To heal a Rogue

LYSANDER

”No, listen,” she interrupted, turning her head to look at me, her cheek still pressed against the wall. ”Ryker didn’t have faith in the Kingdom anymore. He didn’t believe in justice or mercy or any of it. He was okay with death because he thought... he thought we were all monsters. And he wasn’t wrong, was he? I lied. Your cousin might have been the one responsible for the killing of those retainers. But he has an excuse. He was following the law. I was not. I did it because I was willful and just wanted to live. I guess we’re all just... we’re all just killers wearing different masks.”

She pushed off the wall, standing straight, her eyes bright with a feverish intensity. ”And the worst part is, I can’t even hate him for it. I can’t even be angry that he pointed a gun at me, that he called me a bitch, that he died cursing my name. Because he was right. Everything he said was true.”

The corridor was empty, the shadows long and stretching. I could hear my own heartbeat in my ears, and hers, through the bond, a frantic rhythm that matched my own. I stepped closer to her, invading her space, forcing her to look at me, really look at me.

”You’re wrong,” I insisted, my voice quiet but firm. ”And I need you to hear me, even if you don’t believe me yet.”

She stared at me, her lips pressed together, her chin trembling.

”You cannot save everyone,” I began, the words coming slowly, carefully, because I needed them to land exactly right. ”No matter how hard you try. No matter how much of yourself you pour into the attempt. Some people are already broken when you find them. Some people have already decided that the world is cruel, that hope is a lie, that death is the only honest thing left. And you can stand in front of them with your hands outstretched, offering everything you have, and they will still choose to walk away. Or to fight. Or to die.”

I reached out, taking her cold hands in mine, holding them between us like a prayer. ”But you can certainly try. That is the choice. Not whether you will fail, because you will. We all do. But whether you will reach out your hand anyway, knowing it might be slapped away, knowing it might be shot at, knowing that the person you are trying to save might hate you for the attempt.”

I squeezed her fingers, feeling the bones beneath the skin, the fragility and the strength coexisting there. ”I am not a god, Bonnie. I cannot promise you that every life you touch will be saved. I cannot promise that your goodness will always be met with gratitude, or that your sacrifices will be acknowledged. But I can promise you that I will always reach out my hand when I can. I will always try. Even when it costs me. Especially when it costs me.”

I let go of one hand and reached up, brushing a strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. ”I did the same to you. When you were drowning in your own power, when you were lost in that courtyard, I reached for you. And you took my hand. You came back. Not because I forced you, not because I commanded it, but because some part of you wanted to be saved. Some part of you believed that I could help.”

My thumb traced her cheekbone, feeling the wetness of tears there. ”But Ryker... Ryker didn’t want to be saved. Not by you. Not by anyone. He had already decided that the world was rotten, that we were all rotten, and he chose to die rather than risk being proven wrong. That is not your fault. That is not your sin to carry.”

I stepped closer, closing the distance between us until her chest brushed mine, until I could feel the heat of her body through our clothes. ”Even with all the best intentions, someone will suffer. It is just the way of the world. We are not omnipotent. We are not all-powerful. We are just... people. Trying to do right in a world that often rewards wrong. And sometimes, despite everything, the ending is bitter.”

I rested my forehead against hers, my eyes closing, my breath mingling with hers. ”But that doesn’t mean we stop trying. It doesn’t mean we stop reaching. It just means we forgive ourselves when we fail, because we are not gods. We are just wolves. And our mortal hands can only hold so much.”

She was quiet for a long moment, her breath hitching, her body rigid against mine. Then, slowly, like ice melting in spring, she softened. Her forehead pressed harder against mine, her nose brushing my cheek, and I felt the moment she let go, the moment she chose to believe me, or at least to try.

Her arms came up around my waist, tentative at first, then tightening, her fists clutching at the fabric of my shirt, pulling me closer. I wrapped my arms around her shoulders, crushing her against my chest, burying my face in her hair, breathing in the scent of her, the reality of her, warm and alive and here.

”I’m sorry,” she whispered against my neck, her lips moving against my skin.

”Don’t be,” I whispered back, my hand cradling the back of her head, holding her there. ”Just stay. Just breathe and let me hold you.”

She nodded, her face pressed into my shoulder, and we stood there in the empty corridor, holding each other up, two people who had seen too much death, who had failed too many times, who were still somehow reaching for each other in the dark.

And for a moment, just a moment, the weight lifted. The guilt, the grief, the crushing responsibility of it all... it didn’t disappear, but it became bearable. Because we were carrying it together.

I held her until her breathing slowed, until the tremors stopped, until she was steady on her feet again. And when she finally pulled back, her eyes were still wet, but the emptiness was gone. In its place was something warmer, something that looked like hope, or maybe just the willingness to hope again.

”Thank you,” she murmured, her hand coming up to touch my face, her palm warm against my cheek.

I turned my head, pressing a kiss into her palm, my eyes never leaving hers. ”Always,” I promised. ”No matter what comes next.”