“And as the Oak King reigns in spring…” Nell continued.
“Unless it’s a year without a summer,” said Wren. As they spoke, he’d fully entered the cottage and shut its door behind himself, swung his satchel down from his shoulder and hung it on the hook beside Shrike’s coat, and seemed about to shrug off his frock coat likewise—but paused with an uncertain glance at Nell. Shrike had noticed the presence of a lady, or ladies, prevented Wren from doing certain things which would otherwise be commonplace. He supposed it another mortal superstition. He hoped Wren might overcome it in time, as he’d overcome the mortal realm’s law against men with men, but for the moment he had patience enough to let him do so on his own.
“Unless that,” Nell conceded. “But this year, while she has her Oak King, she’ll not have him crown her. Or so I’m told,” she added, turning to Shrike.
“Then her Holly King must do so,” concluded Wren.
An awkward silence descended upon Blackthorn.
Wren glanced between Shrike and Nell. “Who is it, then?”
“No one,” Shrike answered just as Nell spoke the same.
The furrows in Wren’s brow deepened. He raised one towards Shrike in query.
“The queen named none at Ostara,” Shrike explained.
“Perhaps she shall at Beltane,” Nell added.
And thus the talk had run in a complete circle. Shrike’s headache, kept at bay by laudanum since dawn, began to gnaw at him anew. He resisted the urge to knead his knuckles against his brow.
“Then perhaps,” said Wren, “we ought to attend Beltane. If only to hear her choice as she announces it and lose no time in acquainting ourselves with our opponent. Or,” he added, shooting a worried look at Shrike, “perhaps I might conduct reconnaissance alone—”
“No,” said Shrike. His head shot up as he spoke, the single word erupting from his heart as much as his mouth, both without any forethought. He withheld a wince at the resulting knell of pain from within his own skull.
This did nothing to dispel Wren’s growing concern. “What occurs at the Beltane festivities?”
“An orgy,” said Nell.
Wren choked on nothing.
Shrike glared at Nell. She rearranged her smirk into something that hid her delight in shocking Wren.
“It’s a fertility rite,” Shrike explained. “As the fae folk join together, so does the realm increase in wealth and splendour.”
Wren appeared only slightly less alarmed. “All together? At once?”
Nell snorted.
Shrike did not give her the satisfaction of another glare. “Not all together, no. In groups of varying sizes—alone, or in pairs, or more—as is their wont throughout the day. Some make it a game to see how many partners they may satisfy in the celebration. Others pair as swans from beginning to end and acknowledge naught but each other.”
This last seemed to allow Wren to relax his tense posture. Still, his gaze flicked to Nell before he answered Shrike. “Then perhaps we ought to attend as a pair. If you’re willing, that is.”
“An’ it so please you,” Shrike replied, finding a smile came to his lips as he spoke the words. He could hardly deny his Wren.
~
The following se’en-night passed much like the first. By the end of it, Shrike’s antlers bore twelve points, and spread far beyond the breadth of his shoulders to span over a yard—very nearly an ell.
This made passing through the cottage doorway rather more difficult than otherwise.
The first time he knocked his antlers against the door-frame it rang through his skull to his very teeth. He staggered back to clutch at the rim of the hollowed stump for support whilst he waited for the pain to recede and his vision to return. He only felt thankful Wren hadn’t witnessed his stupidity. Still, he repeated his error twice over that very morning before he learnt to turn his head aside and duck and so work his way through.
As for the pots, cobwebs, and bundles of dried herbs hanging from the hooks on the rafters—well, he gave thanks again to fortune that Wren didn’t see him tangled up in sprigs of rosemary or knocking a copper cauldron down onto his own head. Shrike spent much of the afternoon taking down the herbs and pots and stowed them elsewhere in the cottage wherever he could fit them.
For some minutes after Wren’s arrival, in the evening, Shrike hoped his idiocy might remain unknown. Until, after Wren had kissed him, he pulled away to gaze in confusion at something over Shrike’s head. Before Shrike could ask after it, Wren reached up gingerly between his antlers and plucked something out of his hair.
“Is this… parsley?” Wren asked, turning the sprig over betwixt forefinger and thumbs.
