Chapter 33 #2
Osian stood at the crenellated wall, damp hair catching the light. The wind was brisk, biting through Meilyr’s under-tunic as he joined him. In the plant boxes at their feet, dock leaves and dandelions, coltsfoot and golden henbane hunkered against the chill.
He wanted to tell Osian to go inside, wanted to blurt out what had happened with Haydn. Wanted to tell him of the horrors he had found in that book and hide against him from them.
But there was something in the way the prince stood that made him hold his breath.
They watched the lights of the town flicker in the returning rain, the swathes of gradient hills and the sea and mountains beyond.
‘Perhaps if all this were to end, it would be better.’
It took a moment for the words to make sense, with a clap of shock. ‘My Prince…?’
‘I do not wish to die,’ Osian said. ‘I have no intention of doing so, but Khaim…’
Meilyr let him find the words: dark stones from dark depths.
‘Power begets power,’ Osian said, ‘but there is no room for change, no room for good. Who are we to dictate the lives of thousands of people, purely through birthright? I do not know if any of us deserve to die, but all of Cyngalon has the right to hate us. Just as the families of those killed have the right to hate this sorcerer. There is no end to it. Blood begets blood.’
Blood begets blood. An old saying Meilyr knew in Cyngaleg as much as in Khaimlic.
Osian looked at him. ‘Tell me, if I were to die, and my sister and my brother were to die, and our father, and every other Khaimlic noble or Marcher Lord who raised their sword to strike at Cyngalon, or attempted to usurp the throne – would that be the end of it? Would there be peace, then?’
‘I do not know,’ Meilyr admitted. ‘But… I think you are right. There is no end, only pain, repeating.’
Osian’s eyes held a sadness he had not allowed to slip before. ‘Those people down there do not deserve what is happening to them. What has happened to them.’
‘You do not deserve to die, either,’ Meilyr told him.
Osian’s gaze searched him, surprised. ‘You cannot know that.’
But Meilyr did. It had been ruining him for some time. ‘I can. I do. You are… not at all what you could be. Not what your blood could have made you.’
He was standing so close, their hands could have brushed. Meilyr wanted it, as guilt clawed his throat.
‘I am every part a product of my blood,’ Osian said. ‘Even as you—’ He caught himself, hands tensing. ‘Even as you make me wish I could be more. Make me wish I could be anything else, anyone else…’ He looked away, severing the moment. ‘It is cold. We should return inside.’
Meilyr did not want to move. ‘Yes, My Prince.’ He stepped away first, as Osian made no motion to.
‘I saw you today. With Haydn Sayer.’
Meilyr froze.
There was no mistaking the detachment in the prince’s shadowed features. He had seen.
‘I did not mean to,’ Osian said quietly. ‘I came down because I… was concerned. But I saw you, and…’
Agony striated through Meilyr’s chest, preventing him from speaking. The plants of the tower-top shuddered, no longer from the wind.
‘Were anyone else to see you together,’ Osian continued, ‘and believe it were without my consent, he would be banished, at best. There would be calls for immediate divorce. I would be required to make an example of you according to my station, our union. Do you understand?’
He clearly took no pleasure whatsoever in the words. Quite the opposite.
‘I understand,’ Meilyr said, wretched.
It hurt, so much. Because Osian knew – he knew, and there was no coming back from that. No unmaking it.
Meilyr’s eyes watered, and he did the only thing he could: knelt, bowing his head. ‘Thank you for sparing our lives, Majesty. I…’
I am sorry. I am so, so sorry.
There was a long pause. Only the sound of the rain as it found the tower-top.
Slowly, Osian approached. His voice was level. ‘I did not mean to cause alarm. I merely meant such things are… safer as secrets.’
Meilyr looked up.
Osian offered his hand – Meilyr took it and pulled himself to his feet. His fingers were so cold Osian’s burned. There was resigned pain, buried deep within the prince. Meilyr could see it, feel it through their bond.
Heartache.
Osian let go and moved towards the stairs.
Meilyr turned after him before he could stop himself. ‘It was only what you saw. I did not, we did not…’
Osian looked at him strangely.
He pushed on. ‘We were intimately involved in the past, but that ended a long time ago. There was no more than – that embrace. I stopped it, and it will not happen again. I do not want it to. So, it will not.’
Osian searched for something in him, but withdrew before he could find it. He descended the steps and made no sign for Meilyr to follow.
Osian could not shake the image from his mind. That other man, Haydn, holding Meilyr with such intimacy. Kissing his hair. His face.
All the awful pieces had slotted into place. The way Haydn looked at Meilyr. The easy, intimate way they worked together, slowly ripping open Osian’s chest as he watched.
They had been lovers. Perhaps they were again.
Osian had torn away, cursing his eyes and his heart. Cursing himself for running after Meilyr as though he could ever be his to follow. As though he could ever be his to catch at the wrist and soothe – like that sweet, sharp tonic still buzzing on his tongue.
As though he could ever be someone Meilyr trusted with a piece of his heart.
It hurt, crawling through him like slow lightning. Still, Meilyr slept by the fireplace, curled in the neatly laid mess of cushions and blankets. At least, he seemed to sleep; even unconscious he was learnedly silent, as though even in dreams he did not dare allow himself to be.
If only Osian could press peace into his skin, kiss solace into the parts of him that were scarred and bruised and hurting.
But all he could do was rid him of Khaim.
All he could do was spirit him loose of Eascild’s teeth and onto a ship, to sail into a future Osian could never touch.
He had begun preparations shortly after Leighton’s killing, but should have acted sooner.
Now, every day brought more necessity, more danger.
He would tell Meilyr soon. Would rip the knife from his own wound.
If it could not wait for the coronation, so be it. Meilyr’s safety was all that mattered.
Their talk on the roof resurfaced, the part he had been unable to shake free:
I stopped it, and it will not happen again. I do not want it to.
What had happened after Osian had left them…?
Gods, it did not matter. The last days with Meilyr had ruined his resolve, had dared to make it easy to share this space. To feel Meilyr’s hands on his chest and have his eyes lift into his as though he might, he just might—
Hope was a killer. Osian knew that, and knew one day it would be his end.
He had stared too long at the moon. It was time he returned to the dark.