The sound of hoofbeats behind them made Thordin curse and twist, peering out across the snow as the sun sank slowly down toward the western shores of the lake. “Bloody fragging hell, Matt. Who else was coming?”
“That’d be Thom, probably,” Matt predicted. “Either he didn’t find Phelan and gave up, or Phelan went to find someone or something else before he joined us. Either way, I really don’t think they’d let Phelan come alone.”
Likely not. If there’s one thing that would make this go from bad to worse, it would be him showing up here unescorted.
He turned back toward the ice, squinting against the sun. Darkness would come all too quickly and that would make the fighting harder, more dangerous.
Powers that be and were, don’t let me get them killed. That’s all I ask. Take me instead. I’m ready for it.
A sharp ache in his chest told him that he was lying to himself. There were too many things unfinished, too many loose ends. He wasn’t ready.
But no one ever was.
His lips thinned and he strained to see any sign of cracking ice, of movement in the depths beneath the frozen slabs. He hoped they wouldn’t be able to find her, that she wouldn’t come. She’d chide him—no, more than chide, she’d lecture him—about what he planned to do, about trying to face it alone.
Facing one nearly killed you the first time. What makes you think you’ll be as lucky the second time?
This one’s probably smaller.
He couldn’t stop the smile. Matt looked at him funny.
“Are you okay?”
“No,” Thordin said softly. “No, and I never was. I just pretend.”
We all pretend, almost all the time. We pretend that all is well.
Maybe someday the lie we tell ourselves will actually become the truth.
