“I’m going to make tea. Want any?”
Rowan smirked. “Shall I get you some clothes?”
“Please.”
In the kitchen, Briar put the kettle on. Vatii perched on the bread box, assessing his actions with beady scrutiny.
“This is all very domestic,” she said.
“I know.”
“You said it was just sex.”
Briar sighed. “I know.” He couldn’t carry on like this. Waiting for the kettle to boil, he held up his hand and found it trembling.
A whiskery kiss tickled the nape of his neck, and Rowan’s hand twined with his shaking one. “Still cold? I brought you a jumper. Won’t fit, but—”
Briar turned in the circle of Rowan’s arms. “I’ve got another idea to warm me up.”
Rowan blushed and looked askance at the magpie on his bread box. “Oh. Ehm, excuse us a minute, Vatii.”
The tea and the jumper they abandoned in the kitchen, but they didn’t make it to the bedroom, instead stretching out on the fur throw in front of the fireplace. Briar went from soaked in rain to soaked in sweat. To his horror, a beep went off from the kitchen, and Rowan—quite close to bringing Briar satisfaction so deep he got the bends—rudely stopped all activity to get up and take the pie out of the oven. Briar whined the whole time about the injustice of it all, sprawled on the fur rug, legs and arms akimbo. Evidently, this was a sight and sound so funny it had Rowan doubled over laughing upon his return. Then he doubled over Briar’s body, picking up exactly where they left off.
They showered together, ate dinner together, then fell soundly asleep together—though slumber didn’t last long.
Briar startled awake at an aborted shout from Rowan. Even in the dark, he could see Rowan’s eyes were closed, violent shivers wracking his body, his scar’s aura bleeding wild magic. Briar shook him by the shoulder and found his skin damp with cold sweat. Panic crept in when he didn’t wake. It took several tries, and when Rowan’s eyes did fly open, a milky cataract covered them. It faded as he beheld Briar.
“I think you were having a nightmare,” Briar said. He tried laying a placating hand on his shoulder, but Rowan recoiled and grabbed his chest where the scar started, a flinch of pain twisting his features. “Sorry, did that hurt?”
“It’s fine.” But he said it through clenched teeth.
Briar leaned over the edge of the bed to root through his discarded clothes. He fished charcoal from the pockets and started drawing. He’d run out of room on his right arm. The runes covered his shoulder too. He drew one on his collarbone, craning his neck to see.
Rowan said something. It might have been “You don’t have to.”
“Shh.”
Briar completed the line of arrowheads and placed his hand over Rowan’s scar. Just as he had with Orla, he drew upon the tithe, letting the healing magic flow through them. Only “flow” was no longer the right word. It dripped and dredged as though sucked through a straw when there was little at the bottom to drink. He felt cold and hot at once. One day, he would reach into his magic well and find it empty, but it should not be so soon. He could think of a few reasons it might be exacerbated. His proximity to the wood, or his proximity to Rowan, who seemed less and less like the man from his prophecy by the day.
The spell worked its magic, Rowan relaxing a degree at a time. His breathing evened. Tithe spent, Briar felt woozy himself. He reclined next to Rowan, propped up on an elbow. This time, when he laid a hand over the scar, Rowan didn’t flinch. The deep furrow in his brow smoothed, and he gazed back at Briar.
“You do me a lot of good.”
There was such a deep affection in his eyes that Briar almost looked away. If he’d been present enough, he’d have known that moment for what it was. There was nothing casual about the way they looked at one another.
“Can I do anything to help?” Briar said.
Rowan squeezed his hand. “You already are.”
“Not enough. Not to be overdramatic, but I’d rather the forest didn’t eat you.” Briar leaned closer. Though dark, he could still make out the finetracery of Rowan’s scar, like fronds of frost curling up one side of his face, thin and fractal. “Your dad didn’t warn you about this?” He traced the lace over Rowan’s cheek.
“No. Nothing.” He winced. “I tried to make magic. Spells. Tea was the best potion I could manage.”
“You make good tea.”
Rowan’s expression was pained. “Not to Da.It’s not enough.That’s what he’d say.”
Briar’s heart broke. He turned Rowan to face him, hands on his cheeks. “You, Rowan, are so much more thanenough.”
