by J. Levi
“Put some damn clothes on before I feel obligated to toss coins at you,” the old woman chirps.
I obey, quickly pulling worn trousers on and tying the drawstring tight. Cas noticeably relaxes after I cover myself. I opt to leave a shirt off, given the desert air is still cooling down. Cas clothed himself with quick precision.
I gently take the bowls of meat and broth from the old woman. She gives Cas a soft smile, though when she looks back at me, her face twists into something I imagine is persecution. I can literally feel the accusations swirling in her mind, which makes me feel a twinge guilty for pestering the prince—if I’m honest.
Eventually, she breaks the earsplitting silence by saying in a raspy voice, “You two wreak of death.”
She scowls and pinches her nose. Cas lifts an arm to smell himself and looks to me for confirmation. I shrug because I figure we smell fine after our bath in the hot springs.
She eyes my shoulder and snaps her finger before twirling it. A command to turn. I oblige, and she inspects the gashes along my back. She withdraws a small tin of salve from her robes and hands it to Cas before saying, “Make sure he applies it twice a day until healed. I’ll bring more after we’re off the road tomorrow. I’ll get Duck to make some more.”
Duck? What the hell kind of caravan did we stumble into?
“Give me the rest of those foul clothes that wreak. I’ll get replacements in the morning. I’ll leave them outside your tent,” the crone chirps at Cas.
“I am sorry, but we don’t have any coin to repay you for replacements.” The look on the woman’s face is a mixture of surprise and indignation.
“Did I ask for money? Gods above, don’t answer that. That’s rhetorical. You youngins’ and always assuming shit. Take those to the mess hall after your done and clean ‘em,” she snickers with an eye roll. Cas lifts the bundle of our soiled clothing to her. She murmurs disdain and vulgar slurs as she takes the heap of filth and holds it out, far from her body. She leaves the tent with a final goodbye. It’s only directed to Cas, but I’m too distracted by the food in my hands. When’s the last time I ate something?
I’m amazed by how much my stomach twists and knots at every gulp. The meat is excessively elastic, but the savory flavors are a welcomed sensation. After a few bites, my jaw begins to ache as I gnaw. My intestines squirm and growl like iron hinges rusted shut and being forced to open. Cas takes his time in between bites. The fine precision he moves to drink the broth and eat the meat leaves me feeling like a brutish animal.
When we finish, I take Cas’s bowl. I’m about to step outside when he says, “I can take them.”
“Do princes even know how to wash a dish?” I scoff. I bite my tongue and regret the words when Cas’s face twists between emotions of annoyance, anger, and embarrassment.
“Hey, I was just teasing. I didn’t mean anything by—” I try to explain before Cas interrupts me.
“—Don’t. Don’t do that. Don’t fall back on your words because you didn’t get the response you wanted. I’ve heard it all, ‘spoiled prince Casaell, he doesn’t even have to lift a finger. Oh, I bet the prince doesn’t even need to wipe his ass when he shits. He must have servants who live to wipe royal shit for a living.’” His terse vulgarity twists in my chest, it sounds so unlike him. I’ve struck a nerve without intending it, but didn’t I plan it? Haven’t I loathed the royal, the rich, and the snob? The prince is right. I don’t get to walk backward on the words I choose just because of the reaction I get.
I want to placate him, but I’m too tired and too bad with words. I leave the tent and take the bowls back to the mess hall. I wash the bowls with the buckets of clean water and stack them along with the rest.
As I return to the tent, I’m greeted with salutes, nods, and greetings by the caravan members trailing towards their tents. The carnival is starting to wind down for the night. I search for Lan or the old woman who came into the tent earlier, but I have no luck finding either.
Back inside the tent, Cas is sitting in his corner again. I feel my chest heave at the sight, and guilt resonates resoundingly.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Not for what I said, because you’re right. I can’t take back the shit that flies out of my mouth. But I am sorry for holding the shit over your head. I’ve been told I can be overkill sometimes.”
“Sometimes?” He scoffs.
I laugh. “Okay, most of the time.”
Cas relaxes, the tension in his face and body ease. He stands and steps closer to me as he turns over the round silver tin in his hands. He uncorks the lid. I immediately catch hints of pine, lemon, copper, and sage.
The roses on my forearm transition from white into a soft violet and deep navy color. The thorns appear more delicate, and the vines loosen against my skin. Interesting…they change color now.
Cas motions to me with the tinned salve in hand. I raise an eyebrow in question.
“Your back. You can’t reach your back. I can apply it if you want,” Cas says softly, nearly a whisper in the dark.
I nod, turning so my exposed back faces him. I stand there, waiting and anticipating his touch, though it doesn’t come. I peer over my shoulder to find Cas staring, his eyes wide and mouth agape.
“It looks worse than it feels, I’m sure,” I offer with a shrug. The prince clears his throat and gets to work. The gouges in my flesh have dulled into a faded ache beneath my skin, but as he applies the salve to my skin. I feel instant numbing relief. Cas’s delicate fingers lightly caress the flesh of my back, trailing from my shoulders towards my waist. I struggle to mask the shudders my body involuntarily exudes at his touch.
He fiddles with the leather cord around my neck, reliably holding the clasped black stone I’ve had for so long.
“I’m surprised the cravyn didn’t rip this off,” Cas says. The same realization hadn’t escaped me after our encounter with the maddened spirit. I’m thankful it failed to rip away the only physical memory of her.
“How old are you?” he asks, his voice an octave higher. I’m startled by the question, not because he asks it, but because I’m lost in reveries.
“Twenty-four, believe it or not. I know the scars and scruff makes me look older.”
I hear Cas huff before I hear the lid of the salve tin being closed.
“How about you?” I ask because I don’t want him to stop talking.
“Twenty-two,” he replies, a slight attitude, “Do you know nothing about your own royal family? I’d assume everyone in Edonia would know how old their prince is.”
“I’m not everyone,” I snark.
“No, you’re definitely not. I don’t know why I even expected you to know it anyway.”
“Right, because the most important thing in life is to know how old a posh prince of privilege is,” I jest. I feel the heat of my flesh begin to radiate with anger.
“Posh? I could have you flayed for speaking to me like this,” he snaps. I literally belt into a thunderous laugh at the brash absurdity.
“Okay, if you don’t want me giving you grief about being a prince, then don’t say pompous shit like that. It’s like you’re begging me to tease you.”
“I’m not begging you to do anything,” Cas exclaims. I turn to face him. His face is red and flush, his brows are furrowed, and his lips press into a thin line.
“Not yet,” I remark, never looking away from his face. It’s too fun watching the emotions that flooded his features. The prince is so expressive, and I revel in it.
Cas stutters, scoffs, gasps, and coughs while his face flushes vibrantly. It’s nearly glowing. After the intoxicating laughter subsides within me, I muster, “How about we start over. I won’t give you shit, and you’ll not be a snob.”
Cas starts to protest, but I nudge his shoulder, interrupting him before he can get a word out. I slowly drop to the ground, allowing gravity to do all the work as I plop onto the mound of sheepskins and cloth.
“Look, we’re a
long way from home. I have no clue how far. I’ve never heard of this city. Lan says it’s called Oriand, right? I mean, the city is built into the side of a gods damned volcano. Then I have the issue of this,” I say, pointing to my ears and the runic tattoos on my wrists and then finally to the moving tattoo of roses, thorns, and vines. The flowers have transitioned back into a white, and the vines curl loosely around my flesh.
Cas sits quietly beside me. After a while, he finally breaks the ensuing silence.
“I’ve never heard of it either. I’ve studied Edonian geography for years but everything South of the South Crown Ridge is always blank in textbooks. No one knows since after the Seventy Winter War. I was taught that everything was decimated during the war.”
“Well, not to state the obvious, but that is obviously propaganda bullshit,” I say gruffly. Cas leans into me as we sit aside each other, his head hangs low as his breath stutters. I can feel the tension in his body pressed against me as if he’s questioning whether or not to pull away.
I realize I don’t want him to pull away.
“Hey,” I say.
Cas doesn’t respond.
“Hey, Cas.”
“That’s not my name,” Cas says under his breath, lacking the usual vanity.
“Look at me,” I say as a command. Cas’s head still hangs low. “Cas, look at me.”
“My name isn’t Cas,” he replies, mocking my tone. He looks up finally—his gaze piercing into mine.
“I know this isn’t ideal right now. I know you don’t know me, but I promise you. Look me in the eyes when I tell you this: I promise you, I will do whatever I can to get you back. Alive,” I say resolutely.
Cas flushes a bright red as he ducks his chin, but then a moment later his shoulders sag and he says, “Right. I swore to pay you a handsome reward for my safe return.”
A twist in my gut made me want to say “forget about the fucking reward,” but the words sat lodged in my throat.
“And you’re right,” Cas starts, forcing me to swallow the unspoken words. “I don’t know you. You’re just the stranger who broke into the Laenberg chateau, kidnapped the Edonian Prince, and magically transported him into enemy territory where I’ve nearly been killed twice now,” Cas rages.
“Three,” I say tersely. “Or have you forgotten the fae assassin.”
“Hardly.” The silence swells between us until Cas breaks it again. “Why did you rescue me that first time?”
I think to lie to him and feign indifference but the tight ache in my chest told me to tell him the truth.
“I was there to steal for a job, but when I saw that thing come after you, I couldn’t very well let you get murdered, even if I didn’t know how annoying you are at the time.”
“How noble of you,” Cas scoffs. “Your magic offers a certain vitality for a thief, come to think of it.”
I nod, “Yeah, It’s convenient for a thief. I’m not going to lie about that. It helps get the job done without getting caught, and it prevents unnecessary deaths.”
“I’m sorry—about your friend,” Cas finally says. “He saved me, you know. Back at that hospital, you took us to. I ran into his room. He was awake from the commotion. The fae assassin came in and immediately attacked me. Your friend jumped out of his bed, even in his condition, and defended me.”
Pride swells within me like a burning nova beckoning in the night sky.
“Yeah, that’s Ricon,” I reply. “He’s a better man than I’ll ever be, that’s for sure. He has a heart not meant for the life we live.”
The confession doesn’t beg for a response. It’s merely a declaration for me, not just him. The silence builds again, though this time it’s soft and warm.
“Were you two ever...lovers?” Cas asks. His voice quivers at the end. I almost scowl at the thought.
“Gods no. Ricon is like a brother to me. We’ve never once considered each other in that way. Besides, Ricon is not ‘lust bound’, as they say. He’s no virgin, but the sorts of companionship he prefers is of the non-sexual variety.”
Cas hums softly, and I revel in the sound. I want to hear it again.
“You know, his guild wants me dead,” I say amusingly.
“I’m shocked,” Cas mocks.
“Ha ha.”
Cas laughs, and when he recovers he asks, “Isn’t it a conflict of interest, being friends with someone his guild wants dead?”
“Definitely,” I grin. “Wait ‘til I tell you about my dear friend Leluna, the assassin hired to kill me. Never a dull moment being the Twilight Thief.”
Cas shakes his head, a smile on his lips. He tells me he thinks me being the Twilight Thief is ridiculous, but at least this time, he’s able to smile about it.
“You know Cas, you’re not as bad as I originally thought,” I confess.
“Ugh, my name is not Cas.”
I chuckle as I reach a hand and cup the back of his neck. I firmly squeeze and pull him into me. His body is rigid, and his face turns a ghostly white as our faces draw closer. I press my forehead to his and breathe in his scent, deeply.
“I’m just going to keep calling you Cas, so you might as well get used to it now. Who knows how long we’re going to be stuck together?”
He doesn’t protest this time, so I release my hold and shift onto my back, sorting through the mound of skins beneath me until I’m comfortable. Cas mimics me until he’s resting beside me, his back turned to me as he faces away.
I shift closer to him until my front is flush against his back. I’m still shirtless to allow my wounds to breathe. I drape an arm over Cas’s waist, and he instantly tenses at the contact.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
I nuzzle my face into the back of his neck, and he shivers. I’m well aware I’m teasing him and making him uncomfortable, and I enjoy it sadistically. I feel the gooseflesh prickle from his neck beneath my lips, and he shivers.
“I’m cold,” I say, “You don’t mind, do you? It’ll probably still get colder even with being close to the volcano.” It’s no lie. The arid warmth of desert air is masked by a cool evening chill. Not enough to warrant close contact for warmth, though, but the prince doesn’t need to know that. Cas shakes his head, consenting to the closeness between us. His heat and scent are all-consuming and overwhelming. I wiggle and writhe against him, trying to create as much contact as possible.
“Um…” Cas says, pleadingly. I snap out of my fatuous plea to feel close and realize I’ve developed a physical reaction. I can feel my growth flush against the crease of Cas’s behind. For a quick heartbeat, I revel in the satisfaction of how perfect his body feels, but Cas looks over his shoulder.
“Not used to having another warm body so close. Don’t worry, I won’t try anything.” A few tense moments pass until I speak again with a grin on my lips, “Unless you want me to.”
I know, but I can’t help myself.
Ca ‘s body shivers as he clears his throat and chokes on seemingly nothing. I can’t help but chuckle into Cas’s neck and nuzzle my nose through his hair. Taking heavy breaths in, I can smell Cas’s scent. He smells of pine and river rocks.
“Are you sniffing me?” a short pause, “again?” Cas questions. His voice a higher octave as if in disbelief.
I slowly shake my head but Cas scoffs before letting loose a heavy sigh, “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Cas.”
I close my eyes, basking in his warmth as my fae senses pick up the soothing patter of his heartbeat. It’s the only thing I can focus on as I swiftly drift into sleep.
21
Merida
“Thunder, thunder, the earth did shook. The maidens weep as their husbands took. And when faced with the mountain, they swung their swords. Yet they were no match for the giants words. Elach woke from his gentle slumber. And when he spoke, the earth shook with thunder.…”
– Ballad entry at the Corvine Solstice, Hjornholm 623 B.M.
I awake to ashen soot falling dexterously onto my nose like the frozen rain my mother told me about in the Northern fjords of Edonia. I taste bitter dirt on my tongue, the gritty texture of granules coating the back of my throat. I roll to my back and stare up at the sky, black and void. Little soot flakes dance irenic against the black canvas. A flake caresses the lash of my eye, obscuring the black with a dull grey. My skin thrums, and my teeth itch fiercely. My wolf, calm or fatigued, I can’t tell but I feel it there in the background of my mind.
I gauge my surroundings, more dirt, more soot, and more black. I peel myself from the earthly bed—or grave—and nearly fall as my friable limbs ache. A placid glow emanates below me, a soft ember like a lit candle wick drawing in a pesky dust moth. My skin shivers and my teeth clatter, after-effects of a shift.
I turn, craning my neck to peer at the peak of the volcano. I squint, trying to focus my sight and fail to penetrate the ashen rain that flurries.
I remember leaping from the curtain wall of Obsidian Reach and tumbling down the narrow steep of the mountain. My breath hitches as I look down at my shoulder, recalling the arrow that pierced my fur-covered flesh while I was still a wolf. Now I’m back in my true form, devoid of clothes—they must have torn as I shifted. My shoulder is caked in dry blood. I try to wipe it away, but it won’t erase from my olive skin. My fingers grace the broken shaft that protrudes from my flesh. The tip is broken and jagged like a splintered branch.
I pinch the shaft between soot-coated fingertips, mustering any modicum of strength I can bring forth. I need to recover the arrowhead harbored deep beneath my skin. At first, I feel nothing, just the ache deep within my bones and the itch that crawls along my skin. My inner wolf howls in my mind, begging to be released so that it can run, so it can sing, so it can hunt. The shaft slowly dislodges, trickles of blood cascades from the wound—a silver-tipped arrowhead peaks through the singed muscle. Smoke and the curdled stench of burned flesh permeate from the wound. My skin burns as I finally remove the arrow and toss it to the ground—a soft tick as silver skids across the rocky ledge. I hear the sizzle of skin in my shoulder like water dripping onto burning coals.