He hadn’t in the forest before the lights found them, and Cillian knew he wouldn’t now. Which meant they had to find some way to get him out of this cell so that Bran would have a chance to escape. Cillian just didn’t know how.
“You saw him. We’re leaving,” Damarus said.
Bran gave Cillian an apologetic look as he knelt to place the tray on the ground. He undid the latch on the flap and lifted it so he could slide the tray inside. Cillian knelt, wanting to reach for Bran’s hand, but Damarus’ attention made him reach for the tray of food instead. Cillian stared through the bars at Bran’s pale face, the worry in his eyes making Cillian ache a little for being the reason it was there.
“I’m okay,” he said in a low voice. What he meant wasI’ll be okay if you leave.
Bran shook his head and stood. “Eat. Is there anything else you need?”
“I don’t want you selling off pieces of yourself for me.”
“That isn’t what I said.”
Cillian picked up the tray and stood, still staring at Bran. “Just don’t. Not for me.”
Bran didn’t respond, but the stubborn set to his jaw was familiar, even all these years later. It made something warm settle in Cillian’s chest, and it was that warmth that kept him company after Bran and Damarus left. What passed for breakfast was a savory kind of porridge and dry toast, with a glass of water that Cillian sipped at rather than finish in gulps. He wasn’t sure how many meals Bran would be able to bargain for, and at least water kept better than food.
Cillian retrieved the blanket and folded it up, using it to sit on at a spot close to the bars of his cell. The person locked up in the other one hadn’t answered his attempts at conversation last night, and they still didn’t when he tried to get their attention. He didn’t know if it was due to them not knowing his language or fear or maybe a combination of both. Sitting in a cell by himself with nothing to do left him bored and anxious, wondering what Bran was being put through for the sake of making sure Cillian didn’t starve.
It was difficult to track hours in that dimly lit space with no windows to see out of. He’d learned last night that his watch didn’t work, probably hadn’t since they’d gone through the wyrding. The battery had died, and it was useless now. There was little else for him to do but sit and wait, a task that made his skin crawl in a way he didn’t like. Cillian wasn’t one who got anxious all that often, but sitting there, in a different world, after having been chased by monsters through the forest and knowing that magic was real and so were the Fae, it was little wonder he started to spiral.
Bran didn’t come that night, or what Cillian assumed was the night, but he received a tray of food that consisted of meat baked into a flaky pie and another glass of water. The spices were different yet familiar at the same time, as if the herbs used were a cousin plant rather than the ones he used when cooking. As before, the tray disappeared when he slept, no matter where he left it. Cillian never heard who came into his cell to retrieve it—whether it was the guard or some other Fae—and their ability to move without waking him was disconcerting.
Bran came the next day with the lunch tray rather than breakfast, dressed in a different ridiculous outfit and looking a little wild-eyed in a way that Cillian didn’t like. Damarus escorted him again, the Fae avidly watching them.
Cillian stepped up to the bars but didn’t touch them. “What’s wrong?”
“Besides the obvious?” Bran asked.
“What are you giving up?”
“Nothing I’m not prepared to offer.”
Cillian scowled, not wanting to argue in the precious few minutes they got to see each other, but neither did he want Bran to keep doing anything stupid. “I already told you to stop.”
“And I don’t want you to starve if I can help it. So just—take the food and eat it. Please.”
“Then tell me what’s going on. Are you okay?”
Bran let out a harsh breath, face screwing up in a tired, scared expression that Damarus couldn’t see, not with his back to the Fae. “The collar blocks my magic. It’s taking some getting used to.”
Cillian didn’t know anything about how Bran’s magic worked, but if the stress he carried in the tense lines of his body was caused by not being able to use it, then Cillian wanted him out of that collar. “You don’t need to get used to it.”
Bran shook his head and set the tray on the ground before opening the metal flap to slide it into the cell. “I won’t leave you here.”
Cillian knelt, reaching for Bran’s hand because it had been days since he’d last been close to the other man. He didn’t care if Damarus saw them; all that mattered was the desperate grip of Bran’s hand in his over the food Bran had bargained who knew what to give him. “I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”
Bran scowled at him, some hint of anger burning through the fear in his eyes. “Shut up. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Cillian had to force himself to let Bran go, the loss of touch an ugly feeling that settled in his skin in a way that left him desperate for company he wouldn’t get outside these brief moments. They both stood after the tray flap was locked again, looking at each other through the cell bars.
“He’s been fed. It’s time to go,” Damarus said.
Cillian glanced at the Fae, frowning slightly at the contemplativelook on his face. Cillian wasn’t sure what to make of that focus, but it didn’t matter once Bran stepped away from the cell, the other man schooling his expression into something not so emotional.
They left, and Cillian ate his meal because not doing so would be a slap in the face to Bran’s efforts. The quiet got to him after a while, like it always did. To fill it, he hummed the tune of a lullaby his mother used to sing him as a boy. He couldn’t quite remember the words, but the thought of her, somewhere on her cruise, alive and well, was a comfort to him.
Cillian got lunch that day, which meant he probably wouldn’t get dinner, so he set aside the bread for later and ate the potatoes mixed with greens. He’d received two meals a day, at different intervals, with no way to know what time of day it could be based on what was on his plate.
