The Forest King

by Alex Faure

  Darius felt a stab of nausea, followed by unease. How was it that he felt sorrow for those three, and little for the fallen Roman? Troubled, he turned his face forward, and set his mind on the journey ahead.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Marcus set a punishing pace, but Darius didn’t complain. Marcus remembered the way he and his men had travelled to reach the countryside around Glenvaneach, and they were able to simply retrace their steps without pausing to survey the landscape. Darius found himself enjoying the exercise, much more so than Marcus seemed to, with his huffing and puffing. Darius’s weeks of captivity had been accompanied by ample food and rest, and he was surprised by how hale he felt.

  Night fell, and Marcus called a halt in a moorland valley lumpy with rocks and heather. They tucked themselves into a grove of oaks that could shelter them from enemy eyes—not that it was likely they would be spotted, for the sky was a sheet of cloud, cloaking the moon and stars.

  “We should keep moving,” Darius said. “The terrain ahead seems relatively flat.”

  Marcus shook his head once. “Not flat enough. I’ve turned my ankle twice already, and it will do us no good to continue with injured men. Besides, the Volundi are just as hampered by darkness as we are. They could not catch up to us on a moonless night such as this.”

  One man could, Darius wanted to say. What if Brigit had sent word to Fionn that Darius had escaped? Why wouldn’t she have done so? Was Fionn already hunting them? Darius remembered the fire in his gaze, the maliciousness in his voice.

  Fionn would not abandon him without a fight.

  Darius argued, and finally Marcus gave in, and said they would go another mile or two, but no farther. When they finally made camp in another oak grove, two of the men were bleeding from scrapes they’d accumulated stumbling around in the dark, and Darius had to admit defeat.

  “We’ll set out again as soon as first light touches the sky,” Marcus said soothingly. “Or earlier, if this infernal cloud clears up.”

  Darius bit back a retort. He settled for discouraging Marcus from lighting a fire. The man shrugged good-naturedly, telling the men that tomorrow night aboard ship they would break out the good wine and cheese, which greatly roused the soldiers’ spirits.

  Darius tried to be easy among the men, thanking them with self-deprecating humour for rescuing him from the clutches of the Volundi, but he could not stomach more than a few minutes of such a show. In fact, he found he could barely eat his rations, even after a day of hard exercise. He excused himself as soon as he’d choked down a few morsels, pleading fatigue, and went to sit at the edge of grove.

  Marcus found him there a few moments later, staring into the darkness. “The men are bedded down,” he said, settling beside Darius on the fallen tree. “I told them we’d take the first watch.”

  Darius nodded. He brushed his face, glad that, in the darkness, Marcus couldn’t see that it was wet.

  “Agricola doesn’t hold you responsible,” Marcus said without preamble. “These are a fiendish people, much like the barbarians of Caledonia. I’ve expressed my belief that the Hibernians could never be civilized, and the general agrees.”

  “I see,” Darius said. His thoughts that day had barely touched on Agricola, or his duties as a soldier. They had been consumed by Fionn.

  “Do I need to tell you, after all this, that the old porcupine still cares about you?” Marcus said. “When I tried to explain how badly you took the loss of Sylvanum, he just barked, ‘What does a fort here or there matter? Do you know how many forts that boy has built for me—and not with his sword, but with that silver tongue of his? Do you know any other man capable of such a feat? Tell him to get over it, and get himself back to Britannia. I have need of him.’”

  Darius laughed softly. He could hear the great man’s voice speaking those words, picture his seamed face with those wiry brows. “I’ve missed him.”

  “Yes, you would,” Marcus said. “All right, Dari. Out with it. What did those sons of whores do to you?”

  Darius shook his head. “They did nothing to me, Marcus. They treated me as lucrative prisoners tend to be treated in such situations—as you would a sow that will soon birth a litter of prize piglets. I was regularly fed and watered and even exercised.”

  “Then what is the matter?” Marcus pressed. “I admit, I am somewhat disappointed by your inadequate cheer at our arrival, for selfish reasons. I quite enjoy taking on the role of hero, particularly when the object of my heroism wears such a pleasing face. But I’m more concerned for your sake—as your friend.”

  Darius rubbed his face. He owed Marcus some sort of explanation. But what? He barely knew how to explain his feelings to himself.

  “I’m sorry I haven’t thanked you properly,” he said finally. “I feel…very strange. The truth is that for some time now I’ve been at war with myself. I don’t know how to put it into words, to explain what’s happened to me in a way you would understand. I should be rejoicing in my freedom. I thought I would be. But right now, I feel as if my inner war has ended—not with a victory for either side. But with total devastation, in pyrrhic fashion.”

  “All right,” Marcus said slowly. “I can try to sort through all that, but it might be easier if you just told me in plain terms, don’t you think? I’m not cut out for your philosophy and general mysteriousness.”

  “Mysteriousness.” Darius laughed, a sharp, humourless sound. “You’re right. Gods, I sound like Fionn.”

  “Who?”

  Darius swallowed. “Fionn is…my lover.”

  Marcus’s jaw dropped. “You took a lover among those barbarians?” He blinked. “That girl you insisted we release—was that—?”

  “No,” Darius said. He grimaced, not relishing the next words he would speak. “But he is someone you’ve met. I believe you referred to him as the grey-eyed demon.”

  Marcus froze. He was silent for a long moment.

  “Gods, Darius,” he said in a wondering tone. “Only you. Only you would fall in love with a creature more spirit than human, a barbarian so vicious he may as well breathe poison.”

  “Perhaps.” Darius let out a long breath. “In any event, he was the one who nursed me back to health in that cave.”

  “Why on earth did he do that?” Marcus burst out, then seemed to make an effort to lower his voice, with a glance over his shoulder in the direction of the men. “Fell in love with you at first sight, did he? You’re beautiful, Darius, but even I didn’t realize you were so irresistible as to turn one of these bloodthirsty elves into a blushing maiden with a glance.”

  “No,” Darius said. “I don’t know. I never understood why he helped me.” He swallowed. “When I was brought to Glenvaneach, it was at his instruction. He had his men looking for me, rounding up any Roman survivors and bringing them to his village. He is…Fionn is Fionnwyn, Marcus. The Volundi king.”

  Marcus let out a breath like a gust of wind. He rubbed his eyes, and then he was up and pacing, his boots crunching back and forth across the autumn leaves. He kept that up for several minutes before he finally came to a stop.

  “Gods, Darius,” he said. Then he laughed.

  To Darius’s surprise, he found himself laughing too. And once he started, he couldn’t stop. He and Marcus leaned against each other, shaking, until finally the gales of mirth subsided.

  “I never thought I’d meet someone like you,” Marcus said, wiping his eyes. “I didn’t think men like you existed. You’re the sort of man bards write epics about. You do know that?”

  Darius sighed. He felt lighter, in a wrung-out sort of way. Like a man who could actually sleep, rather than one who’d lie awake all night tormented by rumination. “I’ve no interest in epics. I’d give anything to feel myself again. To know who I am, and where I stand.”

  “I must ask,” Marcus said. “Because I am dying of curiosity. How do they fuck, these Celtic men? Did your demon lover understand the procedure, or did you have to instruct him? I understood they took a dim view of
that sort of coupling.”

  “They do,” Darius said. “But Fionn has lain with men before. He has no desire for women. He’s had to keep his feelings closely guarded.”

  Marcus shook his head. “What a lonely life.”

  Darius had never thought of Fionn as lonely. Now that he considered it, though, he wondered why he hadn’t realized it before. Lonely was exactly the word for Fionn. Because of what he was—and because of what he felt.

  “Well, that explains why he terminated our negotiations,” Marcus said. “And why you look as if you’ve contracted some deadly stomach ailment. I was worried they’d tortured you. But you’ve simply fallen in love.”

  Darius rested his face on his hand. “I’m not sure there’s a distinction in this case.”

  “No,” Marcus agreed. He examined Darius. “Did I wrong you, then, in wresting you away from him?”

  “Of course not, my friend,” Darius said. “This isn’t my world.”

  Marcus nodded. They were quiet for a moment, and then Marcus said, softly, “I’m sorry, Dari.”

  The tears slid down Darius’s cheeks then. Marcus made no further remarks—he simply placed an arm around Darius’s shoulders. They sat together in the darkness, listening to the wind stir the leaves, until it was time for the next shift to replace them. Darius lay down and slept deeply, a sleep free of nightmares and anxious awakenings for the first time in days.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Darius awoke before dawn.

  The sky was clearing, and a few stars shone through. Leaves rustled overhead, and he found that some had settled on him in the night, their green streaked with orange. Darius brushed them off, trying not to remember the night he’d spent nestled in a bed of leaves with Fionn. He tasted the now-familiar scent of Hibernia, loamy earth and moist vegetation.

  He breathed in the warm green scent of the grove. That this would be the last day he spent in Hibernia was difficult for him to comprehend. And yet somewhere out there in the darkness was a Roman ship, waiting for him.

  He rubbed his eyes. He couldn’t tell if the knot in his belly was excitement or dread, but he knew that he also felt an ember of hope kindling. He tried to relish the prospect of serving his final year in the army at Agricola’s side in Britannia, but in truth, he wished he was bound for his groves. He felt adrift, as if he needed something familiar to cling to. A twig snapped overhead, and he looked up.

  Staring down at him from a low branch was an owl. Its feathers were tawny, and its eyes flashed silver in the darkness.

  Darius froze. He had seen the owl before, or one like it. That morning on the riverbank after Sylvanum had been destroyed, not long before Fionn and his men had come upon them.

  The owl took flight almost as soon as Darius’s eyes fixed upon it, disappearing into the night. Darius stumbled out of his blanket. He shook Marcus awake, then the other men, startling the two soldiers on duty.

  Marcus, eyeing Darius, didn’t ask for an explanation. He simply ordered the men to move out. Minutes later, they did, pausing only to sip water from their flasks.

  The sky lightened as they moved west. Darius, despite his anxiety, was sluggish from lack of energy and sleep, and the soldiers were the same. They were forced to move slowly through a boggy stretch of ground. There one of the men stumbled and fell with a cry.

  Marcus was at his side in an instant. “His ankle’s broken,” he told Darius grimly. “We’ll have to fashion him a crutch, else we’ll be stuck carrying him on our backs.”

  Darius’s jaw clenched at the unwelcome news. “Marcus, we have to—”

  “We’re not being followed, Dari,” Marcus said. “To catch up with us, they’d have to be following on horseback, and at the last vantage point, we could see nothing moving.” He pressed Darius’s hand. “Rest, and eat. We’ll be off again in a half hour.”

  They moved the injured man to the edge of a wood that tumbled down the side of a rocky mountain. One of the soldiers, who had medical experience, directed several others in a search for a suitable branch.

  Darius paced at the edge of the wood. It had a dark, forbidding aspect about it, the leaves on the trees already shorn despite the earliness of the season, except for a few stragglers that clung to the boughs like rags. He told himself that the owl was likely just a native species of Hibernia, that he was worrying over nothing.

  Something pale flashed between the trees farther up the slope.

  Darius went still as stone, gaze trained on the forest. He’d just convinced himself that he had imagined it when he caught another glimpse of movement. It was closer this time—still at a higher altitude, but now it was closer to where the soldiers had disappeared into the wood to hunt for a splint.

  Darius took off at a run, pausing only to grab his sword.

  “Commander?” Marcus called, looking up from where he knelt beside the injured soldier. Darius ignored him.

  The ground was slippery with moist leaves—it must have rained on the mountains in the last few days. Darius climbed swiftly, trying to move as quietly as he could. His heart was like a drum.

  He came to the place where he’d seen the figure—a little clearing beneath a weathered boulder projecting from the mountainside. Darius’s hand gripped his sword as he turned slowly, scanning in every direction. He could see no one—the clearing was empty. Below, he could just make out the outlines of the soldiers as they moved through the trees.

  “Are you going to use that on me, Darius?”

  Darius stopped dead. Then, slowly, he turned.

  Standing on top of the boulder was Fionn.

  Darius’s heart grew unsteady the moment his gaze found him, and he reflexively tightened his grip on the sword. The other man gave a faint smile. Then he stepped off the boulder, falling a distance that would have crippled an ordinary man and landing in a graceful crouch. He stood slowly.

  For a moment, Darius couldn’t speak. “What are you doing here?”

  Fionn gazed at him. He wore one of those looks of his that Darius had always found impossible to interpret. Not because it was a mask, but because there was something alien in his eyes, as if one of the oaks, or a clump of heather, had gained consciousness and was quietly judging him against some impenetrable criteria.

  “I came to say goodbye,” Fionn said.

  “Why should I believe that?” Darius didn’t loosen his grip on his sword hilt. He felt as if there was lightning beneath his skin. His entire body trembled at Fionn’s nearness, at what lay between them, at what each of them had done to the other. He tried to summon his former anger at Fionn, but the infuriating man didn’t make it easy, standing there weaponless and slight, framed against the green mountainside in a simply woven cloak that somehow only enhanced his otherworldly beauty.

  An arrow struck the stone a foot from Fionn’s head. Fionn didn’t start or show any visible reaction, as if he’d tracked the arrow since it left the bow and knew it wouldn’t strike him. He merely transferred his gaze from Darius to the man making his way up the mountainside.

  “Get away from him,” Marcus spat. His sword was drawn, his gaze scanning Fionn inch by inch, taking in every line of his body, every potential weakness.

  “Oh, I’ve missed that,” Fionn said. “Roman soldiers shouting at me as if it might improve my understanding.”

  “I don’t recall ever shouting at you,” Darius said quietly.

  Again that faint smile. “Then you have a short memory, my love. Or perhaps it’s just that your disapproval is so finely honed that it captures my attention to a degree disproportionate to its volume.”

  “Fionn,” Darius murmured, “Please don’t harm these men. They have nothing to do with this thing between us.”

  “Sometimes, Darius, I feel that we are still speaking different languages.”

  Fionn took a step forward. Marcus gave a cry and lunged between them, brandishing his sword.

  “Marcus,” Darius said. Fionn didn’t draw a weapon or even fall back into a defensive stance.
He just stood there, gazing at the Roman as one might at a curious insect.

  “I won’t let him take you, Commander,” Marcus said over his shoulder. “Lover or no, I’m prepared to spit him on my sword.”

  “What did he say?” Fionn asked calmly.

  Darius translated. “Very nice,” Fionn said. “I could have killed this one by the river. But I have learned that Romans have difficulty showing gratitude.”

  Darius had no intention of translating that. “I’m joking, Darius,” Fionn said dryly. “Still, your ugly saviour is in the way.” And then, somehow, he had knocked Marcus’s sword from his hand. Marcus turned instinctively to see where it had fallen, and Fionn backhanded him with casual brutality. Marcus went sprawling into the heather.

  “That’s for my sister,” Fionn said.

  Then Fionn was before him, and Darius was caught up in his silver eyes, the milky planes of his skin. Dark shadows lay beneath his eyes like bruises, and Darius found himself staring at those too, imagining himself gently pressing his mouth to them.

  “Here.” Fionn placed something into his hand. Darius started. It was his father’s portrait.

  He flushed. “I—I gave that back to Brigit. I wanted you to keep it.”

  Fionn reached up, tracing the line of Darius’s jaw with his thumb. He still wore that illegible expression, and Darius yearned to shake him until it changed to something human, something he could understand. “One of us should enjoy it, my love.”

  Fionn brushed their lips together. It was cold, somehow, that kiss, and Darius was shaken.

  “I’ve made a mess of everything, haven’t I?” Fionn said, and there was a break in his voice that was so abruptly human Darius felt his heart falter.

  “Fionn,” he murmured. “My love—”

  “Don’t.” Fionn placed a finger on Darius’s lips. “Just go, Darius. Go, as you always meant to.”