injuries done a dark-eyed angel who’d proudly shown her the sword he’d been given by Galen himself—a sign of the weapons-master’s respect for his skills. The angel’s left wing was nothing but tendon clinging to bone, his face pulped on one side, his arm severed at the shoulder.
Hands on her knees, she sucked in gulps of air and, when she could speak again, said, “Will he heal?”
“Yes, though it’ll mean months of hurt for him.” A gentle hand on her hair, a healer’s touch. “In the hours past, have you come to understand why they respond to you as they do?”
A lump of emotion in her throat, Elena rose to her full height, topping Keir by several inches. “I’m their conduit to Raphael.” She hadn’t understood until this instant that the general fighting troops had the same awe of Raphael as many mortals. Even among angelkind, an archangel was a being to be feared and respected.
Dmitri, Aodhan, Galen, Illium, all of the Seven, they were only a rung below the Cadre as far as the troops were concerned. The fighters would go to any one of them without hesitation when it came to issues to do with the Tower’s defenses, but would never think to bother them with anything else. “I’m meant to be the one who looks below the formal, structured surface and to the individuals beneath.” The one who kept her finger on the living heartbeat of the Tower, made certain people were happy.
“You feel foolish that it has taken you until now to apprehend this.”
“Someone couldn’t have clued me in?” Not that she would’ve known what to do—she didn’t now—but at least she would’ve tried. “It’s been months!”
Keir’s frown was a silent rebuke. “No one expected you to take up these responsibilities for years, if not decades, yet. You are a young consort; it is understood that you have much to learn . . . but the trauma of the past days has altered that timeline.” Shadows heavy on the fine bones of his face, his tone holding a haunting sadness.
“I don’t know how to do this.” It was a confession torn out of her soul. “Not long ago, I told Aodhan to take risks, but God, Keir, I think I’m at my limit. I’m not sure my heart is big enough to encompass thousands.” Some of whom would inevitably die in battle. The pain of the loss wouldn’t be a distant, manageable one if she knew their names, their dreams, their hopes. Each death would be a kick directly to her battered heart. “I’ve lost too many people already.”