32. Softer and Crueler
Softer and Crueler
Brittle silence carries Seren through marble halls and moonlit gardens. If there are any more ritual declarations, he doesn’t hear them. He refuses to look at Nevander, even as he clutches Nevander’s wrist with bruising force. Between glove and gauntlet, the point of contact pulses like a heart.
Seren needs to breathe. To think. He needs a compass to navigate his own storming emotions. He can shut out a crowd of strangers, but not himself.
His tension only heightens as they reach the royal quarters. It’s unfair. The carved goldwood doors had started to promise sanctuary, and now everything feels so fragile.
“Thank you,” Seren says to the guards flanking the doors. The first words he’s spoken since the duel ended. The guards bow, and Nevander jolts in Seren’s grasp.
Gaze locked forward, Seren pulls Nevander through the gossamer wards, into the parlor. The doors whisper shut, and Seren halts, lost. His hand loosens, then falls away.
“Harmony?” Seren calls out. He could really use a squirrel to hug right now.
But Harmony takes one sniff at him, then flees for the balcony. Fair enough. Seren is unpleasant company tonight.
“Sit down,” Nevander says, pressing the doors, as if they could shut even tighter. “Would you like tea, or something stronger?”
“No.” Seren jerks back, startled his own sharpness. “No, you shouldn’t be comforting me, when you were the one…”
Violet wings vanishing. Iridescent blood on the flagstones. That broken body could have been Nevander’s. An echo of Midnight’s blade piercing Nevander through. After all Nevander has done for him, Seren should be able to comfort his guardian.
Seren should be grateful. He should be kind. But this keeps happening.
“I’m all right.” Nevander wears the same wary mask he wore in the dueling circle. Like he’s watching for Seren’s next move. Or Seren’s weaknesses. “I’d feel better taking care of you.”
“She could have killed you,” Seren says, still brittle.
Nevander reaches out. “Have a little more confidence in me, my prince.”
Gods and spirits, Seren wants to.
He flings himself forward, and Nevander catches him, ready before he is. Seren clutches broad shoulders as Nevander lifts him, one hand firm beneath his ass, the other tender against his face.
The kiss is easy. Nevander’s lips are sweet and soothing. Seren soars, his mind falling blank. They both need this. Nevander needs to provide, and Seren yearns to be sheltered.
A groan disappears between their lips. Seren isn’t sure whose. Nevander’s hand shifts behind Seren’s head, holding him in pace, knocking his crown of flowers askew.
The next moan is definitely Seren. A thin, desperate sound. He could unravel here, taking shameless advantage of Nevander’s protection. Just like he has every night for weeks.
Except his chest tightens beneath his beautiful new clothing. It fits so perfectly, but his ribs clench painfully beneath leather and silk. Straps and buttons dig into his sensitive skin like chains. He’s trapped. The chains wrench tighter and tighter with Nevander’s every caress.
Brow furrowing, Seren kisses harder. His legs tighten around Nevander’s hips. If he could just forget himself in the secure embrace—
Nevander breaks away, rasping, “What’s wrong?”
Seren shoves away to the floor. He can’t forget, and frustration boils past his control. “I can’t do this.”
Nevander stills. “What do you mean?”
Seren left Wymond, traveling from realm to realm, amazed by magic and people he never could have imagined. But in some ways, he’s still exactly where he started.
Or worse.
“You want me to be a king,” Seren says, tugging at his perfect gloves. “But I’ve never felt so fucking helpless.”
“You aren’t,” Nevander says, then catches himself. He has that watchfulness again, searching for fractures to mend. “I know this is overwhelming. I should have prepared you for the possibility of challenges. But you have power, and you have allies.”
Seren laughs, sharp. “I thought this was a partnership, but Morana was right. I’m a child. A puppet.”
“I’m not your puppeteer,” Nevander says, and months ago, Seren wouldn’t have seen the subtle tension in his jaw. The wariness.
Not yet panic. Nevander still believes he can solve the problem.
But Seren refuses to be solved tonight. He finally understands how Tansy must feel. “You forced me to name you as my champion. I can do whatever I want, as long as I want what you think is best.”
“I was the best choice,” Nevander insists. “There wasn’t time—”
“Lysandra said you never summoned her,” Seren snaps, shocking Nevander silent. Seren continues, softer and crueler. “You’ve been maneuvering me this entire time.”
Nevander says nothing. Behind him, firelight flickers across the portrait of Seren’s family.
Seren’s being manipulative, like Alard always accused. He doesn’t care about Lysandra or the crown. He cares about Nevander and—perhaps for the first time—himself.
“You’re a clever puppeteer,” Seren continues softly. “You could have persuaded me instead of forcing me. I might not have noticed you pulling the strings.”
Nevander’s jaw clenches into a lump of iron.
Seren presses on, stinging himself with his own words. “The last time you fought on my behalf, you asked if I still wanted to escape. What if I’ve changed my mind? What if I want to escape this prison after all?”
“I’d say you should sleep on it,” Nevander says. “Tonight has been stressful. I’m not at my best.”
“You think I’ll calm down,” Seren accuses, and Nevander doesn’t reply.
The criticism is jagged. The expectation heavy. Seren can’t tell how much truly lingers in Nevander’s silence, and how much is the invention of his own insecurities. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Seren will never live up to this impossible title.
Nevander’s the only one who wants him to. And Haelwen, but she’s dead. Everyone else? The courtiers would scheme for or against anyone in Seren’s position. Primrose would conduct her rites according to tradition. The palace and trees would slowly resonate with another prince’s footsteps.
Seren wanted the power to mend what he could of his broken family. He could still do that. His position is probably more secure than ever, after Morana’s failure.
He’s just too tired for centuries of this.
“You’re right.” Seren rubs his eyes. “I’m not at my best. But I need more than a night’s sleep to fix that.”
“I can clear your schedule for tomorrow,” Nevander says, ever helpful. Inescapably so.
“Clear yours,” Seren says. “I don’t want to see you for a week.” It must be true if he can say it, but it still hurts.
Only a breath before Nevander bows his head. “All right.”
Too easy. Perhaps Nevander understands that Seren needs space. A chance to figure out his own wishes without the constant pressure of Nevander’s devotion.
Or perhaps Nevander simply sees a loophole.
“And don’t secretly follow me,” Seren says sternly.
Refusal tightens Nevander’s jaw again. His hand shifts, like he’s preventing himself from reaching out. Seren’s sense of helplessness surges. He doesn’t want to be alone. He wants Nevander to follow him. But he can’t continue like this. He knows what Nevander is about to say before—
“I’m sworn to protect you,” Nevander grits out.
Seren’s temper flares. “Then I release you from your vow!”
Power lashes out. His words slice through trembling air, and Nevander staggers. A gust of hurt, laced with shards of panic, whips Seren back.
The pain vanishes as Nevander ruthlessly secures his shields. He can’t hide his sudden anger, though, or he doesn’t try. His voice chills as he turns away. “Rest well, Your Highness.”
“Nevander,” Seren says, urgent, worried.
Nevander doesn’t slow. The goldwood doors crack shut behind him, leaving the room in hurt silence.
Seren stumbles towards the nearest sofa. His legs can’t carry him that far. Instead, he sinks to his knees, trembling, beneath the painted family he never met.
Haelwen, regal on her throne. The golden wisps of light must symbolize the memories she gathered. No indication of Zavriel and Briar’s talents. Perhaps they were too young to discover them. Ten-year-old Briar is shown with a tidingbird. He would probably like Harmony.
See what could have been, the painted faces seem to taunt. Look at what you’ll never have.
Seren exhales, breath sharp with regret. He hadn’t expected to release Nevander’s vow. He hadn’t known his words held such power. He hadn’t meant to hurt Nevander.
Yet the vow itself has hurt Nevander long enough. Nevander should be grateful, which means he’ll resent Seren for it instead. Seren has enough experience with emotions to know that.
Much good it does him. Seren averts his gaze from the portrait. His gloved fingertips dig into his lace-clad thighs. All this finery fits him perfectly. He’s the one that doesn’t fit.
For a few delusional weeks, Seren thought that he mattered. But he’s too weak to fight his own battles, too slow to find different solutions. He watched helplessly as Nevander risked his life for a title Seren wants and hates in equal measure.
Meanwhile the other revelers watched in breathless anticipation. They cheered Nevander’s victory, but they would have cheered Morana as well. They have no reason to want Seren in particular as king.
Seren’s next breath falters into a sob. He never thought he’d miss Wymond so fiercely. Edith and Alard might have hated him, but they never expected duels to the death.
A tender weight settles over Seren’s shoulders. He yanks around, poised to snap at Nevander. But there’s nobody in the room. A soothing, familiar presence eases a fur blanket around Seren.
The palace.
Seren sits back, pulling the blanket tighter. The palace hums, pleased, then waits. Timelessly patient.
Harmony approaches with a chirp. No repentance for running from Seren’s anger, but she can brave his sadness. Her sleek form thuds against Seren’s chest. Tiny claws prick through lace and silk, then relax when Seren holds her close.
“I don’t know if I can stay,” Seren whispers.
His shields loosen enough to commune with fireplace and marble, waterfall and climbing vine. Enough to share a small piece of his hurt confusion.
The palace only listens. As the next sob wracks Seren’s body, that’s enough.