The Dark Throne by Jocelyn Fox

own accord, reaching out for him. Heedless of the ache of my burns and the sharp stab of pain at the sudden movement, I laid one hand on his shoulder and with the other covered his hand on the hilt of the Brighbranr. He shuddered again.
    “Finnead,” I said, “please. Is there something wrong?”
    For a third time his shoulders heaved, and I thought with terrible certainty that he was about to tell me of the death of a dear friend, or his own impending doom. I leaned forward, fear seizing my heart…and then that fear dissipated, melting into another emotion entirely as Finnead wordlessly turned his face into the hand I had laid on his shoulder; and his other hand released the hilt of his sword, guiding my other hand to his face with a feather-light touch. His cheeks were damp beneath my fingers, and his long black eyelashes glistened wetly in the flickering light.
    “Oh,” I breathed, the sound somewhere between a word and a sigh and a moan of empathy. Pain rippled through my hands, and I gently shifted so that only my fingertips touched his face. Finnead shuddered again with his silent, agonizing grief. I brushed away one slow tear with my thumb. “Please,” I said, sliding down slowly out of my chair, kneeling with Finnead on the wooden floor. I lowered my face so I hoped he could see me, gazing earnestly up at him. “What’s wrong? Please tell me. I can’t bear to think that someone….that someone else…” My own throat closed, choking off my words.
    “No,” he said quickly. “No one has been killed…not yet.” He clenched his jaw as another soundless tremor passed through him, and then he took a deep breath. I could see the struggle in his eyes, now framed by my bandaged hands. “I am being selfish,” he said, barely concealed disgust coloring his words. “With you barely awoken—”
    “Stop,” I interrupted him firmly. He looked down. I realized he was trembling with the strength of his pent-in emotion. I leaned closer. “Finnead. Look at me?”
    With slow control, he raised his eyes to mine, unshed tears brightening their blue depths. I held his gaze, refusing to let him look away. “Everyone needs someone,” I said softly. “You can’t be a stone pillar of strength all the time. Just….talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong.”
    He looked at me for a long moment. “I am…a difficult man to love, Tess,” he finally said, words broken over the tears gathered in his eyes. “I have lived the lives of ten men, and it has made me strong. But it comes at a price.”
    I pressed gently against his face with my fingertips, as if by the small movement I could make him understand that I was listening to him, that I could understand as much as anybody, that I would try to understand as much as I could without having been through his trials. The wounds on my palms stung beneath the bandages. “Tell me,” I said softly.
    He shuddered again, his hands convulsing in his lap like separate creatures. He clenched and unclenched his fists, and his eyes became haunted. “I cannot sleep for the dreaming, sometimes.”
    “Nightmares,” I repeated quietly, nodding. I thought of the sudden flash of memory as I slid beneath the water in the stronghold among the trees, the sharp silver of siren scales cutting into my consciousness without my permission.
    “Dreams so real I swear I can feel them peeling the flesh from my bones again…and hear their laughter as I screamed…” His voice trailed off, his eyes distant. “I see them killing her, again and again. They tortured her, and her ladies…forced me to watch no matter how I fought…drugged me, and used me in hideous ways…” He choked on the words. “Helpless. I was so helpless.” His gaze sharpened as he emerged from his memories. “As I felt helpless when you were dying, when we ran from the ruins of Brightvale.” He took a huge, hitching breath and the words poured from him like water sluicing from a shattered bowl, quick and violent. “When I