Chapter 2 #2
Fight for our bond.
Call for us to come to you.
But Reaper didn’t move. He didn’t bolt or respond; he remained frozen, entrapped within himself, paralyzed by the waves of emotion that cascaded through the portal.
So Cian waited, deeply and patiently, allowing the winds of fate to shift around them.
The breeze picked up, brushing against his skin with scents of crushed pine needles, and something more visceral—a saltiness in the air, the sweat of tense anticipation, the metallic bite of old blood lingering nearby.
Not fresh blood. Not the kind that dripped from a wound, but the terrible haunting essence buried deep inside the stained soul of his Grá Croí.
He ground his teeth together at the suffocating scent that resonated with pain both profound and universal.
The familiarity of that essence tugged at his heart, pulled at its strings, stirring them back into chaotic motion as he fought against the impulse to fight the magic, rush toward Reaper, to comfort him in whatever way he needed.
Call for us to come to you, Grá Croí.
In his head, Failinis clawed at the cage that separated them, howling both for his mate and in pain for his mate’s suffering.
Every instinct he had, both man and wolf, urged him to reach out, to pull that tortured man into his arms and shield him from the chaos surrounding that haunted him.
“I just want to cradle him until he remembers how to breathe again.” Nobody but Failinis would ever understand what their heart demanded, but for Reaper, he would humble himself at the feet of his High King, asking for permission to cross the veil.
The restlessness surged through him, demanding action, and he got to his feet.
He had to trust that his Reaper would be safe in the lands of Cú Cullinan.
Each step toward the Rath of Dún Fianna was harder than the one that came before. Not even the bonds woven between him and his clan could ease the distress of walking away from the one man the universe had deemed his perfect match.
The fortress loomed ahead, its stout towers with ancient glyphs carved into its stones, and its timbers shimmered softly in the morning light and the cool air, rich with the scent of wet earth and woodsmoke, brushed against his skin, filling him with both resolve and worry.
As he walked past the guards stationed at the gate, their stoic forms unwavering as granite sentinels, he didn’t acknowledge them.
His mind remained half-lost in the woods—the tremor of Reaper’s shoulders, the soft hitch of his breath catching like a wounded animal.
How could he reach him? How could he bridge the chasm that felt so wide between them if Fionn would not allow him to go?
I have protected the Fianna for five thousand years, even when I was commanded to leave for Tír na nóg and Fionn went missing in the midst of times. He can grant me this wish.
The great hall opened before him. The cacophony of the morning meal enveloped him like a warm cloak. Quiet murmurs of the clans waking up were both a balm to his soul and a heartache, reminders of joy that felt just out of his reach.
Fionn sat at the high table, ever regal and unyielding. How he had survived in a stone prison for so long was unfathomable.
I’d surely have gone mad.
The flickering firelight glinted off Fionn’s antlered crown and illuminated the sharp angles of his face. Already, Cian could feel the weight of his High King’s gaze as he approached.
Fionn’s fingers stilled on the rim of his cup, “You reek of human sorrow,” his voice was filled with more than a little curiosity, “and something else.”
“I’m not surprised.” Urgency clawed at him. He had to make Fionn understand. “I need to cross the veil to the home of Bran and Cú Cullinan, who is now Trace.”
That got Fionn’s attention. The High King lifted his head. His eyes, ageless and wise, locked onto Cian’s. “The door isn’t a thing to be needed, hound. It’s something to be earned.”
“I’ve earned it.” Cian tried to temper the steel in his voice with the years of devotion he’d given the Fianna.
“I’ve hunted the stag, the bear, the lion.
I’ve carried the rose. I’ve bled for this clan.
As Guardian of the Fianna for five thousand years, I have earned it. But more so, now I need it.”
“And yet,” Fionn set his cup down, authority coloring each movement. “You ask as if it’s a favor, not a right.”
“I do not ask this for me.” Cian felt heat prickling at the back of his neck.
“The blood of my ancestors, the Tuatha de Danann, means I require the permission of the High King to traverse across the veil.” A beat of silence followed, the weight of his words hanging in the air like an unshed tear.
“Or I require the invitation of mo Ghrá Croí.”
Fionn leaned back, a quiet understanding passing between them.
“Ah.” That single word was heavy and full of meaning.
The High King knew; of course, he did. The bastard knew everything—every single thing—since he’d feasted on the salmon of knowledge.
The bond of Grá Croí was a force of nature, not easily hidden, especially when Fionn’s blood hummed with the knowledge of everyone and everything.
“He’s hurting.” Cian’s voice rumbled the Failinis’s growl as the words crawled free. “And I can’t—” The dam of his resolve to not plead for the concession cracked. “I can’t reach him, and he needs me to protect him.”
Fionn studied him through narrowed eyes, blew out a breath, and popped the thumb that had been burned by the cooking salmon into his mouth. “The Door Fianna is not yours to open, Cian. Not yet.”
“Then when?” The question surged forth. “When he’s broken beyond repair? When the bond kills us both?”
Fionn’s expression remained stoic, but a flicker of something, sympathy, maybe, moved across his face. “When you’ve shown you won’t drag him into our wars before he’s ready.”
Our wars?
Is it not his wars I wish to fight?
Cian’s hands clenched at his sides, frustration and defiance roaring within him. “As my Grá Croí, he’s already destined to fight in all of our wars from here until the end of time.”
“Is he?” Fionn’s voice softened yet carried an edge. “Or is a warrior who straddles both worlds. One foot in his world, one in ours?”
Fuck!
That was the word Trace’s new people were so fond of. Cian was sure of it. It seemed to fit here.
What did he see?
Fionn stood, his stance predatory and similar to a hawk ready to descend on prey.
He placed a hand on Cian’s shoulder, the gesture heavy with fate and kingly judgment.
“The door will open when the time is right, and the descendant of the Wolf Walkers recognizes his fate. Not before.” Then he turned away, silently dismissing him.
In his head, his wolf was sitting on his haunches, with his head cocked to one side. Like a curious puppy, he tilted it to the other, then back again, as if he too were trying to make sense of Fionn’s decree.
The descendant of the Wolf Walkers.
What does that mean?
Mo Ghrá Croí is human…not a Wolf Walker…right?
He was as confused as his wolf brother.
I don’t know Failinis. You heard Mo Rhí. The door will open when the time is right.
The urge to roar, to smash something, anything, and question everything, slammed into him like a wave from the ocean, but the High King’s word was law, immutable as ancient stone.
He turned on his heel and strode out of the hall. He’d find another way; there had to be a path or a spell, or something that would allow him to traverse the portal without crashing it down around their ears.
You are acting like a child.
We are not childing. We are the warrior guardians.
Inside us flows the blood of the Fianna and the Tuatha de Danann.
We will find a way.
Oh crap. Good things never happened when Failinis used that tone of snarl.
He couldn’t worry about his wolf half now, as he gazed up at the vast expanse of white cloud-filled blue sky, a crushing truth settled over him like a shroud: some doors couldn’t be forced open, and some paths had to be walked slowly, one careful step at a time, as you searched your soul for the truth you were seeking.