19. An Empty Yearning #2
“I don’t know,” Seren starts, except that’s barely true. One name has haunted him since his arrival. “Black hair, black eyes, and a scar.” Seren touches his face. “He felt like the augray.”
“Midnight.” Tension rustles Nevander’s wings. “Wait in my haven.”
The next instant, cool morning air replaces Nevander’s grasp. A copse of strange gray trees presides over wispy silver flowers. Beyond is a muted morning sky. It seems almost solid at the edges. Like the distant clouds are painted on a nearby wall.
Soft earth clings underfoot. Mist swirls between the flowers. A rope and wood swing hangs from a sturdy branch.
Seren’s frightened pulse slows with a nostalgic melancholy. Touching his wrist, where Nevander’s touch still burns, he leans against the nearest tree.
The past few moments have passed so quickly. Seren half expects to blink and find himself still on the balcony, talking to the honeysuckles. Chasing Harmony. Judging Mustardseed’s rhymes. Making friends before the loneliness of being hidden away.
This is why Haelwen sent him to Wymond. Because the dark-eyed fae stole Seren’s brothers, and Seren could have been next.
“Sorry for intruding,” Seren says, but the trees don’t answer. They’re just figments, because this is a haven.
Seren bites his lip, self-conscious. Hopefully Nevander can’t hear him like Primrose could in hers. Probably not, based on Seren’s subsequent reading. A regular high fae haven shouldn’t transform, and certainly doesn’t include evil flower petals.
Though that might be a nice distraction now.
A breeze swirls through the bluebells. Leaves and petals spiral upwards, and Nevander appears. Wings tucked away, his gaze snaps to Seren.
Who remembers, with terrible clarity, what he’s wearing.
“Your chambers are clear,” Nevander says, approaching.
Seren forces himself upright. “He got away?”
Nevander looks him up and down. His expression doesn’t change—please gods, spirits, anyone listening, let him not recognize the shirt. “If anyone was there.”
Seren flinches. “You doubt me.”
“I don’t doubt what you saw,” Nevander says, too specific a denial. “There’s no sign of intrusion, and teleporting within the palace is impossible. You may have had a vision.”
Seren doesn’t know the first thing about visions, but that doesn’t feel right. “Ask the honeysuckles on the balcony. They felt it.”
“All right,” Nevander agrees. Not as convinced-sounding as Seren wants. “Regardless, I should have been closer. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize lightly,” Seren echoes. Before Nevander can argue, he adds, “You can’t be with me all the time.”
Nevander has that look again. Like Seren’s a book with missing pages, and Nevander will sew new ones in. “I’ll teach you how to use this.”
Seren had forgotten the knife. He returns it to his carryhold, but the imprint remains in his palm. “Not that it would do much, but I’m even worse with a sword.”
“I’ll teach you how to wield a sword, too,” Nevander promises, and tears prickle behind Seren’s eyes.
He ducks his head, struggling for composure. Nevander always has a sensible solution, but Seren doesn’t want a solution. He doesn’t want to be trained and taught and solved until he meets Nevander’s expectations.
He just wants a few comforting words.
“What’s wrong?” Nevander asks, looking for more problems to solve.
Answering ‘nothing’ would be a lie. “If my chambers are clear, take me back.”
“Seren.”
“I know, you’re not sworn to obedience.” Seren hugs himself through the too-large shirt. He’s too tired to hold his tongue. “How can I make you like me?”
Nevander’s brow creases, and he seems to truly see Seren for the first time tonight. Then he sinks to one knee. “What have I done wrong,” Nevander asks, quiet and urgent, “to make you think I don’t?”
Pressure tightens within Seren’s chest. This is the attention that hounded his steps in Wymond. Seren knew he was followed, before he knew he was fae.
That used to frighten him. Now he craves it.
“I was good at being liked in Wymond,” Seren says. “Except for Edith and Alard, the other villagers were easy. I could help with little things. Nothing that made them feel weak. Asking them to help me worked even better. Nothing burdensome, just enough to make them feel important.”
He’s saying too much. But keeping quiet hasn’t fixed this rift. Something about the eerie pale trees pulls the words from him. Nevander’s unreadable, but the mist eddies with every breath.
“I don’t know what I could help you with,” Seren confesses. “You help me all the time, so much that anyone else would find me a burden.”
Seren sinks to his knees. Cool earth soaks through his trousers, and Nevander’s eyes widen. “You wanted me to be king. You blackmailed me to stay. But after Primrose’s haven… It’s foolish. I thought you might finally see me as more than a pathetic village brat.”
That spurs Nevander to speech. “You’ve never been pathetic.”
“I can’t feel your emotions,” Seren says, desperate. “All I have are your words. Your actions.”
Nevander is silent so long that Seren regrets his outburst. Finally, he breathes a laugh. “You aren’t ready. How could you be? You’re twenty-one. When I was your age, I was carelessly frolicking in court, with little more sense in my head than Tansy.”
An answering laugh startles from Seren. “I can’t imagine that.”
“I can’t lie.” Nevander rises, extending a hand. “You aren’t ready, but you’re closer than I dared to plan for.”
Seren takes the hand, warm as summer. Nevander eases him to his feet.
“Every part of you impresses me,” Nevander says. “Your thirst for understanding. Your possibilities. Any distance is the consequence of my own weakness.”
“You aren’t weak,” Seren says, swaying on his feet.
“I aim to protect you.” Nevander’s grasp softens, lingering, before letting go. “I am conflicted over how best to do that.”
“Conflict isn’t weakness.”
“And wisdom isn’t solely the domain of Autumn, it seems.” Nevander gestures upwards. The trees flash white, then blue, then white again. “A high fae’s haven is an intimate space. Allowing someone inside is an act of trust.”
Seren’s nerves stir at the word ‘intimate.’ “It’s beautiful.”
“All you have are my words and actions,” Nevander repeats. “I’ve never brought someone to my haven before.”
“Oh,” Seren says stupidly, hoping his face doesn’t show how much he likes that. Being the first. Being special. More than the echo of a dead queen.
“The place suits you,” Nevander says, which is lovely, until he adds, “As does the shirt.”
Flushing painfully hot, Seren covers his eyes. As if that will help. “You weren’t supposed to notice that.”
Nevander’s grin looks less practiced than usual, caught from between Seren’s fingers. “I notice everything about you.” He lowers himself to the ground. “Sit with me? We can give Sir Mustardseed and Sir Idalia more time to interrogate the honeysuckles.”
Face still burning, Seren sits. Not too close. He should ask more about Haelwen’s visions, or Lord Midnight, or the palace defenses. Instead, his curiosity circles around this tiny haven nobody else has ever been to. “Is this a real place? I mean, does your haven look like somewhere else?”
“Spiritwood.” Nevander leans back on both hands. “Yarrow, Valerian, and I used to play there, when we were younger and more foolish. No, that’s untrue. Yarrow’s still as foolish as ever.”
Thinking of Nevander as young and carefree is strange, when his present relaxation is such a rare gift.
“How old were you?” Seren asks.
“Around seventy,” Nevander answers casually, and Seren chokes.
“How old are you now?”
“A hundred twenty-four.” Nevander’s smile fades. And that too is a deliberate gift. “That was one of the last questions Haelwen ever asked me. She thought I was too young.”
“Of course,” Seren says, dazed. “She was going mad.”
Nevander’s laugh is sharp, surprised. Seren is too tired to worry about how thrilling that laughter is.
Or whether it’s better or worse for his vision of Midnight to be real.