35. How It Works #2
He shakes his head slowly, as if trying to clear something tangled and heavy from his mind.
“You know what happened,” he begins, his voice distant, laced with frustration, or maybe it is disgust. “It was senseless and violent.” His grip on the railing tightens, knuckles straining as he wrestles with his resolve.
“He wanted me to understand that my loyalty to the king was more important than anything else. And every time, I did it.” He looks at me then, but not really, like he is looking through me, into something darker.
“Fucking Keagan,” he snaps. His voice falters, then drops lower. “I didn’t even flinch. I gave the order, and they fell.”
I don’t breathe. I can’t.
Oberon’s voice thins to a whisper. “It got worse, continuously testing my resolve. I did it all, without hesitation.” His jaw is set tight now, his body trembling with the force of what he is holding in.
“I would stand over them, letting their blood pool around my feet. Maybe, I even enjoyed it,” he says as a humorless chuckle leaves him, his body tightening as he leans slightly over the railing.
“Keagan wanted to see how far I’d fall. And I did. I fell so fucking far.”
“You’re here,” I say, voice soft. “Maybe not the same. But you are here, and that has to mean something.”
“This is the truth of who I am, Lyra, of the male you think you care for,” his face steels.
He stands taller, straightening his spine, squaring off his shoulders, his posture returning to him while he puts the armor he wears for the world back into place, piece by delicate piece.
“Everything I am is wrapped in what he made me.”
Silence stretches between us. I reach out, pressing my fingers gently to the back of his hand, but his walls are already back up when I say, “You didn’t have a choice.”
He pulls his hand away and looks at me then, all emotions devoid from his face. “I had every choice. And I still did it.”
“No,” I whisper. “He took that from you. He twisted your choices until they weren’t choices at all.”
Oberon doesn’t reply. He just looks away, shoulders tense like he is bracing for something worse.
He starts to raise his hand again, like he is reconsidering pulling away, before dropping it.
He exhales shakily, his head turning just enough to see the softening in his eyes, his voice barely audible. “This is who I am.”
Before I have a chance to argue, to fight him, he turns away from me.
The vulnerability in his eyes is gone as he looks ahead, expression cold and controlled. I can see the effort it takes. I feel it.
“They’re expecting strength,” he says, voice steady now but tight at the edges. “Not this.”
“They’re expecting you,” I counter gently. “The real you. And if they can’t respect that, they have no place at your table.”
He gives me a sharp glance over his shoulder, searching, and for a moment, it looks like he might say something else. Instead, he just nods once, turning back toward the hall.
We walk side by side in silence, the echoes of our footsteps chasing us down the corridor.
By the time we reach the heavy double doors of the council chamber, the murmurs inside have swelled into a wave of restless energy.
The guards straighten when they see Oberon approach. One opens the door, and conversations fall quietly in an instant. Dozens of eyes turn to us, to him.
Oberon steps into the room, head high, shoulders squared, the golden light from the hall catching in his dark hair like a crown.
I follow, a breath behind, feeling the shift in the air as the gathered Fae absorb his presence.
He walks to the front of the long table and doesn’t wait for formalities as I find my way back to my seat near Zander and Ash.
“I apologize for the delay,” he says, voice cutting through the silence with calm authority. “There’s much to discuss. Let’s begin.” His presence is commanding, his mask of indifference is securely in place, betraying nothing of what lies beneath.
The room falls into absolute silence, as though holding its collective breath. Every eye is locked on him, waiting for his next words.
He stands for a moment at the front of the room, his eyes sweeping over us without making direct contact with anyone.
His gaze drops to the table in front of him as he speaks, his tone steady, his words sharp.
“You’ve all heard the rumors,” he begins, his voice like ice.
It is the commanding tone I know so well, the one he uses when he needs to assert control, when he needs to ensure no one can see how deeply he is affected.
The room remains still, hanging on his every word, waiting for what will come next.
“They’re all true,” he says, the weight of his statement hitting the room like a physical force.
A murmur breaks out immediately, a tidal wave of hushed voices and disbelieving gasps. The room buzzes with conversation, all the gathered Fae speaking over one another, their voices dripping with judgment, shock, and curiosity. Oberon stands unwavering at the front, waiting for them to settle.
I can hear the awful things being said around the room, the condemnation and disbelief. I can see Oberon’s jaw tighten, his face hardening against the sea of whispers.
He must hear them too, because, for a split second, his carefully crafted facade cracks. In that fleeting moment, I see something in his eyes, something raw.
His expression falters, and the weight of all his secrets seems to press against him. I can see the war raging behind his gaze, like his shadows have taken over and swirled in his eyes, darkening them. It is a look I haven’t seen from him before.
He closes his eyes briefly, gathering himself, and then he starts to speak again.
The room goes quiet, the murmurs halting.
Oberon’s eyes darken, his hands gripping the edge of the table as though holding onto the last shred of control.
“It is no secret that I have an image to uphold with the King and his court.”
He begins before someone in the audience interrupts, “Throw him in the dungeon before he hurts more of us!”
Oberon doesn’t so much as flinch at the outburst. “Either do it and be done with it or shut the hell up and let me talk.” He responds with controlled calm.
When no one steps up to take him away, he continues, “There have been a few too many questions about my loyalty as of late. I left to play the part and assess the situation.”
He pauses, staring at the ground, as though seeing the past unfold before him. “At first, I tried to play it safe, to buy time. I talked to him about the rebellion in vague terms, giving just enough without giving too much. But he wasn’t fooled. He knew something wasn’t right.”
As he begins to dive deeper into the moments that led to the destruction, he falters. I could see it in the way his shoulders tense, the hesitation in his voice. His gaze shifts again, as if searching for something, trying to hold onto something solid, but failing.
His eyes, those eyes that have always held an impenetrable calm, are shifting now, swirling with shadows of their own. I watch, captivated and heartbroken, as the battle within him unfolds right before me.
He struggles to find the words, and I know he isn’t just speaking to us. He is fighting with himself. There is a part of him that isn’t sure if he can live with the choices he has made, a part of him that is fighting the guilt and the consequences that follow.
It is a side of Oberon I have never seen before, the vulnerable, broken part of him that can’t quite find peace, no matter how hard he tries.
I can feel my chest tighten, my own heart aching for him. And just as I think he might break under the weight of it, he falls silent.
The room holds its breath, waiting for him to continue. But he can’t.
I know then that this isn’t just about his rebellion or his duty as a prince. This is about him, the male I have come to know, and yet, still barely understand. He is breaking, and I can’t stop it.
He tries to force out the words, but they get stuck in his throat, refusing to leave. His frustration finally boils over. With a loud, violent slam, he hits the table, and the echo of it reverberates through the room, making everyone flinch.
In the silence that follows, Oberon doesn’t wait for anyone to speak. He turns sharply and storms out, leaving a room full of confused Fea in his wake. Whispered questions float from seat to seat.
Zander, without hesitation, stands up and walks to the front of the room. His movements are deliberate and composed as he picks up the thread of Oberon’s story, seamlessly taking over the narrative that has been abruptly cut off.
I can’t stay there. I need to be with him. I slip out the door, determined to follow. I did mean what I said: Oberon doesn’t have to be alone. Not like this, whether he wants me or not.
The hallways stretch on, the echoes of my footsteps mingling with the quiet hum of the palace, until I find him crouched outside.
He is leaning against the cold stone wall, his hands covering his face, fingers tangled in his hair, as though he can pull the pain out of himself by sheer force. He doesn’t acknowledge my presence, doesn’t even look up as I approach. The weight of his silence wraps around me.
I’m not sure what to say. I kneel beside him, not speaking, just letting the quiet stretch between us, offering him the one thing he probably needs most: space.
After what feels like an eternity, his voice cracks the stillness. “Go,” he rasps, his voice ragged and shaking, the sound of someone who has been fighting for too long.
I don’t move. I don’t respond. I’m not going to leave him here, not like this.
“Go.” The word is sharper this time, more forceful, still I stay, eyes fixed on him, waiting for something, anything, that will let me in. “Leave, please,” he pleads.