Chapter 1: The Feast
Chapter Text
Her forearms slammed down on the table, catching before her nose could crack against the wood. It didn’t stop Gwen's stomach from hitting the edge hard enough to wind her. She didn’t have a moment to feel the pain before the back of her shift yanked up.
The hall was full of feasting fæ. Gwen grit her teeth. The handle of the wine jug was turned towards her. All she had to do was grab it, spin around and smash it into his face. It would be quick—
“Gryff.” The voice came from her side. “I wanted that one.”
She hated the lazy way they spoke. The few that bothered with the common tongue, when they needed to make themselves understood for the lowly humans, drawled through the syllables, but the knights accosting her saw no need to include her in their debate. They stuck to the language of the fæ.
“You should have been faster, dear friend.” A palm squeezed her rear, and Gwen’s hand ached for violence.
But then they’d know she wasn’t a whore. She’d be trapped in the Prince of the Mistral’s castle. They’d throw her in the dungeon with Anselm. Her finger dug into the wood hard enough to feel the grain in the sliver between skin and nail.
“You son of a whore.” Gryff’s dear friend growled.
There was the smack of a fist against bone, and the beast behind her was ripped away. Gwen dropped, scrambling from the table to the edge of the hall. The mess of columns that hid servants. The shadows were her first reprieve since she’d snuck in with the whores summoned for the feast. Her choice of disguise was feeling less clever by the moment. Gryff’s dear friend had him by the shoulder, his knee embedded in his diaphragm in a brutal blow that tinged his eerily symmetrical face green.
Gwen glanced to her side, her eyes fixed on the door not far to her left. A servant’s entrance, and her escape, right until an arm draped over her shoulders. Long fingers gripped her upper arm. Her head snapped up, eyes widening as she met the glittering gaze of a fæ. Green, the most vibrant green she’d ever seen. So bright, it looked like the forest canopy when the morning sunlight shone through. She dropped her gaze immediately.
“Knights.” Fingers gripped her chin. Soft skin that healed as fast as it was cut. Unless the blade was iron. Then it festered like a burn. “If you fight over the human, it gets taken away.”
Gryff’s dear friend stood straight, letting the other fæ go. It took Gryff a few moments longer, but he managed it, cheeks flushed and gasping for air.
“Sir.” Both fæ’s heads dipped, eyes cast down.
They were Knights of the Prince’s Guard; they bowed to very few fæ. The creature holding her was important. Granted, not Tristrian, Prince of the Mistral, Lord of Storms and the Firewinds important, but close enough to it that the difference hardly mattered. The weight of the fælord's arm around her burned as her eyes skimmed the high table. The ruler of Stormharth was at his throne. Most of the fælords and fæladies' seats were filled; there were two or three gaps. She couldn't tell them apart well enough to guess at the one who’d caught her.
“Well,” the fælord prompted.
The knights dropped to their knees, heads bowed.
“We are sorry, sir.” A chorus of regret.
“Don’t be too hard on yourselves,” he said. “The sow certainly has a base appeal. I can see how you were bewitched.” Long fingers gripped her upper arm hard enough to hurt. “As you were, soldiers.”
The fælord pulled her with him, his arm around her shoulders. The dresses the whores wore were flimsy, but the skirt at least shielded her shaking knees from the monster’s eye as he led her towards the high table. His chair was far from the king, between two fælords. Only one greeted him; the other had his elbow leant on the arm of his chair, his face hidden by his hand. The edge of a whore’s skirt peeked out from beneath the table, trapped under the leg of his seat.
It was almost a relief when his hand on her shoulder pushed her down, guiding her beneath the table. She hadn't known what to do next. Gwen slid to the very back. There was just enough space to kneel.
Two other women in the same position. The girl to her right had her eyes closed, her head resting on the thigh of the fælord who’d greeted her captor. Her lips parted, and her breath the even puffs of sleep. To Gwen’s left was an entirely different story.
The woman's shallow whines were trapped in her chest. Her lips stretched wide. A fælord’s fist in the back of her hair as she swallowed his—
Gwen’s gaze snapped in front of her as the fæ that had caught her settled into his seat. His legs spread wide, stretching the black leather of his breeches. His hand dropped between them, reaching. It took all of her will to move forward, to not cower at the very back, against the board that protected the high fæ's dignity from the view of their knights.
He caught her shoulder as soon as she was within reach, and Gwen settled between the enemy’s legs.
“You’ve caught a shy one.” The voice came from the right.
The fælord the girl was sleeping on. She shifted when he spoke, nestling against his thigh.
“An act, I’m sure,” her captor said. “One it will drop quickly if it knows what’s good for it.”
The other fælord sighed. “Cyr, be gentle with the poor girl—it’s not one of your prisoners.”
Gwen froze as the table runner lifted, and she looked up at those same virulent eyes. Set in an almost perfect face. Thick lips and a sharp nose, a jawline less strong than his high cheekbones. The only imperfection was the scar that cut through his dark brow, trailing to his cheek. Any deeper and he’d have lost one of the dazzling green eyes that were staring down at her. Her heart stuttered as her mind caught up. There were so many names for Tristrian’s torturer. The bastard who’d maimed a thousand mortal men. The dreaded Lord of Whispers.
He was examining her just as closely, eyes narrowed and his lips just barely pursed. Gwen watched his brow rise. Another head joined his, craning to peer down at her. She dropped her gaze. Twice she’d looked at his face. It was grounds for him to cut out her eyes.
“It looks half-starved,” the other fælord muttered. “Things must be getting desperate out there for it to be so thin in summer.”
The runner dropped back in front of her face. She was still blinking a moment later when his hand appeared under the table in front of her, a roughly torn piece of bread pinched between his thumb and finger. His skin was a little paler than hers, with a sheen to it that caught the light. Clean fingernails. No dirt trapped beneath the edge from daily toil. The bread was an offering. Gwen's fingers brushed his before he jerked his hand back. Was he taunting her? Her hand dropped back to her side.
His hand returned, knuckle brushing across her cheek before he found her lips. The fæ rested the bread against her closed mouth. It was still warm, fresh from the oven.
Her lips parted, and the fæ slipped the bite into her mouth, withdrawing his fingers almost immediately. So soft! No sawdust or stones to pad out the flour. No risk of losing a tooth when she bit down. Gwen closed her eyes, and for the barest moment, as a thumb brushed across her lip, she was in ecstasy.
“Where were you?”
The fælord’s legs tightened around her shoulders.
“Talking with the newest arrest,” Lord Cyr said.
“Talking or—”
“Talking, Makdara,” he repeated. “The knives will come out tomorrow, after he’s had time to sweat.”
Her heart started beating again as swiftly as it had frozen, relief painful in its intensity. Anselm hadn’t been tortured yet. There was still a chance she could get her older brother out in one piece.
Another morsel appeared in front of her—a berry this time. Gwen took the time to squint at it, identifying it as a blackberry before she opened her mouth. She wouldn’t risk eating a fæfruit. His thumb came with the berry, pressing down. The tart flavour burst across her tongue. His fingers curled to grip the underside of her jaw so she couldn't pull back. The pad of his thumb brushed the inside of her teeth. Running around both sides, as though he were counting. The sensation was strange, especially when he started moving his thumb in and out, spreading more of the squashed berry across her tongue. Spit pooled in her throat, and Gwen swallowed, the motion tightening her lips around his thumb like she meant to suck it.
“Rebel scum,” Lord Cyr said.
“Funny.” Lord Makdara didn’t laugh. “That’s almost the same word they use in their tongue when they speak of us.”
His thumb slipped past her lips. Gwen watched the trail of her spit that stretched between them as he pulled away. To her left, the girl whimpered, her hands scrambling against the ground. The fæ gripped the back of her head, holding her in place, lodged far enough down her throat that she was turning red. His hips bucked as the beast let out a growl.
The fælord held the woman there a few moments longer before he pulled her head back. She was still choking, her nose flaring wide and her throat working as she tried to swallow. The noise rang in Gwen’s ears. Her stomach twisted with the heaviness of dread.
“Took you long enough,” Lord Makdara said.
“You think it’s easy when I have you two nattering next to me.” His laugh was unpleasant.
The fælord pulled his seat back, yanking the woman out from under the table by her scalp. She didn’t come back, and the seat pulled in; only the fælord's knees remained. Gwen almost wished she were her, then she’d have the chance to escape.
“How long do you think?” Lord Makdara asked. “Until the prince gets bored?”
She shivered, and the legs trapping her tensed. His hand came back, reaching. Gwen flinched before his hand covered her scalp, fingers gentle as he brushed through her hair. She felt the edge of his fingernails just behind her ear. A pleasant scratch.
“Another hour at least.” The fælord to her left said, his hands moving beneath the table to lace himself up.
Above her head, she heard the tinkling of wine being poured. The hand on her head shifted, fingers laced through her hair. A cup appeared before her face. She jerked her head back, but the hand caught her, grip tightening.
“You’re giving it wine now?” She didn’t know who’d spoken; when they started laughing, they sounded the same. “What next, let it sleep in your bed?”
“It looked hungry,” Lord Cyr said. “I thought I should feed it something, so it doesn’t bite.”
Gwen turned, her hair pulling painfully tight as she pressed her cheek against his thigh, rubbing her head from side to side. She dared to curl her hands around his calf, squeezing. If he fed her fæ wine, then she was done. It could take her hours to come back to herself. Hours Anselm didn’t have.
He relented, pulling the cup away. It thumped against the wood above her head. His touch against her raw scalp was gentle again, stroking to soothe the burn his grip had caused when he stopped her pulling away. The relief was momentary, as she caught the movement of his other hand at his crotch, pulling at the laces there.
“If it’s another hour, I’m going to need to take the edge off,” Lord Cyr said. “I’m wound up.”
“Wound up?” The fælord to his left chuckled. “Makes a change.”
He’d finished with his breaches now, and Gwen’s gaze caught on the thing in front of her.
“Is the Lady of the Morning Mist not taking care of you?” Makdara asked.
“She’s sulking again.” All three of them scoffed.
“What about the latest arrests?” The other fælord asked. “Any pretty rebels?”
“Pretty rebels, Cath?” Cyr’s tone dripped with disgust. “I’d rather fuck a pig. It’d be cleaner.”
Gwen didn’t know if his—endowment—was normal. She had only the memory of his companions to compare it to, and she had deliberately not looked too close. She didn’t know if all men were so long and thick. The only thing she was remotely sure of was what he wanted her to do with it. She’d just seen a demonstration firsthand. As horrific as it had been to witness, she suddenly wished she’d paid more attention.
She knew it had been too long just staring at him, but Gwen’s limbs wouldn’t move. It had been a mistake to impersonate a whore. But how else was she supposed to get into the castle? She couldn’t leave Anselm to be tortured by the monster in front of her. The beast whose cock was in her face.
He tugged her head towards his crotch, impatient. Gwen shifted forward, palms to the ground. Her tongue darted out, brushing the tip, and he twitched in front of her nose. He tasted strange, a soft musk, and a little salt. She brushed the side with her tongue. He twitched again, swelling more. Gwen regretted the lick. She didn’t want him to get any bigger. The fæ made a noise, a short huff.
“Stop playing coy.” He spoke in the common tongue, every syllable perfectly punctuated and only the softest lilt that marked him as fæ. “Do the work your master was paid for.”
He tugged at the back of her scalp; her lips parted as he pushed himself inside her mouth. Her tongue bucked, pressing upwards as he yanked her closer. His cock touched the back of her throat, deep enough to cut off her air, and Gwen’s nails scraped against the cold flagstones.
She heard the sigh that left him as he slumped in his seat. He let go of her hair, his hand disappearing above the table. Gwen pulled back barely enough to breathe. Her lips pursed around him. She adjusted her tongue as she pulled in air through her nose. It wasn’t so bad now that he was in there. She just had to get through it, then he’d yank her out from under the table. Dismiss her, and she could sneak out. Rescue her brother. All she had to do was bring the Lord of Whispers to completion. Sweet mercy preserve her.
Gwen’s cheeks hollowed as she sucked on him. Her tongue found the rough bump of a vein, teasing. His knees clenched. She let the tip of him push deeper, pressing for a second against the barrier of her throat before she pulled back. It wasn’t long until the spit in her throat escaped her mouth, dripping down her chin. Gwen wiped it off, wrapping a wet hand around the meat of him. He let out the faintest gasp, as if he’d caught and trapped a groan in his chest.
“Is it any good?” Lord Cath asked.
“Enthusiastic.” Lord Cyr’s voice was tighter than it had been, like he was in pain. She tried sucking harder to see if it would help. The edge of her tooth scraped him, and he hissed. “Sloppy enough you’d think it’d never done it before.”
Lord Makdara laughed. “Trust you to find the virgin whore.”
Gwen’s hand tightened around his cock as her whole body tensed up.
“Dara,” Lord Cath said. “There are no virgins left in Stormharth. The prince had them all.”
Gwen tried to force herself to do what she’d been doing, but she couldn’t. She was surrounded by monsters, with a fæ’s cock in her mouth, and he didn’t even think she was doing it well. It was the rawest humiliation she’d ever known. Her eyes snapped closed as the first tear escaped. Burning her cheek. If she wept, she wouldn’t be able to breathe, but the tears wouldn’t stop. Words rang in her ears, distant and strange, and she knew it was bad. She was panicking, and she couldn’t stop.
Fingertips touched her cheek, almost gentle as they caught her tears. His hand stayed there long enough to feel the shudder of the sob that ripped through her. For it to vibrate, the length of the cock trapped in her mouth.
The fæ tugged at her hair, pulling her back. His cock slipped out of her mouth as his other hand curled over hers, where she was still gripping his length. He moved their palms together, gathering the spit she’d smeared over his length. He pulsed in her hand, twitching and hot against her palm. The first spurt caught her by surprise, a rope of pale, thick liquid that splattered her cheek. She snapped her eyes closed again, her free arm wrapping around her middle, protecting her vulnerable stomach. Her other wrist went limp as he kept rubbing himself with her trapped hand.
The second spurt hit the corner of her mouth, a line down her chin and neck. His grip on her hair tugged her closer. Another hit splattered her forehead and closed eyelid. His laughter sounded distant. Her hand was still trapped beneath his as his cock brushed her unsullied cheek. He wiped off the last of his spend on her skin.
Wood screeched as his chair shifted back, and she was sure he’d cast her aside now. Lord Cyr tugged her up by her limp wrist. His other hand dropped from her hair to loop his arm around her waist. Gwen stumbled before she had the chance to stand, landing in his lap, her hand catching against his chest.
Lord Cath’s deep belly laughter rang in her ears. “You covered it.”
Gwen couldn’t open her eyes. His spend clung to her. She could smell the salt of it. It would burn. His thumb crossed her cheek, gathering the sticky trails. He pressed the digit to her lips, prodding like he had with the bread and the berry.
“Open.”
She didn’t know what language he spoke. Just that she really didn’t want to, but a whore would do it. Gwen opened her mouth, and his thumb slipped inside—the taste of him salty and bitter. Foul in every way.
“It must be starving,” Lord Makdara said. He almost sounded sympathetic. “Can you feel its bones?”
The pity made her closed eyes burn. Lord Cyr gripped her torso just under her breast, tracing her ribs through her stolen dress.
“It’s got some meat on it,” Lord Cath said. “A few places I could sink my teeth into.”
The sob caught in her throat, a broken, painful sound. Cloth brushed her face, wiping away the last of his spend. Gone save for the tacky residue it left behind, and Gwen was still shaking. Hot breath touched her ear.
“Look at me.” In the common tongue again.
She blinked, tears spilling onto her cheeks as she saw a green too bright to belong to a man.
“It has pretty eyes.” Lord Cyr inspected her. “For a pig.”
His mouth twitched. His smile was soft at first before his lips pulled back to show his teeth. Gwen’s heart beat so fast she feared it might break. He snapped his jaws together. Close enough to the tip of her nose that she felt the breeze.
“You’re lost, little pig—run home before one of the wolves devours you.”
He let go of her, but Gwen couldn’t move; her legs wouldn’t work. Lord Cyr’s brow lifted, and her body came to life. Anselm, save her brother. It wouldn’t be hard to break the lock on his cell. She'd forged a thousand of them, put them together and taken them apart more times than she could count.
Rescue him from the dungeons. There was a gap in one of the grills of the castle walls that Daw’s sons used to use years ago to steal fæfruit from the Prince’s orchard. They’d both hung for it, but no one ever fixed the grate.
Her knee buckled, and Gwen almost fell. If it weren’t for the Lord Cyr’s hand at her hip, she’d have gone face-first into the pitcher of fæwine. He didn’t let go, holding her there, his hand drifting slowly to grip her—
“You’re right, Cath,” he said.
He let her go with a slap to her rear hard enough her teeth clacked together, catching the tip of her tongue. She tasted blood.
“It does have some meat on it.”
Gwen fled.
Chapter Text
The open cell door had been a puzzle. An infuriating one, but a puzzle nonetheless. The lock wasn’t broken; that would have been far too obvious. Simply undone. Anselm, son of Quinn, gone. Cyr’s palm pressed to the bark of the tree, his eyes on the creature before him. He’d meant to move before now, to grab it and take his knife to it, but well—
The woman stood at the edge of the riverbank, it’s hand tugging at the skirt of it’s dress. No longer the revealing garb of a whore. No, its clothing was so much poorer than even that. Homespun wool and boots veined with a thousand cracks. He’d come upon it when it was removing its shoes, rolling down its socks to reveal pink little toes. With the lift of its dress, he discovered the rest of it. Long thin legs, hairy like all its kind, but none so thick as the matte covering its mound. Coarse strands darker than its pale hair. A few freckles on its skin. Its belly had a slight softness, framed by the sharp bones of its hips. Ribs visible enough to show it ate little meat, but its breasts were lovely, small and pert. Round enough to squeeze. Relaxed pink nipples.
It didn’t know it had cause to fear as it dipped its toes in the river, letting out a soft gasp at the chill of the water that ran down from the mountain springs. It had a basket of laundry under one arm. The woman stepped deeper, crossing the rocky stream till the water reached mid-thigh. It carried a bucket and a basket, placing both on a rock in the middle of the river.
He ought to seize it now. Chain its hands and drag it back to the dungeons beneath the keep—
The speckled light that made it through the canopy caught the creature’s side. For the briefest moment, it glowed, a wild thing he’d stumbled on rather than a rebel he’d hunted down. All thought of movement fled; he could only watch. Bewitched as surely as if it were the fælady and he no longer a fælord, but a simple man, powerless to fight enchantment. There was a splash as it dunked itself, water droplets flying as it disappeared beneath the river.
The woman reappeared a moment later, wet hair slicked back behind its ears and flesh reddened from the cold. Water dripped from it in rivulets. Its breast looked even firmer, nipples shrunk at their centre. It’s where his gaze fixed. He hardly noticed when it reached into the bucket on the rock. A lather of soap glistened on its bare skin as the woman scrubbed its body clean of dirt. The movement of its hands hypnotised him. Cyr didn’t know whether to move, to interrupt and end the spectacle. Or stay forever staring at glistening skin bathed in dappled sunlight. To wait till the woman was done, then force it down in the grass. Fuck the creature in the dirt by the riverbank. His cock ached, and his hand burned to grab, to touch and hold and taste.
The creature stilled, the soap still in its hand. Its gaze lingered on its shoulder, and even from his spot, shielded from its sight by the trees of the Prince's Forest, he could see the mark. The print of a palm against pale skin. His hand. Cyr hadn't thought he'd gripped it so hard. He tried not to be too rough with the whores.
The woman sobbed. Sudden and violent as its hand covered its mouth. The sound rang through the forest, louder even than the rush of the river, the chorus of the birds. A broken, awful cry as its knees buckled, palms catching on the rock, head bowed and shoulders shaking. A scared girl who’d run afoul of the fæ.
Gwendolen, daughter of Quinn, lived with its uncle. Parents dead of the plague that had struck the humans of Stormharth fifteen years past. Dutiful enough to help Gamel, son of Leofwin, at the forge. Its brother had been caught drunk with known rebels only two nights past. The man had protested innocence, but in the morning the cell had been empty.
The weeping girl before him had snuck into the castle. Given him the worst cocksucking of his life. Then, most certainly, picked its brother’s lock. There was no sign of the man, but the woman had stayed. Snuck back to its home, foolish enough to think its presence would be forgotten. Or perhaps just too scared to run.
Cyr pulled a piece of lichen from the back of the tree hiding him, rubbing the moss between thumb and finger as he considered his retaliation. The sounds of its sobbing bothered him. He’d learned centuries ago to think of the tears of humans as the whines of animals. Pigs. Dangerous beasts that needed putting down before they turned on their masters. But the creature before him was no rebel. A rebel would not have been fool enough to return home. The brother had been no true threat either. Anselm, son of Quinn, would have been hanged to make an example of sympathisers, but truly, the man’s greatest crime had been awful luck.
It shouldn’t matter. He should drag the little beast back, torture it until its mind broke, and then hang its body in the town square in its brothers stead. If his cock kept aching like it was, he could even fuck the woman a few times first, before its body was too twisted by the rack. He hadn’t had a rebel before; the sight of them usually repulsed him. He’d tortured so many of them to protect the Prince's lands, it was hard to consider them as anything but blood and inedible meat. The mouth of a human whore was good enough to serve a need, but he’d never had more than that. Intimacy he reserved for fæladies; they were the epitome of perfection. Beauty given form. For all the similarities between their peoples, humans were not the mortal mirror of the fæ; they were their palest shadow.
The woman brushed it’s palm across cheeks reddened from tears. It's breath laboured as it wiped away the trace of misery. A lance of sunlight caught its face, and it squinted, shading its eyes. Cyr intended to move then, to take the beast and have done with it. He didn’t. He watched as it rubbed soap into its hair. Stayed hidden as it reached for the laundry on the rock. Its skin drying in the summer heat. It dunked the clothing in the water, laying it out to scrub the fabric with the same soap it used for its skin and hair. If he strayed close enough, he’d smell hyacinth. The scent had lingered on his clothing the night before.
He could break the spell any moment, but as he watched, his thoughts drifted further from the cells beneath the keep. His mind lingered on the idea of catching the creature on the riverbank. Placing his cloak around it before he laid the woman down. Imagined the feeling of its chill skin against his, cold from the water, when he knew its cunt would be so warm around his cock. In his mind, the creature didn’t fight him. It came apart beneath him as he emptied himself inside its cunny.
The last splash of its feet as the woman pulled itself from the water drew him from his trance. Pulled its shift back on over sun-dried skin. Wet laundry in the basket it carried in one hand, and its boots and soap bucket in the other. It walked barefoot along the riverbank. Feet headed towards its home. He could follow. Full hands made easy prey. There were so many things he imagined doing to the human as Cyr watched it leave.
Yet he couldn’t seem to move.
Notes:
I enjoy the dynamic in this story so much more than I should.
What do you think of the first two taster chapters?
Do you want to read more about Gwen and Cyr?
Chapter Text
Gwen dropped the bundle of logs into the wood barrel. The forge was already lit. Gamel’s hammer pounded as though he were trying to break the metal rather than shape it. When she was a child, she’d loved watching him work. She’d thought he was the strongest man alive. But that had been then. Now he looked so much older, how her father would have looked if he’d survived the plague.
The design was spread across the table in the forge's corner. A detailed diagram covered in scrawled notes that made no sense to her, no matter how hard she squinted. Lord Firan always forgot she could not read.
“More notes?” Gwen asked.
Gamel’s hammer blows ceased. He grabbed the spoke with two tongs, dropping it into the bucket. A hissing cloud of steam was released when the heated metal met cold water. She blew into her cold hands, frozen from the morning she’d spent gathering wood in the barren forest.
“Lord Firan’s boy dropped it off,” he said. “And a bag of marks.” He reached into the pocket of his apron, throwing the leather purse at her. Gwen snapped it out of the air. “If you have questions, ask his Lordship, and get some flour whilst you’re gone.” Gamel glanced up then, eyes tired. “Any mercy with the traps?”
Had she come back with meat?
“They were empty.”
His face didn’t change, but she could see the disappointment in his eyes. Gwen didn’t know how Anselm had always returned with a rabbit or a pheasant. Something to ease the knives of pain in their bellies. She checked the same traps daily, and as the long months of winter dragged on, she’d caught less and less. In the last week, there’d been nothing. The little of the forest that was common land was empty. They’d finished yesterday’s bread for breakfast. There would be no lunch.
“I’ll bring back dinner.” Whatever she could beg or barter.
The castle gate was open during the day, the main square bustling with its mix of fæ and men, as she slipped round the back of Lord Firan’s forge. He preferred her not to enter through the armoury. The staircase up to his workshop was narrow and curling, but once there, the turret was airy. Enough glass that even in winter, the sun warmed the room. The fæ that apprenticed under him paid Gwen no mind. They were busy, hammers clanging as they armed Prince Tristrian’s knights. Forged the blades meant to split rebel skulls and the armour to blunt the enemies’ blades.
The metalsmiths were used to her slipping into the back. She came often enough that the craftsmen no longer marked her passage. Gwen knocked at the door of Lord Firan’s private workroom, entering at his call. He was standing by the window, poring over a set of designs. Long auburn hair, braided at the sides to keep off his face. Eyes as sharp as his brow. Each feature was as pointed and perfect as the rest.
“Lord Firan.” Gwen dipped her head. “I had some questions.”
The fælord glanced up, his stern expression breaking into a smile. Ageless, like they all were. His eyes were as bright as liquid metal, and as like to burn her.
“Gwen.” He beckoned for her to join him. “Did you bring the designs?”
She slipped the hardened leather messenger tube from her shoulder, laying the curling papers flat over his desk. In truth, she’d barely looked at the new design. They’d been going over the same diagram for weeks now. He kept on challenging her on the weight of the bearings, accounting for every grain of the dangerous and precious metal needed to forge the piece. She pointed to his scrawled note, her finger touching just below his indecipherable writing.
“What did you mean by this?”
Even if she could read, Gwen wasn’t sure she’d have been able to understand his hand. She found it faster to question him on the notes than to explain once again that she wasn’t allowed to learn to read, and yes, it was a shame, but that was the Prince’s law.
“The measurements are off; still a few grains too heavy,” he said. “You disagree?”
Gwen squinted. She'd given up arguing with him about it. If he wouldn’t allow her three more grains of iron, then she’d make do. It would be his problem when whoever commissioned him for the lock was unsatisfied. Her finger moved to the other scrawled sentence at the edge of the paper. So many curling words, she thought he might have been trying to write a book.
“And what was your issue with this?” she asked.
Lord Firan leant back, brow raised. “Is it not quite clear?”
She tried to read the glint in his eye, mocking or amusement. Her gaze returned to the page. What could be so obviously wrong with it that she hadn’t noticed? They’d been over the same diagram until she was sick of the sight of it. Gwen’s hands itched to forge the thing and be done. Then he’d pay her, and she’d finally be able to afford more than the cheapest flour to feed herself and Gamel.
“Gwen.” He sounded reproachful, lips pursed, and the same glimmer in his gaze as he stared at the side of her face. “I meant that the design for the mechanism was sound and to go ahead and make it, that one of my boys would drop round the ores for you to smelt in the morning.”
Her cheeks stung. Why couldn’t the boy who’d dropped the design off have given Gamel that message? Why did he have to write it every time? So she ended up back in his forge, constantly forced to beg him to explain the simplest things.
“I keep forgetting you can’t read.” His smile turned forlorn. “Leofwin could. It seems a shame for your line to lose the skill.” His hand closed over her shoulder, giving a squeeze the fælord might have meant as comfort. “Though he wasn’t quite so artful in his designs. You have a sly mind, Gwen.”
She forced herself not to pull away. Gamel would kill her if she offended their patron lord. Her family had been selling their work to him for centuries.
“Thank you, Lord Firan.” The words burned like heated coals.
His hand lingered. It wasn’t the first time he’d touched her. The designs he sent her would be covered in notes, and whenever she inevitably had to come and check their meaning, he’d stand at her shoulder. The smallest gap between her back and his chest as he leant over her to point out a flaw or a change that needed to be made.
“Perhaps I might teach you?” The fæ’s thumb spread across the blade of her shoulder, testing the sharpness of her bones. “That way, you might teach your sons, too, when you bear them. So that we need not clarify every note I give them?” The words were too close to her ear. “Not that I mind explaining things to you, Gwen.” His grip tightened. “There are so many things I would like to teach you.”
The offer filled the air between them. To be allowed knowledge no human was granted, to understand the secrets of the fæ. Gwen had learnt their tongue at her mother’s knee. She didn’t think reading it would be so difficult, and then she wouldn’t be forced to beg Lord Firan to explain. Would no longer need to come here and endure his touches as he got bolder with every visit.
“The prince banned the teaching of letters to humans forty summers past, Lord Firan.” She would not risk being named a rebel, nor endure the time alone with him. “I am forbidden from learning.”
His fingers spread across the designs. He held them against the surface.
“A most inconvenient ruling,” he whispered. Even in private, it was not wise to speak against the Prince. “How are you at keeping secrets, Gwen?”
Her gaze fixed on the scroll, unblinking. His touch was a sharper knife in her stomach than hunger, but she couldn’t risk offending him by asking him to step back. Anselm used to deal with their patron. He hadn’t had quite so many notes to give when it was her brother he’d had to explain them to. Anselm had never complained to her of the fælord standing too close. Of his cornering him against his desk.
“I’m not a rebel, Lord Firan,” she said. “I have no desire to break the Prince’s laws—”
Gwen was certain that Lord Firan had never sniffed Anselm’s hair. The soft sound of his inhale stayed her tongue more soundly than any word he might have spoken.
“If you are determined to remain ignorant,” he said. “Perhaps I ought to start charging you for your questions.”
What little pride she had recoiled. To save Anselm had been one thing, but she would not let another fæ use her body only to humiliate her. Her pride would not endure it a second time. Gwen leant forward to roll the papers. He let go of her shoulder, but the fælord didn’t move away. He remained close enough to crowd her. She slipped the rolled-up pages back into the leather messenger tube. Gwen reached into the purse she’d tied to her belt. Her fingers curled around the smallest mark within. She pulled it loose, dropping it on the design he’d been reviewing when she arrived.
“For your answers, Lord Firan,” she said. “I would call a quarter mark a fair price for two questions.”
It hurt to part with. Gamel would be furious with her. But it was worth it for the step Lord Firan took back, for the shock that crossed his face. She knew what he wanted from her. He could not take it. There were few of Prince Tristrian’s laws that protected humans, but one edict had stood for six hundred years. If a fælord wanted a girl’s maidenhead, they must come to an agreement with her family for it. It was the thinnest shield, but Gwen had clung to it since she reached maturity.
For as long as she could delay the inevitable, she would. Silence lingered, deep enough she could hear the clang of the smiths in the workroom beyond. His silver eyes caught the light, glinting as their gazes held. Thoughts turning in his ancient mind. He knew she didn’t want him. Never once had she encouraged his touch; Gwen had never even smiled at him in case he took it for interest. Her distance had kept him at bay. Lord Firan did not want to force her, but she was not sure how long his patience would last, nor how much more hunger she could endure. This might well be the last time she had the strength to deny him. Before the desperation of starvation brought her to her knees.
“How is your uncle, Gwendolen?” Lord Firan finally asked.
Her chest tightened. “He is well, Lord Firan.”
“Perhaps you might send him over with the finished piece,” the fælord said. “I think he and I have a matter to discuss.”
The question was there on the edge of her tongue. To ask what he intended to offer. It was the law; whether the maiden was willing, the family must consent. Gwen had missed Anselm in the six months he’d been gone, but not once so fiercely as she did in that moment. He wouldn’t have agreed; her older brother would have refused the marks, even if it had been the Prince himself asking. Gamel was more practical. He’d tell her to get on with it. That life was hard, and her dignity meant nothing when they were starving.
“Of course, Lord Firan.”
The human was warm. Not that different from fair Ciel, Lady of the Morning Mist. His hand wound in its hair. The noises of their coupling, loud as his thighs slapped against the woman’s rear. The settee cushions were soft beneath his knee. He ought to have taken it on the floor, but it would have been as uncomfortable for him as for the whore to fuck it on the flagstones.
“Ouch,” it gasped. “Oh, Lord Cyr, please!”
“Silence!” Cyr didn’t want to hear its voice.
Its terrible attempt at his tongue was grating. From behind, he could almost convince himself it was a different woman. One he’d visited too often during the long months between summer and winter’s depths. He’d caught it bathing a few times more before the weather grew too cold. Had found himself kneeling on the forest floor as he watched it. Had memorised the shape of it so that even now he could see it in his mind. When the weather grew too cold, he’d watched it walk the barren woods, gathering kindling for the forge. Seen it check empty traps, and debated leaving a gift. A pheasant, perhaps, to fill its stomach. But then he’d have had to devote the time to hunting, and he’d already wasted too many hours just watching.
The creature’s hair was a shade similar enough to trick his eye. Focusing only on the feeling of his cock. The first few whores he’d had, he’d taken their cunnys. The woman’s back hole was less moist, but tighter.
It didn’t take him long. A few more thrusts and he felt the tingle in his knees. His stomach clenched as his member tightened. Cyr’s hand caught the back of the settee, letting out a grunt as the sensation ripped through him, almost painful. Like ringing blood from a stone. He gritted his teeth as he released. The whore’s face was screwed up, its teeth digging into its lip hard enough to draw blood. But its gaze was across from them. Fixed on the bars of the cage. Every whore he'd brought to his chambers had worn the same look on their face when they'd seen it. Raw terror. He held its scalp for a few moments longer, catching his breath, before he released it, stepping back off the settee.
Cyr wiped his member on the back of its dress before he tucked himself away. “Get out.”
It leapt at the dismissal, pushing its skirts down. The whore stumbled, knee catching against the edge of the table and nearly spilling the wine he'd had with his lunch, before it righted itself.
It made it to the door of his chambers, stumbled again out into the corridor beyond. He turned his attention to the laces of his breeches. Not bothering to glance up when the door reopened.
“You need to be gentler when you take them from the back.” The prince didn't sound pleased.
Cyr pulled the knot tight before he adjusted himself. “Triss?”
The Prince hadn't made it far into the room; his head was turned, staring at the same place the whore had been. “Cyr, what happened to your reading nook?”
The bars turned the shallow alcove he’d once filled with bookcases and an obscenely comfortable chair into a cage. There would be enough space there for a bed and to keep the chair, once he’d moved all the rest of the furniture out. His focus had been on the bars first, and getting the lock on the door exact. He was still waiting for the delivery from Firan.
“I decided I needed to protect something precious,” Cyr said.
Tristrian frowned. “Not one of the whores, please!”
Cyr scoffed. “I said something precious.” He turned to look at the prince. “To what pleasure do I owe your visit?”
Tristrian had reached his table. He picked the cup of wine resting there, taking a gulp before he spoke.
“You’ve been skulking.” He smacked his lips. “I have barely seen you in moons.”
The prince disliked it when he ignored him. A lifetime together, and for all the years they’d shared, he’d never stopped being the scared little boy he’d been when his father threw Cyr at his feet and told him he was allowed a friend. But only one.
“I have little to tell you,” he said. “Your subjects seem to be done with open rebellion for now.”
“Not for long, I’m certain.” Tristrian smiled, aware and resigned to the inevitability of it all. “I’m sure they’ll rise up within the next decade. There are too many of them to feed again.”
Cyr sat on the arm of his settee, arms folded as he waited for the Prince to make his intentions clear. “Another plague?”
Tristrian's eyes drifted over the bars of the cage. He sighed, handing the wine chalice to Cyr. He took a sip of his own. The fine bubbles of the sweet wine fizzed on his tongue. He rarely drank at lunch, but he was supposed to be having a day of rest.
“It’s too soon since the last.” The prince's lips twitched. “Besides, the old aren’t the problem. We have a surplus of orphans.”
Cyr sighed. “And angry young men are prone to rebellion.” He brushed his chin with his knuckles as he considered the shape of the next few years. Blood, torment and misery. “Why bother with it all?”
To keep sentient beasts came with constant complications. Every generation was fresh soil for dissent.
“They’re difficult, aren’t they, humans?” Tristrian agreed. “As soon as you remember their name, they’re practically dead.”
It was a puzzle, certainly, one that had kept him busy since the rift formed the deadlands, and the fælords seized their fiefdoms.
“Why don’t we end this, Tristrian?” Cyr asked. Surely they could call it a failure by now. “It’s not working.”
Kill them all and be done with it. It would be a mercy.
“Why don’t we?” Tristrian’s lips twitched as he repeated it back. “Why don’t we feast on their flesh like our distant cousins in the Tuend?”
“Cousins?” Cyr shook his head at the idea. “The fæ of the Tuend would eat us if they were fast enough to catch us.”
Ancient monsters that most lords and ladies shuddered even to name.
“Or hunt them for sport like Prince Lorián to the west?” He laughed, and even for the prince it was mirthless. “Why don’t we just kill them all?”
Cyr waited as he smiled. “Did you have an answer, or are we playing riddles again?”
“I’ve never found their meat particularly sweet, for one,” Tristrian said. He took a seat, legs spread wide as he held out a hand for the chalice. Cyr passed it to him, and the Prince gripped the rim, gaze on the red liquid within. “And I’ve always found their women appealing.” He took a longer gulp like he were steeling himself. “Be gentler with the whores.”
The Prince was an unabashed tyrant, and he was telling Cyr off. He had to fight not to roll his eyes.
“Are you chastising me for being rough with your toys?” It was rich, but then the Prince had always been a hypocrite. “You bid me be their nightmare.”
He hadn’t failed in his charge. Their gazes caught, green eyes meeting glowing gold. His long, fair hair framing the perfect face of a prince of their people. As beautiful as he was cruel.
“Because you play the part so well.” Tristrian’s smile was mirthless. “Their lives might be brief, but they’re not beasts.” His brow rose. “Be nicer to the whores, or you’re not allowed to use them.”
The strangest urge gripped him to pout or stamp his feet. It was hardly fair.
“I’m no rougher with them than Cath.”
“Lord Cathel isn’t known as the bastard who maimed a thousand men,” Tristrian said. “They expect the Lords to be rough, but they fear you.” He folded his arms, face stern as the chalice dangled from his hand. Cyr couldn’t help but wonder which whore had cried in his pointed ear. The prince was incapable of resisting a pretty face. “I want my subject to laugh, not weep.”
“And when they rebel because they’re starving?” Cyr asked, unable to stop himself from baiting the man.
Tristrian’s fingers tapped against the top of the chalice. “Then I want their rotting carcasses hung from the castle walls to feed the carrion.”
A charming smile and a fair face that hid a heart far crueller than Cyr’s had ever been. Sometimes he wondered what the humans saw when they looked at them. Pitiless, beautiful gods.
“Your father would be proud.” Cyr didn’t know why his smirk tasted bitter. “What a monster you are—the Laughing Prince.”
“He always said all the whippings he gave you strengthened you.” Tristrian’s smile turned sweet. “He’d be prouder of you, most certainly. ”
“Undoubtedly,” Cyr said. “I wasn’t the one who stuck an iron blade through his heart.”
The pounding of a fist on the door to his chambers snapped both their heads around. So much for a day of rest.
“Enter,” Cyr called.
The door opened, and a knight stepped in, his eyes on the flagstones.
“There’s been a commotion in the market, Lord Cyr,” Gryff said, a flush crossing his cheeks as though he knew how ill-received the news would be. “You’re needed, sir.”
Cyr sighed. “Of course I am.”
He’d been looking forward to the rest of his afternoon. Another walk in the forest to see if he could spy a particular woman. He hadn’t intended to approach it, just to watch.
It was not to be.
His afternoon would be an interrogation instead. Blood and torment.
Notes:
I'm enjoying this story too much to wait long between posting, let me know what you think of chapter 3.
Chapter Text
It was early afternoon, but the sun had failed in its charge of warming the world. The only heat spread from the fresh loaf clutched to her chest. Gwen allowed herself the sweet pleasure of the smallest bite, a nibble at the very corner. It was burnt, but burnt bread wouldn’t hurt her. The sack of flour was heavy in her other hand, enough for a week, if she stretched it. The honey she'd bought with the last of the marks would sweeten their meals.
She stepped down from the baker’s entrance, crust crunching between her teeth, loud enough she almost missed the hammer of heavy boots against the cobbles. Gwen stepped back a second too late as a dead man running slammed into her side, palms pressed to her shoulders as he threw her out of his way. She spun, boots sliding across the frozen stone. The sack of flour burst from her hands. Dusting both her cloak and the runners.
The warm bread slipped from her hands, rolling into the path of the Knights. Her heart wrenched as glass shattered. A thousand thoughts slammed through her mind—painful, desperate pleas that did not pass her lips. Bronze-tipped leather raced through the spilt flour. One crushed the small loaf she’d brought by pure accident. Stamping it into the ground.
There would be no dinner.
She’d have to gather what could be saved. A few days of plain bread and no honey to sweeten it. The last set of racing feet sent up white puffs of flour dust in the knight’s wake.
Gwen could not force herself to stand. Gamel was welcome to beat her for this; she deserved it. She should not have wasted even the quarter she’d thrown back at Lord Firan for the sake of her pride. Should have smiled at him and let the fæ touch her. That way, she could have gone back to him now, pleaded her case and begged his mercy. If she had flattered him, he might well have been kind to her. A tear slipped from her eye, burning against her cold cheek as she realised she'd have to anyway. The luxury of her pride had run out. But without it, she could not force herself to stand. Lord Firan would not be kind, not after she’d insulted him.
“Maiden?”
Gwen’s gaze fell on booted feet as they stopped before her. Hardened, polished black leather, not capped with bronze. Her eyes continued slowly upward until she met the gaze of a fælord. The scar was less noticeable than it had been in the summer. The winter had paled his skin to match the bright white line.
“Are you hurt?” The Lord of Whispers asked.
His brows were furrowed, lips tight; on a man, the expression might be called concern. Gwen did not trust that she could read the Lord's face. Her forearms shook as she pressed her palms against the wet cobbles, forcing herself to her seat.
“No, sir.” She dipped her head, her gaze at his feet where it belonged.
Lord Cyr’s hand appeared in front of her face. Black leather clad his skin. She envied him most fiercely that protection from the cold.
“Let me help you stand.” His palm held steady before her face.
It was never wise to owe a favour to a fæ, but it would be worse still to deny him. Gwen’s fingers curled over the back of his hand. Her throat tightened as he tugged her up, her head already light from the fall and the cold. She forced herself to believe him a stranger. It would do her no good to remember the awful day their paths had crossed. The past was dead, and she was not yet ready to perish with it.
His other hand caught on her shoulder, steadying her on the wet cobbles when the worn soles of her boots almost slipped again.
“That is much to lose.” His gaze was on the mess of ruined food. Perhaps the bread was salvageable. Only half squashed. The flour, she might rescue a fifth. “Will your family go hungry?”
His concern was suspicious in itself. The fæ were as likely to laugh at the misfortune of the humans under their rule as to help. There must be something he wanted from her, and to have something the Lord of Whispers wanted was the worst of luck.
“I’ll make smaller loaves.” She was not fool enough to meet his gaze again. “My uncle could stand to be a little less well-fed.”
Gamel was as starved as she; skin sagging from the fat he’d lost. But she could not say that. The fæ would not like to hear it. Better honey-dipped lies than face the punishment for speaking the truth.
“Perhaps.” She caught the edge of his smile from the corner of her eye. “But you’re all bones, girl. How old are you?”
“Twenty.” She debated whether she ought to smile at him.
Be sweet, as she should have been with Lord Firan, but then he might prefer her fear. Grow angry if he took levity for disrespect.
The Lord of Whispers did not converse with humans, not unless he was torturing them. Gwen thought it might well be the perfect end to a miserable existence. The thought was full of a melancholy she was not prone to. She’d always made the best, but there was nothing left to make it with.
“And your name?”
It was no secret. “Gwendolen, daughter of Quinn.”
“Gwendolen.” She flinched when the fæ’s finger touched the underside of her chin. “I don’t know Quinn.”
No apology came with the words, though it felt there ought to be one. Quinn had not lived so long. He had been little older than she was now when he and her mother passed.
“He is dead, Lord Cyr.” Gwen was as careful with her words as she could be, but she could not stop the shiver that prickled her skin.
The fæ’s brow rose, a dangerous interest in his eyes as he watched her lips. “Dead?”
“The plague took him and my mother both.” The thought no longer even hurt.
She had no misery to spare on strangers now long dead.
“It is a terrible thing,” Lord Cyr said. “To be so alone.”
Gwen hadn't been; she’d always had Anselm. Now her brother was gone, and the blame for that she could not even lay at the Lord of Whispers’ feet. He’d been fool enough to be seen. When he was first taken, she’d risked everything to save him. Now Anselm had been gone for months, and as dearly as she missed him, Gwen couldn't help the bitter sting of resentment in her chest. Whether he had a choice or not, he'd left her to the wolves.
“I have an uncle, Lord Cyr,” Gwen said. He was at least worth something, if only the thinnest shield. “He will worry if I'm gone too long.”
It was a lie she so wished were the truth. She trembled under the weight of his gaze. Gamel had never really cared. Anselm, at least, he’d liked, but not Gwen.
“You’re shivering.” He caught her wrist, frowning at her bare hand. “Where are your gloves, Gwendolen?” Spidery red lines covered her icy skin, the gaps between them bright white, flushed with cold. “Here.” He tugged at the cuffs of his leather gloves, swiftly pulling them off. “Take mine.”
Gwen yanked her hand free. A gift was a debt.
“I cannot,” she said.
Mercy spare her; she did not want to be indebted to the Lord of Whispers.
“You cannot?”
She hadn’t realised he’d been soft with her until it dropped from him. His countenance turned stern. She stumbled, feet slipping on the cobbles. Lord Cyr’s hand snapped out, gripping her upper arm as he held her in place.
“It would be unwise to deny me, Gwendolen?” The edge in his tone was sharper than a knight’s sword.
Gwen quaked, shivering from so much more than cold. He took advantage of the limpness of her limbs to tug his gloves over her fingers. Pausing first on her left wrist to knot the laces tight enough it wouldn’t slip off. With the second glove, Gwen felt as though she’d been restrained. Shackles of leather rather than bronze. It made no sense! The Lord of Whispers was not kind. It must be a dream; she would awaken in her bed, or perhaps by the burnt-down embers of the kitchen hearth. If she'd slept there for the warmth.
“Now.” His green eyes glowed. “Wait here for me a moment.”
Even if it were a dream, Gwen didn’t dare move. To disobey the Lord of Whisper’s command was grounds for a swift execution. He turned from her, the wooden door of the bakery shuddering under his grip as he stepped inside. The shop fell silent. Every human within praying to Mercy that he wasn’t there for them. His voice echoed back before the door closed; her mind could not catch the words.
She'd waited for what felt an eternity in the bakery line, but Lord Cyr was not gone long. He returned with two full sacks held in one fist. The breeze ruffled her hair, lifting the pale strands around her face. All thought fled her mind. What need did a fælord have of bread and flour?
“Where is your home, Gwendolen?” he asked.
“I do not live in the town, Lord Cyr.”
His brow rose, and still she did not wish to tell him more. He should not care.
“The mill or the forge?” He knew too much, and so very little, if he could not guess. “Answer me, Gwendolen.” She flinched at the annoyance in his tone, dropping her gaze again. “You do not want to give me cause to believe you a rebel.”
“The forge,” she said.
“And your uncle’s name?”
“Gamel, son of Leofwin.”
“I remember Leofwin,” Lord Cyr said, his tone softening from the sharp demand of interrogation to hold the faintest amusement. “He was a sweet boy.”
He knew her grandfather when he was a child. The immortal fæ were the only gods she'd ever known. They demanded their worship in the toil, sweat and misery of human hands.
“Look at me, Gwendolen.” She ought not to, but she could not deny his command. “I will see you to your door.”
Confusion waged war on her terror. He should not ask she meet his gaze. He should not speak to her. Yet be it delusion or dream, Gwen prayed only that it might be a gentle one. She’d take any escape over the prospect of returning to Lord Firan to beg his mercy. Even the Lord of Whispers.
He insisted on walking her, and Gwen was fond enough of living that she did not dissuade him. With every step down the long road from the village, her scalp prickled. He kept pace beside her, holding his heavy purchase with ease. When the silence grew uncomfortable, she thought it better to break it rather than wait in suspense. He hadn’t been so awful to her, and it was difficult to continue to be terrified when he had yet to give her true reason to be.
Her gaze dropped to the sacks he was carrying. “What did you buy?”
“Flour,” he said. “A loaf of fresh bread, some honey and jam. Dried meat and a little cheese—”
“Cheese?” Her heart caught in her throat.
She couldn’t have said the last time she’d had some. It was more marks than she could justify spending. Lord Cyr glanced at her, a soft curl to his lips.
“Would you like to try some?”
Gwen snapped her gaze away, but it was harder this time. She would like nothing more than the smallest piece of the mild, nutty cheese the baker made. Her stomach rumbled at just the thought of the simple pleasure.
“I could not take your meal, Lord Cyr?” He’d already lent her his gloves.
Anymore would be too much.
“My meal?” He stopped walking, and she knew better than to continue without him. “Even a fæ could not eat all this at once. It is a week’s food.” She disagreed. Gwen would have made all that last at least two weeks, if not more. “This is for you, Gwendolen. My errands interfered with yours. I would not have your family starve on my account.”
Whatever she ought to have said was stolen at the thought of the feast in his hands. Flour and fresh bread, honey and jam. Dried meat and, for the love of mercy, cheese. Gwen could have wept. If it were a dream, she hoped never to wake. Her eyes caught his, and the moisture in them stung. It had been a long time since she'd had cause to weep for joy.
The chill of the cold dirt crept through the soles of her boots. She should not be ungrateful. Gwen should fall to her knees and kiss the polished leather cladding his feet. Pray to him, rather than mercy for the stay of execution he’d delivered her. And yet—
“What is it you want, Lord Cyr?” Her hands were warm enough inside his leather gloves to sweat. “In return for your kindness?”
His smile wavered.
“Only to see you safely home,” he said. “Perhaps a conversation with your uncle.”
With only a few words, the dream made sense once again. For it was not a dream. He had seen her with fresh eyes today and decided he fancied her enough to buy her innocence. For all his kindness, her circumstances were no better than they had been before. The Lord of Whispers despised her kind. Referred to humans as pigs. Her gaze lingered on the dream before her, two sacks full to bursting with enough food to preserve both her and Gamel. Her entire being burned as she realised that she’d never taste a bite of it.
“Lord Firan is our patron.” What he wanted from her was not hers to give. It was Gamel’s, and Gwen closed her eyes as she was forced to admit the truth she’d tried so hard to ignore. Her uncle had already sold her. “What you seek from my uncle has already been—”
She had no words for it. Could not give it voice. It was the touch of the master smith’s hand on her shoulder. The way he leant over her. The feeling of his breath too close to her skin. Slow torture, because they both knew how it would end. It was only Gwen who clung stubbornly to her denial, and Lord Firan who indulged her for the sake of his own amusement.
“Firan?” Lord Cyr’s eyes glowed. A breeze tugged at her hair, lifting the strands around her face. “Has he touched you?”
Gwen shook her head; it did not seem safe to return his gaze.
“Do you want him to?”
The choice had never been hers.
“No.”
He cleared his throat, leaning away from her. Gwen could feel his scowl, though she did not dare check his expression.
“I’ll take care of it.”
And if he did, then Gwen would starve. Lord Firan could train another iron smith; he did not have to favour their line.
“He is our patron.”
“And what a patron he is.” Lord Cyr's teeth snapped together, his lips tight with anger. “Generous enough to watch you starve.”
Gwen tested the words before she spoke. There were many cruelties she could lay at Lord Firan’s feet, but her hunger was not one of them.
“The harvest failed, Lord Cyr.” She dared glance up to hold his gaze. The winter’s short days had lingered, and they had been cruel. “We are all starving.”
His gaze didn’t leave hers. He breathed out slowly before placing the sacks down. Gwen watched the fæ bend as he rooted around inside, unsure if there was something she should say or do—
“Here,” Lord Cyr said, pulling a wrapped bundle free. He untied the sides of the cloth to reveal the large wheel of hard cheese within. He broke off a generous piece, holding it out to her. “So you do not perish before I deliver you to your door.”
Gwen's gloved hands were clumsy as she took the morsel from his fingers. He'd broken off a chunk too big for one bite. It was as strange a moment as she had lived. She ought to hate him. He'd arrested her brother and would have hanged him. Humiliated her.
Yet, in some ways, he’d been kinder to her than any fæ she'd ever known. Lord Firan's smiles had lessened none of his cruelties. Every payment less than the last, till Gwen had learned to make half the marks stretch twice as long. Every smile tinged with hunger. Each touch a reminder that he owned her.
Lord Cyr may have used her, but he'd fed her from his hand. Might have humiliated her and called her cruel names, but he’d removed himself from her mouth when he felt her tears. Of the two fælords, somehow she hated the Lord of Whispers less. Gwen broke the piece in half; they were even enough that she could not have judged the difference.
“As thanks.” Gwen dared to offer him the smallest smile. “For your kindness.”
He did not deny her, taking the piece from her hand. Returning her smile with a small one of his own. They ate them at the same time, and Gwen had to close her eyes at the taste. Her stomach flipped, almost in agony for the grumble it gave.
“Do you like it?” he asked.
The quiet question drew her gaze back to him. He'd finished his bite, but Gwen was holding hers on her tongue just to savour the taste. Grudgingly, she swallowed.
“Yes,” she said.
His gaze held an amusement that did not seem cruel. “Good.”
It was a strange day indeed when the Lord of Whispers did not seem so terrifying to her.
He washed the blood off his palms. Bright red and still warm, it made his hands itch, the way human blood always did. The trace of iron, enough to irritate his skin. The rebel had died too quickly, but then he’d been in a foul mood. His mind filled with pretty eyes. At one angle grey, at another lightest blue. Pale, and as colourless as the winter turned the woman’s skin. He’d walked it to its door, bid it goodbye without even taking back his gloves. Let it go once again. He had meant to do none of it. Been taken entirely by surprise when he’d seen it fall. Had watched the despair spread across its face, at the pitiful, spoiled food. Cyr hadn’t been able to stop himself from interfering. He couldn’t let it starve to death. Not before he’d had it.
There was no doubt in his mind anymore; he’d watched it too long. He needed to feel it, to taste it—
And then what? Drag the weeping creature down to a cell. Gwendolen broke the prince’s laws when it freed its brother, but the idea of hanging the woman sat ill. The cage was waiting; he liked the idea of it safe within his chambers far more. If only Firan weren't taking so long to deliver the damnable lock, it would already be there.
“Cyr.”
What now? He turned to see the Prince had both crept up on him and made himself comfortable, leaning, arms crossed, against the table that held the rebels’ remains. It was little more than meat now.
“Tristrian?” He couldn’t have guessed the reason for his visit. “What—”
“Firan is upset,” the Prince said. Fast enough to the point that the metalsmith must have made his anger clear indeed. “He seems to think you’re planning to take something that belongs to him?”
He must have been watching the woman as closely as Cyr. He’d only walked it home. Hadn’t even asked its uncle for a price. Nor had the conversation he’d been planning himself with Firan. He’d needed time to soften the burning edge of his rage. It's patron indeed. The lord’s game was obvious. Starve the girl until it would submit to anything he wanted just for the promise of bread.
“And if I am?” he asked.
“Don't deny—” Tristrian blinked, his lips parting as he realised Cyr hadn't.
No doubt the prince had expected more protest.
“Cyr,” he said, gathering himself quickly. “Firan is one of the greatest smiths amongst our kin. Of all the lands that would have him, he has chosen Stormharth to make his home—”
“I want the woman.” There was no dancing around it. “We can afford to lose Firan. He’s a conceited fop who’s stolen most of his best designs.”
Tristrian gripped the bridge of his nose. “You don’t even like humans. Let him have the girl, and I’ll order Ciel to talk to you again.”
Cyr said nothing. He could wait the prince out. Tristrian wouldn’t deny him.
“He’s had an agreement in place with her uncle for almost a decade,” he said. “Firan’s invested years in the girl. Trained her in his craft. Cyr—” his tone turned cajoling. “For mercy’s sake, let him have her maidenhead at least.”
Cyr didn’t blink, and the Prince’s face fell. He knew when he was serious and knew better than to get in his way. Tristrian glanced down at the mess of skin and bone that had been a man earlier that afternoon.
“What did this poor creature do?”
“Got arrested when I was forcing myself not to drive iron nails through Firan’s finger, one by one, till his hands were too mangled to work his forge again.” And it had pushed Gwendolen to the ground.
Brought a look of misery to the woman's face that had enraged him to witness. The prince’s gaze lifted to the dark stones of the ceiling of the interrogation chamber.
“Mercy, spare me.” His sigh was deep and long-suffering. “Fine, the girl’s yours. Just don’t kill her. Maybe he’ll still want her when you get bored, and I can salvage something from this idiocy.”
Notes:
What is this Lord Cyr being nice... This must be the wrong story 😉
Let me know if you liked it?
Chapter Text
Gwen folded the cloth, laying it neatly beside the lock. Unpickable—that had been the demand. A lock no thief could trick. She’d designed and forged it, and even Gwen wasn’t certain she could have unlocked the mechanism with anything but the key.
Its silver casing caught the amber candlelight. She’d been slow. Spent days alone, refining and smelting the strictly regulated iron ore Lord Firan had sent. It would have made his smiths sick. So the work was given to Gwen and Gamel. They would not cough blood from traces of the element in the air.
The ring of Gamel’s hammer ceased. He placed it down, and though he did not look at her, Gwen could feel him watching. The food Lord Cyr had given them had lasted almost two weeks. She had drawn out every hour, and Gamel hadn’t rushed her.
“You need to deliver it to him.”
Gwen could see her own eyes reflected in the polished metal. The silver alone was worth ten times the marks that Lord Firan paid them to forge it. But the metal was his; he’d sent her only enough for the piece and even then, not quite. The weights exact, just a precious few grains too light. The only flaw in a perfect design.
“Tomorrow.” When Gwen told him two weeks ago that Lord Firan had asked to speak with him, Gamel had looked away. He never seemed to meet her eyes anymore. His lack of response had been response enough. An agreement, he was too much of a coward to lend his voice. “Please, we don’t need the marks just yet. I’ll check the traps—”
“Fine.” Gamel’s fist curled around the handle of his hammer. “Fine, Gwen.” He cleared his throat, jaw tight from his gritted teeth. “Tomorrow.”
A fine layer of snow dusted the ground. It clung to the barren trees. Hard dirt clustered at the base of their frozen trunks. The forest was silent as she stared down at the empty trap. Twine and sticks bound together to create a cage. The piece of cheese she’d left was gone. Some lucky forest creature had stolen its meal. She could not even resent it.
“Mercy.” She was so tired of the misery.
Gwen kicked the tree with the edge of her ragged boot, and a drift of snow dropped from the branch above her, smattering the forest floor.
“My eyes did not deceive me; it is she—fierce Gwen, the dragon slayer.”
Gwen's head snapped up, a smile breaking across her face. It was the barest moment of levity. Relief where there had been so little of late.
“Thora,” she said. “What are you doing here?”
Thora, daughter of Mor, looked in a far sorrier state than even Gwen. She stood not far. Her cloak was ragged and patched, and her dark curls as wild as her.
“Can I not visit my little sister?” she asked.
Not siblings by blood, but by heart all the same.
“Anselm has been gone for six months.” Gwen folded her arms. “And I have not seen you for almost two years.”
“Gwen.” Her eyes widened. “I have been busy—”
“Busy?” It was hard to keep her mouth pursed when her lips so wished to smile. “Do not tell me you have finally resigned yourself to honest work.”
She dipped her head. “There is no profession more honest than mine.”
“You’re a thief, a rogue and now a rebel to boot.” Gwen's gaze darted to check the trees, to be certain they were alone.
Thora’s hand pressed to her chest. “But I do it all for the children.”
Gwen's breath misted as she huffed. She should turn away now, leave, and forget she’d ever seen Thora. She could hang for even a conversation with the rebel. Anselm almost had. Her cheeks burned from the chill of the air.
“Did he find you?” She’d said her last farewell to him long before dawn that night so many months ago. He’d fled into the Prince’s forest, and she had prayed to mercy he would find Thora. She was the reason he’d been taken. “Is he with you?”
“I have been far away, Gwen.” Thora’s cheeks flushed. “Anselm did not find us.”
Gwen swayed slightly on her feet, her breath catching in her chest. “He didn’t?”
He hadn’t made it. If he hadn’t got to the rebels—
Thora caught her shoulder, closing the gap between them to hold her steady before her knees could buckle.
“He may well have found another of our groups.” There was no hope in her eyes, only denial.
Gwen nodded. Their gazes held, and she examined the familiar face before her. Blue eyes, the colour twilight turned the forest. A smattering of freckles across her upturned nose, and incisors that ran sharp. Her teeth made her smile seem a little dangerous. Fierce Gwen and Thora the Brave. Anselm had never had a title; he’d needed no introduction.
She’s always thought Thora was so clever. When she ran away to join the rebels, Gwen declared Thora was the stupidest woman alive. She still believed both things truth.
“You should not be here.” Gwen glanced down. “They took Anselm when you last came. If anyone were to know I’d spoken with you—”
“Gwen.” Her eyes beseeched her. “I need your help.”
“My help?” She repeated it back, her tongue heavy.
She felt at once an idiot and deeply flattered.
Thora and Anselm had let her follow them around when they were young. But neither of them had ever truly needed her. Thora slipped a hand into the inside of her cloak before pressing a cold rock between Gwen’s palms. She glanced down, her hands opened of their own accord as she dropped it, stumbling away.
“No!” she gasped.
“We found a seam, Gwen.” Thora’s brown eyes burned with the spark of rebellion. “I can bring so much more, but we need a smith to forge it—”
“No!” She covered her ears so she would hear no more.
“Iron blades, Gwen!” Thora bent to grab the ore from the frozen ground, speaking louder. “Weapons we can use to slay them. We could kill those fæ scum—”
“Stop!” Gwen held up a hand, warding her off. “Just stop! I will not hear it!”
“Would you prefer to starve?” Thora scowled, as if Gwen were the fool. “To watch your people slaughtered? If you help us, we could arm—”
“Do you think Gamel would just sit by and let me make swords for rebels?” Gwen’s hand flew out towards the trees. “I will not be a part of this madness.”
Thora's face fell, the fire dying, replaced by frozen flint.
“They killed Anselm.”
How dare she! Her hand came up, jabbing the woman’s collarbone.
“You killed Anselm!” If he were truly dead, then Gwen could only lay the blame at one door. “You snuck up to his table at the tavern—you were seen talking to him, and gone by the time they arrested him. Disappeared like you always do and let him face the trouble you caused. You didn’t stick around to see the knights drag him through the town square, but I was there. I watched when they beat him because he wouldn't beg mercy.” Her palm itched to slap her for it. “Your damned rebellion killed him! Not every human who lives in Stormharth has starved. But every rebel they catch has hung!”
“Anselm didn’t.” Thora folded her arms, not backing down. “And neither have I.”
They glared at one another.
“Only because they haven't caught you yet!” It broke her heart to say it, but to Thora she could never lie. “One day they’ll hang you too.”
“What happened to fierce Gwen?” she asked, knuckles white as she gripped the cursed ore. “The dragon slayer—”
“I’ve slain no dragons!” It was the name they’d given her as a child.
A joke amongst them, because she was the small one, but when the bigger children cornered them to steal what food they’d begged, she fought like a wildcat to keep it. Always so calm until someone pushed her too far. Then she’d fight with teeth and nails until even the strongest of their tormentors learned not to bother her. They’d only spent a few months at the orphan house before Gamel took them in. But they’d been hard months.
Thora took a step back, her head tilting up at the break in Gwen's tone. Her gaze sharpened, as though she could see beyond the argument they were having now, which truly bore no difference to the thousands they’d had before, that something was wrong. When they were friends, they were the best of friends, and when they clashed, they were even better enemies. Could scream at one another until Anselm had to step in and separate them. He’d once picked up Gwen mid-argument and put her up a tree. He hadn’t let her come down until they’d both apologised.
“What’s wrong, Gwen?” Thora asked, her scowl softening. “Why do your eyes look broken?”
Gwen’s gaze dropped to the slush of dirt and dirty snow. The woman knew her too well for her to hope to lie.
“Lord Firan.” The name misted in the air before her like a curse. “Gamel sold him my maidenhead.” Thora took a step back, her fingers covering her lips. “Tomorrow I will have to deliver him his commission, and I think he means to—to take it.”
Thora’s palms brushed over her face, not shocked. It could surely be a surprise to no one—
“Run away with me.” She grabbed Gwen’s hand in hers; they were as cold as each other. “Come with me, Gwen. There is nothing here but hunger and suffering.”
She yanked her hand back, taking a step away. “Can your rebels promise me anything else?”
“Gwen.” Thora’s voice broke on her name. “For love of me—”
“If you loved us, why did you leave?” She folded her arms, her glare hot enough it ought to steam in the cold air. “Why did you not marry Anselm like you promised instead of running away to join the rebellion?”
The wind rushed through the trees, a sharp gust that made the bare branches claw at one another. They both shivered; her eyes darted, searching the forest for an enemy that was not there. It was silent, too cold even for the birds.
“And if I had?” Thora chin tilted, lips a thin line. “What life would we have had?”
“At least we would have had something to make the best of,” Gwen said. “Rather than the misery you’ve brought on us all with your foolish dreams.” She nodded to the rock, still clutched in Thora’s shaking hand. “I’m not doing it—”
She moved to push past her, but Thora caught her arm.
“Gwen.” Just her name, one word that was so much, and so little. “Please.”
Being around her felt just the same. The sly glance of a shared joke. Foolishness and hope. She was supposed to be her sister, to marry Anselm.
“Run away with me, Gwen, please?” The same request she’d made of her three years ago. “Fight with me.”
Gwen gave her the same answer.
“I will not die for a doomed rebellion.” Not even for Thora.
Her eyes sharpened, the same hurt burning within. “I never thought you’d end up a coward.”
Gwen's palm slapped across the woman’s cheek, hard enough to burn her skin. Thora let go of her, stepping back. Her lips parted, a moment she regretted striking her, meant to apologise. But the words would not come. If she’d just married Anselm, like she’d been supposed to, none of it would have happened. They might not have had much, but they would have had each other. Now they both had nothing.
They spotted the rebel in the forests south. The woman had yet to realise it was being followed, but it would be a matter of minutes. Cyr regretted not grabbing it at first sighting; all the hunt had brought was trouble.
Gwendolen’s gaze dropped, its head turned down. The woman looked pitiful, but he felt no sympathy. A ball of fury curled in his gut; not only was it talking to a rebel. It had wandered into the forest without the gloves he’d given it. He couldn’t have said which act infuriated him more.
“Lord Firan.” Its breath misted in the air. “Gamel sold him my maidenhead.” The rebel flinched, stepping back as though it had been struck. “Tomorrow I will have to deliver him his commission, and I think he means to—to take it.”
The rebel scratched the skin of its face, like it would rather peel it off, then face the words it had just heard.
“Run away with me.” The rebel grabbed Gwendolen’s hand, and Cyr knew he would have to hang it. “Come with me, Gwen. There is nothing here but hunger and suffering.”
Gwendolen had the good sense to shy away. “Can your rebels promise me anything else?”
“Gwen.” The woman’s voice cracked. “For love of me—”
Cyr’s hand went to the pommel of his blade.
“If you loved us, why did you leave?” Gwendolen folded its arms, glaring at the woman. “Why did you not marry Anselm like you promised instead of running away to join the rebellion?”
The wind rushed through the trees, a sharp gust that made the bare branches claw at one another. He glanced at Cath, wondering which of them had lost control of their fælight. He’d have them whipped if they gave them away.
“Cyr,” he whispered. “Do we go now?”
Cyr shook his head. “Not yet.”
He forced himself to still; if he moved too much, he’d break the glamour hiding them. It put a dampener on the world, an eerie silence that the rebels had yet to learn to identify.
“And if I had?” The rebel tilted her chin back, lips a thin line. “What life would we have had?”
“At least we would have had something to make the best of,” Gwen said. “Rather than the misery you’ve brought on us all with your foolish dreams.” It nodded to the rock, still clutched in the other woman’s shaking hand. “I’m not doing it—”
Gwendolen was right. It would not be committing high treason any time soon.
The rebel caught its arm. “Gwen, please—”
Cyr bared his teeth. The rebel had no right to his woman’s name, and even less to touch.
“Run away with me, Gwen, please—fight with me!”
There was a moment, while the blood rushed in his ears and the fury tinged the corners of his vision. Cyr feared it might say yes. It would be an even bigger mess if Gwendolen agreed to join the rebellion in front of so many knights. He'd have to arrest it. The thought of its eyes bright with terror bothered him more than it should. He did not want the first time he truly touched the woman to be in a cell beneath the keep.
“I will not die for a doomed rebellion,” Gwendolen said.
His relief was so strong it left him in a slow breath that lightened his chest.
“I never thought you’d end up a coward.”
The cold air rang with the sound of the slap, the woman laid across the rebel’s cheek. Cyr smiled. Good.
Gwendolen said nothing else, and as she moved to leave, Cath’s voice filled his ear.
“Shall we arrest it?”
“No.” His answer was immediate.
Cath took a step back, and a twig snapped beneath his feet. The rebel’s head whipped around, fear in its eyes.
“It’s a rebel—”
“Hardly.” Cyr waved a dismissive hand. “I’ll deal with it.”
He’d hesitated too long, spent another two weeks just watching the girl. The cage wasn’t finished yet. He’d been waiting for the damned lock. It was time for Cyr to make good on his claim. He’d have it at least once before he dragged it back to the castle.
The rebel had sense enough to finally note the danger it was in. It twitched, glancing around like a rabbit scenting a fox. The woman ran, and the chase began.
“After it, Cath,” Cyr said. “Follow the rebel scum and see if it leads you back to any of its fellows.” His gaze was already drifting to the path Gwendolen had taken. “Give it till the morning, and if it gives us nothing, drag it back to the keep.”
“And you?” Cath asked.
“As I said.” Cyr grit his teeth. “I’ll deal with the other one.”
He took a step, but Cath’s hand covered the centre of his chest, holding him back before he could take another.
“Gryff, Ander.” Cath beckoned the knights. “Eudes and Gal, go with Lord Cyr.” His voice dropped, an undertone meant only for Cyr. “There could be others. Take the knights to guard your back.”
It was good sense; if the rebels had iron, they posed a true threat. His lips pursed as he tried to think of a reason good enough to deny him. Cyr did not want an audience for the half-formed plan turning in his head. Cath must have read the denial in his eyes; his brows drew together.
“The prince would kill us both if I let you walk into danger alone,” he said.
And that, unfortunately, Cyr could neither deny nor argue with.
Notes:
We're getting their fast, but this story is probably going to be a long one.
Chapter Text
Gwen did not return to the forge. She would check the empty cupboards one more time, see if there were any scraps she could pull together for the thinnest stew. Her eyes were already burning as she hung her coat by the door. She started the fire first in the hearth. Brushed the wood dust off her hands when she was done. Tomorrow she’d sweep the ashes. Her hand pressed to the hearthstones. The wood crackled as it burned, heat bathing her skin and drying her misery before it could fall.
She sniffed once, allowing the melancholy, but only for a moment.
Tomorrow, Lord Firan would give her a fat purse of marks, enough to see out the winter. All she had to do was give him the lock and Gamel’s answer. Her uncle wouldn’t do it himself.
He was the coward, not Gwen.
Her breath caught as she realised she would rather be hungry tonight than feed him. Let his stomach ache like her heart did.
The door opened, and she stood straight. Gwen could not bring herself to look at him.
“The traps were empty.” She was out of excuses, and he’d let her make them no longer. His debt was due, and she’d be the one to pay it. Her hands curled into fists. “I’ll go to Lord Firan tomorrow.”
His footsteps were heavy, deliberate—the rap of thick-soled boots against tile, a chair pulled out from the table, before Gamel sat.
“I thought I told you—I’d take care of it.”
Not Gamel.
Gwen’s skin prickled; her eyes caught on the flames as the voice filled her mind. The fæ sat at her table, his palm laid flat across the rough wood so old now that polish no longer shined it. It had drunk too much wax over the long years and grown immune to it.
“Lord Cyr?” He’d closed the door behind him.
The wooden planks her grandfather shaped had kept out the cold for so many long years. Sheltered them. If she made it outside, it might protect her still. She could trap him inside. There were no windows for him to climb out of. The only escape would be through the chimney.
The fæ offered her no smiles today. Their last encounter seemed a dream, the kindness he’d shown hiding the face of the creature before her now.
“What a busy day you’ve had, Gwendolen.” His tone was colder than the ice that clung to the river’s edge in winter’s depths.
The Lord of Whispers knew Thora had asked her to forge iron blades.
Gwen dropped to her knees, her palms and head pressed to the ground. There was dust and dirt encrusted between the tiles she ought to have mopped. The faintest flicker of shame fought her fear. That he should see the dirty misery in which they lived. How could he not judge her when he'd known only stone and satin? No wonder the fæ called them pigs.
“I said no, Lord Cyr.” Mercy—she was dead already. “I refused, I would never—”
“Get off the floor.” The words were harsh.
Gwen did not know what to do. If her grovelling infuriated him, then how could she beg for pardon? Her eyes closed, burning as she realised she couldn’t. Her world swayed, head light. A day without food, and she was fainting. She'd lived for weeks on only scraps. Was it truly so terrible if it ended tonight, Gwen wouldn’t have to face Lord Firan. Wouldn’t have to keep going when there was so little left to give. Her knees shook as she pressed her palms into the cold floor tile. Forcing herself to stand.
His index finger slid slowly across the table before he pointed to the floor before him. “Come here.”
What choice did she have but to force her legs to approach him? If she obeyed him, then perhaps he’d be merciful. There was nothing for torture to pry from her lips. Gwen had no secrets.
Anselm didn't beg for his life when the knights arrested him, and she would not either. She’d only ask he kill her before they hung her from the castle walls. Her eyes did not see the steps she took, her mind too full and yet so empty as her feet stopped before him. Her eyes fixed on the floor as she fought not to let her tears fall.
“You share few features with your brother.”
Her breath caught. Tight and painful. He knew she’d freed Anselm. It would be the noose. Maybe it would be quick; her neck might snap, and she’d die without dancing for the fæ.
“Gwendolen, look at me.” The snarl was gone, but Gwen knew how little that meant. “Why do you look so different from him?”
The fæ laughed as they split open a man's belly. Sang the sweetest music at hangings, and danced when humans wept. Why was Anselm tall and dark and broad and Gwen small and fair and pale? Why had she not been born a son, to better work the forge? If she’d been a boy, then maybe Gamel would have loved her, rather than sold her. But none of those were answers, only questions.
“I take after our mother, Lord Cyr.”
He sighed, and she risked meeting his gaze. Gwen was dead anyway.
“Pig, though you are. I prefer how you turned out.” The wood of the table creaked as he pushed himself up, standing slowly enough it felt a dare for her to flee. “My knights are in the forge with your uncle.”
The bronze bars of her cell door slammed closed beneath the keep. Even if she ran, there were more fæ outside, waiting to drag her to the noose. Lord Cyr circled her, and it took everything in her not to turn with him. She failed at the last, her feet bolting.
He caught her arms before she made it one step, yanking her back against him. She cried out. Wisps of the fear clenched in the grip of her chest, escaping her throat.
“Disobey me, Gwendolen.” His lips touched her cheek. “And I’ll hang him.”
She was already dead. It would be cruel to take Gamel with her. His hand didn't stay on her arm; it moved, brushing her stomach, exploring her form through the rough material of her shift. It was not the touch of a man considering murder, but that made it no less cruel.
“If I’m a pig—” her voice shook, but she still forced her chin high. “Then surely you don’t want to touch me?”
The only relief in her arrest was that Gwen would not have to face Lord Firan on the morrow. If she were to be executed, then could she not be spared the indignity of violation?
“But I do.” The nails of the hand he still gripped her with dug into her arm as his other palm flattened against her stomach, trapping her against him. “I find you to be the most enchanting little piglet. One I yearn to hear squeal.”
He was nothing like the Lord who’d given her food when she was starving. Gifted her his gloves because her hands were cold. Gwen could not believe she'd been fool enough to think him kind. A trick, it must have been; he was looking for evidence of rebellion. Today, Thora had handed him high treason.
“I refused to forge them.” She knew she was doomed, but she could not stay her lips. “Have mercy, please, Lord Cyr. Just hang me.” Gwen knew better than to plead for her life. “I know nothing of what they’re planning—”
“Mercy from the Lord of Whispers.” His cheek brushed against hers, skin so smooth where a man's would have been rough. “Do you think this is a fairytale, Gwendolen?”
“A fairy tail?” What in mercy's name was a fairy, and what did its tail have to do with anything?
For a moment, she was too confused to be scared. But only for a moment, when his breath touched her neck with his lips, her terror returned.
“Where is your bed, Gwendolen?”
She could not show him that. The mess of blankets where she slept under the eaves. Like the den of an animal, the burrow of a forest beast. It would be a humiliation too far.
“There are blankets in the hayloft,” Gwen said. “Or I can put one down by the hearth. There’s more space, and the hearth will be warmer. I sleep there often—”
“By the hearth?” She felt his smile against her skin. Wide and cruel. “How neglected you are. My Cinderella snuck into the prince’s ball, freed a dangerous prisoner and ran away again all before the stroke of midnight.” She didn’t ask who Cinderella was—the confirmation he knew her crimes crushed the last small thread of hope left to her. She would be tortured before the noose. Her limbs broken into so many pieces, the knights would drag her to her hanging. “Since you ask so nicely, I’ll have you by the hearth. Stain the tiles of your hovel with your virgin blood.”
Gwen barely heard his words. “I’ll get a blanket—”
“No.” The words resonated in his chest, setting her teeth on edge. “A bed is for a lady.” His hand rubbed her stomach—tone as sweet as it was cruel. “You’re not a lady, are you? You’re a sow, and I’ll have you in the dirt like the beast you are.”
Gwen's tears escaped her; there was no reason to hold them in. They slipped hot down her cheeks when she'd been cold for so many months. Lord Cyr was slow to unlace the ties of her dress, tugging her shift free to bare her to the cold air. Gooseflesh covered her, raw as plucked carrion. The marrow in her bones turned to ice as his fingers traced over her naked skin, following the lines of her ribs. He stroked her belly again now that she was bare to him. Fingers lingering on the slight softness above her mound, where her body kept what little fat it could cling to. He brushed the bones of her hip, a strained noise leaving his throat.
“Are you afraid, Gwendolen?” His voice was low as he stole the heat from her with every touch.
The last of her pride filled her chest, a ball of heat in the very centre of her frozen heart. “I won’t squeal for you.”
Anselm hadn't, and Gwen could not be more a coward than her brother. Tonight, she would lose everything but her pride. Her pride alone she would take with her to mercy’s arms.
“Stoke the hearth for us,” Lord Cyr said. “You’re frozen.”
He let her go, and her eyes burned as she crossed the room. She took a log from the barrel beside the fire, placing it in the centre of the kindling she'd lit so recently and in a different life. Her eyes slipped to the poker. If it were iron, she’d skewer him with it.
A breeze ruffled her hair. The small gust fanned the coals, and a lick of bright flame bit the log, casting a red glow over the stone. The tiles were cold beneath her bare calves as she sat back; even the heat of the coals couldn’t stop her shivering.
When the fæ was done with her, he'd kill her. All that remained now was pain. Torture for every moment of the rest of her short life. Gwen faced her death in the fire's flickering light, and with it she burned.
“Lie down, sweet maiden,” he said.
She grabbed for the fire poker—
He caught her wrist, wrenching her around. Her leg twisted beneath her, sending a lance of pain through bone and muscle. She bucked against him as he pinned her. The leather and silk of his courtly clothing scratched at her bare skin as if it were goat hair. Her fist slammed against his chest.
“No!” Gwen couldn’t have said how many times she cried the word.
How long she twisted and snarled at him. Fought with all the strength left in her starved limbs. Each time she tried to hit him, to claw at his face and give him another ugly scar, he caught her hands. He pushed her back down against the cold tiles every time she found the strength to rise. Patient in his torment. It was his smile, the soft twist of his lips as he stared down at her as though her misery were endearing, that broke her.
The defeat drowned her in a wave of tears. Gwen turned her head, hiding her face. She could feel his cock between them, as merciless as the rest of him. She sobbed. Her chest heaving. The Lord of Whispers knew his craft well. He drew out her misery, letting her fight until the weight of her own despair crushed her.
“You did well, Gwendolen.” His lips burned as he kissed her wet cheek. “You can tell the other pigs how hard you fought me.”
His tongue lapped at the column of her throat as his hips pushed hard against her centre. She could feel the bulge against her cunny. Harder after her struggles than it had been before. All her fight had done was inflame him.
“I will never speak of this.” The rough grain of dust and dirt beneath her itched her skin as the fine strands of his silky hair tickled her nose. “No one can know what you have—what you have made me do.”
She’d take the shame of it with her to the noose. When he drew back, Gwen did not move. There was no escaping it. No choice but to endure. It could not be worse than hunger.
His smile dropped away as he regarded her. Lord Cyr’s lips pursed.
Why wouldn’t he just do it? Why must he be so cruel as to draw her agony out?
“If you behave now.” The words were hesitant, like he himself was unsure of them. “I will not arrest you.”
Gwen’s breath caught, the focus returning to her eyes as she searched his face for a lie. A flame filled her, the desperate pain of hope kindling when the last ember had guttered.
“You won’t?”
His lips parted, brows drawn as if the confusion she felt was shared. Lord Cyr cleared his throat, expression turning stern.
“If you give me your body with no further struggle,” he said. “Then I will forget your crimes. You may consider yourself both forgiven and pardoned.”
It was mercy from the Lord of Whispers.
The moment held between them, as vulnerable as it was strange. There was no escape from his touch, yet the hope quickened in her chest, the smallest sliver of it burning as bright as wildfire as it brought her back to life. She would face neither the keep nor the noose. Just him.
Lord Cyr would only take what Gamel had sold to Lord Firan anyway, and for the barest breath, Gwen would have called it fair. If he had her maidenhead, then maybe the metalsmith wouldn’t want her anymore. She could not see what interest beyond her innocence the fælord could hold for her. Without it, she was just another woman, as much a whore as any of them. No, he would not want her. She’d repulse him, but he'd pay her for the lock. Then Gwen could see out winter on the marks of his commission.
Hope filled the space where there had been only defeat, a choice to make the best of. Gwen almost smiled, the faintest warmth filling her at the thought of thwarting one fælord, before her gaze focused on the other. The smile was banished before it could form, hiding from the glow of his green eyes. The heat in his gaze.
“You can have me,” Gwen said. “I won’t fight.”
He made no further offers, taking the time only to unlace his breeches. She felt the press of his heat against the most vulnerable piece of her. He pushed. Her teeth dug into her lip at the lance of agony at her centre. He was in, but not far. Gwen struggled to draw breath, her hands fisting as she fought herself rather than him. Held back the impulse to kick at him and scream.
Still, he did not force his way further. His eyes fixed on hers as she caught her breath.
“Whores are usually easier to breach.” There was no malice in the words. The frown on his brow was a stranger to anger. “What is wrong with you?”
She lay beneath him, her mind exhausted and her body tense. Yet the fæ stared at her as though she were reacting strangely to his invasion.
“How many women have you raped?” Gwen didn’t wince at the word.
The moment was too surreal for anything but honesty.
“Admittedly,” he said. “You are my first.”
And how hideous her luck must be, to have caught the eye of a monster who thought her kind were little more than animals. His thumb brushed her cheek, catching her tears, as though he would have preferred her skin dry. Wished for her to smile and pull him closer. Gwen could not do it. It took all her will not to push him away.
“I do not couple with rebels.” His voice was softer than a confession. “And whores are always eager.”
It seemed the cruellest of mockeries that she must explain such things to him. That Gwen must guide him through her ruin. She knew so little of what they were doing herself. Only what Thora had told her, and even then, she had not wished to hear of the things the woman shared with her brother.
“Fæladies—are they always eager for you too, or do you—” Her cheeks burned. She gathered her will. Forced herself to breathe before she could continue. “Must you sometimes convince them?”
His chin tilted back, a flash of heat in his eyes.
“I would have thought your life would be incentive enough.” Despite the annoyance in his tone, his gaze turned thoughtful.
Gwen swallowed, her stomach tensing, the muscles of her cunny pushing back against even the smallest piece of him inside her.
“If I were fæ—”
“You are not.” His tone made her flinch.
Lord Cyr's head dipped, his teeth clenched as he took a breath as uneven as her own. Her flinch had hurt him.
“But if I were?” She could not let herself think. Gwen reached up, fingers brushing his cheek in a touch gentle enough to call a caress. It was not pulling him closer, and yet his eyes burned so brightly at her touch. The hunger painful to witness. “How would you make me ready to take you?”
He stilled, and she watched the thoughts warring in his mind. Earnest confusion, so ill at ease with the position he’d forced her into. He looked almost innocent. His fingers trailed across her chest, circling the edge of her breast, the touch light enough that it was somewhere between a tickle and a burn.
“If you were fæ.” His voice was hushed, like he hardly dared whisper the words. “I might tell you how soft your skin is. How I hunger to press my lips to you.” His hips pulled back, slipping out of her, and Gwen could have wept with relief. His member was trapped between them. He pressed it hard against her mound, deliberate movements that filled her stomach with heat. The movement of him rubbing against her cunny was firmer than his fingers but not faster. “I might say that you were uncommonly beautiful, even amongst our kind.”
His touch trailed across her shoulder, lingering on the seam of her elbow before he ran a fingertip down her inner arm. Gwen made a noise she didn’t mean to, a stifled little moan, and he smiled. She couldn’t fight him, so she gave in, giving him the warmth he so clearly craved.
His gaze dropped to her lips, his focus painful to behold. The heat in her belly deepened until she felt it in her bones, thawing the lingering ice as she surrendered. She'd pretend, tell herself he was her lover, that it wasn't such a terrible, humiliating thing to do this with him. If he didn’t hurt her, then she could almost convince herself of it.
“If you were fæ,” he said. “I might seek to kiss you until you gasped for breath, pleaded and moaned into my mouth. I might—”
Gwen caught his lips, lifting her head to kiss his closed mouth. He turned rigid, and she knew she'd made a mistake.
She dropped back, head falling to the cold tile as the heat that had grown in her stomach banked. As his eyes hardened, she understood there would be no pretending.
“I ought to have you whipped for that.” His words sliced through her as his lips twisted in disgust. “I do not kiss swine.”
She'd forgotten; let the heat of his gaze enchant her. Given herself to the moment. Now the truth faced her again, and she could not blind herself to it. Her eyes stung; the tears that she'd conquered released again.
His hips shifted back, his member at her centre, and this time it didn’t hurt as much as he found her opening. Both less painful and somehow a far greater agony.
Her legs shook as he hit a point inside her that was too tense for him to pass. Lord Cyr hissed like an angry cat, and her muscles clamped tighter around him. Gwen bit her lip, trying to keep her cry inside. Her chest shook as the sobs tried to fight their way free. The tears she could not hold ran thick down her cheeks. She was no more to him than an animal. A dirty, disgusting pig.
“Quiet.” The gentleness of his tone was purest poison. A trick, like every other word he spoke. “Quiet now, don’t weep.”
Could she even trust that once he was finished, he would not arrest her? What was a promise made to a pig worth?
Lord Cyr took one deep breath before his hips thrust forward. The movement sent a shock of bright agony through her. A pain she felt in her bones. Gwen's sob broke free of the cage she'd made in her chest. A cry as broken as her as his hips pressed hers into the dirt.
“Quiet, sweet maiden.” His fist curled beside her head as he steadied himself.
Lord Cyr’s head dropped, his face caught in her hair, drawing his hips back before he speared her burning insides again. The sting from where he’d broken her sharpened with every thrust.
A breeze rustled her hair, stirring the dust on the floor. The flames grew taller in the hearth, dancing like sprites. Her breath came harsh with tears and pain. He embedded himself in the depths of her. Of course, the Lord of Whisper’s touch would be torture. Pain was all he had to give.
Lord Cyr's head lifted, his throat bared to her as his eyes glowed the brightest green. Lit from the inside like he was aflame. Gentle tendrils of wind brushed over her, so much softer than his cruel touch. Her skin prickled with the chill, and her wet cheeks felt colder still.
He shuddered, palm landing on her shaking chest as he pinned her against the floor. Her breath came shallow, for fear of his weight cracking her ribs. His skin glowed, eyes squeezed closed as he groaned. Lord Cyr’s touch echoed within her, his palm slipping beneath her skin. It felt like a hand curling around her heart. Finding purchase somewhere deep, deep inside her. Claws digging into her very soul.
The heat of his release shocked her. Stinging what was already broken, burning her from the inside. He dropped, and Gwen’s arms lifted, pressed to his chest to keep what little distance she could so his weight couldn't crush her. The racing beat under her palm steadied, slowing. The pounding in her ears matched the thump of his heart. It was strange that this one bit of them could be the same when they were so unutterably different. Unfathomable that their hearts could share a beat, when his was forged of cruelty and hers crushed by fear.
Lord Cyr groaned again, his cheek rubbed against hers. As needy as a kitten. Exploring fingers brushed her sides as he touched her and touched her. His hands ran over her skin as if he were memorising the feel.
Gwen wasn’t certain if she’d ever speak again. Words felt too painful, sobs too loud. She wanted it over, needed it to stop now.
Silence and darkness were cravings in her bones. Somewhere safe and warm where she could curl small enough to disappear. Lord Cyr's eyes were unfocused as he stared down at her. Hazy as any drunk for the single moment before his gaze sharpened.
He pulled away from her fast enough that she broke her silence. Gwen cried out at the pain of his withdrawal. The fæ remained on his knees, eyes wide as he pulled a hand through his mussed hair. His lips parted, mouth gaping. Panic was as sharp in his eyes as cruelty had been.
“It’s alright.” Gwen’s voice didn’t feel like her own; she brushed the back of his hand with her fingertips. “It’s over now.”
He didn't flinch from her; his tense wrist softened under her gentle touch.
“Over?” Lord Cyr repeated.
As though he didn’t understand the word.
Gwen nodded, tears still bathed her cheeks. Her vision blurred as sorrow spilt over the rims of her aching eyes.
“You’ve taken what you wanted,” she said. “You can—” her breath caught. It hurt. Agony spread from her centre through her entire being. “You can leave me alone now, as you promised.”
“Leave you alone?” Lord Cyr repeated the words again.
Gwen found the strength in her arms to pull herself away. To sit up and shift back until her frozen skin touched the tiles of the hearth. She wrapped a shaking arm around her knees.
“You’ve had me, so now you can go.” He could want no more from her now he'd soiled the only pure thing that had ever belonged to her. Stained her innocence with her blood and his spend. “Leave and forget I ever existed.”
“Leave?” His pupils were so wide they sucked in the firelight, snuffing it out.
Lord Cyr reached for her face, and Gwen hid her head between her knees, both arms over her crown. She did not cry out.
“Leave?” he repeated.
She heard the shuffle of his movement, the step he took before he stumbled, catching himself hard enough that the table legs screeched as they scraped the floor tile. He seemed almost drunk. A few steps later, he caught his hands on the wall, laughing softly.
He had to go. Why wouldn't he just leave?
Gwen risked looking up to see his palm resting on the door, pressed to the wood her grandfather had cut and sanded.
“Where do I go?” Lord Cyr asked.
The question didn’t sound a taunt; he looked lost.
“Back to the castle.” The anger inside her was as sharp as the pain in her belly, as raw as the wounds across her soul. Gwen didn’t know if she had ever hated anyone so much as she despised him. “To torture and torment my people.” Her breath ached with the weight of her hurt. “And you forget me.”
“Forget you?” He smiled, like it was the finest joke he’d ever heard. “I could forget you?”
She wasn’t certain if it was a question. The door closed moments later, and he was gone. An awful memory, but no more or less than that.
The worst of it was that Gwen was grateful. Grateful to have escaped arrest. Grateful to have not been hanged for the trouble Thora had brought to her door. Violated to her core, yet still she thanked Mercy to have escaped with her life.
The winter air burnt his lungs, heavy with cold.
Leave and forget her?
Stop tormenting the human woman, who wept at his touch. He was drunk, dazed from the feeling of her skin.
The fælight had burst from him. He’d lost control of it for the first time since he was a child. She was lucky he hadn’t destroyed her hovel. Hadn’t ripped the building to pieces in a storm of pure elemental chaos. Brought the roof down on both their heads.
Cyr had never known anything like it. The best fuck he’d had in a thousand years, and she hadn’t even done anything. She'd lain beneath him weeping, whilst her body welcomed him like a sheath. A home made just for him, where the whispers of his mind quieted. The bliss of a peace he'd never known.
Forget her?
Cyr laughed outright as his palm shook against the wooden beams of her home. A filthy little hovel in the woods.
“Gwendolen.” The name was so sweet on his tongue.
The urge lingered to forget the mercy he'd promised her. To go back now and drag her out.
But the guards would see her. They’d know what he’d done. His thoughts burned as he took another shaking breath.
What had he done?
Something he shouldn’t have. He had to hide her. Tristrian couldn’t find out—
“Gryff!” His head spun before he caught the edge of the tree in front of him. “Ander come, both of you.”
There was a rustle as two of the men he’d brought slipped out of the forge. Moving on graceful feet. They were good knights, loyal. Discreet.
“Sir?” Gryff’s gaze darted to the hovel. “Is something wrong?”
Everything was wrong.
He dropped his voice low enough that the other fæ wouldn’t overhear.
“Guard her,” he said. “Don’t let her know you’re watching.” His hand came up, finger pointing. “And don’t touch her, either of you. If you put so much as a finger on her, I’ll cut your hands off.”
The knights stared at him, eyes wide, as though he were speaking madness. Cyr had to swallow, grab hold of the sudden violence of his rage. The growl in his throat demanded blood.
“Understood?” It was too late.
The words had been said, and he gave no apologies.
“Yes, Lord Cyr.” They saluted in unison.
“Good.” He waved towards the bare trees. “Make yourself scarce.”
“Sir.” Gryff stayed when he should already be gone, his eyes soft with worry. “Do you need help?”
He must truly be a state if the knights would risk his temper by disobeying his command. Cyr needed to get out of there before he did something more reckless and stupid than he already had.
“No,” he said, and Gryff had the sense to leave it at that. “Eudes, Gal.” He raised his voice, shouting to be heard. “Pay the pig its marks and get out here.” Cyr had taken a maidenhead tonight. He would pay the debt he owed. “And one of you, bring me my horse.”
Notes:
Well, there you have it, this is the very start for these two. How many of you can guess what silly thing Lord Cyr just did?
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