Andrew Tesoriero

“Denna stirred in her sleep. “I know you didn’t mean it,” she said clearly. “Mean what?” I asked softly. Her voice was different, no longer dreamy and tired. I wondered if she was talking in her sleep. “Before. You said you’d knock me down and make me eat coals. You’d never hit me.” She turned her head a little. “You wouldn’t, would you? Not even if it was for my own good?” I felt a chill go through me. “What do you mean?” There was a long pause, and I was beginning to think she’d fallen asleep when she spoke up again. “I didn’t tell you everything. I know Ash didn’t die at the farm. When I was heading toward the fire he found me. He came back and said that everyone was dead. He said that people would be suspicious if I was the only one who survived. . . .” I felt a hard, dark anger rise up in me. I knew what came next, but I let her talk. I didn’t want to hear it, but I knew she needed to tell someone. “He didn’t just do it out of the blue,” she said. “He made sure it was what I really wanted. I knew it wouldn’t look convincing if I did it to myself. He made sure I really wanted him to. He made me ask him to hit me. Just to be sure. “And he was right.” She didn’t move at all as she spoke. “Even this way they thought I had something to do with it. If he hadn’t done it, I might be in jail right now. They would’ve hanged me.” My stomach churned acid. “Denna,” I said. “A man who could do that to you—he’s not worth your time. Not one moment of it. It’s not a matter of him being only half a loaf. He’s rotten through. You deserve better.” “Who knows what I deserve?” she said. “He’s not my best loaf. He’s it. Him or hungry.” “You have other options,” I said, then stalled, thinking of my conversation with Deoch. “You’ve . . . you’ve got . . .” “I’ve got you,” she said dreamily. I could hear the warm, sleepy smile in her voice, like a child tucked into bed. “Will you be my dark-eyed Prince Gallant and protect me from pigs? Sing to me? Whisk me away to tall trees. . . .” She trailed off to nothing. “I will,” I said, but I could tell by the heavy weight of her against my arm that she had finally fallen asleep.”
― Patrick Rothfuss, The Name of the Wind