Ashes to Ashes: Phoenix Burned (Lick of Fire), #3

Chapter 1

Abeni Singsweet

My room seems just as much a prison as Eren's cell. With no one to talk to, without enough space to dance, rehearse, or distract myself, I can only relive the whirlwind of emotions in his touch. The last thing I wanted to do was let him get that close to me. He hurt me once—I don't dare let him hurt me again, even if he only has a few more days to do it.

I swallow against the resistance of a throat that's suddenly gone too tight to breathe, to swallow, to function. What happened to me? I knew he was an ill omen, and I still let him get close enough to dredge up old wounds. I let him kiss me.

What was I thinking?

Aw, hell. I know what I was thinking. About the press of his lips, warm and soft. About his body against mine, hard, wiry with energy, muscular, and delicious, and—

I was thinking about the quiet desperation he couldn't let on to, and how day after day, it emerged as some misguided desire to protect me, even though he'd lost claim to that responsibility long ago. About some part of me that still cared, after everything, about my first love having only a few days to live. About some part of him trying desperately to face his death bravely—even as the rest of him made the whole thing worse by obsessing about his need to atone to the wrongs he’d done me. Regardless of how that made me feel.

How's someone supposed to feel when facing down their childhood love's impending execution?

I fold my costumes in my suitcase, straightening my room, impatient to have something to do. I'd thought that I would rest easy once I could finally collapse in bed and get some sleep, but instead, I'm a mess of nerves and anxieties—all for a man who deserves none of my goodwill.

Godsdamnit, Eren. Why did I let you do this to me?

I know why. I fucking know why. Because some part of me never stopped loving him. Even when it nearly killed me, I could never hold it against him—not when it counted.

The sequins and rhinestones of a performer's life seem so meaningless, beautiful but surface pieces of ephemera. I never wanted any of this. I liked it well enough once I had it, but it was never my dream.

He was. So I suppose it's fitting that in two days, he's gonna meet an ugly—and pointless—end, regardless of whatever I say or do. As Calanthe would say, that's life.

I shut the lid of my suitcase so I won't have to see the glitz that has become a painful reminder of both of our failures. I don't want to look at delicate details, or girlish sparkle. Not when my world is caked in true ugliness.

I throw myself on my bed, relishing the aches wracking my body. As forms of punishment goes, this one seems to fit. I can't—or won't—save him, as he couldn't—or wouldn't—save me.

So I should just succumb to it, just feel my cracking joints, the shocks and tingling flesh, and take it to mean I'm still alive. His love didn't kill me, though it came close. I only have to survive two more days of it before I'm free for good.

Free to be on my own. Free to cry when someone tries to touch me with any kind of gentility. Free to throw myself into my stage performances like they mean a damn. Free to pretend that anything about my life means a damn, and I'm not living out an existential nightmare.

No. I've gotta rein that shit in. It'll be different after he's gone. I can be different. I don't know how, but I'll find some other purpose. I just don't know what. He threw his life away pointlessly, but I won't. I won't let him defeat me.

Filled with determination, and feeling a bit more optimistic, I finally manage to sleep.

I toss and turn all night, throwing the blankets off me in my restlessness. But sleep offers some degree of peace, so every time I begin to wake up, I roll over, push a pillow over my head, and fight to not wake up.

But it can't last forever. I open my eyes to a grey midday, and the mood of doom and gloom rushes back.

Get up. Stretch. You've gotta be extra courteous, extra sharp tonight. You pissed people off yesterday. That can't happen twice.

I drag myself from bed and plug the bath. Once it's filling, I sit in front of my vanity to take stock of things. The bags under my eyes are deepening—it almost seems I've aged five years in a week. If I find any new wrinkles or gray hairs, I might turn the mirror around and just go onstage bare-faced.

Ugh. No one stays young forever.

I shake myself from the rumination. It's just a temporary effect of running through so much power so fast. My body can't handle the strain. I'll be fine once I finish this grueling marathon and let myself rest. A few months without performances, and I'll be right as rain. Besides, youth isn't everything. Age brings cunning.

Eren didn't care about your age. He looks at you like you're still the same wide-eyed child who played games alongside him.

No. I shake myself. You're not gonna dwell on him. He's got puppy dog eyes—you know that—but he's still the same bastard who fucked you over. That he's sorry he did means precisely shit. Apologies don't fix things. They don't get you back time with your family. They don't spackle over the cracks in your shattered life. Iles died. His remorse doesn't put you at her fucking bedside for those farewells.

I sniffle, shrinking in on myself. Yeah. Better to stretch, go to the Festival early. I've gotta get out of my own head, or I'm just gonna keep torturing myself. A quick rinse and a robe for warmth, and I'll be out mingling with the crowd, trying to salvage something in anonymity, or something in fame and community—depending how quickly people recognize me.

The warm water eases my aches somewhat, and it takes me another hour and a half to drag myself from it. Even though I know the best thing to shake myself free of my malaise is to go be around people, the heat's healing effect on my sore body delays that.

Eventually, though, I manage it. I stuff a few pictures into my purse, just in case, put on a little makeup, and shove more into my purse to apply backstage. And I force myself to face the world.

The good cheer makes a glaring contrast to the tension and intrigue of the high table—a table set longer than normal to make space for more people trekking in from the outlying cottages and villages, as well as more diplomats. Tonight has a crowd maybe twice as large as normal: the grand finale. It’s a good thing I’m long past any kind of performance jitters or stage fright. This many people, mingling with the crowd of revelers as they dance, helping themselves to street vendors' food, and catch up with old friends, it’s almost soothing. It's easier to believe that life moves on, to build a sense of perspective about the throbbing disconnect that has kept me chained to my solitude.

It's easier to smile. To loosen some of the chains around my heart. To remember some of the good things. Like the way Eren's arm tightened around me. The way his heart beat against my cheek.

Oh my god, you're Kaetha! a woman gasps, turning to me. Can I have your autograph? When are you performing?

In a few hours, and of course, I tell her, planting a wide smile as firmly as I can across my lips. I dig out