Chapter 46
Doran
Doran’s day had started so well, if you looked past the bandits trying to kill them. His talk with Ginger had been the most open they’d been with each other, and not just because he’d been naked in a bathtub.
And then he’d said too much, and the little, comfortable connection they’d built dissipated along with the foam in the tub.
He stepped outside and slammed the inn door behind him. The sun was just setting, its orange light falling through the branches and kissing the homes with gentle lips. It would have been lovely, if he’d been in the right mood.
Why did Ginger have to ask about Rhys tonight? They should both have stayed quiet. When Levi had helped him wash, Doran thought he’d felt something between them Something warm. Something private they shared only with each other.
Whatever that feeling had been, it was dead now. Like his brother.
Doran kicked a larger pebble into a nearby tree and ignored the sting it caused in his toe. His shoes were worn thin from years of walking, but it had never occurred to him to buy new ones. He’d welcomed the pain.
He walked through the town gate and turned right deeper into the forest. The quiet was bliss; all he heard were birds singing and leaves rustling in the gentle breeze.
And Rhys’s voice in his head. The laugher Doran would never hear again. Because he’d been the idiot who’d murdered his big brother.
Anger rose up from deep inside him. Just why did Ginger have to ask tonight, of all times? They had been having such a nice day, and now all that lay in ruins around him.
“Damn it!” He rammed his fist into a tree and hissed when stitches in his shoulder came loose and pain erupted in his fingers. “Ancients!”
He punched the tree again with his other hand, kicked a pile of leaves until they scattered around him, and screamed.
He sank to the ground, tearing out bushels of grass and whole patches of soil until his hands were dry and earth was stuck behind his nails. His knuckles stung. They were bleeding.
He hadn’t even noticed how much he’d hurt himself on the bark.
His eyes burnt. Was this what Rhys had reduced him to? A grown man, crying in a forest and throwing a tantrum?
“Are you happy?” The effort of speaking made his throat constrict. “Is this what you want?”
“It’s less than you deserve.”
Doran jumped, his heart missing a beat. It had been years since he’d heard that voice outside his head.
He stood and turned around, slowly, scared of what he’d find.
“Rhys.”
His brother looked exactly as he remembered him. Well, almost. Rhys was taller than Doran. Lanky. But there was no mischievous grin on his lips, no cheeky light in his eyes. His face was a mirror of his rage, and it was directed at Doran.
“You killed me. You deserve the pain.”
“It’s not your fault, Doran.”
He spun around when Rhys’s voice came from behind him. He turned back around just to make sure he was really seeing this; Rhys stood on both sides, one glaring all his hatred at Doran and one grinning like he’d always done.
“I could have had a good life. I could have been successful, if you hadn’t killed me.”
“It was an accident. Both of us knew about the cart, and I didn’t say anything either. It’s my own fault I’m dead.”
“Ancients curse you, brother. Your bleeding fingers are better than you deserve.”
Had he gone insane? Had his obsession driven him into madness?
“What do you want?” He didn’t know why he asked. This wasn’t Rhys—it couldn’t be—and there was no reasoning with spirits.
“I want you to suffer for the rest of eternity.”
“I want you to forgive yourself, Doran. Accept that you didn’t cause my death.”
He punched the Rhys closest to him. His fist flew right through the apparition, which disappeared under his swing and rebuilt itself the moment his hand was gone.
“How dare you take his shape!”
He tried again and missed again.
“How dare you speak with his voice!”
“I will never forgive you, no matter how much you suffer.”
“There’s nothing to forgive. You’ve punished yourself enough.”
He screamed. This was madness. Why was it that every forest he entered tried to kill him?
Doran ran. The apparitions followed.
“You can’t run from yourself, murderer.”
“You can’t run from yourself, brother.”
“Suffer.”
“Forgive yourself.”
“Shut up!”
He ran until he was out of breath. Until the only sound he heard were the birds singing. He didn’t know when the apparition had stopped tormenting him. He wasn’t even sure how long he’d run. Judging by the uncomfortable damp against his trouser leg the stitches in his thigh had opened and his wound was bleeding again.
The soft orange glow had turned into a deep dark between the trees and stars sparkling overhead. Doran was surprised to make out the path not far from him. His lungs burnt like he’d run for hours, but he couldn’t have gone far if the path was so close. Had that been a trick of his mind, too? Or had the apparition made it feel longer to prolong his torture? Doran didn’t care. He wanted a soft bed in a place far away from any forests. The sooner they moved on, the happier he’d be.
He followed the path back to the town and grimaced when his shoulder hurt worse than before. His run had put new strain on the wound, and the cold sweat not-Rhys had caused didn’t help.
Doran apologised to the innkeeper for his earlier slamming of the door and trudged up the stairs back to their room. He didn’t know which Rhys was right. He was too tired to think about it. His head hurt. Maybe it didn’t matter. Rhys was gone either way.
But then again, if it didn’t matter, maybe it was time to stop beating himself up over it.
When Doran returned to the room, one candle was still burning by the side of his bed. It flickered when he closed the door, but refused to be extinguished. It cast dark shadows over the already dark room. As the only light source, it led him back to the warm safety of his pillow and sheets.
Levi had fallen asleep on the bed, the thin moonlight falling through the window his only cover. Careful not to wake him, Doran pulled the blanket over Levi and sat on the other bed.
Admitting he’d killed Rhys felt like he’d always known it would. He wasn’t relieved. He didn’t feel like a heavy burden had been lifted off him. He felt no different at all. All the guilt, all the pain—still there. The apparitions had only fuelled his pain, and he was no less convinced he didn’t deserve it.
But Levi didn’t. Ginger had suffered enough agony already. Doran knew he shouldn’t have walked out, but he’d needed fresh air. A small part of him had wanted Levi to continue when Doran had interrupted him. A small part of him wanted to hear that it had been an accident, nothing he could have predicted. Doran wanted to reach out and curl up next to Levi, but he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. He’d meant what he said after the bath. Levi deserved someone better than him.
In every respect.
Doran got into his own bed and turned away from Ginger. Rhys’s broken body haunted his dreams like it did every night, the excited grin on his face promising adventure, but for the first time since Doran had left Ceidir Levi was there too, and Levi was holding him. He had no right to the comfort while he was awake, but while he was asleep at least, it felt nice to be forgiven.