Chapter 9 #3
He is barefoot, cloak shed, shirt unlaced at the collar. His sleeves are rolled to the elbow, revealing forearms etched with vines of dark ink that shimmer with life. His hands hover above the floor, palms splayed. Beneath them, the bark ripples and then splits.
A bud pushes up through the earthen floor, blooming in a slow, curling spiral.
First one, then two, then a dozen flowers unfold, soft and pale and in every colour imaginable.
They’re unlike anything Marian’s ever seen.
Their petals glisten with dew, and, when they open fully, they emit a faint chime, clear and musical, like wind through crystal.
The children gathered around him gasp in delight and wonder.
Three of them, all thin-limbed and grey-eyed, kneel close to the blossoming patch.
One claps her hands weakly. Another leans forward, and Lox steadies him with a gentle hand to the back.
Then, with a flick of his fingers, the blossoms drift upward, rising into the air like stars freed from the sky.
A flower lands in each child’s palm. The smallest boy giggles, pressing the blossom to his cheek, and Lox smiles.
Marian watches from the shadows of the doorway, the linen basket forgotten in her grip.
This is not the man who circled her like a predator in the court-chamber. This is not the fae who toyed with her lies or threatened to keep her like a trinket.
This Lox is . . . soft. Threaded with a gentleness so at odds with the power she knows pulses beneath his skin.
He lifts a flower and tucks it behind a girl’s ear, brushing her hair back with reverence. His thumb lingers just a breath too long on her temple, as though he could will her to be whole again through touch alone.
Uncertain if she’s trespassed on something sacred, Marian takes a step back before she’s seen, and nearly knocks over a tray of herbs. A healer glances up, frowning, and Marian mumbles an apology.
Allen reappears beside her like smoke. ‘I thought I told you to stay put?’
She swallows, her pulse thundering against her ribs. ‘I was trying to find someplace to put these,’ she says, lifting the basket of linens.
Allen doesn’t reply at first. His usual smile doesn’t come. The light of the blossoms reflects in his eyes, bright and unguarded for once. For a moment, he just stands beside her in the dim corridor, gaze fixed on the children.
‘That’s the part no legend ever gets right,’ he murmurs, his voice low enough that only she hears.
‘They all say Lox is fire and fury, that he carries Sherwood’s wrath in his veins.
Which is true.’ His throat bobs as he swallows, gaze lingering on the children’s thin faces.
‘But what he holds back is just as dangerous as what he lets out. That . . .’ He nods toward the petals drifting in the air.
‘That is the side of him no one warns you about.’
Marian’s arm throbs from holding the basket, but she can’t seem to make herself move. ‘Why do that? Why waste magic on something so frivolous when you say it’s fading?’
Allen tilts his head, finally glancing at her.
‘Because joy isn’t frivolous. Not for them.
They’re the ones who carry the brunt of it when the Sheriff’s men drive deeper into the forest. Too many wake with nothing but pain for company.
Lox gives them a moment when that isn’t the only thing consuming their thoughts. ’
Marian presses the wicker harder against her hip, as though its bite might steady her. She tries to anchor herself in the scratch of straw through her skirt. Anything to blunt the sharpness of what she’s seeing.
She knows she should look away, and she wants to, but her eyes betray her.
They keep following the curve of Lox’s hands, the way he coaxes beauty from bark as if the forest were a body answering to his touch.
The chime of the blossoms rings inside her chest, and for one reckless instant she envies the children their laughter.
‘I don’t understand him.’ She swallows.
Allen chuckles softly. ‘You don’t have to. Few do. Some call him storm; others call him shepherd. The truth’s somewhere in-between.’ He turns his body toward her, grin flickering back at last.
As she turns back, a wave of light-headedness grips her, her vision narrowing for half a heartbeat. The basket nearly slips from her arms. She falters, catching herself with a sharp inhale and a stiffening of her spine, forcing her stride back into rhythm before Allen can notice.
Marian dares a final glance over her shoulder.
Lox’s green and gold gaze burns steady as it rakes over her. He studies her like he’s seen the crack in her composure ripple across the room, as though he’s weighing the shape of her weakness with the same reverence he gave the flowers.
Her cheeks feel too warm, pulse flickering too close to the surface. She turns before the soft, unguarded thing in her chest can rise to meet his gaze. Better he watch her leave than catch the flicker of something fragile in her eyes. Strength is easier, at a distance.