37. Ready to Belong Somewhere #2
The crowd of dozens waits across the narrow river.
Mostly familiar faces—Primrose, of course, with Tansy leaning against her furry shoulder.
Folly, Lord of Elsewhere. Jasper, Mustardseed, Idalia.
Lords and ladies not yet departed after the threshold banquet.
Courtiers, servants, and palace cats all await Seren’s first judgment as King of Summer.
Butterflies scatter as a blur of white races across the meadow. Harmony lands on Seren’s shoulder, chattering forcefully. Then she seems to notice the crowd and ducks nervously against Seren’s side. Seren coaxes her out to perch on his lap.
Light still flickers above Seren’s brow. He’s at once ethereal and devastatingly physical. The blue bruise over his cheekbone highlights the gold of his eyes. His hair is in disarray. Somehow there are no snags in his lace festival clothes. Just dirt at his knees. Blood on his sleeves.
More blood and dirt color his fingernails. Seren clasps the armrests with bare hands. He’s missing his carryhold but still wears the tidingbird ring, and Nevander’s threshold gift.
Those delicate hands tighten as Seren commands, “Bring him forth.”
Mustardseed and Idalia force Gevain to the bridge. Ritekeeper Jasper hastens after them, ensuring the binding circle holds.
“Free his voice,” Seren says, and Jasper waves their hand.
Gevain coughs, clutching his throat. The snarling fire is gone from his eyes. He looks pitiful, even penitent, as he sinks to one knee.
“Your Highness,” Gevain says hoarsely. “I apologize for my transgressions.”
Breath hisses between Nevander’s teeth. This is a clever play. The only real play Gevain has left—and it just may work. Seren has shown his true strength today, but he’s too kind and inexperienced to execute a man on his knees.
Nevander loves Seren for that, but leaving Gevain alive is too dangerous. His rebellion is too severe. Nevander will gladly offer his own blade, but he bites back any advice. This is Seren’s choice.
“What transgressions do you apologize for?” Seren asks coolly.
Gevain barely cringes through the show of humility. “I apologize for deceiving you into my haven, and I apologize for harming the human changeling. I have no excuse but ambition. I have no greater desire than to make amends.”
Seren regards Gevain as if considering. His next question is a whiplash. “What of Daffodil?”
Gevain’s brow furrows. Nevander’s heart surges with affection.
“How many Daffodils have you left out there,” Seren demands, “cursed to silence or worse? For a year or longer?”
“I am fae,” Gevain snaps, jerking to his feet. “I strike bargains.”
Seren stares until Gevain kneels again.
“We are both fae. We deceive with the truth, and our bargains aren’t always fair.” Seren leans forward, and his words ring with power. “Lord Gevain, I sentence you to balance. May you suffer every curse and consequence you have inflicted upon an innocent creature.”
Gevain’s composure shatters. “You can’t—” he starts, before the first curse muffles his voice.
Blood spills from his horrified eyes. The sentence is ruthlessly fae. If Gevain had never harmed anyone, he would have survived this.
Nevander sees the rest from the very edge of his vision. Seren watches the prisoner intently, while Nevander watches Seren. Unshielded, accepting every wave of hatred and fear without flinching.
When the worst strikes, Seren pets Harmony’s tail.
Nevander should be proud. Seren’s strength is undeniable. He is a king by inheritance, by Summer’s magic, by his own self-proclaimed authority. This is what Nevander wanted for him.
Yet Nevander can’t help a selfish sense of loss. If Seren in ascension no longer needs him, Nevander has no purpose.
Gevain’s wings sprout, red and gold, then rot into blackened bones. Thorny vines gouge the flesh from his arms, from his ribs. He coughs, an awful, hacking sound, and flowers spill from his frothing lips.
Nevander witnesses the moment of death in Seren’s slight shudder. The brief close of golden eyes.
“Return the body to his family, if they want him,” Seren commands. “Court is adjourned. Or whatever I’m supposed to say.”
Someone laughs, then hushes. The room clears solemnly, with the promise of gossip to come. Courtiers, guards, tidingbirds. Tansy leaning on Primrose, Folly tripping over his robe. Soon the throne room is empty. Nevander is alone with his king—who slumps on the throne.
“Gods’ fucking humor,” Seren says, exhausted. “I haven’t even eaten breakfast yet.”
All the tension leaves Nevander’s body. “I can send for food, if you think you can stomach it.”
“Yes, that would be—” Seren winces, pale. “Let’s wait on food. I’d rather not throw up my first day as—oh, spirits, I’m king now.”
His dismay is a gift. A sign of trust. Nevander needs to be needed, and under the new weight of power, Seren will need him more than ever.
“I remain your loyal guardian,” Nevander says, and kneels before his king. His pulse races beneath steady words. “I won’t swear a new vow to you yet. I want to prove my devotion of my own free will, so you can believe that it’s true.”
“I cannot doubt your devotion.” Seren touches Nevander’s cheek. “But I very much look forward to your proof.”
Nevander kisses the warm center of Seren’s palm. “You’ve sworn yourself to Summer, but you aren’t trapped either. You can travel where you wish, and I will follow, if you’ll allow it.”
He kisses Seren’s hand again, just to make Seren’s eyelashes flutter.
“I can be king from anywhere,” Seren says, pulling Nevander up. “But it seems a shame to waste such a fine palace. And such a devoted Lord Guardian.”
They fall into the kiss like tumbling in midair, yet anchored to everything that matters. Seren’s lips part with surrender, and Nevander groans in worship.
A chirp of protest sounds between them.
Nevander had forgotten they weren’t entirely alone. “Sorry, my lady.”
Still scolding, Harmony darts away. Seren covers his mouth, muffling laughter, until wetness gleams in his eyes. For a moment, Nevander thinks he’s about to cry. The moment passes, and regret stirs Nevander’s heart.
“I should have been there,” Nevander whispers.
Seren drapes his arms around Nevander’s shoulders. “You’re here now, and I’m so tired.” The crown of light has faded, but his eyes are bright with need. “Would you take care of me?”
He’s the Summer King, but he’s still lost. Overwhelmed. Vulnerable. Only for Nevander.
“Yes, my love,” Nevander says, and braces against the throne to kiss his king again.