8. The Train
8
THE TRAIN
T he last four sleeping cars of the train had been reserved for Cylvan and his travel party, though they only needed two for everyone to have a place to stay. That left two empty cars between Saffron’s friends and the witchhunters who boarded after them, at the very least—but even that didn’t seem like far enough.
Had his mind not been overwhelmed by the sentiments shared by Cylvan with the crowd, followed by the knowledge of witchhunters there on the train with them, Saffron might have been able to appreciate the amenities extended. Like small apartments in their own right, clearly the most luxurious options reserved for the prince; the car at the very end was far fancier than even Saffron’s dormitory, with a plush full-sized bed, washbasin, buffet of fresh fruits and wine, attached restroom, cushioned seats at the windows for sitting and watching the landscapes go by. There was even something strangely charming about the gold-foiled signs posted about indicating how their experience may differ due to the ashen state. Fruit would no longer remain perpetually chilled and fresh due to the loss of the charm on the silver tray; windows would no longer remain perpetually clean, and may carry residue from weather or other external factors as they traveled; the ice in their buckets of chilled wine would inevitably melt; passengers would be able to hear the clattering of the tracks beneath them, but earplugs would be provided upon request.
Maeve and Aodhán of all people were in Cylvan’s assigned car helping themselves to the table of food when Sionnach and Saffron made their way back, Saoirse standing by the door with no care to stop either of them. She clearly had better things to worry about, looking restless as Cylvan was still on the platform addressing the crowd.
At her feet, Fiachra squirmed and screeched in her cage, flapping her wings and biting at the thin gold bars in demands to be released. Saffron hooked a finger through the top loop of the cage to carry her into Cylvan’s cab, letting her out where she swooped over Aodhán’s head before perching on the mantle and shaking herself out.
The prince joined them not much later—and the way he bypassed everyone else without a word to collapse straight into Saffron’s arms, wrapping him in a tight embrace with a long exhale, made any resentment burning in Saffron’s chest tighten, then loosen again. He circled his arms around Cylvan in return, closing his eyes and burying his face into his raven’s soft hair. The natural scent of his skin and fine clothing made all of Saffron’s nerves ebb in an instant. Even if tangled emotions still knotted in and out in his chest, he still found instant comfort in Cylvan’s arms.
“There are witchhunters on the train,” Cylvan said quietly, and Saffron nodded, squeezing him tighter.
“I know,” he whispered. “I saw them.” One of them looked right at me.
Before the anxiety could grip Saffron around the heart any tighter, Fiachra shot suddenly from the mantle like a drawn arrow, arching toward the ceiling and spreading her wings, then making sure to scrape her talons over Cylvan’s silver horn before sweeping to Saffron’s shoulder. Landing in a ruffle of feathers, she clacked her beak and flared her wings as Cylvan snapped at her to behave. Even Cylvan’s raven Balor sqwaked from his cage in the corner, as if complaining how it wasn’t fair that Fiachra would be let out while he remained imprisoned.
Any remaining tightness in the atmosphere popped with the rush of frenetic energy, allowing Saffron to breathe easily again. He cooed at his bird, petting under her beak as she purred and melted into hardly more than a well-mannered, winged housecat.
With the broken tension, Cylvan turned to regard the rest of the room, only then realizing his table of complimentary snacks was in the middle of being raided.
“Out! Everyone out!” He barked, throwing his hands up as Maeve and Aodhán scrambled out of reach with arms full of goodies. He shoved Sionnach out first, then attempted to do the same with Maeve, but the fey lady gave him a narrowed look of don’t you dare that halted him in his tracks. Still, he waved her away. “Let me have at least one moment of peace alone!”
“But I was hoping for a chance to get to know your Alvényan lord a little better,” Aodhán announced from the hallway, earning an eyeroll from Saoirse and a kick in the ass down the corridor, though they added as they went: “Come on, Lord Saffron, I promise it’ll be a lot more fun than watching Cylvan brush his hair!”
“People think you brush your own hair?” Saffron asked, receiving a pained look from Cylvan. Even Saoirse hid a muffled little laugh before bowing and sliding the cabin door shut. Cylvan went straight to lock it in their wake, intent on maintaining the peace he’d demanded.
He swept a plate of fresh fruit from the table and collapsed onto the bed. Plucking a strawberry from the silver platter, he held it out in offering, and Saffron took a bite before sighing and sliding onto the soft blankets alongside him.
Cylvan reclined on his back with one arm bent behind his head, closing his eyes as Saffron was occupied with Fiachra hopping around them, first pecking at the adornments on the duvet before taking interest in the fruits on the tray. Using one of the cheese knives, Saffron cut away the peel from a bright yellow pear slice, offering it to the bird who bit off the end and munched away with squeaks of delight.
It would have been the perfect time to mention Cylvan’s speech to all those people—but Saffron couldn’t bring himself to utter the words. Not when Cylvan looked so comfortable on his back, eyes closed like it was the first moment he’d had to truly rest with any semblance of peace all morning. Obvious by the dark circles under his eyes, by the way his handsome mouth parted slightly as he relaxed.
Saffron found himself too enchanted by his person to find the strength to break the silence, even as bright amethyst eyes opened to gaze at him in return. Beneath them, the train rumbled, and a wave of goodbyes and wishes for safe-travels sounded off from the crowd on the platform. Saffron couldn’t help but lift his head to look, but the windows facing the platform had the curtains securely drawn so no one would be able to look inside as they passed. Reassured, he glanced back to Cylvan again, finding the prince’s eyes still on him.
“What is it?” he asked, embarrassed. “Stop looking at me.”
“You can remove your glamour while you’re in here,” Cylvan answered, far from what Saffron expected. “No one will see.”
Saffron smirked, offering another piece of pear to Fiachra as the bird nibbled on his fingers demandingly. “ I don’t know, your highness. I hear there are black-veiled wraiths aboard this train, who knows if they’re in the walls watching us as we speak…”
“Don’t joke about that,” Cylvan chuckled, though it sounded a little miserable. He sat up, turning on his side and resting on his elbow. He regarded Saffron for another long moment, the tiniest smile curling the corner of his mouth. Reaching out, he gently brushed the back of his knuckles down Saffron’s cheek. “I haven’t seen you without it for a while.”
Saffron’s cheeks flushed at Cylvan’s touch, turning his eyes down as he wasn’t expecting how the rest of his body warmed at such a soft sensation. It had only been a week since the Midsummer Games, but even long before that, it had been some time since he and Cylvan had been intimate in a way that felt safe, reassured, with as much freedom as they would have liked to indulge in one another. Between the chaos, the emotions, the grief. Saffron didn’t realize exactly how much he’d missed Cylvan’s touch until it reached for him with such gentleness again, hating how his heart twisted greedily with want for more.
Undoing the top few buttons of his tunic, he once again down to grasp at the pendant that resembled the color of Cylvan’s eyes so perfectly. Pulling it over his head, the magic faded from the back of Saffron’s hands, revealing the uneven, scarred skin of his fingers and knuckles. He couldn’t imagine what his face must have looked like after so many days without sleeping, without eating as well as he should have, certain the comparison between the perfection of the glamour was enough to even make Cylvan reel. He never understood how Cylvan could stand it, to witness such a stark difference between the perfectly smooth, pretty features of the fey glamour, to those of a tired, plain human beantighe.
But hardly a moment passed before slender, pale fingers encompassed Saffron’s scarred hand, holding it as if carved to perfectly fit within one another. Saffron let out a small breath, smiling at the perfect being gazing back at him.
“Are you nervous?” Cylvan asked.
“This actually isn’t my first time,” Saffron answered back in a whisper, and Cylvan threw his head back with a laugh.
“Oh, nasty thing. You know what I really mean.”
Saffron laughed, too, finally relaxing on a bent elbow and offering Fiachra the last bit of pear before grabbing another to peel with the knife.
“I think I should be the one asking you that,” he said, letting the words linger as he thought back once more to Cylvan’s statement on the platform. He bit his lip, still debating whether it was worth to bring up, or if he should just let it go. Spinning and spinning and spinning, even Cylvan may have sensed it, growing dizzy enough to reach out and touch Saffron’s cheek to draw him back again.
“What’s on your mind?” he asked. Saffron grimaced, offering the next pear slice to Fiachra to buy a moment of time.
“It’s… nothing,” he finally decided in the moment. He didn’t want to ask about it. He didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to come across like the nervous wreck he really was beneath the numbing exhaustion of so many sleepless nights. Instead—he just wanted to trust Cylvan, knowing nothing the prince ever did for the public to see was easy for him. God knew Cylvan had blindly trusted Saffron in countless ways before—once even at the cost of losing his own sibling. “Do you think we should be worried about the witchhunters on the train?” he asked instead. “I assume they’re also going to Erelaine to inspect the damage, maybe…” He trailed off as Fiachra nibbled on the pear slice, nicking his finger with the sharp end of her beak. He barely felt it.
Perhaps Ryder really would still be there. After all, he had an association with the witchhunters, in one way or another. It would make sense for some to travel to Erelaine to see him, wouldn’t it? Perhaps he’d even called for them. The thought made Saffron’s stomach sink—but then his heart squeezed the other way. The thought of confronting Ryder scared him to death, but at the same time—there was a part of him bloodthirsty enough to use the opportunity to get what he wanted back from that man who’d stolen so much.
“I have nothing to be afraid of with such a powerful witch by my side,” Cylvan answered with all the seriousness in the world, breaking through Saffron’s distracting thoughts. Saffron rolled his eyes, but couldn’t resist smiling. He plucked a strawberry from the fruit tray and offered it to his other favorite bird, letting Cylvan kiss his fingertips once they reached his lips. “Mmmh… Especially in my weakened, ashen state, what else could a withered sídhe lord ask for?”
“‘Withered,’” Saffron laughed, leaning down to press his face into the side of Cylvan’s neck, breathing in his skin, unable to resist combing fingers through the hair draping long over the blankets from the nape of his neck. Rich with verdant perfumes that brought images of ferns and oak trees swathed in golden chains, a welcome respite from the reality. “You’re still a fearsome sídhe lord to me, your highness. Even if you can’t summon the winds, for now.”
“Or compel you to do whatever I please. For now.”
“Oh, are you sure?” Saffron pulled back with a coy smile. “Here so many gossip pamphlets gave me the impression the all-powerful sìdhe fey could still compel those weaker than them, despite their ashen states. Perhaps you should try. Maybe I am enchantable, yet.”
Cylvan’s smile curled into something wicked. “Kiss me,” he said, honeyed and tempting, making goosebumps grow over Saffron’s skin even without any real compelling magic to sweeten the command. He knew as well as Cylvan did, though, that the gossip pamphlets were technically right. His prince was only being a tease.
He leaned down to obey, sliding a hand beneath Cylvan’s ear to cup his jaw and tangle fingers back in his hair. He kissed Cylvan softly at first, then with more intention, until Cylvan’s hands found his face in return and pulled Saffron closer. Fruit on the tray skittered off and over the blankets, onto the floor as Saffron bent his leg over Cylvan’s hips, straddling him, kissing him with all the hot breathlessness of someone who’d missed the taste as much as a person suffocating missed breath.
Cylvan’s hand locked against the back of Saffron’s head, holding him in place, pinning their mouths together as his opposite hand trailed up Saffron’s hip, then slid beneath the bottom edge of his tunic. Warm fingers teased the skin of Saffron’s stomach, making his breath catch slightly.
“I’m not afraid, either,” Saffron exhaled against Cylvan’s demanding mouth, as sharp nails slid further up under his tunic and grasped at his waist. He pressed his hips into Cylvan’s, holding his prince’s face like it would disappear if he didn’t. “I’m not afraid of anything, if you’re with me.”
Cylvan lifted beneath him, hooking an arm around Saffron’s middle and turning him onto his back. Pressing him into the pillows without ever pulling their mouths apart. His knee slid between Saffron’s thighs, pinning him as Saffron rolled his hips in response.
“You’re mine,” he promised, his hungry mouth pulling away to travel down Saffron’s jaw, to his throat, sucking and biting at the thin skin and leaving blossoms of heat in its wake. “You’re mine, you’re mine, Saffron—no one will ever lay a hand on you, ever again, for as long as I live. No matter what happens next—nothing, no one will ever take you from me.”
“Cylvan?” Saffron whispered, sensing the slightest hitch in the prince’s voice. But Cylvan’s arms remained locked around him, holding him close, his face pressed flush into the side of Saffron’s neck. No longer kissing him, breaths growing shaky. “Hey…”
“You have nothing to be afraid of, with me,” Cylvan said in a breath. His hand cupping the back of Saffron’s head flexed, before tangling fingers in Saffron’s hair. “No one will take you away. I’ll keep you safe, I’ll protect you, for as long as I live—I won’t lose you too, I won’t—I won’t?—”
“Cylvan…!” Saffron attempted again, heart pounding in concern. He attempted to sit up, but Cylvan held him firmly against the bed. His muscles tightened all over, clinging to Saffron so unflinchingly it soon became hard to breathe—and all Saffron could do was wrap his arms around Cylvan in return. Cylvan, who began to tremble. Who held his breath before releasing all the emotion in a shaking exhale, like he desperately fought to keep it at bay.
Saffron pet the back of his head; he held Cylvan close, whispering reassurances, kissing his cheek, the side of his temple, all while stroking his hair. I’m alright; you’re alright; I’m right here, you haven’t lost me. You’re not going to lose me.
Cylvan never sobbed, not like Saffron did—but the train was already well on its way, with its rhythmic clanging over the tracks, the steady swaying of its cars, before his raven finally fully relaxed again. All the while, whispering apologies, but never pulling away. Holding Saffron close, closer, never loosening his grasp. Like he truly believed it would take one only moment of loosening his embrace, and Saffron would sink through the floor. He would vanish into the ether, swallowed by the veil as easily as Asche had been. Saffron could only repeat the reassurances that everything was fine, he was right there, Cylvan would not lose him—and as he uttered them, again and again, hoping they offered his raven any peace at all, there was only a growing indignation in his chest. A sparking flame, a wrath in his bones that had burned ever since he first learned Ryder was not fully human like he’d always claimed.
All Saffron had wanted was a romantic summer, to enjoy at Cylvan’s side—and even after all the destruction he caused, even long gone where Saffron couldn’t find him, Ryder continued to steal even the smallest moments of bliss out from under Saffron’s feet.
Saffron would never forgive him for it; and Ryder would know it for himself, soon enough.