Chapter 35 #2
‘There is one story in particular,’ Meilyr said, ‘if you would like to hear it.’
He could still feel Osian’s gaze as the prince said, ‘Please.’
He began with the tale of the sword: the gift of it, and the curse.
They discussed where the Cyngaleg differed from the Khaimlic, and Osian
quietened when the story shifted into the return to the legendary lake.
The passing of the First Prince, the Eternal King.
The death that had, according to legend, led to the Sundering.
Clouds rolled across the sky, chasing shadows over the far hills. The roar had quieted, though there was still… something.
He should tell Osian about the page he had found.
The fact yew was likely to be used next.
But as the skies darkened, he found he could not evoke the horrors they had left behind at the castle.
He needed to understand it better himself first, and would tell Osian when he could show him – when the beast of Khaim swallowed them whole once more.
‘It will rain soon,’ he said. ‘I suppose we…’
Osian rose and offered his hand.
Their clothes were passably dry, and certainly better than riding without them. They dressed back-to-back, but at the last, Meilyr fumbled about, cursed internally and turned.
Osian had found his belt, turning to tell him. ‘I think—’
‘It must have—’
They stopped. Meilyr exhaled another laugh and retrieved the thick fabric, trailing it through Osian’s fingers.
The red kite called. Both of them watched it above the lake.
A thought bloomed, small and devastating. If only they did not have to return at all. If only they could stay here, like this.
Meilyr turned to tie the belt around his waist. For an instant, he had thought Osian might offer to tie it.
But the prince would not, not unless Meilyr asked him.
Had he hoped Osian would offer…? His strong, steady hands—
Enough. He was still tightly wound from resurfaced memories of Haydn, that was all.
But it was different. Even as he tried to flinch away from it again. It was different, when Osian had pressed him against the wall…
‘Meilyr? Are you all right?’
Meilyr’s heart leapt, and he turned.
Osian’s expression was filled with care. His gaze trailed upwards, and – slow enough Meilyr could have prevented it – he reached and drew a small, vibrantly red leaf from his hair.
Their woven bond had opened in the lake, deepened by the inherent nature of water. What Osian felt was abruptly clear, clearer than the lake, so much so that it took every other thought from Meilyr’s head.
Osian’s eyes moved unmistakably from Meilyr’s own, to his lips, and back.
How Meilyr had missed it – how he had managed to lie to himself when the truth was right there, glistening through Osian’s gaze and every fibre of him and every fibre of their bond, he did not know.
Osian wanted him. He wanted him so fiercely, it was blinding.
Meilyr’s blood hammered.
Followed by guilt, familiar as his own name. Uncomfortable as Cadogan. He should not want Osian. He should not feel this conflicted about what had happened at Deryn’s.
But he had not wanted to kiss Haydn, not at all.
‘I broke it off with Haydn,’ he said in a rush. Because Osian should know; he needed him to. ‘There was nothing to break off, but I told him. He listened. It’s done.’
Osian stared, slightly curious. Slightly something else. His voice was careful. ‘I assumed something had happened. You did not have to tell me.’
‘I needed you to know,’ Meilyr admitted. ‘I…’
Why? Why was the guilt so thick, pounding against his sternum.
Osian swallowed. ‘I am… glad you could be honest with him.’
He had not been honest, not at all. Not to Haydn, and not to himself.
So very unlike Osian. Osian, who had never once lied, even when Meilyr had not trusted himself enough to believe it.
Osian had only suppressed his desire, his feelings – not because he could not admit them, but because he did not want them to hurt Meilyr.
Meilyr, who he handled with more care and patience and understanding than Meilyr could ever have imagined from anyone.
Oh.
He let the current pull: stepped closer and touched the fine golden embroidery at the front of Osian’s tunic. Tapped twice, pointedly, with his finger.
Osian’s hand returned to his hair, a question growing in his gaze. His touch on Meilyr’s arm tensed, with three distinct presses of his finger.
Meilyr leaned up and kissed him.
The prince stiffened, as before. Then, like the sun breaking through cloud, he kissed back. He came alive, as suddenly and even more brilliantly than the first time.
He was soft, and warm, and good. His fingers firmed in Meilyr’s hair, at the base of his head, his other hand pulling him in by the small of his back.
Exactly where Meilyr wanted to be.
The certainty of the motion dislodged a sound of surprised need from Meilyr’s mouth, and Osian swallowed it desperately.
Heady, breathtaking want kindled Meilyr’s flesh.
This was more fluid than that first kiss – more devastating.
He wrapped his arms around Osian’s shoulders, deepening everything, fingers tight in his damp hair.
His own hunger was a tidal wave, as sudden as the plunge into the lake.
He grasped Osian, blood roaring, the prince’s body firm and close – not close enough. His taste was heady—
Osian pulled away, staggering.
Confusion bleached the pleasure. Meilyr almost tugged him back, but Osian breathed heavily, expression ragged with desire and… doubt?
Meilyr blinked, raw-lipped and disoriented. Had he been wrong? Had he done something wrong?
The sound of hoofbeats grew louder than his pulse. The prince’s knights were approaching at speed.
Osian let him go and stepped away to meet them.
‘Majesty, forgive us.’
‘What happened?’ There was no anger in Osian, only intensity.
Meilyr felt it too. Something was wrong.
Pedr wore a falconry glove, and a dark shape circled above. ‘An urgent missive from Eascild, Majesty. You are needed at once.’ They hesitated, as if wishing to spare the fall of the sword. ‘There has been another killing.’