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“Galen,” I whisper. He’s too far away to hear me. He sits with his face in his hands, possibly half asleep. He ought to be, given how late it is. I turn to the guard. “I’ll speak to him now, please.”
The guard leads me over to where Galen sits. He spots me halfway here and rises to his feet. Not asleep after all, though the worn look on his face paints him as far from rested.
“Thank you,” I say to the guard. “I’ll be fine with my friend.”
He nods and moves a distance away, though it’s clear I’m still his focus—the focus of several of the guards stationed outside Sigurd’s tent.
Once we have the smallest bit of privacy, I say, “I thought you’d have left by now.”
Sigurd granted his wish. Galen is free of his oath. He could have left that very moment, off to the woman he was so desperate to get back to, but he hadn’t. Selfishly, I’m glad.
“I wanted to see you again first,” he says.
That brings a smile to my lips. I guess I’m not the only one who felt that way.
“Walk with me?” He offers his arm like some kind of historical gentleman, and I take it.
“Please,” I say. Anything to be rid of the feeling of multiple people’s attention glued to me, though even a walk may not help that. I wouldn’t put it past them to follow along behind us like dutiful chaperones. Still, I do my best to block them out and focus on Galen. This may be our last time together—at least for a while—and I won’t let others ruin it.
“He marked you,” Galen grates out.
So much for not ruining the moment.
“It was mutual.” Why deny it? Besides, if I understand this fae magic correctly, it had to be a mutual decision for the mark to form and appear.
“So you won’t be leaving after all?” Galen says. “You win the tournament for your freedom and then decide to stay?”
The words cut deep. He got his wish and so did the others, yet his comment still holds an edge of betrayal, one that demands I defend myself. “No, I still plan to return home. In the morning, in fact.”
This surprises him enough that he stumbles slightly as we walk.
I don’t fight the satisfied smirk rising to my lips. “My family needs me. That hasn’t changed. I plan to go home and care for them, see that they’re well.”
“And then?” he prompts, as if he knows there’s more.
I swallow against the sudden insecurity holding my tongue. “I want to come back” I shrug, but indifference is the last thing I’m feeling. It’s one of the reasons I couldn’t sleep. “Maybe go back and forth for a while.”
“I see.”
Silence stretches for a minute before he finally speaks again.
“Thank you, Wren, for asking for our wishes.” Galen rewards me with a smile, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“It’s nothing,” I say. Truly, I’m ashamed I didn’t ask it for him sooner.
“It’s so much more than that,” he says. “You had such confidence that the king would listen to your request, but I still doubted it. I thought, at best, it might be a deception, something to make it seem like my oath was revoked but holding me here just the same. But it’s not. I’m truly free.” The last part is so quiet it’s almost swallowed up by the sounds of the night.
Not too far away, music blares into the darkness, accompanied by conversation and laughter. A large bonfire and fae balls of light illuminate a clearing where many fae still dance and drink. They weren’t kidding about the party lasting until dawn. From the noise all around us, I’d wager more are still awake and celebrating than have returned home or retired to tents on the celebration grounds. At least the area where we are is devoid of partiers, likely some kind of deference to their king who slumbers nearby.
“I’m happy for you,” I say. It’s true, even though it stings that he doubted Sigurd so much. “You can return to Sylvie.”
His whole countenance brightens at the mention of her name. He reaches up to rub the little golden leaf dangling from an ear. But the joy vanishes as quickly as it came, and he drops his hand.
“If she’ll have me. If any of them will after what I’ve done.” He releases me, putting space between us where we’ve stopped walking on a grassy pathway.
My gaze wanders, unable to stand amid his sorrow. The distance between us might as well be so much more. A quiet, dark tent blocks the view of the guards, but I’m sure they’re nearby. With fae hearing, they’re probably listening in, or trying to.
“Forgiveness can take time,” I say, just above a whisper. “It may not be immediate, but once they hear your story, it may come sooner than you expect.” He huffs air through his nose, and I press on, forcing myself to stare at him. “My Uncle Mark, Hawke’s mate, left my family. Just up and disappeared one day. We didn’t know why or where he’d gone or even if he was alive.”
