Chapter 93

Ruby

I feel like a prisoner in my own body.

Is this how Vivian felt?

Alone, helpless, and weak?

No matter how hard I look for my wolf, she’s not there. It’s as though she never existed. Without her, I feel even weaker than I did before she emerged. The Bears will kill me and I won’t be able to stand a chance, not without my wolf.

I want to kick and scream and claw and bite when the Bear rips me out of Atwood’s arms, but I can’t. My limbs feel like rope, as though all of the muscles have fallen limp and useless.

I know what the Bear is going to do to me. I can see the glint of the blade in his hand, the droplets of red on the tip where he cut his finger. The snow falls on the blood, turning it from a bright red to a muddy pink color.

He’s going to drive the blade into my heart. The pink blood drips on my chin as he holds the knife above me.

“No!”

Atwood’s screams echo through the blizzard like the distant howling of the wind. He’s close; I can still smell him. Using what little strength I have left, I turn my head toward him to look at him.

He’s still in his pajamas. His feet are bare, turning blue from the wet and the cold. His hair falls into his face like a curtain as he strains against the Bear who’s holding him back. He’s weak, too; without my wolf, his condition has returned and it’s only a matter of time before he is either killed or turns into a Rogue.

“It’s okay,” I whisper as I look at him. His eyes meet mine. Their once bright orange hue is now dull, fading away like a dying flame. Death will be a kindness, I think. For both of us.

With a final chuckle, the Bear brings the blade down.

I brace myself for impact, for the feeling of the knife driving into my heart.

It never comes.

The howling of the wind has fallen silent, along with Atwood’s screams. When I turn my head back to the sky, the Bear has frozen in place, the blade still in his hand. Not even the snow falls anymore. Everything is still.

My body still feels heavy and weak, too weak to move. Is this purgatory? Am I stuck here, lost in the moment right before my death, for all eternity?

I’m not sure how long exactly I lay here, waiting for the moment to finish. It could be hours, days, weeks. Eternity, even. The silence is calming, almost. I spend a lot of time studying the Bear’s face; he’s young, likely my age. His facial hair has hardly grown in yet, but his eyes bare the soul of a man who has lived a thousand lifetimes and will live a thousand more. He’s seen horrible things.

I can move my hand, now, just barely; I reach out and touch the Bear to get a glimpse of him.

When I pull my hand away, I know all I need to know. He’s seventeen. Ripped from his family to fight in a war that he had no part in starting. No home to return to. He’s seen too much death, too much gore. It’s driven him mad, turning him into the perfect killing machine that the Bear King always wanted. There’s a whole army of boys just like him.

Tears roll down my cheeks as I lay there.

Suddenly, the silence is broken by the sound of footsteps crunching in snow. It sounds distant, and takes an eternity to reach me, but I have time.

I wait, because I know who it is.

“I told you I’d see you again,” she says. Her voice sounds like the chiming of a million little bells. It echoes all around us in the silence. When she bends down to me, her dark hair brushing my cheek, my tears stop.

She looks at the Bear, then back to me.

“If you want to go now, I won’t stop you,” she says softly, touching my cheek with her hand. She pulls her hand away to curiously inspect one of my tears that has wet her finger.

“If I go now, what will happen to him?” I ask.

She looks over at Atwood. He’s frozen in place, his face contorted into an animalistic scream as he fights against the Bear.

“He’ll die,” she says, almost nonchalantly.

“Will we be together?”

She shrugs. “Maybe. If you are, it’s… different.”

There’s a long silence between the two of us. Neither of us says anything for a painfully long time.

“Do you still love him?” I ask.

“Of course,” she responds. “But it’s been longer for me. When you’re in the void, time moves differently. I’ve had my time to heal.”

“So you don’t hate me?”

“How could I hate you?” she says, fixing her empty void eyes on me. “You saved him. You taught him how to be gentle again. I love you for loving him.”

She takes my hand now and gently squeezes it.

“My question still stands,” she whispers. “Do you want to go? Or do you want to stay?”

I still believe that death would be a kindness. After everything that’s happened, I’m exhausted from this world. But deep down, I know that I still have a lot to do. I have to take care of Tamara. I have a future with her and Atwood. I can let it all go away now, lead my life down a dead end road, or I can fight and follow a path with many crossroads.

“I want to stay.”

“So be it,” she says, placing her hand on the Bear’s knife and moving it down a few inches, away from my heart. She places one hand next on my chest, over my heart, then places the other hand over her own heart.

“What will happen to you?” I ask.

Vivian pauses, blinking slowly, then tilts her head back to look up at the sky.

“I always loved the snow,” she says.

I can’t fully explain what happens next. It burns like a thousand suns, but fills me with pleasure at the same time as Vivian pushes her hand into my chest, wrapping her ghostly fingers around my throbbing heart. I watch as she pushes her own hand into her chest as well. Her face is calm, stoic.

There is a bright flash of light; so bright, in fact, that I wonder if I’ve gone blind. When it fades, she is standing now.

She turns away and slowly walks back in the direction that she came from.

“Vivian?” I call out.

She stops, but doesn’t speak.

“Thank you,” I say softly.

Vivian looks over her shoulder at me. Her eyes are no longer black voids, but are now a shining silver, just like her portrait. Behind them, there is a hint of something that almost looks like laughter.

The beauty of her eyes is burned into my mind as I watch her body transform into a million snowflakes that blow away in the wind.

The wind.

The sound of Atwood’s screaming resumes.