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I fell to my knees without thinking, grabbed his shoulder, shook it. His wing twitched in response. I sharply said, ‘Creon?’ and again a tremble ran through him, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks.
‘Creon.’
He shot up without warning, gulping in a lungful of air as he doubled over and grabbed for his throat. Somewhere behind me, I could hear Tared’s cursing. Shrill laughter, too – Thysandra was laughing, a maniacal sound nearly drowning out Beyla’s furious objections. But Creon was here, alive, gasping for breath, coughing his lungs out, and why would I bother with grumbling allies if there were dramatic fae princes to be saved?
‘Creon, breathe.’ I grabbed his other shoulder, too, and he nodded on another wheezing inhale, one hand releasing his throat to clutch my elbow. Dark hair cascaded around his temples, obscuring his face in the firelit dark. ‘It’s alright. You’re alright. Take a sip of water and try to—’
His head abruptly jerked up, frantic gaze meeting mine. Ink-black eyes darted over my face with an intensity that could set the bare rock beneath our feet ablaze, and my heart skipped a beat as the words dried to dust on my lips. His fingers squeezed my arm with the force of a vice. It took me a moment to realise that he was fighting to keep his hands from shaking.
‘Creon?’ I whispered again, like a prayer.
He sucked in a hoarse, guttural breath. His lips parted, and for one heartbeat I could swear even the wind itself was holding its breath.
‘Em,’ he rasped. ‘Emelin.’
The end…
