~
When Shrike had returned from an evening’s flight to tell how he’d espied the Horse Guard in the Grove of Gates, Wren knew not what to think.
“The very same?” Wren demanded. “You’re certain?”
Shrike avowed he was, in fact, certain.
“Do you think he seeks recompense for the stolen horse?” Wren asked.
Shrike doubted it, as the horse had returned of its own accord the morning after its theft.
“For what, then, has he come here?” Wren wondered.
“I don’t think he came on purpose,” said Shrike. “I think he wandered through Hyde Park, as I suppose is his wont, and stumbled through the ring.”
“Oh,” said Wren. Then, “Does that happen often?”
“Now and again,” Shrike admitted. “Particularly when the veil between realms thins on Samhain.”
Wren took a moment to absorb this information. Then he cleared his head with a shake and returned to the matter at hand. “What ought we to do about him?”
Shrike gave a half-shouldered shrug which rather left it up to Wren.
Wren considered the problem. “If he’s lost, we ought to help him, at the very least.”
Shrike raised his brows as much as to say, “And what more?”
“And,” Wren added, warmth rising in his face, “we might owe him something of a debt in the vein of the Court of Hidden Folk.”
Shrike’s low laugh went straight to Wren’s heart—and parts further south, as well.
They ventured forth together into the dark forest toward the Grove of Gates to find the lost guard. When they drew near, however, and heard the crunch of a stranger’s boot-heels over twigs and fallen leaves, Wren held back.
“Perhaps,” he said, “we ought to approach him one at a time, so as not to overwhelm him and give alarm.”
Shrike blinked down at him in bemusement. Then, with a shrug, he assumed his form of a little grey bird with a black mask. He alighted on Wren’s shoulder and nestled his beak against Wren’s jaw. Then he flitted off amidst the trees. Wren lost him in the shadows.
And so Wren went forth, alone, to confront his old fantasy. His heart filled with dread. If Jack should prove angry with them for stealing the horse. If Jack didn’t remember them at all.If Jack wasn’t even Jack, but another horse guard unknown to them both, and how to explain the fae realm to a total stranger?
These thoughts brought Wren to a part of the wood he didn’t recognise. Only then did he realise he could no longer hear footsteps beyond his home. And Shrike remained entirely unseen.
So Wren thought it prudent to halt and rest a spell in a convenient clearing, rather than wander on and get himself further lost.
It was then that Jack stumbled upon him.
Jack, who smiled to see him. Jack, who very much remembered their queer meeting. Jack, who declared himself ready, willing, and able to fulfill the promise made so many months ago.
And when he had his smiling Shrike again beside him, what else could Wren do but invite the horse guard back to Blackthorn?
Having the matter settled and his Shrike at his side ought to have put Wren’s nerves to rest. Instead, they increased with every step towards the cottage. He gave thanks Jack followed behind him, so he needn’t witness the convulsions his countenance endured as waves of hot and cold chased each other across his skin.
Fucking the fae was one thing. Fucking another mortal man, however… that, Wren had not yet done. He’d never supposed he ever would. The prospect felt equal parts exhilarating and daunting.
Still, there was something to be said for the fulfillment of a fantasy some twenty years in the making.
By the time he’d led Jack across the cottage threshold, Wren thought the anticipation might kill him. Then, to have both Jack and Shrike turn to him, and for Shrike to ask him to give voice to his wildest dreams.
And to reply with the most idiotic question Jack had likely ever heard.
