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The entire world rested in his arms. A heavy weight, cold and lifeless. He had sworn to himself he would not look down. Would not look into her unseeing eyes. Would not look at her bloody chest, where the wyvern’s stinger had hit her. Would not look at the black, poisoned veins coiling up her neck and down her arms.
He ignored the whispers around him when he finally reached the town. He already knew they were a sight to see. The prince and his lover, both filthy and broken. His steps led him up a hill, near the outskirts of Tir Na Nog, upon which resided a gigantic manor. The prince walked up the steps to the dark wooden doors, which slowly opened as they sensed their master’s daughter approach them.
He hadn’t reached the middle of the hall when the screams started. Servant women crowded him, each and every one of them trying to take the girl out of his arms. But he cut through them as easily as a knife through butter. His gaze was focused elsewhere. The Duke stood atop the staircase, hands clasped behind his back, watching him intently.
The Duke of Glassbarrow always had a frown on when he saw the prince. He was a very strict man, always shaking his head at everything he disapproved of. The young prince could not even detect an ounce of sadness as he climbed the stairs, holding the lifeless body of the Duke’s daughter in his arms. Only disappointment.
“I’m sorry,” the prince rasped once he stood face-to-face with the man. “I never thought…” A sharp slap on his cheek cut him off, strong enough to make his eyes water.
“I already know you never think. You do not have to remind me.” The Duke turned to one of the servant women, who were still flocking the prince of Winter Court. “Bring her body to her room. I do not want to look at it yet. And you,” the Duke continued as the woman ripped the body from the prince’s arms. “Get out of my house.”
Never had Tir Na Nog seen one of its princes in such a low place. The Queen might have gouged one of his eyes out as punishment for embarrassing himself in front of the whole city. To give them a reason to stare. But no matter what people said, she still had a heart, icy as it may be. At least, when it came to her favourite son.
She had seen him wander the halls of the castle, headed toward his rooms, and had almost pulled him back by the ear when he barely acknowledged her. But that was before she noticed the blank look in his eyes or the blood dripping down his arms or even the rips through his pants that showed three angry red marks on his thigh. She had barked at a guard to clean up the droplets of blood trailing behind him and had watched her son turn the corner to the main staircase.
Ash never cried in front of people. Not since he was four and Rowan had broken four of his ribs during a fight. Mab had learned about it, of course, and had him locked in the dungeons, without food, water nor light for a week. Princes don’t cry , she had snarled as she had thrown him in the cell.
Ash never cried in front of people. But that didn’t mean he did not cry when he was alone. And cry he did, that night, after his legs gave out and sent him sprawling on the ornate rug. What else was there to do?
He couldn’t tell how many days had passed like this. Somehow, he had managed to haul himself from the ground to his bed. A knock on the door woke him from a dreamless sleep. He groaned in response, hoping the maids would leave him alone for a century. A millenia, even. The door opened regardless and the sound of footsteps was heard in his room. The prince could not see who had entered, for he was facing the opposite wall, but the footsteps didn’t sound like a maid’s. If they kill me, so be it , he thought. I should never have gotten out of that valley.
“How long are you going to stay holed up in here?” Ash knew that voice. Maybe ignoring the man would drive him away. So he didn’t answer. Closed his eyes again. Tried to fall back asleep.
But he couldn’t. Sage was waiting behind him. And knowing his brother, he would wait until he got an answer. He groaned again. Hopefully, this would be good enough.
“You do realize I’m only here because you keep scaring the maids away, don’t you?” Sage asked. Ash guessed he had sat on the edge of the bed when the mattress dipped.
Once again, he groaned, though less aggressively. He heard his brother sigh.
“I brought you soup.”
“I’m not hungry,” he tried, but his voice, raspy from disuse, was buried under the growl of his stomach at the smell of the soup. He brought his legs closer to his chest in the hopes of concealing the noise, to no avail. Sage snorted quietly.
“For some reason, I don’t believe you,” he said. “Come on. Sit up.” It took a bit of persuasion, but he managed to make his brother sit up against the wooden bed frame. He looked every bit like a man who had just spent two weeks alone in his room. His hair looked like a bird had made its nest in it and still had some strands crusted with dried blood. The whites of his eyes were more red than white from crying and not sleeping.
Rumors traveled fast in the Court. He had already heard at least a dozen variations of the story, all wildly different from one another. But they all revolved around one particular matter. Ariella was dead, and it was probably Ash’s fault.
Sage handed the bowl over to Ash, who still wouldn’t touch it. “I can’t keep anything down,” he argued softly.
“Maybe this time will be different.” He pushed the bowl toward his brother a second time. Ash eyed it cautiously, still refusing to touch it.
“What’s in it?” He asked. Sage’s green eyes sparkled slightly in amusement.
“It’s not poisoned. Though, I’m glad to see you’re as paranoid as ever,” he said before bringing the bowl to his own lips and swallowing some of the broth.
“Fool me once, you know the rest,” responded the younger one.
“Will you ever forgive Rowan for it?”
“I almost died.”
Sage handed the bowl to Ash, who finally took it between his hands. He hesitated, staring idly at the soup. “I don’t gain anything from killing you, Ash.” Sage smiled as his brother brought a cube of meat to his mouth. He watched him eat a few spoonfuls of the soup until he deemed he’d had enough to last a few days, got up, and left Ash alone with his soup.
When he came back, two or three days later, Ash was sleeping again, and the bowl was empty on the nightstand. He switched it for a full one and left without a word.
The third time Sage visited Ash’s room, he was up. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, staring blankly at the once-beautiful carpet, now ruined with blood. “Get up,” Sage told him. “You’re gonna take a bath.”
“No,” Ash answered, not looking up from his spot on the ground.
“You smell like a dead horse. Get up.”
The younger prince eventually followed him after being promised there would be no one else in the baths with them. Sure enough, there wasn’t a single living thing in the pools when they got there.
The baths of the castle were assuredly one of the most gorgeous areas of the palace. The mosaics of the floors and ceilings showed sublime shades of indigo, gold, and silver, and tall, lean columns sprouted from the ground, surrounding the many pools of varying depths. Situated deep in the castle, the only light that could reach them emanated from the fireplaces around the room. The warm air was thick with steam and incense, carrying the smell of herbs and woods native to Winter lands.
The two princes undressed side by side, letting their clothes fall to the floor unceremoniously. Ash dipped his feet in the water first, and as soon as he did, felt a wave of calm wash over him. He guessed some sort of glamour was at play but didn’t question it further. He was too exhausted for that.
“Sit down,” Sage said. He obeyed. The pool wasn’t deep; the water barely reached Ash’s lower ribs. He felt the water ripple around him as Sage settled behind him. He let his brother pour water on his head and back, then scrub his skin with a sponge he hadn’t seen him grab. He hadn’t noticed just how gross he smelled until the aromatic soap was lathered on his back. Ash could almost feel the dirt falling away when Sage rinsed away the suds.
“Why are you doing this?” Ash asked faintly.
“Doing what?” Sage had started working on his brother’s arms, taking particular care of removing the black blood from under his nails.
“Taking care of me.”
Sage kept scrubbing quietly for a minute or two before answering. “Because you’re my brother.”
“I’m your enemy.”
Sage sighed softly. “That’s what Mab wants us to think.” He stopped working before speaking again. “You’re the best one of us three.”
They kept silent after that. Ash would have disagreed, but Sage was massaging his skull, his hands full of soap, and his eyelids weighed tons. He might have fallen asleep if only the comb Sage was now running through his hair wasn’t catching on every single knot. He winced as the comb caught an especially difficult one.
“Stop groaning,” Sage scolded. “That mess wouldn’t be so big if you had simply gotten out of your bed.”
The older prince didn’t notice his brother was crying until he stopped to remove stray hairs from between the comb’s teeth. Ash’s shoulders were shaking ever so slightly, and if he listened carefully, he could hear his breath hitch quietly. He worked the knots more delicately after that.
Ash stayed in the water long after Sage left. The latter had placed a towel near the edge of the pool and told him he had asked a maid to change the bedsheets and open a window in his room. The fresh air did wonders for him. He fell into a dreamless sleep not long after coming back to his room. That same evening, Sage stopped by with two bowls of soup. They ate together on the rug-free floor of Ash’s bedroom.
In the following weeks, Sage managed to bring his brother out of the castle a few times. Nothing much happened on these outings, but getting Ash out of his room was good enough. Sometimes he cried, sometimes he screamed, sometimes he simply stared vacantly at the air in front of him. No matter what happened, Sage never asked questions. Ash was grateful for that. He couldn’t have been able to explain even if he had wanted to.
The Wyldwood was calm one day. The two princes’ horses were too. They followed a trail etched deep into the ground, one that was used frequently. One that hostile creatures wouldn’t come close to.
“Summer Elysium is approaching fast,” Sage stated. He didn’t know much about what had happened that fateful day. But every day, he heard more. He knew the Summer jester was definitively involved. And he knew of his brother’s impulsive temperament. These, coupled with the upcoming Elysium, where they might meet, worried him.
“I know,” answered the youngest prince.
“Do you plan on going?”
Ash turned to look at his brother. “I don’t really have a choice, do I?” Sage shrugged.
“You always have a choice.”
Ash scoffed. Not with Mab, he didn’t.
The next week, a boogeyman butler came to his door and asked him to follow him down to where a coach was waiting for him. He came down to the palace bailey where an ornate carriage was stationed. When the butler opened the door to the coach, he saw that both of his brothers were already seated. He didn’t apologize for his delay and took his place next to Sage.
The trip to Arcadia was long and quiet. Ash did his best to ignore Rowan, who sat right in front of him, though it was a hard task since their knees would bump every time the coach ran over a rock, hard enough that he knew Rowan was doing it on purpose to get a rise out of him. Ash realized it was the first time he saw him since what had happened with Ariella. He also realized he didn’t miss him one bit.
Ash spent the whole trip with his chin in his hand, gazing out of the small window. The scenery would change every so often. First, snowy slopes, frozen lakes, and boreal deserts, then colorful forests and flowery plains.
The sun hung low in the sky when the carriage came to an abrupt stop. Ash knew what to do. He and his brothers had done this masquerade of peace thousands of times.
The Summer Court was exactly as he remembered it: chaotic. There were faeries jumping everywhere, pixies whirling in the air. He very nearly slapped one that had tried to land on his shoulder. The crowd of Unseelies that had just arrived made its way into the grand courtyard used every year in honor of Elysium. When it was his turn, Ash passed under the archway made of vines and thorns, bowed before the monarchs of the court, then took his place at the long table next to his brothers.
The evening passed like a blur. He watched, lost in thoughts, as various entertainers had their moment on the marble stage at the other end of the courtyard. In all the Elysiums he had attended, not a single one had performed twice, yet it was the most repetitive spectacle he’d ever seen. From dancers to actors, without forgetting the musicians and soothsayers. It was always the same, year after year.
The moon was almost at its peak when Ash caught a glimpse of fiery orange hair in the crowd. He tried to look away, to focus all his attention on the show, to actively listen to the Sidhe chanting a reenactment of how all her friends were killed in a pointless war. He really did try.
He only looked down from the stage when he felt something rolling down his hand. Unconsciously, his fingers had clenched into fists in his lap, carving four little crescents in his palm. A red drop trickled down from where one of his nails had pierced the skin. He took a deep breath to calm himself and quickly wiped the blood on the dark fabric of his pants. The last thing he needed was to attract the attention of a blood-thirsty creature, and God knew how many there were present that night.
Carefully placing both his hands flat on his thighs, the youngest prince decided nothing would happen that evening. He would not cause a scene because of some red-haired fae in the crowd. It might not even be him!
Breathe in… Breathe out…
When he looked back up to the crowd, his eyes caught on a pair of green eyes he knew too well looking directly back at him. They held his stare, unblinking, until someone walked between them, and they were gone.
Ash looked around, searching for telltale signs of the jester’s passage. He only managed to spot him as the man was leaving the courtyard through a small passage in the bramble. The prince excused himself from the table under the watchful blue eyes of his brother and followed his old friend in the narrow corridor. He trailed behind him, making sharp turns around thorny corners, until he caught up to the red-haired fey.
The other man was waiting for him with his arms crossed, leaning his shoulder against the wall. His green eyes were narrowed to slits, betraying his devilish smile.
“Fancy seeing you here, your highness.”
“What do you want?” Ash asked, ever the diplomat. Puck’s grim grin grew wider as he cocked his head to the side.
“Don’t you think I should be asking you that, since you’re the one who followed me here?”
The two men faced each other in silence for a minute or two. A wave of red hot anger submerged Ash, threatening to drown out his conscience. He took a deep breath to keep his feelings in check, in vain. It was the first time he saw Puck since Ariella’s death and the prince sure as hell hadn’t forgotten the promise he had made as his lover died in his arms.
His mind took a second to register he had pushed Puck against the rosebush wall and pointed a knife to the tendon of his throat. It was a short blade, no longer than his thumb, easily concealed into a belt. His other hand fisted into the fabric of Puck’s collar, creasing the fabric and pushing the air out of his lungs, a warm puff of breath exhaled against the Winter Prince’s face. The tip of the silver blade already dug into Puck’s skin. Any trace of a smile was wiped from the jester’s face. Instead, Ash could see a muscle twitch in his jaw. In his own chest, he could feel his heart beating faster, struggling to rein back his Unseelie nature.
“You came to fulfill your promise.”
”What else would I be doing?”
“Is this really how you want it to happen? In a dark corner during Elysium? Think of your poor mother. What will she say?”
“That you deserve it.”
Puck smiled, more with his nose than his mouth, almost like a grimace. “Maybe you’re right.”
In the dark, Puck’s eyes glowed like foxfire. His skin was uncomfortably warm, slightly damp. The air around his neck smelled of peppery cinnamon. Ash flared his magic, hoping to cool down and give Puck a frostbite where their skins met.
“I wish it had been you instead of her,” he heard himself mutter. Between slightly parted lips, Puck exhaled, barely noticeable. A haunted look blew over his face.
“Do you think I don’t wish the same?”
Good. This will make it easier.
Ash’s hand pulled back slightly, intending to get a better angle, one that would hurt more, bleed more. One that would make Puck suffer as much as he was. But before he could ram the blade through the soft skin of Puck’s neck, someone cleared their throat behind him. He took a quick step back. Over his shoulder, he saw The Summer King, as well as his own mother. Neither looked pleased, but Ash knew, from the slightest, nearly-unnoticeable squint of Mab’s eyes, that she was especially furious.
Oberon’s deep voice crawled through the hallway, a shadow that froze the Winter Prince into perfect immobility. “I always knew your kind to be unscrupulous, but I did not think your own son ready to desecrate Elysium.”
As soon as Mab took a step forward, Ash dropped a knee to the floor, bending his head deeply. Her heels clacked on the stone path, any echo swallowed by the rose bushes arching over their heads. Ash stared at her polished, silver pointed shoes. If he stared at them hard enough, he hoped, a whole other world would open up under her and devour her and everything else, and drown them all in eternal darkness.
“I should have your hands cut off,” she said, her voice as cutting as the blade hidden behind his palm, “but even that would not be enough to stop you from disgracing me. Get up.”
He obeyed, careful to smooth out any signs of emotions off of his face before looking at her. Past her shoulder, Oberon had placed a hand over Puck’s shoulder. “Robin, are you alright?” Ash heard him mutter. Puck wriggled out of the King’s touch with an ill-disguised revulsion.
“I deserved it,” he answered, slinking past him and into a hidden hallway between the roses.
Mab stared at her son for a moment, her tar-black eyes saying everything that needed to be said. She turned on her heels and walked away. Ash knew to follow her.
In the courtyard, Mab took her place at the end of the table opposite the Summer monarchs. Ash sat in the empty seat between Sage and a summer noble with hair like lavender stalks. “If you move from this chair again before the sun rises,” his mother warned under her breath, “I’ll place you on this stage and make you the spectacle.”
Across the table, Rowan hid a smile, poorly, behind thin fingers. His blue eyes wanted this to happen, to see what their twisted mother had in store for his darling baby brother.
Unfortunately for Rowan, Ash remained firmly seated even through the boredom. When the first rays of the sun bleached the sky, he closed his eyes for a brief moment, finally hoping for a respite of this masquerade.
Somehow, the carriage ride back to the Winter Court was even longer than the previous one. At one point, Ash wondered if the driver had taken a detour. He struggled keeping his eyes open. The night had exhausted him, but he didn’t trust his brothers enough to fall asleep in front of them.
Time in the Winter Court moved differently from the Summer Court. Sometimes faster, other times slower. Younger, Ash had a tutor who told him about Earth’s different time zones. “Imagine if the Summer Court and Winter Court were always synchronized, but with a delay,” he had explained. That day, the Winter Court was late on its counterpart. The sky was black as tar.
Mab was waiting for him outside the coach when they finally arrived in Tir Na Nog. She had changed out of her gown into another dress, sharpened her aura with glamour to make the silver claws growing out of her shoulder more intimidating. Ash failed to understand how such a heavy-looking dress could be more comfortable than the thin-strapped silk one she had worn in the Summer Court.
On her order, he followed her to the throne room. She snapped at the guards standing around the room to get out while Ash took a knee in the center of the room. She sat on her throne, elbow propped on the armrest, her long fingers holding her forehead as she watched the last armored guard hurry out the room. Her eyes snapped back to her son when the heavy doors shut with a familiar clunk.
And then, she started yelling.
Ash wasn’t listening. He stared down into the floor. Through the transparent-blue ice, millennias ago, someone had encased a beautiful, multi-layers mosaic of bones from every thinkable species. A gigantic dragon skull, mouth agape in a frozen scream, took the center and nearly breached the surface of the ice floor. As a young prince, Ash often wondered how long he would have to dig before the dragon could swallow him up.
Once Mab had exhausted herself from shouting and pacing on the dais, she sat back down. “This was about the duke’s daughter, wasn’t it?” She asked with a sigh. Ash ground his teeth together.
“Yes.”
Mab stayed quiet for a frightening moment. He did not dare look up from the maw under him. He heard his mother shift in her seat. “I don’t know the details of what happened between you and that Summer fool. But at least, try not to kill him in his own territory during Elysium. I would like to avoid the mess that would ensue. That being said, do what you want.” It surprised Ash. Mab rarely gave her sons free rein, especially in a matter that could easily start a war between the two Courts. Perhaps she was itching for one. It had been a long time since the last violent conflict. “Now get out of my sight.”
He bowed his head as deeply as it would go before leaving.
A quiet snicker found him as soon as Ash crossed the doors. He didn’t need to turn around to know it was Rowan. His brother leaned against the wall, in the shadow of the heavy doors.
“All this because of a girl?” His smirk was visible in his glowing eyes. “You’re aware she never really loved you. She was good at pretending, sure, but don’t forget she was a Winter Fey first. She was only ever after your power.”
Ash stared at him silently, keeping an eye on his brother’s hands. Just in case.
“I must admit I’m a bit jealous. Everyone in the city is talking about the dark prince who lost his heart. What a touching story,” he moaned with a forced pout. His act quickly fell into a scowl. “Can’t even get a girl in bed before she mentions you. But, I am sad I didn't get to bed her, your little Arie —”
Ash’s fist in his face shut him up before he could say her name, trapping his skull between his knuckles and the wall. He would not tolerate him besmirching her. Rowan crumbled to the floor, hands flying to his face. His shoulder trembled up and down. Ash wanted to kick him until he stopped laughing, until the blood running between his fingers dried and flaked away. Instead, he turned away, leaving him to his broken nose and, Ash hoped, his concussion.
His rooms on the top floor were dark. No servant had bothered lighting the sconces. He didn’t mind; his eyes were made for the darkness. Slowly, he took his clothes off, letting them fall to the floor. His right glove was damp with the blood that had gushed out of his brother’s face.
He dipped his hands into the washbasin and let his head hang over the rising steam. Next to the glass bowl, there was a soft white cloth. He wiped his hands on it, unbothered by the pink streaks it left on the fabric.
He took a few steps back before collapsing on the plush duvet of his bed. Through the window, the sky was light. Not dawn-light, but snow-light. While Mab was monologuing in the throne room, a thick blanket of clouds had covered the city and snow had begun pouring down the roofs. It brought him back to another time, another snowy night spent in bed. When she was still there.
There’s a strange phenomenon, when you lose someone you love, where everything gets categorized as before or after you lost them. As if the whole world revolved around their disappearance. As if everything came back to them, related or not.
Ash felt it, then. How the falling snow reminded him of her, only a few weeks ago, one of her last nights alive.
She was naked, her head full of silver hair resting over the crook of his shoulder. Her fingertips traced invisible patterns over his collarbones. It tickled, but he didn’t want to move her. Her distracted blabbering was well worth the discomfort.
She asked something. Or at least, Ash thought she did, from the sudden silence in her speech. He hummed, carefully balancing his tone between affirmation and negation.
“You’re not listening, are you?” she asked, raising her head over his chest.
“What?” he feigned. “Of course, I am.” He smiled politely, innocently.
She scoffed. “You’re a terrible liar, Ash.” She turned away from him, laying on her side, pouting playfully.
Ash wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled himself closer, skin to skin. He peppered her shoulder and upper arm with kisses. “I’m sure you don’t mind.” She chuckled as quietly as she could, wiggling in Ash’s grasp.
They stayed quiet for a long moment. So long, that Ash thought she was asleep. But she shifted, angling her head toward the window.
“I love it when it snows,” she whispered, so quiet but so loud in the silent room. Ash peeked over the crown of her head, a light sky, with thick, bouncy flakes drifting down.
“I love it too.”
“No, you don’t. You always complain about how snow clings and soaks your clothes.”
“But it’s pretty,” he said, nuzzling her shoulder. “Sometimes. When it’s not brown and slushy like it is in the city. Snow is nice in the forest. It’s easier to hunt.”
“There it is,” she smiled.
Now, Ash wished she didn’t have her back turned to him. Just so he could have seen her smile as she said it. He wished all of her smiles had faced toward him. If he had known, he would have collected every second of laughter that came out of her.
If he had known, he would have killed Goodfellow the very first time he had met him.
But he hadn’t. And now, it was too late.
He turned away from the window, and the snow beyond it, and faced the wall of his confined room. He failed to notice, against the grey sky, the shadow of a black bird whose emerald eyes were watching over him.