16. Wren
We put some distance between ourselves and the Thornstag before finally stopping to make camp.
I’m able to dry Cassiel’s bedroll with magic, which I’m incredibly grateful for.
Asking the two of us to share right now would be akin to torture.
Of course, I could just transform and sleep in a tree somewhere, but I’d probably have to explain that to him, and I don’t want him to know yet that I’ve been visiting him in bird form. He isn’t stupid. He’ll figure it out.
Would he be angry if he knew what I’d been doing, sneaking in to see him? He seemed strangely at ease with everything else I’ve told him, barely batting an eye when he heard I’d killed my own mother.
I start another fire and begin adding things to the pot, grateful that we managed to keep hold of our packs whilst fleeing from the stag. Cassiel sniffs the air as the meat starts to boil.
“Here,” he says, “let me help.”
“You’re… offering to cook?”
“You think I can’t cook because I’m blind—”
“When have I ever thought you can’t do anything?” I say. “I don’t think you can cook because you’re a fancy prince who’s probably never had to cook a thing in his life.”
“I can… stir,” he insists. “I’ve definitely stirred. Let me stir.”
Giving up, I pass him the spoon. He holds it out, tapping at the sides of the pot.
“Is my hand about to go into the flames?”
“Very funny.”
I settle back against my own bedroll and watch the firelight dance over his skin.
There’s a slight glow to him today, and, if I’m honest, I’m grateful for the help.
The incident with the stag today took more out of me than I would have liked.
The months living alone have drained me; I can’t run as fast as I used to, and my fireballs aren’t as strong as they once were.
I just need sleep, I tell myself. Sleep, a hot meal, some of the guilt removed from my shoulders…
A night without nightmares.
I’m not sure the last two are going to happen.
“Tell me about rune magic,” Cassiel asks, stirring the food.
“What? Why?”
“Well, I figure it’s a better way to pass the time than playing I spy…”
I laugh, and he laughs too. Trust Cassiel to make that joke, and to want to learn something rather than play a game.
“Rune magic is a type of magic anyone can learn,” I tell him.
“Any fey, you mean.”
“Yes.” I run a hand through the ragged end of my braid, wondering if I should redo it. “If a human tries to activate a rune, it won’t work, but any fey willing to learn the symbols, the words, and the properties, can master it with relative ease.”
Cassiel nods. “I understand the words, the symbols part,” he says. “What does ‘properties’ mean?”
“The rune is only as strong as what it’s etched with, or into. Something drawn in the dirt isn’t going to last long, for example. Blood is a good one if you want something semi-powerful, but easy to remove—”
“You used blood on the back of my neck, didn’t you?”
I still, wondering if this conversation was a trap, another way to make me squirm in my guilt.
“Yes,” I say quietly, “and I’m really sorry that I did.”
Cassiel bites his lip, half nodding. He says nothing more until the food is ready, and I ladle it into the two bowls.
Cassiel takes a long, satisfying sip. “This is an unusual flavour,” he remarks. “Both spicy and sweet. Some kind of tuberous vegetable?”
“Spiced stonefruit,” I tell him. “Packs a punch, doesn’t it?”
“It’s delicious.”
We eat the rest of the meal in silence. Cassiel offers to wash up in the stream nearby, which is good of him.
I feed Robin the bones and curl up beside him, eyes on Cassiel the entire time.
He returns after a few minutes, and I grudgingly repack our packs in case we have to leave suddenly in the night.
I miss the cave. I’m not accustomed to long journeys anymore, or at least, not walking for them.
“There’s dessert,” I tell him, finding a parcel of moonberries among my belongings.
“You spoil me.”
I hesitate when I hand them over, remembering another time I offered Cass moonberries, but it’s too late now to take them back. Cass bites into one, suppresses a moan, and then his brows crinkled in recognition.
“I know this flavour,” he says. “I’ve had it before…”
His eyes widen.
“I didn’t mean—” I start. “I wasn’t trying to get you to think about—”
Our first kiss.
Cassiel swallows. “Not a Thornvale delicacy, then.”
“No.”
“They’re… good,” he says, although I notice he doesn’t reach for another.
I really hope he believes me.
The berries have lost the appeal for me, too. I wrap up the rest of them and save them for later, deciding to try my hand at rebraiding my hair before bed. It turns out to be a bad idea. It’s a bit of a tangled mess, and neither my hair nor my fingers seem to want to cooperate right now.
“What are you trying to do?” Cassiel asks after a while.
“Braid my hair.” I sound more annoyed than I mean to. “It isn’t cooperating. My fingers are too stiff—”
He sighs. “Let me.”
“You know how to braid?”
“Yes.”
“Is there a story behind that? Ooh—did you have long hair as a child? Do tell.”
He gives a reluctant little sound as he shifts over, taking my head between his hands, gentle as ever. The rhythm of the braid begins to form under his touch.
“I learned for Runara,” he says.
That fits. He weaves with a patience well suited for doing anything with her.
I miss her.
“That makes sense,” I remark.
“When Runara was about five, I think,” he says, voice even, “she kept asking Mother to braid her hair. Her timing wasn’t fantastic.
She was forever asking when Mother was caught up in things, so Mother kept saying not today, she was too tired, could she ask a maid, etc.
Of course, Runara could have had anyone do it.
She wanted Mother. And Mother was busy running a kingdom and trying not to break. ”
He pauses. A pressure forms against my ribs. He likely had no idea just how much his mother was doing until now, but he knew enough to want to help her.
“You learned for both of them, then.”
Cassiel doesn’t reply for a moment, like he doesn’t enjoy the praise. “I was a poor substitute for our mother,” he admits, “but Runara didn’t seem to mind. Eventually, Mother did find the time.”
“You aren’t a poor substitute for anything.” I mean it, but it also probably doesn’t mean much, coming from me.
He says nothing. He keeps working, the braid taking shape.
“You’re a good brother,” I tell him.
“I was,” he says, and finishes the last twist. I reach up, fingertips exploring the braid as if proving it’s real. It’s nicer than anything I usually let myself wear.
“This is… a very fancy braid.”
“What of it?” His voice is even, but there’s a little chin-lift in it, a dare.
“I don’t usually wear it so fancy.”
“I know it may shock you, Thornvale,” he says, as I blink at the disused name, “but I really don’t have any idea how you usually wear your hair.”
A chuckle escapes me despite the weight under my ribs.
“Ashwood, I mean. Or… Saints.” I watch his hands stilling for a fraction. He huffs, frustrated by the names. “I really don’t know what to call you.”
“Wren is fine, you know.” I tell him. The name feels like a shield and a wound all at once.
“No, it isn’t,” he replies, his voice quiet.
He’s used it only a handful of times since I’ve seen him again, and I don’t think he meant to.
“You could… you could try Serawen, you know. That is my name, after all. Not many use it, but I do answer to it.”
“What do your people call you?” he asks.
“Not much, really.” The answer tastes small. “Not anymore.”
“I see.”
“My mother used to braid my hair,” I add, because the silence makes my mouth dry.
“I remember you saying.” His hands are still, resting against my scalp, feeling rather than seeing.
“I… I didn’t lie about that, you know.” The confession tumbles out. I know I told him as much earlier, but I’m not sure he fully understands. “I didn’t lie about most things. I lied as little as possible, and not just because I’m no good at it. I lied so little because I hated lying to you.”
He goes quiet. The shadows move on the ground like slow animals.
“I… I went back to Ashwood, you know,” I tell him, because the truth wants more from me tonight.
“Yes?” His tone is encouraging, careful.
“I flew over it accidently.” My voice falters and then steadies. “I… I met someone there. Someone who remembered me as a child. He seemed to—”
“Go on.”
“He seemed to suggest that… certain events I’d always perceived to be true… might not have been as I recalled them.” I breathe, let the admission settle between us like smoke.
“Be more specific,” he says.
“I was sure—absolutely sure—that the village children hated me, that they called me names, that they were frightened of me.” I close my eyes; the memory is a bruise I keep prodding. “But he said… he said that they weren’t. That they were fascinated by me.”
The words feel foreign and raw, and I half want to snatch them back.
“I imagine most people that meet you are fascinated by you,” Cassiel whispers, his words quiet, like he’s almost ashamed of them.
“The fey weren’t.”
Cassiel has nothing to say to that, and the conversation stills. It’s just as well. Exhaustion is pulling at my bones. I inch away from him and curl up in my bed roll. A moment later, he does the same.
“Goodnight,” I whisper across the space between us.
“Goodnight.”