"We may not have a choice. Did you think of that?"
"'Tis not an option," he replies sharply.
"Look, you can defeat these people without me, and I can't die. I don't exactly want to be tortured, but if it gives you a -"
"Nay." There's a lethal note in his tone this time, one I'm pretty sure I shouldn't protest. "I will do naught to see you killed."
I can't die. I start to point that out once more when it hits me. "You aren't the only one who knows how to kill me, are you?"
"I am not."
"It's how the Desert Knight a thousand years ago killed the warrior queen."
"A secret passed through both families, I am fairly certain."
Now that freaks me out. It's one thing to be stuck in a book and invincible and quite another to know I can die here.
I've been swiping my fingers over his forearm as we talked, and I notice the bumps breaking up his smooth skin. There's a long, angry looking cut along his arm, as if the troll got one good swipe in before he beheaded it. The wound is crusted over, the skin around it red with agitation. It's not infected that I can see, though there's a dab of blood near his elbow, a sign he did something to disturb the delicate layer of skin holding the edges of the wound together.
Tracing my fingers over the injury, I frown. His blood is real. The pain this wound caused truly exists as well.
At what point did I start to believe that this world and its inhabitants weren't just characters in a book? When did I start to care what happened to them?
Why does the long cut along his arm disturb me so much? This man can die and suffer and hurt the same way I can. The same hands capable of hurling an axe to halve a tree have also touched me with complete tenderness.
"Where's my squire?" I ask, afraid to know the answer.
"Red Knight's dungeon."
"Thank god. He's a good kid. He means well, even if he can't lift that sword of his."
"He will learn."
"You really want me to stay?" I venture. "Because you want to exploit my battle-witchiness?"
"'Tis needed to break the curse."
"Yeah," I agree, somewhat disappointed about the response. "It is." Not that I don't understand where he's coming from. I really do. Sometimes when he looks at me, though, I can't help hoping there's something else between us, as far-fetched as it seems. Someone interested in me.
Is it wrong to want my own fairy tale happily-ever-after ending? I mean, this is a book.