Chapter 1
Blackthorn Briar
The Fae Realms
Wren Lofthouse had been practising for the Summer Solstice since Ostara.
It had begun as a purely practical solution to the problem presented by his recent infirmity.
Everilda, chirurgeon to the Court of Bells and Candles, had declared him well on the road to recovery from the wounds he’d suffered beneath the Lake of Eternal Ice.
However, while most fae would’ve recovered from the same injuries by now, his mere mortal frame would not be fully mended for another year and half at the very least.
The most obvious answer was for Shrike to straddle him as he had straddled Shrike on the prior Winter Solstice.
But while Wren had enjoyed that experience a great deal, to simply repeat it in reverse felt more anticlimax than climax—if he could permit himself the pun—to say nothing of how Shrike was half again as heavy as Wren.
Months prior he had asked Everilda (and it’d taken him the better part of a week to work up the nerve to do so) how best the two kings might approach the coming Solstice ritual.
She had confirmed many of his suspicions; if he attempted to bend Shrike in half under his own weight again he would risk a hernia, and while it would not be entirely inadvisable for Shrike to straddle him whilst he lay supine, the disparity in their respective weight would render him rather more uncomfortable than otherwise.
She had suggested they might make use of the work bench, which could tilt at an angle, or an arrangement of pillows for a configuration that would alleviate any possible strain on Wren’s wounded mortal frame.
Wren, his face already aflame from just this much speculation in the vaguest possible terms, had hastily thanked her and changed the subject.
His mind continued working away at the problem long after she had departed.
What he needed really was a method of bearing up Shrike’s weight.
And as Everilda had already suggested, a simple machine would likely suffice.
Rather than the inclined plane, however, his thoughts turned towards the rope and pulley.
He asked Shrike, as plainly as his own shame would permit, for his opinion on the matter.
Once Shrike understood what Wren intended (Wren laid any blame for the delay in understanding purely upon himself), he expressed his enthusiasm for the idea and his eagerness for whatever the solstice would hold.
Thus assured, Wren set to work in earnest.
The solstice dawned with that glorious deep indigo blue fading to pale azure beneath the sun’s golden glow that filtered down through the broad-leaf branches and cast a vibrant chartreuse hue over Blackthorn Briar. The morning mist swirled is a soft whisper across the forest floor.
Wren would never have suffered to arise so early in Staple Inn without significant complaint. Then again, London’s thick smog would never have permitted him to perceive so brilliant a sunrise. And nothing in the mortal realm, in Wren’s opinion, held even half the promise of Shrike’s waking smile.
The kings strode arm-in-arm out of their cottage.
Wren led his Shrike down across the brook and past the warren.
The wall of briars parted to reveal a particular thicket he’d spent the last few months preparing.
He could not take credit for the trees, but he had chosen them especially out of all the trees within the briar’s bounds, for their circular arrangement befit the sort of nest he wished to construct.
Perhaps it wasn’t his place as the Holly King, lord over winter, to coax his surroundings into verdant growth for a summer ritual.
As one who dwelt in Blackthorn Briar, however, and for whom the thorned walls withdrew and advanced at his will, it seemed only natural to extend his command to craft a suitable setting for their rite.
To that end, Wren had spent months cultivating a nest of mosses. A rim of ferns surrounded it, equally for decoration as for their softness, and he’d coaxed the blackthorn to grow in a withy pattern between the tree trunks. Together all the greenery formed a cocoon fit for a fae king.
Shrike cast an approving gaze over the result, much to Wren’s relief.
His pulse fluttered in his throat in eager anticipation rather than fear.
Even after two years together his blood thrummed with excitement to disrobe before his beloved, helped along by the gleam in Shrike’s dark gaze cast down upon him and how gently those rough palms slipped beneath the layers of frock, waistcoat, and shirt to ease him into nakedness like nature’s own hands encouraging a rosebud into bloom.
His own hands were far less gentle upon Shrike.
He gave silent thanks for the strength of Shrike’s skill in sewing, for it was due to that rather than his own care that seams were not rent asunder beneath his desperate grasp.
When they were clad in dappled sunshine alone, Shrike tilted his head down at his king’s glance (a commanding glance, some might say, though Wren didn’t feel as though he had it in him; rather, he supposed it an enquiring one) and Wren stretched up to capture his mouth in a kiss.
Even after so many days upon months upon years of waking up beside his Shrike, toiling alongside him throughout the day and falling into slumber tangled in his embrace, still Wren found himself lost in the sheer joy of kissing his beloved in a realm all their own.
It required great presence of mind—greater than Wren had supposed he possessed—to recall that he had a purpose here beyond devouring his Shrike.
Nonetheless, he retained enough of his wits to recall his plan.
With great effort, he unwove his fingers from where they had tangled in Shrike’s locks.
His palm raised toward the sun behind Shrike’s back.
He twirled his wrist in a beckoning gesture that had become almost instinctive.
He’d practiced for weeks figuring out how to make the blackthorn surrounding the briar retract just its thorns.
And now it was only the smoothest vines that crept forth to do his bidding.
Mere tendrils at first, then thicker and thicker followed, until finally withes emerged as broad as his thumb. They encircled Shrike’s arms and wove together against his back.
Shrike gasped into Wren’s mouth. His eagerness grew alongside the vines—if the readied sword below his belt, braced against Wren’s own, were anything to judge by.
Wren, against his immediate wishes but in accordance with his overarching goal, broke off the kiss and opened his eyes. His enquiring glance was answered by an enthusiastic nod and a gleam in Shrike’s dark gaze.
And with that, Shrike was swept up into the vines as swiftly and securely as a Nereid caught in a fishing net.
The idea had sprung into Wren’s mind as he’d reflected on the Green Man aspect of the Oak King.
Traditionally, a foliate head had greenery erupting from its mouth, eyes, and ears.
Which (to Wren’s mind, at least) begged the question: if there was more than a head, where else would the greenery entangle?
At present, the greenery had woven itself into a hammock beneath Shrike’s back and twined his forearms together over his head in a lackadaisical fashion. They hung slack in such a way that suggested he could break their hold with a Gallic roll of his shoulders.
Wren had asked the vines to do the former. However, he did not recall telling the vines to do the latter, which made him uneasy.
Then Shrike threw his legs over Wren’s shoulders and crossed them at the ankles. Slithering sounds behind him told Wren the vines had come forth to bind Shrike’s ankles as well.
Wren hadn’t told them to do that either, but judging by the fae grin on Shrike’s handsome lips, he thought he knew who to blame. And knowing the magic’s source, now he could lay any concerns on that head to rest and focus upon the task at hand.
Namely, claiming his crown.
Some fumbling ensued. First in scrambling to retrieve the vial of oil from where he’d forgotten it in his waistcoat pocket, then in adjusting the vines to manoeuvre Shrike into position at the correct height. Throughout, Shrike remained far more patient than Wren felt he deserved.
At last his sword was oiled and poised to return to its most welcome sheath.
Within the harness they had together constructed it was Shrike who set their pace by bracing his limbs’ might against the vines.
Wren had but to cleave to him. He gave silent thanks that Shrike’s fae form proved far more supple than his own mortal flesh and could contort with ease, folding very nearly in half so Wren might bestow another ravenous kiss upon his lips; a ceaseless kiss save for the gasps and sighs they dropt into each other’s mouths until Wren could hardly tell which breath belonged to whom.
He knew not where to attribute his singing blood.
Perhaps it was merely the heightened senses of the season or his anticipation of the rite.
Perhaps it was the thrill of his and Shrike’s nakedness joining in the open air, blending their bodies to match their hearts until their pulses beat in the same rhythm.
Perhaps it was the magic he’d never thought possible in the mortal realm now thrumming through his veins as he wielded his mastery over their shared domain.
Or perhaps it was the simple pleasure of his Shrike: with his gasps shuddering through his broad ribs and rippling down over his belly; his arms bulging as they strained against their bonds—bonds which Shrike had called forth himself and which only remained entangled in his limbs because he wanted them; his thighs clenching against Wren’s chest and his heels digging furrows between Wren’s shoulder-blades to draw him in further and faster into his hot tight sheath; his Shrike so handsome and so strong and so utterly blissful in his surrender.
With all this before him, it was a wonder Wren could hold off even so long as he had.
Until, trembling, he could withstand no longer.
“Do you yield?” Wren whispered.
Shrike’s curiously sharp eye-teeth flashed in a wicked grin. In ragged gasps he replied, “Command me, my king. I am at your mercy.”
Wren seized Shrike by his left antler to turn his head and kiss beneath his ear. Shrike’s breathless laugh vibrated through his throat against his lips.
The second growing-in had proved less painful than the first, just as Everilda had promised, and now Shrike boasted a splendid pair of prongs that he had graciously permitted Wren to make good use of in the intervening months.
It seemed almost a pity for him to lose them now. Yet the ritual demanded sacrifice.
And to that end, Wren raised his lips just far enough to murmur in his beloved’s ear. “Spend, Shrike.”
Shrike’s breath cut off with a sharp gasp. His back arched against the vines. His spend burst forth in plumes that scattered across his broad chest like an efflorescence of Queen Anne’s lace over the meadow.
Wren’s own spend overcame him a heartbeat afterward. He poured his seed into Shrike’s furrow and clung to him like ivy.
He returned to himself with Shrike’s lips upon his own in gentle entreaty.
This preoccupied him for several moments further.
Gradually he became aware that the embrace surrounding him was not solely comprised of his beloved’s limbs but now included myriad stout vines and that the curious weightless sensation he enjoyed was not merely the wake of their shared ecstasy but also a sort of hammock that either he or Shrike or perhaps Blackthorn itself had seen fit to grow around them both.
Once he realised this he felt more than content not to question it further and instead basked in the summer sunshine filtering down through the greenery, letting his own head fall into its natural nest of Shrike’s collar.
His mind meandered down pleasant if not entirely rational pathways.
“It seems odd,” he heard himself murmur distantly.
“What does?” Shrike replied in the low, familiar tone that Wren had oft heard in the twilight moments that heralded sleep.
“To claim a kingship by thrusting a sword into its sheath, rather than drawing it from the stone in the Arthurian fashion.”
The puzzled silence that ensued induced Wren to raise his head, whereupon he found a bemused look upon his beloved’s countenance.
“Or an anvil,” Wren added, as though that would explain anything. “Depending on the author and the translation.”
Shrike professed himself eager to hear more of the matter when Wren had his wits about him. (The latter half of this was implied rather than said aloud.)
Still Wren’s tongue ran on. His mind grew more wakeful, though still cocooned in bliss. “I like the notion of bringing something new to each solstice rite.”
Shrike concurred.
“Or at least,” Wren conceded with some disquietude, “for as long as my imagination can keep up.”
Shrike declared his absolute confidence in Wren’s imagination.
Wren strove to share in it. Privately, the thought of the ritual cycle continuing for all eternity—for however many centuries the fae realms saw fit to let his mortal self survive, at least—felt more than a touch daunting.
Not the sort of thing he wished to dwell upon in this present pleasant moment.
He set it aside and permitted himself to think only so far ahead as the following solstice.
To that end, he found courage to voice something he’d pondered for some months.
“I had wondered if we might form a sort of ritual circle between ourselves.”
“Oh?” said Shrike.
Wren endeavoured to explain. “If we were to lay beside each other—head-to-tail, as it were—and I were to take you into my mouth as you took me into yours…” The thought alone sufficed to thrill even his spent cock into showing signs of life.
“It has a great symbolic potential. We would each be at the other’s mercy, and our bodies would form a perfect wheel to turn the seasons.
We need but speak the words of surrender. ”
Shrike said nothing.
Wren, not knowing how to interpret silence, raised his head to search Shrike’s face.
Shrike appeared amenable to the notion. But there was a certain knowing air to his smile. As if he were withholding something.
Which led Wren to the only possible conclusion. “I’ve invented something that already exists, haven’t I.”
Shrike demurred. “There is perhaps more thought put into your version. And a higher purpose besides.”
“You’ve done it already, though.” Wren felt no jealousy. Merely disappointment in himself for revealing his own lack of experience and a pedestrian excuse for an imagination besides.
“I have,” Shrike admitted. “But I’d like to try it with you all the same. If you’re willing.”
Wrapped in his beloved’s mighty embrace, Wren could hardly fancy feeling otherwise, and said so.
A most welcome kiss was his reward.