That was the same day we were ambushed, and he almost died, stumbling into the Ravenswyrd Forest. He was sure his life had come to an end, only to walk back out with his mind still intact and his wounds healed. When the aid the regent swore he would send never arrived, we assumed it was another of my uncle’s games. It was only after we found Roan, alive but disturbed as he sat before the field of slaughter, that the horrific circumstances of the guards’ demise was made clear to us.
More than a battalion's worth of high fae soldiers in the regent’s colors were hacked to pieces, a death so blood-soaked and violent it turned even the strongest stomach amongst our group. We’d never seen such magic; bodies contorted, eyes burst as though squeezed, the stink of their blood still steaming against the frozen earth as the slow beginning to summer hadn’t thawed it out enough to readily accept the sacrifice.
The forest was eerily silent, the darkened tree line irreverent to the gore and violence laid out before it, no matter how deeply it shook us to our cores. The air tasted different, the ground losing its surety beneath our feet, and the hum of magic in my blood that I passed off as simply intuition warned me to make haste back to Yregar; somethingelsehad been called to arms.
“How many witches did it take to cast that… carnage,” Roan mutters.
Gideon stares back at him, his eyes solemn, and he lifts his hand to hold a single finger up.
"There’s only one witch that I know of capable of that magic; Daire Reborn, born from the line of the womb and wields like no other, he is butoneof their bloodline. His nephew, Oskar is covered from head to toe in witch markings, the sigils that proudly proclaim the bloodshed he’s wrought… none of this to mention the females, far more merciless than the rest! Isya, Davyna, Lyna?—”
He stops as though collecting himself, and his gaze is solemn and unerring when he finally lifts it to meet mine. “Prince Soren, I’m not questioning Rooke’s command. I’ll follow the Ravenswyrd Mother as though the Fates themselves are instructing me, but you need to speak to her and ensure she’s not relying on the ways of old to see us through this conflict. If they're being called back here by the witches left behind, promised bloodshed and power… that’s where our concerns should lie. We’re all dead if we don’t."
With the Briarfrostheir’s warnings still ringing in my ears, I crawl into my own bed alongside my sleeping Fates-blessed mate just before the break of dawn. She doesn’t rouse, even when I can’t help but tug her into my arms, tangling myself up in her perfection until she’s splayed across my chest. That alone forces me to sleep rather than take advantage of the large bed and complete privacy we’ve finally found together.
I wake only a few hours later to find that while her scent clings to my sheets, the bed is empty next to me. Her cloak hangs beside mine on one of the hooks by the door, left behind and the only sign she was ever in my room in the first place. The snarling, writhing Unseelie nature within me loathes that but I can argue with her about that later, when my magic isn’t rumbling in my chest unhappily.
Sitting up with a snarl, I send through to her,where are you?
Without a single thread of surprise, an amused feeling flows back to me, but Rooke’s answer fills me with anything but humor.Airlie spent hours teaching me the traditions and expectations of a royal wedding. Given you’re not supposed to see me today, waking together this morning didn’t seem appropriate.
Fuck the customs. I’m not asking again, croí; tell me where you are.
If it were any fae but Airlie who told Rooke, I’d kill them for filling her had with the asinine and overbearing fancies that generations of high fae royals have added to the ceremony. Despite the ridiculously elaborate additions, there’s only three customs required to ensure our Fates-blessed union is binding;oaths to the Fates declaring our commitment to one another as submission to their commands, the blessing of my bloodline, and the exchange of a ribbon to symbolize the weaving of the Fates design. There’s no reason for us to be separated now and the possibilities of something happening to her now send ice through my blood.
I see that the comfortable bed isn’t helping your disposition; I fear for the good and noble high fae of Yregar.
Throwing myself out of the bed and stalking into my robe, I’m careless as I dress in whatever clothing my hands land on. As I shove my feet into my boots, I don’t even attempt to soften my irate reaction to her disappearance from Rooke.
Fates mercies on this castle if I have to hunt you down, croí.
The warmth of her affection floods through to me, my heart clenching violently but none of my sharpened temper softening, and finally she answers me.I’m in the temple speaking to the Fates, ensuring they’ve been adequately thanked for setting this path out before me. Come find me, Donn.
Growling as my blood heats, I grab her cloak and then my own as I stride out of my chambers. I don’t need the layers for warmth but the sound of her pet name for me whispered in those breathy tones of hers, directly into my mind and my soul… I throw my cloak over my shoulders with jerky movements for coverage alone as I stalk to the temple as though the monsters of the Fates purse me.
Stay right where you are, croí.
The soldiers stationed around the castle all watch my path, unflinching and sure, but their presence only drives me further into madness until I finally leave the endless staircases and hallways behind me to reach the impressive oak doors of the temple. Shoving them open without pause, it’s only when my gaze lands on Rooke’s bowed head that I finally slow my approach.
With her eyes closed, her lips move though no sound escapes them, a long prayer that never falters just as she hasn’t. The idea of her thanking the Fates for me after everything I've done sits like a weight on my chest, bending my bones until they threaten to break under the pressure.
As I move slowly towards her, I turn my gaze away only for it to land on the ribbons hanging from the ceiling in preparation for the ceremony this evening. My mouth turns down at them all, too many memories and terrible possibilities lie over those strips of silk, ancient unions that have passed into Elysium now for the most part. Only a handful of my direct bloodline still live after the events of the war and my uncle's treachery, and now only Airlie and Roan's ribbons fail to turn my stomach with blood-soaked memories.
Better to watch Rooke pray with a gaze that reveals the depth of my obsession with her than to fall into an abyss of my most tormenting memories, every horror my loved ones endured in their final moments before Kharl Balzog's ambitions took their lives.
When she finally lifts her head, her eyes are sharp as they fixate on the ribbons above us like she can't stop herself. My gaze wrenches unwillingly away from her to land back on the yards and yards of silks, woven carefully and steadfastly by many skill hands. The Celestial silver and blue surrounding us bear the prayers of generations of my bloodline, handcrafted at birth and displayed with pride for Fates-blessed ceremonies such as this.
"I didn't know the high fae used ribbons as well."
When she only swallows roughly, like the words have hurt her, I can’t help but question her. "Do you have your parents' ribbons in the box with your ceremonial robes? I'll hang them myself, and the rest of your bloodline as well, if you have them."
It feels like such a paltry offering, so small and insignificant in the wake of her own generosities but she swallows roughlyat my offer. She's a difficult female to read sometimes, her reactions and comments always surprising me but I’m slowly beginning to understand her. Without selfish desires or vanity, she doesn’t covet anything or dance around her own ego in any decisions, an entirely foreign perspective to my own. It’s no wonder her presence here has been so humbling for us all.
Her gaze slips back down to the marble for a moment before she clears her throat delicately, as though she can shift the emotion there as well. "Witches don't display our ribbons. Thank you for the honor of sharing your tradition but I have no ribbons to give you. Not for this."
She does have a ribbon; it was tied to her scepter when she fought Kharl's armies. She removed it, slipping the silk into the hidden pockets of her robes, and I've seen her reach for it several times since as though she's reassuring herself it's still there.
Reading the silence between us as well as ever, she sighs. "Ribbons are exchanged in the witch tradition, the first gift in the marriage between those binding themselves together. My mother's ribbon burned on the funeral pyres with her...as did my father's and every other Ravenswyrd witch bound to another."
