The Way We Fall

Chapter 149 (Roche)

She was scrubbing pots with boiled water when he found her. Night had fallen and the stars peeked out through the thick net of branches above their head. If Roche closed her eyes, she could pretend she was at Medea's grove. But the air didn't smell right, not like Medea's sweet scent that somehow filled the space of the sacred grove. And the stars somehow seemed duller, diluted by the turmoil of the day.

Tigris had been tended to and now slept by the fire with Ivie at her side. Roche was going to take the first watch. Last she'd seen, Ikaros had been settling in on the opposite side of the fire, withdrawn but intent. She'd expected him to be asleep by now. It was why she was startled when she heard his feeble steps crunching through the autumn-hardened mud as he crouched next to her beside the stream.

"Need help with that?" he asked, his voice gentle and kind. Somehow, that irked her more.

"No," Roche mumbled, careful to keep her voice neutral, "I'm fine, thank you."

Ikaros hesitated. He was barely visible in the darkness, save for a flash of his golden skin and a shift in the shadows that was his inky hair sweeping over his shoulder.

"I could..." he paused again, waggling his fingers. Roche felt his inkblood filling the air, the wild scent of it stinging against her nostrils. She shoved away the sensation.

"I'm fine," she bit out. All she could see when she heard his disused voice was a splotch of bruises on her mother's cheek. She remembered the exact pitch of her mother's cries at night, weeping over the man who would never come home.

The moments stretched on. Ikaros didn't move and Roche felt her blood boiling.

"You know, you could probably use your own inkblood to do it," Ikaros whispered after a moment. Roche clenched her jaw. Why couldn't the man just leave her alone?

"I can't," she answered diplomatically, like Tigris would have wanted her to, "I'm not strong enough."

Ikaros shifted in the darkness with surprise. "You most certainly are. I saw how you fought those bandits, you have enough power for a pot scrubbing incantation."

His inkblood filled the air, sweeping over her skin and probing at her inkblood. Roche was up on her feet, primal instincts launching her away from the man. Her inkblood shredded through his in a vicious wave.

"I thought I told you not to touch me," Roche hissed.

Ikaros' wide eyes seemed to glow in the night. He held up his hands instantly. "I'm sorry," he said, "It's a way to check the strength of your ink. It used to be common practice between inkbloods."

Roche bit back a growl. "Well, I'm not comfortable with it!" she snapped.

"Right. I'm sorry," Ikaros lowered himself to the muddy ground beside her, not seeming to care about how the frigid muck soaked into his trousers. His eyes were earnest as he summoned a light with a simple twitch of his fingers. A pale grey orb of ethereal luminescence bobbed between them, washing out the whisper's golden skin into something ashen. His hand fell to his side as he cocked his head, gazing at Roche curiously. She squirmed under his watchful eye.

"You still don't like me, do you?" he murmured after a beat. Roche felt a muscle in her jaw tick with a blend of discomfort and ire.

"I appreciate what you are doing for my lady," she answered honestly, mindful of Tigris' orders.

"But you dislike me," Ikaros narrowed his eyes at her face, "Have I wronged you somehow?"

"No," Roche answered curtly, standing up quickly. Her mind was fixated on the image of her mother's beat up face. Her inkblood frothed to life. "I really must be going. I have first watch."