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There are the things you want, and the things you get. Any crossover between the two, while lovely, is unreliable and temporary at best.
And yet, when it comes to Percy...
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“Vex’ahlia,” he gasps, “Vex’ahlia, permit me—ngh.”
Percy says her name like she’s his god. He is ravenous for her, as though she is all things light and good and merciful—as though it is miraculous that she has allowed him the animal joy of taking and being taken. It feels so good to have him in her bed, hot and eager and alive. It feels right to have him over her, under her, every which way she can think of.
For a second through the haze of pleasure, Vex thinks I love him, bright and clear and terrifying.
And Vex, she doesn’t get to keep the things she loves.
---
She wakes up before him and pretends the rules of the world don’t apply—just this once.
If we live a thousand years, she thinks, leaning back into the warmth of his chest, I will not forgive you for that stunt in Ank’Harel. Mind your steps, Percy-dear.
He is so careless, this heart of hers, so ready to sacrifice himself for those he loves. But to make her watch him kneeling there, to send her away from his side, force her to hear that awful scream before Scanlan stepped forward—she could forgive him anything, she thinks, anything but that.
Don’t go, she wants to say, when he stirs and carefully, slowly releases her from his embrace. But it’s a childish want. And she’s horribly, ridiculously frightened of having to smile while he says, No thanks, what a great bit of fun that was, ta-ta.
It’s easier to let go now. It’s better this way.
---
Every other minute in Draconia, she feels Percy glance her way. As the slow, awful hours pass—dreadfully, once they’ve set up camp all that’s left to do is think.
Your brother is dead, a little voice whispers. You let him go to the worst place in all the realms and he’s gone, you’ve lost him, he’s never coming back. Your home is gone. Your lover will tire of you. Foolish, fickle Vex’ahlia—you cannot hold on to anything. You cling so tightly, but your hands are always empty in the end.
It sounds a bit like Saundor’s voice. Unfortunately, that doesn’t make it easy to ignore.
She’s still dreaming of the Fey Realm—when it’s not the fall of Emon, or Vax turning away from her on the lakeshore, or the echo of Percy’s horrible scream, or Mother looking up to see a curtain of fire drawing over the world. Vex hasn’t had a good night of sleep since the night the Briarwoods died. And last night, in fact.
Nothing is simple anymore, and nothing has ever been easy, so she sticks with what she knows. There are things you want, and there are things you get.
Percy, with his hair unbrushed and his smile slow and warm, painted gold by the morning sun, belongs firmly in the first category. She is simply doing her best to preempt the awkward moment when he realizes it.
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She’s a bit distracted, and her head is aching—so Vex isn’t as suspicious as she should be. Dohla... she should have known, should have read the signs of anger on the unfamiliar face. Allura and Kima have the excuse of nostalgia. Vex has nothing of the sort. They ascend bridge after bridge, and she never once suspects they’re being led to their deaths.
“What are you doing?” Kima demands, all furious incomprehension, and the frightened little voice in Vex’s head whispers killing you, she’s killing you all. There’s only a single moment to see where things are going.
Will this be us? Vex wonders, watching the three of them fight. It’s fast, vicious combat, each of them bringing to bear the weight of years. All that history, and it’s come to this. Is this our fate? To love each other, to resent each other, to destroy each other? She doesn’t want it.
And then, between breaths, the star-bright pain in her head goes supernova.
Vorugal, Vorugal, he is the great killing-cold, the Frigid Doom. An unstoppable force, the predator without peer; no hunter stands before him without becoming prey. Someone wrote that, once. Vex got it out of a book in a noblewoman’s library in Syngorn. She tore out the page and got a papercut doing so, right on her knuckle, that stung for days. Funny what comes to mind when you’re about to die.
Dragons are the most prideful of beasts, that’s another one, from On Dragons by the scholar Russet Ladon. They do not abide condescension. If you wish to survive, humble yourself. Give no orders, bow your head, and pray to the gods it is enough.
Seems no one ever told Dohla that.
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There’re things you want and things you get. Percy’s hands have no right to be so warm through his gloves, nor so careful as they hold hers. As though she’s something precious.
Vax is in the Hells. Mother is dead. The keep in Emon lies in ruins; the elven tiara breaks in her grasp. Everything Vex loves slips out of her hands.
Percy’s eyes have no right to be so earnest. His voice has no right to be so gentle. For a fantastical moment Vex wants to hide away in him, to bury herself in the warm folds of his jacket and not emerge until springtime. She wants to open her eyes and find a world where they all stand victorious, side by side—a world where she can lace her fingers together with Percy’s and know nothing will tear them apart.
And yet: wanting, getting. It’s the way of things.
She comes to Allura’s side and insists, with grim determination, on hope. She says, as though she can make it true, that knowing hearts is enough to know outcomes. With Percy standing at her shoulder, the words feel far less foolish than they should.
You know better, she thinks to herself. Vex’ahlia, you know better. But she feels him looking at her, all the same.