by Emma Hamm
Sorcha’s shoulders slumped forward in defeat. “He knew.”
“How can you know? Can you read faerie minds, druid?”
“He wouldn’t go, otherwise. Eamonn is meticulous in his decision making. He knew.”
“I’m sorry,” Cait said. She patted Sorcha’s arm with a firm smack. “I know it’s not the easiest thing to hear, especially when you thought you knew him.”
When you thought you knew him.
Did she? Sorcha wasn’t certain anymore. They had spent many hours together, but all of them superficial at best.
Was it even possible for a human, so limited in years and knowledge, to understand the full breadth of a faerie life?
“Chin up. You’ll have your moment to ask him for clarification soon.”
“What?” Sorcha glanced over the dwarf’s shoulder, towards the castle gates. “They’re returning?”
“We could see the trail of dwarves an hour ago. I called out to you, but you weren’t responding. I figured it was best to let you go rather than interrupt.”
“I can’t see him like this.”
“Good thing dwarves are always prepared.”
Cait pulled a small jar from her pocket. She smeared the salve over Sorcha’s hands which miraculously healed before her eyes. The cuts sealed, blood dried, and the bruises faded to yellow.
Holding her hands up to the dying light, she shook her head in wonder. “Remarkable.”
“Useful, ain’t it?”
“Why doesn’t everyone use it?”
“Because it’s dwarf magic, and not everyone has access to it.” Cait nudged Sorcha’s shoulder. “Go on with you. Go and greet your man.”
“I don’t know if I want to.”
“He’ll know something is wrong if you don’t.”
“Then I’ll remain here.”
Cait shuffled. “The others will know there’s something wrong as well.”
“And?” Sorcha looked down. “They don’t care for me.”
“You’re growing on us. The consort of a king plays an important role in the well-being of the Fae. If you’re upset, we’ll likely be upset.”
She wanted to say then so be it. Eamonn could deal with an upset group of dwarves on his own. But the other half of her said it was her duty to comfort the others.
Sorcha had never spread fear before, nor had she perpetuated it. She would not start now.
Squaring her shoulders, she rose to her feet with a groan. “That salve wouldn’t be good for muscles, would it?”
“You’re on your own with that. Good luck.”
She would need it. Sorcha trailed across the training grounds, hardly noticing her feet touching the stones. Her heart raced, her palms grew sweaty with the mere thought of confronting him.
Would she scream? She certainly wanted to. Words built up at the back of her throat, pushing against her tongue, longing to spray acidic anger. Her palm already stung in anticipation of a resounding smack.
She climbed the steps up to the battlements. Wind whipped her hair loose from its tie until it tangled around her arms and shoulders.
There they were. The long tail of dwarves, not together as they should have been, but loosely spread across the mountain. They had not yet reached the bridge, their pace sluggish and weak.
White banners of makeshift bandages spread among the crowd. Some wore the fabric around their heads, others their waists and hands. The anger drained from her body as she saw a few litters, bodies lying limp upon the rickety frames.
They had fought, and they had lost.
Her gaze caught on the tallest figure. Eamonn picked his way over craggy rocks and sparse heather. His torn cloak revealed new crystals, wounds and slashes decorating his skin.
He glanced up and their gazes caught.
Many emotions sizzled between them. Relief he was alive, even though so many were dead. Happiness they had returned, for she had missed them all. And disappointment he had lied to her.
One of the dwarves on the wall hummed. His voice carried on the wind like the steady beat of a drum. Others joined in, their haunting call a hymn to their fallen brothers and sisters.
A hauntingly beautiful voice soared overhead. Tenuous at first, then growing in strength, Cait’s voice carried the souls of the dwarves from their bodies deep into the earth.
Tears dripped down Sorcha’s cheeks as she counted the fallen. Eight litters. Eight men who had died because Eamonn had not kept his promise.
The dwarves looked to her, their gazes solemn. What would the lady of the castle do? How would she treat the returning warriors?
It was the first time she had to make a decision worthy of a queen. Druid souls pressed against her spine, their hands supporting her when she might have faltered. They drew her straight, pulled her shoulders back, tipped her chin up.
“Good,” a voice whispered in her ear. “That is how a queen stands.”
Sorcha squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. She could do this. She could walk in the footsteps of so many women before her. Druid women who had made such a decision hundreds of times before.
Cait’s voice trembled and fell silent. The deep thrumming bass silenced until all that remained was the wind whipping in her ears.
Her eyes found Eamonn’s again, his begging her forgiveness. He wanted her to understand his decision. Try as she might, she couldn’t.
Heart breaking, Sorcha turned her face from him and the warriors who had drawn their blades. She stepped back down the stairs, refusing to look back.
“M’lady?” Cait called out, the first time she had ever given Sorcha a title of respect.
“They know their way home.” Her voice was icy and iron hard. “Tend to the dead, but let the wounded see to their injuries themselves.”
“Are you not our healer?”
“I am.” She glanced around to find the dwarves had followed her off the battlements. No one remained to greet the returning soldiers. “Hear me now! I will not lift a finger to help anyone who has dedicated their lives to bloodshed. There will be no more war.”
Cait pushed to the front of the crowd, her eyes brimming with tears. “We cannot go against the orders of our king.”
“You all have a difficult decision before you. Follow your high king, and lose your healer. Follow me, and lose your king.”
She headed towards the castle, stones crunching underneath her feet. She would not look back, would not see whether he made it across the bridge in time to see her leave.
The brush snagged in her curls, catching upon leaves and tangles that were always in her hair. She had changed out of her new clothing and tucked the articles away in a drawer she wasn’t certain she would open again.
He hadn’t seen her in them. Now, she wasn’t certain that he deserved to.
Her white nightgown was another relic found in a treasure chest. Simple, plain, and sturdy, it serviced her desire to feel something from home. All the velvets and silks made her head spin. She wanted was something simple, and the only thing she could find was a nightgown.
She tugged hard on the brush, stoically bearing the angry sting of her scalp.
Night had fallen long ago. The rest of the castle residents settled into bed, their snores and quiet dreams angering Sorcha further. He hadn’t come up to their room yet.
He had a right to be nervous. She still wasn’t certain what she would say, or how she would say it. Anger simmered underneath her skin like the ragged edges of claws.
He was likely drinking. She had heard that soldiers did that after returning from war. The alcohol would wipe their memories of blood and death, and then they would return to their wives.
“Not me,” she vehemently told her reflection in the mirror. “I will not be that wife who will service a man making foolish decisions. He has no right!”
He should have listened to her! Did he think her incapable of forming a plan that would adhere to faerie politics? Or did he think her incapable of anything in the realm of Fae?
&nbs
p; The door creaked open just enough for shadows to creep in. He paused, frozen as soon as the spear of her candlelight slashed into the hallway.
“Eamonn.” It was not a question. She knew who lingered at her door.
“You’re still awake.”
“I was waiting for you.”
He sighed and pushed the door open the rest of the way. She wanted to berate him, to scream and shout and throw her brush at his head.
But bruises spread across his cheeks, a ragged edged crystal slicing down his neck. It spread from the old wound, and she knew someone had tried to take advantage of the weakness. They wouldn’t know it was his strength.
She sighed and put the brush down.
“You’re going to yell,” he said. His shoulders squared as if he were preparing for the worst. “I deserve it. It was a horrible idea, and I didn’t listen to you.”
“Yes, it was.”
“We lost good men out there, because I thought we were prepared. I was wrong.”
“Yes, you were.”
“Our people saw you turn from me. The army is already on the verge of deserting, and seeing your reaction certainly didn’t help. I’m not saying it wasn’t the right thing to do. It likely was.”
She stared back at him, silent in her regard.
“Why aren’t you yelling yet? I can see you have plenty to say.”
“I don’t need to yell at you, Eamonn. You’re already doing it for me.”
Her words broke something within him. A low breath hissed through his teeth and he rushed towards her, dropping to his knees at her feet. The tension drained from his body, shoulders falling forward in defeat.
He placed his head in her lap, wrapping his arms around her waist with a low moan. “Yell at me, mo chroí. Be angry, break pottery and statues. Do something other than this, I beg you.”
“What good would it do?” she said, stroking his head. “You know what you did, and how wrong it was.”
“I am lost.” He pulled the length of her nightgown up to her thigh, breath whispering over her skin as he pressed crystal lips against her. “Everything I thought I knew is wrong. This world is one I remember, these people familiar faces, but I cannot find the man I once was.”
“You don’t need to find him. The warrior prince is no longer who you are, nor what this land and people need.”
“Who do they need?”
He looked up and their gazes locked. She wanted to say that the world needed him. They needed the kind soul that existed inside who wanted to help his people. But the longer she was here, the more she realized that faerie culture was beyond her.
“I do not know,” she said. “I might have once said they need a kind king.”
“And now?”
“They are looking for someone to lead them, but also for someone to understand them.” She thought of the dwarves and their steadfast ways. They didn’t want to fight, other than the occasional tussle, yet here they were. “They trust you, in their own way. But they fear you will follow in your brother’s footsteps.”
“Blood calls to blood.”
“No.” Sorcha dug her fingers into the crystals of his cheek. “You will not become Fionn.”
“How can you be so sure? I can feel it, the old ways sinking underneath my skin.”
“The old ways are not the best ways. You were the first to believe that, Eamonn.” She stroked a thumb over his lips. “No more of this. No more fighting, blood, and death. Your people deserve to rest.”
“I cannot stop.” The torment in his eyes nearly shattered her heart. “He will come here next, and he will not stop. Fionn has no care for our people or how many people must be sacrificed to make his point.”
“Which is?”
“I am not worthy to be king.”
“No man ever is,” she said with a soft smile. “You can only try your best to be a good king. You will never win over the hearts of every single one of your people. But you can provide for them, ensure their lives are rich, and their bellies full.”
“How do you know this?”
“I was one of those people wishing that my king only knew that we were hungry.” She stood, pulling him with her until he rose to his great height. “Have you bathed?”
“No.”
“Has anyone tended to your wounds?”
“There is no need. My wounds do not bleed.”
Sorcha winced. She wanted to remind him that not all wounds were external, that sometimes a person could heal through physical touch. His gaze caught hers, holding her locked within blue crystals as sharp as a sword and deep as the ocean.
He knew, she realized. He knew what she wanted to tell him and still he did not want her to say it.
“Come with me.” She held out a hand for him to take.
“Sorcha…”
“Take my hand, Eamonn. Let me tend to your wounds.”
“I don’t deserve your forgiveness.”
“I have yet to meet anyone who didn’t.” She let her hand hover in the air, waiting for him.
He fought with himself. She watched a battle rage behind his eyes until he finally sighed and took her hand.
“I don’t deserve you.”
“No, you don’t. Now come into the bath and let me show you what the dwarves have created.”
The room behind their bed was a modern work of art. The dwarves had brought to life an old washroom by tapping into the geothermal vents underneath the castle. A slight twist of a knob, and hot water rushed into the large iron tub they had carried up the stairs.
Sorcha had already used it more times than she should have. Her practices with Cait had made her muscles ache and her body tremble. The warm water had soothed those aches, as she hoped they would for Eamonn.
He stopped in the center of the room, and she ran her hands across his shoulders. Standing on tiptoe, she reached for the clasp of his cloak and let it fall to the ground. The soft sound echoed in the tight room.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said, searching her gaze for an answer she did not have.
“I do.”
As angry as she was, Sorcha needed to feel his ribs expand under her fingertips. Life coursed through his veins, strong and violent as a churning river. He had been wounded, but survived.
It was all that mattered.
A sigh slid through her lips as she tucked her fingers underneath his tunic and lifted the fabric up. He stooped to help her slide it over his head, sinking to one knee.
Again, she curled her fingers over his hair. Snarls tangled and tugged, but she patiently worked each and every one loose.
“Stand, warrior.”
He looked at her as if she were his world. Eamonn rose to his feet, powerful chest broad and scarred.
Sorcha hooked her fingers at his breech waist, tugging until he was completely bare. She pressed a kiss against the newest scar. It was an angry thing, ragged and raw with crystal so sharp they pressed against her lips.
“Let me take care of you tonight, Eamonn. Tomorrow, we will wage a battle of our own.”
Sorcha couldn’t sleep. Her mind whirled with possibilities and the screams of dying men.
War flickered to life behind her eyes. Memories that were not hers, but those of druid women. Blood coated their hair, bodies painted blue as they screamed out their rage. She couldn’t understand the power of their anger. It bubbled over their soul until they became a beast, no longer human.
Eamonn shifted behind her. His arm slid from her waist and he rolled onto his side. Distance. It kept growing between them, further and further until she wondered if they slept in the same bed at all.
She swung her feet over the edge of the bed and slipped from beneath the furs. Glancing over her shoulder, she waited until he settled again.
Did he know how beautiful he was? Eamonn was a vision of power. Crystals glinted in the moonlight, decorating his skin like thousands of stars.
It hurt to look at him when she was so angry.
She couldn’t yell at
him for making a decision that felt right. He had made his choice, and they fundamentally did not agree on how to handle this war. She only wished he would listen more carefully.
The floor was cold against her toes, bitter and icy. Her white nightgown suddenly seemed flimsy against the cold night air that wiggled beneath the door and sank claws into her skin.
She pulled the fur from a nearby chair and slipped out onto the balcony.
The full moon smiled down at her. Silver light gave mist a magical quality as it swirled through the courtyard below. The dwarves had built a pattern into the stones they replaced. A triskele, she realized with a smile. They honored the old ways.
“Shouldn’t you be in bed?” The warm voice was recognizable, and one she had not heard in a very long time.
“Bran,” she replied, warmth imbuing her voice with happiness. “It has been a long time.”
“Yes, I suppose it has.”
“Where have you been?”
“My life is not all about meddling in Seelie affairs.”
She grinned and turned towards the raven man. “Just recently?”
He looked exactly as she remembered him. The strange dark feathers that smoothed along his cheekbone and forehead. A raven eye filled one socket, too large in comparison to the other and restless in its movements. One side of his head was still shaved, although a new growth filled in the pale skin of his skull.
“You look well,” she said.
“As do you. Something has changed within you.”
“I discovered I am a druid.”
“No it’s not that.” He leaned forward and lifted a lock of her hair. “You appear more confident.”
“I am.”
“You’re carrying yourself far more regally than before.”
“I have learned to do so.”
“But you’re still dressed like a peasant.” He let his hand drop. “Eamonn has not yet beaten his brother, I take it?”
“Do you really think I wouldn’t dress like this if I was Queen?”
Bran shook his head, a severe look marring his handsome features. “No, you are far too connected to the earth to be swayed by jewelry and silk.”