Shadow Cursed by May Sage Page 0,60
anxious. Ten years ago. A few weeks ago, to me. The passage of time is written over the forest; there’s no denying that it’s changed in a decade. I feel fewer creatures roaming around us. They’ve retreated north to the deepest part of the woods, in seelie land, away from the human settlements.
The human presence has affected the entirety of Tenebris, not just the courts.
The thing that changed most in all this time is me. I don’t fear anything here. Not the fachan, not the headless huntsmen, not the nightmares. Not because the wild folk aren’t terrifying, ferocious, and bloodthirsty. There is no doubt that each and every one of them would delight in claiming a chunk of flesh from a high court urchin. But the last time I came here, I was another person. Vlari the small. Vlari the inconsequential. Vlari the shadow cursed, under Morgana’s poisonous spells.
That girl no longer exists.
I don't know how, given the fact that I never noticed him until now, but the wyrfox rubs his fur against my leg, demanding my attention. I rub his mist-covered head. “That’s right, boy. It’s where we met.”
Drusk hands me one of his knives. “Here? What were you doing in the Murkwood?”
I don’t think there will be any need for it, but I greedily pocket the blade and wink at him. “I'll tell you if you’re good.”
“I’m never that. You’ll tell me anyway.”
He may have a point.
If there was ever a path through these woods, it has long been overrun by crooked branches, rocks, and mushrooms. The shy folk of the woods know how to walk without disrupting nature—or leaving tracks for a hunter to follow.
Reaching for the hills Meda bid us to get to, we head farther north, past the mirror lake that was frozen long ago and remains that way through all seasons, until finally, we see it in the distance. The Old Keep.
“Part of me wishes I had the skills to compose a song,” I sigh. “Or sketch a pretty picture.”
Unsurprisingly, Drusk laughs at me. “When the gods were distributing abilities, they took a good look at you and decided your art was painting the land red with the blood of your enemies instead.”
I smile. I’m not sure he meant it as a compliment, but I choose to take it that way.
“That, and driving me insane.”
Not long after, I bristle, my senses alerting me to the presence of something hostile. “Feels like we’re going the right way.”
Drusk only nods, walking closer to me. I see his eyes take in our surroundings, leaving nothing unnoticed. He and I are so different. He's controlled, careful. He’s borderline seelie at heart. I grimace in distaste at that notion.
In the old world, the fae were ruled by one unseelie and one seelie monarch, married to keep the kingdom united. People could choose their allegiances at any time, standing with one court or another depending on their nature. I’ve even read about those who chose one side, and then the next a century after, only to come back to their first allegiance later on. It sounds messy. I can’t say whether our solution is any better, though. People born in Tenebris are unseelie and those of Denarhelm are seelie, by default, regardless of their nature. Some eventually travel away from their native home, but it’s rare.
I undoubtedly belong to the unseelie court. I’m fine with plans that are more of a vague outline, happy to take care of issues when they arise. There’s nothing wrong with a little chaos. My amusement takes precedence over many other concerns—such as my survival, sometimes. I may very well die, but I sure will give the best jibe before I go. Drusk thinks a lot farther ahead than I do.
I glance at him, musing about how his nature and mine fit. He might just keep me alive, for one.
We're not unlike my mother and father were, I realize. Ciera is—was—all wants and needs, quick to dismiss anything that she didn't like the sound of; Nero considers his duties, the greater good. Thoughts of my father snuff out whatever joy I regained. My father, whose daughter killed his bondmate. He hates me now, no doubt. I haven't seen him since we buried Ciera.
I force myself to return to my former train of thoughts. Seelie, unseelie. I wonder if all mates are shaped that way, similar enough to fit, different enough to complete each other.
“What?” Drusk asks, without watching me.
He must have felt me looking at