Chapter Thirteen #3
“They’re the thrones?” Grant asks. He jerks his chin in the direction of the dais, where two golden thrones sit,side by side. They are identical in size and shape. Gender has never mattered when it comes to our rulers. The responsibility they—we—bear is to keep this place alive.
My parents prepared Ronan to take that place in the event of their passing, but reign does not always pass from parents to children. My grandparents did not wear the crowns. I do not know who came before my parents. It was so long ago that I do not believe there is a fae still living who remembers.
“Lots of space,” Dante murmurs. He eyes the thrones with no little scepticism, and I shrug in response.
They look isolated, for all that there are two of them.
The dais is large. I have always put the strange proportions of the space down to the fact that the rulers must, to some extent, set themselves apart.
“Come,” I say. “We do not have that much time.”
They follow when I walk away, and I quietly point out corridors we take and rooms that we pass. Dante listens attentively, nodding, but Grant’s eyes are dark and quick; he is mapping this place, and I know that when the time comes, he will be able to get Dante away safely.
The door to the royal tombs lies on the western side of the castle, and the corridor that contains it is dark and cold.
That in itself is not unusual. We fae are powered by the magic of life.
It is why a vampire would, usually, not survive in the Otherworld at all.
We mourn, of course, but death is something we shy away from.
It helps, I suppose, that fae are quite difficult to kill.
I pull open the door and step into the darkness beyond. It is the work of a thought to have light flare from my palm, pressing against the walls. My magic. For a second, I can hardly believe I gave it up. When I glance back and see Dante’s impressed expression, I almost wish I never had.
“Come.”
We walk down the corridor in silence, and I push the next door that leads to my mother’s and father’s tombs.
Grant lingers in the doorway. “I’ll leave you to this,” he says, and I do not argue.
He vanishes in the next instant; whether to further investigate the tombs or to run around the castle, I do not know.
There is nothing of my parents left here.
That is not how we die; we fade into the magic that makes up our world.
But there are two coffins of stone that represent their likenesses, one on either side of the room.
I stand in the centre, looking between them.
My heart hurts, but in a vague, distant way.
“Do you want some time alone?” Dante asks.
“No. I would rather not be alone here.”
He appears startled by the statement, and when I hold out my hand, he comes closer. He takes it, fingers brushing against mine.
“If you would rather leave…” I murmur because perhaps he does not like being here, and I would not wish to cause him discomfort.
“No, it’s fine,” Dante says. He peers at the carefully sculpted faces. They were not created by hand in the way they would be in the human realm. A fae who can coax stone, who is as stubborn as rocks are, will have spent years urging these into their rightful shapes.
When I ascend the throne, they will do the same for me. We are difficult to kill, but eventually, we die. Everything dies. I hold on to Dante’s hand a little tighter.
“I always cared more for my father than my mother,” I say, and his eyes jump to me. “I loved them both. But he—He and Ronan were very alike. Charming. Gregarious. And my mother…”
“What was she like?”
“Calculating.” I sigh. “That is unfair. All high fae are calculating, and if my father had not been, he would have never sat on that throne beside her. But sometimes it felt as though he were not. It never felt that way with her.”
Dante hums. He moves a little closer and our shoulders brush.
“She and Iagan were alike. Innovators, if I want to be generous. Stubborn.”
“Always got their own way?” There is a faint laugh in Dante’s voice.
“That too,” I agree and gently squeeze his hand. “I think I am more like her than my father, too.”
“You’re not that stubborn.”
I am not certain that I agree with that, but I am not certain I disagree either. I shake my head. “Not that. I am… cold. I know I can be ruthless. I fear—”
I cut myself off, the words lodging in my throat. Dante clasps my hand tighter and looks up into my face. “You fear…?”
“I fear I will go too far. I was never supposed to sit on that throne.”
“We’ll find a way to get you out of it,” Dante murmurs. He believes that. I know he does. And I understand why, considering what the people around him have achieved.
But I cannot believe it. I cannot tell him I do not believe it because then he will think that I do not believe in him, and that is not the case at all.
I draw him even closer, and he lets me, resting his head against my shoulder. There is so much space in here, the room feeling large and empty even with two coffins inside of it.
“We should go back,” I murmur. “But thank you. For staying with me.”
A shadow flits across Dante’s face, there and gone in an instant. “No problem at all.”