Chapter 37 Rowan #2
The closer Rowan got to Paeonia, the thicker the woods became.
He knew the Eldritch did this purposefully.
He ensnared Paeonia in his web and didn’t plan on letting her go.
He thought she was capable of flourishing his flora, spreading his roots farther into Lyth.
And better yet, if the Eldritch couldn’t have Paeonia, he figured Rowan would fall into his trap coming to get her.
He knew what Rowan was capable of, what a powerful Grim Fae could do for him. For the forest.
Stupid fucking humans, Rowan thought as he shoved branches and stepped over gnarled roots. If they hadn’t betrayed the forest by stealing so much of what lays within, they would be protected right now by the very Eldritch that haunts them. They wouldn’t be slowly dying, the growth overtaking them.
The Gleam Fae left a guardian as one last protection. Always helping the ungrateful humans. And of course, the humans took that for granted and brought on their own demise.
His train of thought was cut short by a female scream blaring in the distance. Castor’s neck snapped toward him, both of their step’s faltering.
“Do you think that’s…?”
“Shit.” He needed her alive. Wanted her alive. Rowan shook his head.
He moved hastily, his feet guiding him the way the trees instructed.
He trailed the scream, remnants of it still reverberating off the trunks of the alders. He knew when he was getting close, a foggy mist beginning to cover the ground, the steam billowing around the bark of trees, wrapping them like a scarf. Then he saw him. The Eldritch.
Castor made a sound beside him, taken aback by the gruesome sight. But that’s not what Rowan saw.
Rowan knew Castor—and even Paeonia—saw a terrible creature. A stag head, a withering body, bones protruding, its ribcage on display outside its skin. Its eyes would pierce them, a guttural sound echoing out of its mouth.
But Rowan saw him for what he was.
A deformed Grim Fae stood in the clearing. He was tall, like Rowan, his skin ashen gray, his fingers gnarled, his fangs protruding past his lips. He had long silken hair and the darkest blue eyes he had ever seen. Horns bent in an asymmetrical pattern from his skull. A face he recognized.
“Father,” he said faintly.
The Eldritch glared at him, seeing past him.
Did his father even remember who he had once been? Rowan’s anger began to bubble, threatening to fill him, to spurt out of his mouth and through his seams.
He hated his father’s face, hated seeing it before him now. Wished he never had to see him again. All it did was remind him of his misdeeds. Of how terrible his father was. Of how terrible Rowan had been.
“Rowan,” his father sang, his voice scratchy and painful. How lucky was he to be visited by so many family members today.
“Give her to me,” Rowan demanded. Castor clutched his sword beside him, looking between Rowan and his father.
“Join me, and I will.”
“You irredeemable bastard!” Castor shouted.
Rowan held out a hand to his friend, calming him.
He strolled closer to his father, still towering above him.
Was Rowan strong enough to do what Paeonia had asked?
He knew he physically was, but mentally, did he have it in him to kill his father?
At one point he certainly had been angry enough. But was he now?
“You really want to see what happens if you deny me my mate?” Rowan sneered.
His father gave him a wicked grin, sickly and slimy.
Then he waved his hand, and Paeonia floated out from one of the trees, her hands tied by vines, her mouth wrapped, her feet bound, her dress torn.
He had been too slow in getting to her. The whites of her eyes were red from tears. He had to look away.
Hatred like he never felt before brewed inside him. A hatred he hadn’t even felt when his brother cursed him to stay in Lyth, leaving him and his father behind like they were nothing.
“You’ve done it now,” Castor mumbled beside him.
“Join me, and she’s free to go.”
Rowan laughed. “You really think, after all these years, I want to live in the bog with you?” He shook his head. “Look what you’ve become.”
His father didn’t move; he didn’t have to. Paeonia screamed into her binding, tears cascading down her cheeks. He refused to look at her, but he could feel her tears and pain.
Rowan scoffed. “You really think hurting her will change my mind?” He spoke with an air of ease, fooling even himself.
His father’s footsteps left black sprigs of smoke in their wake. “Perhaps you even prefer seeing her like this?” he challenged. “Why have you come here, Rowan? It’s been almost two hundred years, and only now you visit me. Is it truly to claim your mate? Is breaking the curse all you care about?”
Rowan rolled his fingers as he trailed his father’s movements, Paeonia’s screaming dampening.
“Have you truly fallen for her?” His father gawked. “I thought you stronger than that.”
“Let her go,” he growled.
“Join me,” he said more sternly, “and I will.” His father appraised him, almost disgusted by what he saw. “Or perhaps she can stay here with us. I can keep her strung up if that’s how you want her.”
Finally, out of lack of sheer will, Rowan glanced again at Paeonia.
Her eyes were on the ground, her chest raising slowly, her breathing steady.
Her pale dress had been dirtied. At first, that didn’t register in his mind, but as his brain caught up, he processed the fact that the dirt on her dress was in the shape of a hand.
Right under her breast, a large handprint wrapped around her chest. Another lay smudged on her waist. Fire flickered inside Rowan.
Someone had touched her. And her collar had been torn.
Rowan glanced at the sky and laughed.
He lunged at the Eldritch, claws outstretched, ears ringing so loudly he couldn’t hear if Castor followed behind him. Creatures broke from the tree line, and Paeonia disappeared from view.
Rowan roared, his body snapping forward like a whip, claws glinting in the sickly moonlight.
The Eldritch—his father—met him with unnatural speed, their bodies colliding with a sound that cracked through the trees.
Claw met claw. Teeth bared. Rowan slashed low, aiming to tear through his gut, but the Eldritch twisted just enough for the strike to graze. Black blood slicked the ground.
The forest shook around them, as if it too was writhing in pain. Roots lifted and lashed out, trying to catch Rowan’s ankles, but he moved too quickly, ducking beneath a swipe of razor-sharp antlers.
Castor swung his sword, fighting off the feral creatures of the night. Creatures corrupted by the Eldritch.
“You're nothing!” the Eldritch snarled, his voice a warble of rot and ruin. “A coward who hides behind a garden!”
“And you’re just a carcass pretending to be a ruler,” Rowan spat, driving his claws into the Eldritch’s ribs. He twisted, flesh tearing beneath his hands, but a skeletal elbow caught him across the jaw, sending him tumbling into the underbrush. Pine needles scattered in every direction.
Rowan’s body ached, but rage kept him standing.
The Eldritch advanced, mouth widening in a grotesque grin, vines twisting from his palms. They shot forward—Rowan sliced through one, but another caught his arm, burning like acid.
He snarled, ripping it free, skin smoking.
The Eldritch pressed closer, overwhelming him with power decades older than his own.
But Rowan was not alone.
From behind, Castor charged with a bellow, slamming his sword into the Eldritch’s back. The blade glanced off bone, but it was enough to stagger him.
“Move!” Castor yelled.
Rowan didn’t hesitate. He surged forward, teeth bared in a feral snarl, and tackled the Eldritch to the ground.
They rolled, a tangle of limbs and grunts, each strike punctuated with the sound of flesh tearing.
The forest closed in—trees groaning, soil turning black, roots writhing with ancient rage.
The Eldritch caught Rowan by the throat, squeezing, lifting him off the ground. “You’re nothing without your curse. No purpose without her.”
“Maybe not,” he struggled to get out. Rowan’s vision spotted, his breath wheezing.
Then—her voice. “Rowan.”
It was faint, fractured, but enough.
Rowan used his leg to clash into his father’s side, making him release his throat. Rowan stumbled back before he shoved his claws deep into the forest’s floor and hissed, “You don’t get to have her.”
All the power subdued by the curse shook, vibrated like it was about to shatter. The curse weakened just enough from Paeonia’s cry, her desperation, her need for Rowan, for some of his power to slip through. An inkwell of power he hadn’t had access to since his brother condemned him.
Without wasting a beat, Rowan clawed at the earth, summoning his own vines, sending them swirling from the dirt in a rumbled panic.
The Eldritch held them back, but Rowan pushed harder.
The faint spark disappointing. Before it could flee all together, he surged the vines in a powerful burst of darkness, and the Eldritch shrieked—an inhuman, ear-splitting sound.
Rowan’s vines sluiced through his body, stabbing into his tattered skin like knives.
He rummaged and dug deeper, his ribs cracking open like a fallen tree.
The vines exploded through the other side, tearing the Eldritch from the inside out.
Black ichor spilled over Rowan’s chest. The forest screamed, a burst of unnatural wind tearing through the clearing, then fell silent.
Rowan staggered back, blood soaking his skin, his claws trembling, not from exhaustion—but from the weight of what he had just done.
He panted, unable to stop to catch his breath, the trees shaking violently. He called out to Paeonia before he could even catch his breath. He trudged forward to where he thought she had been, looking for her. The darkness grew, and Rowan swore.
“Rowan,” her faint voice called.
He trailed that sound into the coppice until he saw her sprawled on the ground, the vines gone, withered away, her hair unbound, her lip bloody, her face stained in dirt and tears. Flowers bloomed across her skin, stretching from the ground to cover her thighs. They reached for her, coddled her.
He moved slowly, knowing what this meant. Knowing what killing his father for her meant. He would have never had the strength to do it otherwise. The self-loathing would have held him back.
She gazed at him, her eyes wide, her lips bent in a frown. In silence, Rowan scooped her into his arms, the flowers shifting and falling to the ground, tickling him in a fleeting kiss as they went.
He traced her features, looking for any sign she was seriously hurt.
“I’m okay,” she managed through strained breaths.
He wanted to apologize, but he kept his mouth sealed, still entranced that he had her safe in his arms.
He wondered if she’d shake him off after seeing what he could do. How truly dangerous this form of his was. But instead, she clung to him, wrapped her hands around his neck, leaning against him in quiet trust.
He found Castor, still clutching his sword. They trailed silently back to the castle, and Paeonia’s arms slackened, her grip falling, passing out in his arms.