Chapter 15 Solace In Thorns #3
The King of our realm wanted an heir he could respect—a son rather than the daughter his consort produced.
Nikki's magic responded to that desire, to the scrutiny she experienced, to the constant pressure that suggested her existence in female form was inherently disappointing.
I emerged from that desperation like answer emerging from question, male manifestation of a female consciousness that couldn't bear the weight of paternal disapproval any longer.
I know when this Academy business concludes, that history will have to be confronted.
I'll have to return to Faerie.
I'll have to face the King who wanted me into existence.
I'll have to decide whether ruling a kingdom under such a feign of leadership is truly worth the cost of compliance.
The thoughts spiral with the particular intensity of issues too long suppressed finally demanding attention.
Maybe that's why Wicked Academy was created—not simply to train beings in magic and survival, but to force recognition of truths we'd rather ignore.
To make us realize that wickedness exists among us in forms we don't want to acknowledge.
It's not simply an awakened trait born from trauma and mayhem.
It's there from the beginning.
Woven into the fabric of our existences by those who created us, by circumstances we didn't choose, by expectations we can never fully meet.
Her hand touches mine.
The contact pulls me from spiraling thoughts with force that feels almost physical—anchor thrown into stormy waters, lifeline extended to someone drowning in depths they created themselves.
Her fingers are warm against my skin, carrying the particular heat that speaks to Fae magic now flowing through her hybrid veins.
But it's her eyes that truly arrest me.
Those impossible pink and gold irises meet mine with intensity that suggests she can see right through me—past the masks I've cultivated for centuries, past the defenses I've constructed against exactly this kind of vulnerability, past everything I've built to protect myself from the pain of being truly known.
"Nikolai." Her voice is soft, carrying concern that makes my throat tight. "Are you okay?"
Am I okay?
The question deserves consideration beyond reflexive deflection.
I think about it.
Long.
Hard.
Examining the hollowness in my chest with the clinical attention of someone assessing wounds they've been ignoring.
Cataloging the ache that has lived behind my sternum since waking, the emptiness that fills spaces where Nikki's presence used to reside, the particular grief that comes from losing parts of yourself you didn't know you possessed.
The truth is...
I'm not okay.
The admission arrives with weight that threatens to break whatever composure I've maintained through this conversation.
I'm not okay at all.
My heart hurts.
Aches with the particular pain of loss that can't be reversed or remedied.
Feels broken in ways that might never fully heal.
The grief has been living in my chest like an uninvited guest, taking up residence in spaces I didn't know existed until they were filled with sorrow.
Every breath carries its weight. Every heartbeat acknowledges its presence.
Every moment of consciousness includes awareness of the emptiness where Nikki used to be.
It feels like my heart has been left in a field of frost.
The metaphor surfaces with the particular clarity of images that capture truth better than literal description.
Frozen landscape where nothing grows.
Ice that preserves the ache rather than numbing it.
Cold that might eventually freeze away the wearying agony of all this—or might simply preserve it forever, keeping the pain fresh and raw across whatever eternities await.
And I hate that.
Hate how sad I feel.
Hate how broken I am.
Hate that centuries of training in emotional control have abandoned me precisely when I need them most.
Hate that I'm supposed to be strong—Fae prince, Academy survivor, being of power and capability—and instead I feel like nothing more than a child who has lost something precious and doesn't know how to cope with the absence.
The truth crystallizes with painful clarity: I may have sought her out unconsciously.
My magic creating this cocoon not from conscious choice but from desperate need.
Reaching for something—someone—who might fill the void that Nikki's departure carved into my existence.
I made this protective shell because I was so desperate for escape from the endless sleeping and nightmares that have taunted me since the separation.
Every time I closed my eyes, darkness awaited—not the comfortable darkness of rest but something more sinister.
Visions of emptiness that stretched forever.
Dreams of wandering through spaces that held no meaning.
Nightmares where I searched for something I couldn't name and never found.
I needed my safe place.
Needed somewhere the nightmares couldn't reach.
Needed someone whose presence might chase away the shadows that have been consuming me from within.
And now it's very clear.
She's my safe space.
My solace.
Little Solstice.
The anchor that keeps me tethered to existence when everything else suggests I should simply let go and drift away.
I try to smile.
Try to summon the masks that have served me so well for so long, the deflections that redirect attention from vulnerability to performance, the carefully constructed personas that protect the wounded creature hiding beneath layers of Fae courtly behavior.
But it's like my throat constricts.
The sensation is physical—muscles tightening against emotional pressure that refuses to be contained, flesh rebelling against the command to perform composure when composure has become impossible.
My eyes blur.
Vision swimming with moisture that shouldn't be there, that I haven't allowed to be there for longer than I can accurately remember.
Fae don't cry. Not in public. Not where enemies might witness.
Not where weakness might be catalogued and used against them in the eternal political maneuvering that defines our realm.
When have I allowed myself to express raw emotion as simple as sadness?
The question arrives with devastating clarity.
Not fake gimmicks or conspiracies.
Not calculated displays designed to achieve specific outcomes.
But sheer, unfiltered emotion—the kind that comes from genuine feeling rather than strategic consideration.
I wasn't allowed such expressions in the realms of Faerie.
The kingdom that should have been my safe haven operated on rules that forbade vulnerability.
Tears were weakness. Sadness was failure.
The raw expression of emotion—any emotion other than carefully calibrated responses designed to serve political purposes—invited consequences that made suppression seem like the only viable option.
But here...
In this cocooned paradise...
Surrounded by flowers and vines and thorns...
With her looking at me with those impossible new eyes that seem to see everything I've been hiding...
Maybe I can cry.
She doesn't judge me when the first tear falls.
The realization arrives with shock that probably shouldn't surprise me as much as it does.
Gwenievere—this woman who has survived trials that would have destroyed lesser beings, who has bonded with men of impossible power, who carries destinies that extend beyond anything my own existence encompasses—watches a tear track down my cheek with nothing but compassion in her transformed gaze.
She should judge.
Should think less of me for this display of weakness.
Should recognize that the strong men who surround her would never crumble like this, never allow themselves such public vulnerability, never surrender composure in ways that suggest they might not be worthy of the Queen they've claimed.
Everyone outside this cocoon of vines and thorns is willing to sacrifice themselves for her.
Cassius with his shadows, Atticus with his blood magic, Mortimer with his dragon fire, Zeke with his feline grace, even Damien with his complicated redemption—they all present themselves as beacons of strength and resilience, as pillars she can rely upon when everything else fails.
But I'm here.
Shedding tears.
Feeling incomplete.
Demonstrating exactly the kind of weakness that should disqualify me from standing among her bond mates.
She reaches over.
The motion is smooth, unhesitating, carrying the particular confidence of someone who has decided upon a course of action and refuses to second-guess themselves. Her arms wrap around my neck with gentle strength, pulling me into an embrace that I don't deserve but desperately need.
Warmth.
Her warmth, surrounding me the way my cocoon surrounds us both.
Protection offered freely, without expectation or demand.
Her hand settles against my back, and she begins to rub—slow circles that carry comfort in their rhythm, pressure that seems to understand exactly what my body needs to feel less alone.
"It's okay to not be okay, Nikolai."
The whisper reaches my ears with the particular intimacy of words meant only for me.
"Either way... I'm sorry."
Sorry.
She's apologizing.
When none of this is her fault.
I was the one at fault.
The truth crashes through me with force that makes my breath catch in something that might be a sob if I let it fully escape.
The bullying.
The belief that we had to be enemies rather than allies.
The cruelty I directed at her—and through Nikki, the cruelty she experienced from my other half that I did nothing to prevent.
I made my bed and had to lie in it. The consequences of my choices—of Nikki's choices, of our shared choices made from a consciousness that couldn't separate individual responsibility—were always going to catch up with us eventually.
Having her hate me, or hate the female version of me, was a hard cross to bear.
But now I see the full weight of those consequences.
The distance they created.
The trust they damaged.
The potential love they might have poisoned before it had chance to grow.
I hug her back.
My arms wrap around her with desperation I can't hide, clinging to this woman who represents everything I might have lost through my own failures. The embrace is raw, unfiltered, carrying none of the calculated restraint that Fae interaction usually demands.
She whispers against my hair.
"I love you very much."
The words land in my chest like stars falling from heights I didn't know existed.
Love.
She loves me.
Despite everything—the cruelty, the distance, the complicated mess that defines our history—she loves me.
"So if you feel lost," she continues, her voice soft but carrying conviction that refuses to be dismissed, "empty... sad... lonely... it's okay."
Each word addresses the specific aches that have been tormenting me.
Lost—yes.
Empty—gods, yes.
Sad—more than I knew how to express.
Lonely—even surrounded by people, even held in her arms, the loneliness of Nikki's absence echoes through everything.
"You can feel all of it, right here," she promises. "Where no one can see."
The permission settles into my consciousness like rainfall into drought-cracked earth.
I can feel.
Here.
With her.
In this space she's sanctifying with her presence, with her acceptance, with her love that doesn't demand I be anything other than what I am in this moment.
"It's just you and me, okay?"
Just us.
No courts watching for weakness.
No rivals calculating how to use vulnerability against me.
No expectations demanding performance of strength I don't currently possess.
Just Gwenievere and whatever remains of Nikolai after everything that's been carved away.
Those are the words that allow me to crumble.