Chapter XXIX
CHAPTER XXIX
Petrified, Clodagh gaped at her daughter, the harsh lines of her face loosening as her jaw went slack. A shock many of the surrounding mortals mirrored. A collective curse hung in the air between them all. Shared. Annind, Fergus, the king of Roktling who’d known her since she was a bairn, the lady of Aithirn who’d gifted Aisling her first gelding on her tenth year.
“Sister?” Iarbonel, her second oldest brother, spoke first, against his own volition, Aisling could tell, for he himself appeared stunned the words had left his lips. But the cadence of his voice, his mortal accent, and the wave of familiarity its sound inevitably conjured weakened Aisling. Aisling did her best to rival the scowls of the other half of the mortals. Expressions, faces, features so different than the fair folk she’d grown accustomed to. The ones whose shock was only equaled by their glares of pure disdain. Of betrayal. Those belonging to Starn, Friseal, who’d been her private tutor as well as her father’s hand, and the king of Kinbreggan to name a few.
The mortal queen had anticipated experiencing relief, joy, excitement at being reunited with her own kind. But now only anger simmered in her belly. For how dare they narrow their eyes at Aisling as though she’d betrayed them? She who sacrificed herself, had sacrificed everything on their behalf? For the sake of their peace?
But there were others whose expressions Aisling found unreadable. Among them were her father and Dagfin.
Aisling’s heart caught at the sight of her old friend. She hadn’t expected to see him this soon. To witness him standing beside her clann, before the northern mortals, at his father’s side, the shimmer of his stormy eyes incalculably alarming. Capturing her soul and pulling her beneath the Roktan seas. But what he thought, how he felt at the sight of her, he kept locked away deep inside the crypt of himself. A crypt that growing up, Aisling had often searched for the key to.
Aisling gripped Saoirse’s reins. The stag prancing atop the invisible line Lir and Nemed had drawn between their kingdoms. The fair folk on one side and her clannsmen on the other.
And as soon as Aisling’s stag arrived beside Lir’s, the fae king tossed off his helmet and leapt lithely from his mount to approach her own. He offered Aisling a hand, a hand she accepted without thought as he lowered her to the earth, clasping her waist as he did so, his touch protective, desperate. The will to hold more than her mere hand, harrowing his red-rimmed eyes. Eyes riddled with the signs of sleepless nights and rumored mania.
She’d been wrong—accused him of planning her execution when he’d known all along. Known that which Aisling was ignorant to. The beat of Lir’s heart knotted around her own as he held her hand possessively. The curve of his mouth flecked with tortured longing.
“Aisling,” Nemed piped.
Aisling startled at the sound of his voice. How it strained, struggled to maintain its composure. Startled at the glazing of his eyes devouring the sight of her. The fire hand smiled, the scar across his face stretching. And it appeared genuine .
The others gaped at Aisling and the fae king, devouring the sight of them side by side. Dagfin’s own expression at last cracking and revealing the fury of the Ashild beneath. The horror.
Aisling resisted the urge to squirm. Even the slightest of movements would reveal everything she felt towards her clann. A tuath who’d always been able to see through her, seemingly capable of reading her mind at will.
“Aisling, I—I can’t express how wonderful it is to see you,” her father continued, soaking in the sight of her alive and well after months, nearly a year, in a world of terrors and demons. Those he’d led her to believe were golems crouching in caves, sucking on the bones of children. “Come, come. Let me get a good look at you.”
Aisling wasn’t certain how to act, behave, feel, or think. Against her own volition, Aisling looked to Lir. But his tormented expression had shadowed, forewarning his bride of the monster she called her father. His twin axes winked back at her with a promise of violence.
So, Aisling inhaled, swallowing the bile gathering in her throat, and nodded towards the fae king. And as soon as Aisling’s hand slipped from Lir’s own, she sensed him tense as a single step towards her clann became many and her father awkwardly rushed towards her, lumbering on his prosthetic legs. He wrapped his daughter in his arms and squeezed.
Aisling froze. The smell of him—of Tilrish spices, of fires crackling in the hearth, of the handmade soap Aisling’s chambermaid botched the recipe for. Of home.
Tears pricked the backs of Aisling’s eyes as she stood there. Motionless. Unable to move. Paralyzed by this distant dream rapidly manifesting around her. A reunion she never believed she’d survive long enough to experience. The hope of a day such as this was one of her only motivators during the first several weeks amongst the Aos Sí. And now that she was here, now that she was experiencing it…none of it was how she’d imagined, especially herself.
Nemed released her, beaming with all the warmth of home.
“You’re in good health,” he said, a question or a statement Aisling was unsure, for the softness in his voice took her off guard. Perhaps he hadn’t yet borne a moment of clarity to fully acknowledge the fae opals, the webs, the pixie dew draping Aisling’s curves. Garments Aisling believed would drive him mad enough to estrange and condemn his only daughter to the gallows. But it hadn’t.
“I am,” Aisling spoke for the first time. Near wincing at the sensation of Lir’s glare piercing her back as he forced himself to witness the image of Aisling and the fire hand embracing. For she herself struggled to make coherent sense of her feelings and everything unraveling like a thread pulled too soon from a tapestry.
One of the stags huffed amidst the silence, reminding Nemed of the fair folk before him. The image of these creatures, however, immediately sharpened the violet eyes he shared with Aisling. An edge of loathing he didn’t shuffle away but rather embraced as he cleared his throat and addressed the crowd of Aos Sí and mortals alike.
“Tonight, we dine together for there is much to discuss between our kinds. A meeting between our leaders is overdue. And tomorrow we celebrate another interracial union, the purest of symbols for the newfound peace between mortals and Sidhe.”
Sidhe . He hadn’t said Aos Sí. Aisling hadn’t heard of another moniker for their race until the day Galad had mentioned it. So why now did her father unveil a truth he never had before? Why now did he drop one of his many veils?
“In the time being,” Nemed continued. “I hope the Damh Bán doesn’t mind if I steal his bride away for the evening.” His violet eyes flashed towards Lir. “And should you grow bored while she’s away, Friseal, court advisor and hand to the high king, would be more than honored to begin debriefing the Sidhe on the mortal perspective with regards to”—Nemed paused—“our relations both among ourselves and among others.”
Aisling’s eyes darted towards her father, the urge to confront him growing with every breath she forced herself to take.
Lir’s stag stomped behind him. “That’s not possible. Our queen requires rest after her journey.”
After having travelled through the empress of the dryad’s mirrors and emerged in subterranean aqueducts months later , Aisling thought to herself.
“I assure you,” Lir continued, “there will be more than enough time over the next several days to speak with your daughter.” A feral inflection perverted his every word. That same mania she’d read in his eyes.
A vein appeared down the center of Nemed’s forehead. A gesture she’d beheld far too often throughout her childhood. A gesture she’d come to fear. But it was also Dagfin whose eyes shifted to the fae king with violent intent written across every fiber of his body.
“Aisling’s own clann is more than happy to accommodate any of her needs,” Nemed said. “She will both rest and find unparalleled sanctuary amongst her own kind. Her family,” the fire hand challenged, his tone light, but Aisling cringed at the venom she tasted in every word. The challenge he staked into the earth between himself and Lir.
Lir glared at the high king and Aisling knew he would rather be burned alive than surrender to the fire hand. So, the mortal queen stepped between them, raising her chin.
“I’ll join you until dinner this evening,” Aisling said to her father, hardening her expression so it exposed none of her inner turmoil. “After all, I’ve been dying to hear your response to my letter and what occurred to the raven, who not you but another returned to me.”
Nemed’s brows rose, eyes widening with surprise. Perhaps he hadn’t expected her to hold him accountable for never responding to her letters. Perhaps he’d forgotten about it himself. But his shock was short-lived. The fire hand swiftly collected himself, stealing away any emotion behind the thick walls of iron he’d built around vulnerabilities Aisling wasn’t certain existed.
Aisling turned to Lir then, exchanging a look she hoped he’d understand. But she couldn’t tell. His expression was one mortals had encountered on battlefields but never lived to describe.
Lir nodded his head at last, steadying his mount’s growing anxiety.
The fae king turned towards Galad, tipping his head in his direction. A silent command. And without hesitation, the fae knight stepped forward till he stood directly behind Aisling, hand on the hilt of his greatsword.
“My first knight will escort her,” Lir explained, returning Aisling’s look with one of his own.
“I can assure you, there is no safer place for Aisling than amongst her own blood,” Nemed argued, his voice as smooth as milk, the vein atop his forehead growing more prominent, his scar reddening.
“It’s non-negotiable.” The forest hushed in response to their lord’s tone, a subtle growl deepening his every word.
Nemed considered for a moment, his knuckles burning white.
“Of course.” Aisling’s father bowed curtly to the fae king, before spinning on his heels. His back now facing all the fair folk whose temper matched their savage sovereign’s.
“Starn, escort your sister and her shadow to my private chambers. I’ll join you all in a moment,” Nemed said. Without a word, the sea of mortals parted to make way for their high king as the mortal sovereigns followed in his steps. The anxiety of turning their backs to the fair folk written across their mortal features .
Starn approached then, his countenance softening slightly. And behind him, Iarbonel, Annind, Fergus, and Dagfin waited for Aisling, gripping the hafts of their weapons. Still eyeing Lir who was already ignoring Friseal as he made his introductions to the fae king; Friseal hadn’t changed in the slightest since Aisling had last seen him. Instead, Lir focused his attention on Aisling, eyes glinting through the thickening haze.
“Keep your distance lest you answer in blood.” Galad moved closer to Aisling, stopping Starn mid-stride.
Her eldest brother scoffed, turning to exchange glances with the rest of her kin.
“I wondered if I’d ever see you again.” Starn beamed at Galad while squinting his charcoal eyes. Eyes he and the rest of Aisling’s brothers had stolen from their mother.
“You know him?” Iarbonel asked, placing a hand on his brother’s shoulder.
“Aye, he does,” Galad answered for him. “We’re well acquainted.”
At his words, Aisling swatted away the image of the fae knight’s mass branding. The vicious abuse her eldest brother had inflicted on the one who sought to free his caera .
“You’ve recovered well since the last I laid eyes on you, other than Aisling’s union, of course,” Starn continued. “In fact, you promised my head on a pike if ever again we met face to face.”
“A promise I’m more than willing to uphold should you not quiet your tongue. After all, I need only wait for time to shrivel your bones and slow your beating heart.”
“It appears this fae has a death wish.” Fergus flushed with rage. “How dare you speak thus before the future high king of all Rinn Dúin?”
Starn rolled his neck, ignoring his younger brother. “There are stories that claim your iron scars still burn like the day they were dealt. So, tell me, fae, do yours still wake you in the night? Or is the memory of my face alone enough to bind me to your late-night horrors?”
Galad laughed but it was humorless. Hollow. Chilling the air they shared till Annind noticeably shivered.
“I harbor no late-night horrors, fleshling. I am the nightmare your clannsmen fear when your dirt roads and your iron walls can no longer guide nor shelter you.”
Aisling saw the loathing churning in Starn’s expression. The veins cording his neck and painting his rounded ears red. But she felt no sympathy nor pity for her own blood. What he’d done was unforgivable in Aisling’s eyes. There was reason and vengeance in death and destruction if committed in the name of their home, their clannsmen, their futures. But what Starn had done was senseless hate. A wicked form of pleasure he’d satisfied with Galad’s torment.
“Enough,” Aisling spoke before any others could. “You’re meant to be escorting me towards Father’s private chambers, are you not?”
Starn reeled, facing Aisling for the first time. Aisling’s heart twisted at the sight of him. For there was a lack of recognition in his eyes. They were an arm’s reach away, and yet farther than they’d ever been before.
“Hello, Sister.” Her eldest brother extended the curve of his arm to Aisling. A mortal custom Aisling had forgotten, her brief, puzzled expression exposing her lapse in memory, for her brothers and Dagfin each exchanged knowing glances. She should’ve remembered such etiquette. It hadn’t been that long since she partook in such customs. Yet, it felt like a lifetime.
At the gesture, Galad half drew his sword, pausing only for Aisling’s touch on his arm, her violet eyes requesting he surrender this battle. For now. And so, he stood down, allowing Starn to guide his sister onward.
“It’s good to see you.” Iarbonel eyed Aisling, too afraid to touch her lest her fae shadow react once more .
By now, the Aos Sí had dispersed behind them, whispering skalla into the oncoming storm. So, Galad followed a pace behind her and her brothers. The intangible cord between herself and Lir tightened. But she dared not glance back at him as her brothers led her into the mortal camp.
Each of her brothers chatted idly amongst themselves. Starn’s pointed expression eyeing Aisling from his periphery, an expression that, as children, had struck both fear and respect into herself, Iarbonel, Fergus, Annind, and Dagfin. Starn, the eldest of them all and destined to be high king before even Dagfin was to be king, carried an air of power. A shrewd, cold sense of authority since Aisling could remember. When Starn spoke, others listened. The strongest, quickest, mightiest of the Neimedh children.
Dagfin was the only one to keep silent, observing the mortal queen as though she might grow horns at any moment. And perhaps she would, Aisling thought to herself. But neither Starn, Iarbonel, Fergus, nor Annind were truly the Roktan prince’s brothers. Not by blood. But over the years he’d spent in Tilren, they’d become brothers. Played like brothers. Ridiculed one another like brothers. Fought like brothers. For one day, they’d all believed law would make them so if friendship couldn’t entirely.
“We’re glad you’re alive, little sister,” Annind chimed, a remark met with one of Iarbonel’s looks of disapproval.
Something bitter stuck to Aisling’s tongue. Something bitter and thick, eager to be swallowed. But before she could dwell on it further, the crowds dispersed, unveiling the labyrinth of mortal tents spread before her. Striped tents lined with both fiery torches and iron-clad sentinels alike. Humans, so many of them all in one place. All speaking in a tongue she understood. Foods, drinks, spices she could freely eat without fear of enchantment. Clothing styles she recognized. Fiddle, lute, harp strings, and medleys that washed over her in a wave of nostalgia for they were all tunes, melodies, and notes she’d heard since she was a bairn.
But the hospitality she’d once experienced, the respect from her people, was replaced with potent disapproval. Eyeing her as if she were a member of the fair folk themselves. Swatting their children’s bottoms should they not rush indoors the moment she passed. Children who whispered to one another when they believed their mothers distracted.
“They say he’s killed the Lady Aisling. Replaced her with a changeling,” said one.
Another child shook their head. “I heard she exchanged her mortal soul in exchange for magic.”
Aisling’s stomach soured for where she once believed she’d find belonging here, at last meet a haven and sanctuary amongst these humans, she’d never felt more like a stranger.
Never felt more like an outlander than amongst her own kind.