16. The Party
16
THE PARTY
S affron wasn’t sure if he fell into a full sleep, or just some sort of veil-induced meditative state—but whichever, it was the most rest he’d had in days. A welcome rest, despite sinking so deeply into it he wasn’t sure he would ever open his eyes again; a welcome rest, even if he felt as if intangible fingers combed through every inch of him out of curiosity, like a mortician slicing open a human body for the first time. Wishing to see how it worked. Wishing to see what things he hid inside. Fingers leaving behind bright, colorful, sparkling scars with every tear through his skin.
When he did stir, it was on a bed of earthy-smelling blankets and pillows. Bodies shifted around him constantly, as the rest of the borough continued through its day as if nothing had changed; only the occasional hand or voice entered the part of the community tent where Saffron laid, touching his face or combing hair from his eyes, as if checking to see if he continued breathing. Somewhere in the distance, he overheard Cylvan conversing with many others at once, sometimes with amusement, sometimes with harsh and stern discussion. Had Saffron not been so exhausted, he might have gone to join him. Knowing he was addressing of grievances of the satyr community by himself, even though Saffron had promised to join him.
When Saffron finally roused fully, it was already dark. The moon was high in the sky, air rich with smoking meats and fresh wheat breads, warm sugar and roasted fruits. The occasional flute or string instrument plucked off toward a clearing back in the woods, and Saffron, for a moment, though he was back in Beantighe Village overhearing the sound of distant satyr festivities that were so unbearably difficult to ignore. Calling out to him, wishing for him to join them, despite how well he knew what would happen if he listened. If he didn’t lose his way in the woods, first.
But then Sionnach came to check on him, hands soft with scented lotions to do away with the callouses of riding horseback for so long. Saffron cracked open his bleary eyes to regard them, not realizing a lazy smile infected his mouth until it was too late once he noticed how they were dressed. Essentially naked, except a collection of beaded chain jewelry that draped from their hips and shoulders, a crown of leaves and twigs in their hair, more vines woven up their legs from ankle to mid-thigh. Due to being only half-satyr, they didn’t have the same thickness of hair from their navel and lower, so they covered their bare skin with a patch of embroidered fabric to protect any modesty they had left. Something told him they normally didn’t bother—but considering the company of that night, they felt it the wiser choice.
Their face burned red hot when they realized Saffron was definitely staring, grabbing his face to look him over every inch and determine if he was still fairy-drunk, or finally sober again.
“Father insists on throwing a party for you all,” they explained as Saffron finally found the strength to sit up with a grunt.
“You look cute,” he complimented them. “Do I get to wear something like that, too?”
“My mother offered a few things for you,” Sionnach said, producing a small handful of garments that were far more modest than the outfit Sionnach wore. Saffron frowned, holding up a tunic better fit for a fey lord than a human dancing around with a clutch of half-naked satyrs; when Sionnach noticed, they sighed like they should have known better.
Providing him with an outfit as scant as their own, Saffron was far too amused with how he jangled with every movement, how the wrong bend of his legs or his waist exposed his bare ass or other parts for all to see.
“Are you sure?” Sionnach asked, like they truly believed Saffron was only trying to be polite to satyr traditions—but Saffron just gave them a look.
“Humans dance naked in the woods all the time,” he reassured, swaying his hips sensually before swishing back and forth more aggressively and grinning as the jewelry whipped at his bare skin. “Do you think they’d mind if I draw some of them while they party?”
“Oh—I think they would like it a little too much, to be quite honest…” Sionnach politely declined, and Saffron followed their eyes to see why. On the other side of the tent, a scattered gallery of satyr faces were angled toward him, watching in curiosity. Perhaps more than that, as their eyes trailed up and down his exposed skin. Saffron was the one to flush that time, laughing sharply as Sionnach grabbed his hand to lead him away.
On their way out of the tent, Saffron grabbed at whatever snacks or drinks he could find—starving after sleeping through dinner—and soon enough, satyrs were even happy to oblige him. Offering candies, pastries, goblets of special wine that tasted of spiced herbs and pressed apples. Saffron made sure to remind Sionnach to keep Cylvan away from those drinks, even as another was poured sensually into his mouth, and he had no choice but to swallow it back or else he choke. All while the feeling of a satyr’s strong hand cupping the back of his head was as enthralling as he ever thought it would be.
“Has Cylvan been behaving himself?” he asked as he really thought about it, hand-in-hand with Sionnach as the world already buzzed with wine, making their way down an illuminated, winding path toward the satyrs’ festivity clearing. Where the sound of energetic music, the smell of more foods made Saffron’s mouth water.
“They have all been surprisingly well-behaved,” Sionnach told him, grabbing a goblet of their own to throw back in order to keep up with Saffron’s relentless pace. “I admit, even though his expression is sourer than ever, Prince Cylvan has sat and listened to every grievance every satyr has brought to him. Even had Saoirse taking notes of it all, though he can’t make any promises of anything…”
“What sort of grievances do satyrs have for fey kings? The borough seems pretty self-sufficient,” Saffron went on, pausing at the edge of the brightly-lit clearing just long enough to untangle his amethyst necklace from the other strands of jewelry around his neck.
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean help shouldn’t be offered,” Sionnach answered. At first, their tone bordered on agitated, like they instinctively thought they had to go on the defensive against another ignorant fey lord—but eventually it softened again, especially once Saffron managed to pull his amethyst free of the other chains. Reminding them he wasn’t just another fey lord acting ignorant on purpose. “Satyrs are unique, in that we have such a long history and relationship to the oldest forests of Alfidel—but because we look so much different from high fey, we’re still considered more wild fey than citizens. So while we might be offered most of the same protections and benefits of the high fey—they’re never eagerly given. We’re never prioritized when there is a disaster nearby. If a forest fire burns down a borough somewhere, Avren is slow to send aid. They assume because satyrs live off the land normally, they don’t need help from the cities.”
“Did something happen recently?” Saffron asked, before grimacing. “I mean, other than the obvious, I guess…”
“There have been issues around here for a while, especially with the fey town nearby. And, well… other long-time residents…” Sionnach’s eyes drifted off, and Saffron followed, finally spotting Copper amongst the crowd. Standing near Maeve at the edge of the clearing, the fox-lord was shirtless, as naked as Saffron, and shimmying his hips back and forth to show off how his body chains jingled. Saffron had to take another drink, realizing he and his roommate really weren’t all that different.
“The dé Bricríus?” Saffron asked to clarify. “Maeve mentioned Copper’s family also lives outside of Tyara.”
“More reason why the kings have been slow to do anything about their harassment,” Sionnach muttered. “Renard dé Bricríu is one of the oldest sídhe heads-of-house in Alfidel—and has a long history of despising King Ailir. Essentially leaving him and his sons to cause whatever trouble they wish, without consequences. Destroying the borough’s crops, damming up creeks used for drinking water, strong-arming contracts from Tyara claiming they own pieces of the forest where satyrs have historically lived… such things rarely stick, but they still cause problems until sorted out.”
“I’m sorry,” Saffron said, pressing his thumbs together as guilt chewed on the inside of his stomach. He recalled what Ryder had once said about King Ailir’s weak grasp on the throne. How there were many people who were just waiting for him to do something they could use to get him out of power. He searched for Cylvan again, hoping to spot him nearby, sighing when his raven was still hidden somewhere amongst the crowd.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to ruin the mood,” Sionnach went on with an awkward laugh. “It’s complicated, like most things.”
“Yeah,” Saffron breathed, then shook his head, before glancing to his friend over his shoulder. “Well—let’s try and have fun tonight, despite it all. This is the closest I’ve ever gotten to a satyr borough—though not for their lack of trying. Spring Court satyrs occasionally followed me around the Agate Wood, trying to lure me away with them… almost went a few times, too. I probably would have enjoyed myself, at least at first.”
Sionnach blushed again, shaking their head. “I’m glad you didn’t. I promise no one will try anything strange with you tonight—unless you really want to.”
“Don’t tempt me. According to what I’ve read in books, like I said… I probably would have enjoyed myself.”
“Just at first.”
“Who’s to say.”
“Well—don’t believe everything you read about satyrs in books. Gods, I don’t even want to imagine what kinds of ideas you’re getting right now.”
Saffron’s smile spread wider. “You mean they’re not going to make a feast of me? One by one? Or even all at once?”
Sionnach’s grimace deepened. “Once again—not unless you let them.” They watched Saffron’s expression, perhaps hoping he would finally break and laugh and promise them no, of course not —but Saffron couldn’t think of a better way to really experience wild satyrs than allowing them to do whatever they pleased to him.
“I mean—with the prince here with you, I doubt any will be so bold,” Sionnach added quickly, face going bright red as rowan berries. “They wouldn’t want to offend him?—”
“Well then, even better for me,” Saffron sighed, running his fingers down the delicate chains that decorated his chest, dangling down to his stomach, where only that one strip of cloth covered him. “I always like it when Cylvan gets a little jealous.”
“Naughty,” Sionnach whispered, like they couldn’t believe it. Saffron just continued smiling at them.
Whistling pan flutes and the rhythm of hands on drums filled the clearing as Saffron and Sionnach made their way into the thick of it, interspersed with songs that every satyr seemed to know; even Sionnach hummed along as they made they way to where more wine and snacks were spread on a table for anyone to take as they pleased. One satyr woman hovering around the area was more than happy to offer Saffron what he was looking for, inviting him to lean forward and open his mouth for her to pour the wine directly. He obliged, laughing when it spilled down his chin and into his hair, pretending like he didn’t notice how half a dozen eyes turned toward him when he straightened up again.
Saffron followed Sionnach to the center of one of the grassy circles with the fewest bodies, where they took hands and Sionnach showed him how to dance like a satyr. On the balls of his feet, extending his foot without too much movements in the ankles, circling around one another not unlike some of the fey dances he’d learned from Catrín while preparing for Cylvan’s suitor galas. Satyr dances never maintained that relaxed pace for long, though, always picking up before slowing down again, circling one another before lifting and bowing their partner over their head. Sionnach didn’t have the strength for anything like that, but they still danced back-to-back, or chest-to-chest, hooking legs together with each turn and using one another’s weight to counterbalance so they didn’t fall while turning.
The dances were easier once a little drunk, where Saffron managed the steps well enough for another satyr to step in and ask to dance with him. Then another, and another, until soon there was practically a crowd circled around where he and Sionnach started, all watching him, one by one slipping in when they got the chance. Always smiling, pressing their nose into the side of Saffron’s neck, trailing fingers up the length of Saffron’s spine or tucking a soft, furry knee between Saffron’s thighs with each turn, until soon Saffron was hardly more than drunk, melting wax to be spun and turned and passed around between whichever satyr had their hands extended for him to fall into.
Upon stumbling onto a stump for a chance to catch his breath, Saffron politely declined any other offers to dance—or other amusement—wishing instead for a glass of water amongst it all. étaín mac Carce of all people came to his rescue, offering a ceramic cup filled with crisp, fresh water. She wore even less than Saffron did, fully nude with only anklet chains donning little bells that twinkled as she moved. Saffron only stared for a moment, before swiftly glancing away again with a drunk apology.
“Nothing to apologize for,” she said, kneeling in the grass alongside where he sat. “It seems you fit right in, yourself. There’s no shyness here.”
“It’s a lot of fun,” Saffron said, gazing over at her again, appreciating her appearance—but not necessarily her nudity. She wore her hair long and loose, golden-blonde strands braided in an out of a leafy crown of twigs similar to Sionnach’s. Sionnach definitely took after their mothers soft features, particularly her eyes and mouth. “You look like there’s nothing you regret leaving behind.”
She raised an eyebrow at him in question, and Saffron attempted to remember exactly what words he’d just said. “I mean—you’re beautiful. Like—one of the most beautiful high fey I’ve ever seen.”
“Oh, honey, you’re drunk.”
“Yeah, I’m—I’m wine-soaked. This satyr-made stuff doesn’t hesitate, does it? I guess—what I’m really trying to say is—you look really happy, despite being covered in dirt.”
She smirked, reaching up to nudge the bottom of Saffron’s water cup back to his mouth. He obediently took a big swallow.
“I think I understand what you mean.”
“Most high fey don’t enjoy running around in the woods,” Saffron attempted to clarify anyway, motioning with his cup toward where he suddenly, finally, spotted Cylvan hovering alongside Maeve at the opposite edge of the clearing. The prince remained in his dark clothing from earlier in the day, to Saffron’s disappointment, while Maeve freely entertained herself with a gaggle of pretty satyrs clustered around her, feeding her snacks and pouring wine in her mouth while braiding her hair. Cylvan, meanwhile, just watched Saffron. Saffron smiled at him.
“The youngest dé Bricríu is certainly an exception, isn’t he?” étaín asked, and Saffron followed her eyes to where Sionnach was stiffly, awkwardly trying to show Copper the steps to the dance happening around them. Being nearly twice Sionnach’s size, the two of them standing hand-in-hand looking almost comedic, but Saffron could practically see the fox-lord’s tail swishing back and forth in amusement. His eyes certainly lingered on Sionnach’s bare skin and legs more often than their face—though he wasn’t the only one, Saffron also noticed, as other satyr gazes dwelled on Sionnach as well. He suddenly wondered if they ever had to worry about suitor galas like Cylvan did, considering they were the unpartnered daurae of the Fall Court satyr prince.
“I’m glad they’re being nice to each other,” Saffron said with a sigh. “They normally don’t get along.”
“That does not surprise me. Sionnach is slow to make friends,” étaín said, before her eyes returned to Saffron, smiling at him. “This is the first time they’ve ever brought anyone home—I’m so grateful for you, your highness, more than you know. I’m more aware than most how difficult it can be to keep friends with non-high fey when you yourself are being watched at every turn. You’ve even convinced Copper and Prince Cylvan to show a little bit of kindness to my child—you must indeed be a very powerful witch.”
Saffron flushed. He finished drinking his water.
“Um, a few days ago, Copper mentioned something that upset Sionnach a lot—I don’t know the context, but it was something about being honorable, and how Sionnach wouldn’t even exist if their mother—erm, you, I assume—had done the ‘honorable thing’…?”
“Did he?” étaín asked. Her mood instantly soured, and Saffron put his hands out, but couldn’t think of anything to say to save what little wisp of respect she held for Copper in the first place. “And you would like to know what he meant by something like that? I’m surprised Prince Cylvan hasn’t already told you all about it.”
Saffron smiled awkwardly. Someone passed by and offered him a new goblet of wine. He gladly accepted it.
“I was King Ailir’s first fiancée,” she said, reaching down to pluck a clover flower from the grass by her knees. “We’d been good friends since school, and it seemed a natural fit. But then, one afternoon while staying with friends in the Fall Court, I twisted my ankle while gathering flowers in the woods… and Carce found me.” She sighed, like the memory was enough to make her swoon. “He wrapped my injury and carried me all the way back to the house. He was so gentle and careful with me, like he thought I’d break—I only realized exactly how possible that was the first time we… well, his arms aren’t even the strongest part of him, if you know what I mean…” she giggled. Saffron wanted to know. But he didn’t press it. “The morning after carrying me home, he even left the basket of flowers I’d dropped by my window, with a written apology for taking a few to remember me by. Any chance of me becoming Ailir’s Harmonious Queen was lost, that easily.”
Saffron’s cheeks burned a little hotter, searching for the prince of the satyrs in the crowd, spotting where he’d kicked Copper out of the way to dance with Sionnach properly.
“I get it,” he said without thinking, making étaín laugh. He shook his head, sipping at his wine again before allowing his eyes to trail back over to Cylvan, who no longer sat near Maeve. Saffron exhaled a little breath, worried the prince wasn’t enjoying himself enough to stay. “That… must have been very hard for you,” he said, still searching the crowd for his horned daemon. “Since we first left Avren, we’ve been followed at every turn by these gossip writers… it’s been horrible, and so stressful, but… we haven’t even done anything all that scandalous yet. I can’t imagine what they must have written about you.”
“I can assure you, it was indeed horrible ,” she sighed, but a little smile remained on her mouth. “I came from a noble fey family, you know—so to not only deny my right to the throne, then to accept disownment from my family for choosing a satyr as a husband, it was world-ending in so many ways. But the more time I spent with him, and with all of them, away from the pomp and circumstance of Avren, the sooner I realized—my world my have ended, but it was never a world I wanted. The one Carce offered me, instead, was a much better fit.”
Saffron’s head spun. “So Sionnach is not only… a satyr daurae, technically, but they also have noble fey blood…?”
étaín laughed, musical and charming. “Perhaps technically, but they are more satyr than noble fey, I can assure you. Their lineage isn’t nearly as rare as their life is, either—a satyr and high fey conceiving a child in the first place is about as near-impossible as you can get.”
“I think they’re rare for plenty of reasons,” Saffron added with a smile of his own, before looking at étaín one more time. “Sionnach is very important to me, Lady étaín. I won’t let anything happen to them, for as long as I live. I promise that.”
“I think you’ll be a fine king one day, Saffron.” étaín touched Saffron’s hand, before tucking the clover flower between his fingers. “If court life ever becomes too much for you, you’re always welcome to come and visit. For as long as you’d like. Your prince, too, if he ever wishes to let go a little bit.”
“Cylvan is more than capable of getting messy,” Saffron said like a promise. étaín smirked, before getting back to her feet. She encouraged Saffron to not overdo it, and Saffron responded by raising his glass and throwing it back.
Eventually, a dark shadow swept into the firelight where Saffron danced again, taking him for itself, sharp nails burrowing into the flesh of his back and hip in a way that promised he would not be taken away again. Saffron grinned, immediately tumbling into Cylvan’s arms, allowing his heels to flatten back to the grass as the demands of the satyr steps vanished to offer him a break. His sore calves almost gave way beneath him entirely, not helped by the strong wine that had long replaced his blood. Cylvan’s amused chuckle was the only thing to keep Saffron from spinning all the way into the sky.
“I realized one of them would sweep you away for good, at some point,” he breathed, pulling Saffron closer to whisper it, before pressing a kiss to the skin beneath his ear. Saffron giggled, placing one hand on Cylvan’s shoulder and wrapping the other under his arm. Holding him close, breathing in his familiar smell mixed with the burning spiced logs and sugar in the air. Greatly disappointed at the prince’s lack of bare skin, like even he knew better than to let a little too loose in front of such wild festivities.
“And what would you have done then?” Saffron smiled, words slurring slightly as he stood on his toes again, though even with the added height, stood no chance against the Night Prince looming over him.
“I would have chased you both down into the trees,” Cylvan answered without hesitation, lips hardly an inch from Saffron’s and eyes bright. Saffron blinked up at him, awed by how anyone could be so breathtaking even in just the glow of firelight, alarmed and distressed and unworthy to know that something so frighteningly beautiful could possibly be his.
"Would you really?” Saffron asked. Cylvan gazed at him, thoughtfully, possessively, a wicked half-smile lifting the corner of his perfect lips. In his drunkenness, in the low light, Saffron could almost fool himself into thinking the prince was something wild enough to don sharp teeth.
“Would you like to find out?” he breathed into Saffron’s ear, pulling him closer, spreading the size of his large hand flush against the small of Saffron’s back and making Saffron shiver. “I am tired of allowing all these satyr to lay eyes on you like this, none nearly as hungry as I am to take a bite. I’ll hunt you down the moment you’re out of the light, little witch. Careful you don’t wander too close to the edge of the trees.”
Saffron’s mind spun, his insides shivered, he knew to anyone witnessing his nakedness that it was likely obvious exactly how hot those whispered words made his wine-drunk blood race. Especially with Cylvan’s hand on his back, the size and demand of it, how the tip of one nail teased the base of his tailbone. All he could do was stare wantonly up at Cylvan with his wobbly vision, like he still fought to determine whether or not the unsettling, dark thing holding him was real or only a fantasy.
“I’ll make sure to be careful, then, your highness,” he whispered. “I wouldn’t want to be caught unawares by something with ill intentions in the woods.”
Cylvan’s playfully dark smile softened just for a moment, just long enough to press a soft kiss to the center of Saffron’s forehead, before passing him on to the next satyr waiting. But even as his partner changed, Saffron turned his head to look for where his prince went, surprised as how easily he vanished into the darkness when he wished to cease from the mortal realm. As if he controlled shadows instead of the wind; as if he really was the god of the underworld, and Saffron was the flower he wished to pluck and pull under just for himself.
When Saffron did finally escape the dancing circle—quickly realizing if he didn’t bow out on his own, the line of satyrs who wished to do as they pleased would never end, whether he liked it or not—he stumbled his way over to where Sionnach sat on one of the side-laying trees alongside Copper, of all people, who looked a little stiff with his drink. They sat turned slightly away from one another, as if attempts at conversation had happened, but snuffed, though Copper’s eyes kept undeniably flickering Sionnach’s direction like a part of him wished to try again. Or, perhaps, just to continue gazing over every inch of their body nearly as naked as Saffron’s.
“Where’s Maeve?” Saffron asked, losing his footing at the last moment in a thick clump of grass and grabbing Copper by the shoulder to catch himself. Copper threw his hands up to steady him, before tilting his head sideways to where the icy fey lady was sitting on a stump a few yards away, drinking her own gratuitous amount of wine from a wood cup with cheeks flushed and hair littered with flowers and beads.
“Good, that’s good, everyone is accounted for,” Saffron mumbled, more for himself, before patting Copper on the shoulder. “I’m going to go get lost in the woods. And maybe turned inside out by a night lord for the first time in weeks, if you two don’t mind.”
“What?” Sionnach wheezed, but Saffron just patted Copper one more time before stumbling back through the grass toward the dark treeline.