Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
She lunges slower than she means to and Lox catches her wrist easily. He twists it gently and redirects her with a turn of his hips.
‘Again,’ is all he says.
This time, she feints right and pivots left, but she barely manages to graze his side before he steps out of reach, spinning her momentum against her until her face nearly meets the moss.
‘Lesson one,’ he murmurs, stepping back into stance. ‘Make your movements unpredictable.’
Marian grits her teeth, breath burning in her lungs. Her fists curl. She charges again, this time aiming for his ribs, elbows tucked close the way Allen taught her.
Lox sidesteps, catching her forearm and spinning her neatly, a twist of motion that leaves her facing away from him before she can catch her footing. He holds her around the waist with one firm hand that stays just long enough to remind her he could throw her to the earth if he wanted.
‘You’re hesitating,’ he says, too close behind her. ‘Stop holding back.’
‘I’m not—’
‘You are,’ he cuts in. The laughter in his tone only makes her angrier. ‘And that’s all right. Fear is honest, but so is fury. Use them both.’
Marian wants nothing more than to knock that smug smirk off his face.
Over and over she lunges, swings, twists, and swipes.
Her muscles burn, her curls stick to her neck, and sweat stings her eyes, but he won’t let her win.
Every strike she throws finds empty air or the unshakable wall of his defence.
Every movement he makes is a lesson wrapped in provocation.
She becomes a blur of motion until, finally, a knuckle glances his jaw, knocking his head to the side with a satisfying jolt. His breath catches. Just a hitch, but enough for her to know she surprised him.
Marian straightens, blinking in disbelief. ‘I did it!’
Lox steps back and claps his hands once in exaggerated applause. ‘Well done.’
She grins victorious. But it’s brief.
The gold in his eyes flashes. That’s the only warning she gets before roots writhe beneath her boots. She yelps, thrown off balance as the grass gives way underfoot. Lox darts forward and presses her back against a tree before she can recover, his forearm braced beside her head.
‘Lesson two,’ he murmurs, his voice wicked. ‘Arrogance has no place on a battlefield.’
Marian glares up at him, panting. ‘Ironic, coming from you.’
Vines slither up from the mossy earth and wrap around her ankles. Not tight enough to trap, but enough to keep her pinned. A branch creaks overhead, and when she glances up, the canopy shifts with unnatural ease to cast Lox in shadow while the sunlight blinds her.
She blinks through the glare, scowling. ‘That’s cheating.’
‘No fight worth surviving is fair. Use what you have available to you, or be buried by what you don’t.’
Marian jerks at the cords around her legs until they snap. ‘Not all of us have the luxury of commanding an entire forest.’
‘No one commands Sherwood,’ he says, stepping back to give her space.
Marian watches him warily, adjusting her stance as the last root curls back into the soil. ‘And yet it obeys you so willingly.’
Lox kneels, brushes his fingers against the earth, and the undergrowth stills as if soothed. ‘You cannot command something so old, so vast. As its Rootkeeper, I merely listen, persuade, and occasionally prune,’ he finishes, palm spread flat. ‘Sherwood and I are kin, not master and hound.’
Curiosity edges out the sting of being taken down so neatly. ‘Defending all of Sherwood seems an awfully heavy burden for one soul to carry.’
For a long moment, he doesn’t answer. The forest hushes with him, a suspension of sound that makes Marian’s ears strain for the twitch of a branch, the far-off call of a night bird, the rustle of something unseen.
‘Some say there should be two,’ he finally answers.
‘That if Shéruel was its defender then Wodenna was its heart, and both are needed, as protector and pulse, for Sherwood to thrive. But it’s been over two hundred years since both Verdant Guardians watched over the wood, and almost half a century since Sherwood had a Heartkeeper. ’
‘It’s normally one or the other?’
‘When the last Heartkeeper fell, Sherwood mourned for longer than it ever had before. It grew restless, wild and untamed. Crops failed in the villages along its edge. Streams ran brackish. A blight struck down both fae and beast alike. Those who lived beneath the boughs whispered that the heart of the wood had turned against them.’ His gaze lifts, meeting hers with a steadiness that makes her pulse skip. ‘But it was waiting. Watching.’
Marian swallows, brushing her thumb across the bruised ridge of her knuckles. ‘And it chose you.’
Lox shakes his head. ‘I am not the heart of Sherwood,’ he answers plainly. ‘Though not in my wildest dreams did I expect to be chosen as its next Rootkeeper either when I stepped inside the Eldwyrd hollow, but Sherwood is not swayed by expectation.’
Marian tilts her head. ‘The what hollow?’
He nods toward the distant tip of Elswyth’s heart tree, visible over the tops of the closest trees.
‘Just as at the centre of every fae village stands a heart tree, in the middle of this forest lies the Eldwyrd – the oldest tree in Sherwood. Some say that the entire forest grew from it. At its base, there is a hollow and those who believe they are ready to receive their magical gift offer themselves up to its roots. The tree swallows them whole, cocooning body and breath until there is no air but what it gives. No light but what it offers. The tree reads them. Every secret of their marrow is laid bare to see if they are worthy of their gifts.’
Her skin prickles at the thought. ‘And if they are?’
‘Then it calls forth what already lingers in the bones.’ He brushes a finger against a low-hanging branch, coaxing a blue and white flower from bud to bloom.
‘I was always fond of pulling green shoots from the soil, watching roots take hold where there had been only dirt. It was small, a trick no greater than a child’s whistle.
But when the Eldwyrd’s roots pierced my skin and poured the forest’s will through my veins .
. .’ His throat bobs, words faltering as though even now he cannot name the enormity of it.
‘I felt every seed, every vein of leaf and root, as though they were my own blood. The Eldwyrd did not give me power; it amplified what I already was.’
Marian’s eyes slide toward the centre of the grove where the heart tree towers above all others. She imagines its hollow gaping like a waiting mouth. ‘And if Sherwood finds someone’s soul unworthy?’
Lox’s gaze follows hers, his profile carved by light and shadow. ‘The Eldwyrd has no patience for empty vows. A false heart is not returned to the light. The forest keeps what you offered, allowing your body to be made into sustenance so that Sherwood may grow stronger from your surrender.’
The words are spoken without cruelty, but they send a chill up her spine all the same. ‘So stepping into the hollow is. . .’ She hesitates, throat tight.
‘It is a risk, but so is any true display of faith,’ he finishes softly. ‘To kneel there is to admit you are not enough, and yet still trust the forest to see more in you than you see in yourself.’
Marian’s breath stutters. She imagines the darkness of the hollow gobbling her up, bark closing overhead, the roots pressing down until her lungs burn. To surrender her body, her name, everything that tethers her to this world, and trust the wood not to devour her. ‘And you did this willingly?’
His eyes catch hers, green and gold bright even in the dimness. ‘I had no choice. The forest was dying, and so was I, in my own way.’ He shrugs it off, but there’s a weight behind it. ‘Sherwood saved me as much as I saved it. Perhaps more.’
‘You make it sound so beautiful.’
‘It is not without sacrifice,’ he adds bitterly.
‘Once you are chosen, you are never your own again. Sherwood does not share its guardian. You belong to it. Body and soul. A Verdant Guardian cannot bind himself to any vow but the wood’s,’ he says quietly, thumb tracing a pale scar across his wrist. ‘No marriage pacts. No hearth of my own. No children I could rightfully claim. Nothing that could stretch my love, my duty, thin.’
Something small in Marian goes very still. It lodges beneath her ribs like a thorn.
‘That’s . . .’ But her words fail to come.
‘What Sherwood needs,’ he finishes. ‘When storms come, I am the oak that takes the lightning. When drought spreads over the marsh, I am the root that dives deeper. The Rootkeeper cannot pretend to be husband or father when their first breath must belong to bark and bough.’
Marian swallows against a dryness that has nothing to do with thirst. ‘But if there was a Heartkeeper?’
‘Some believe that the heart is no longer needed, not when fae keep their ore strong and their magic bound tight. That the forest requires only a shield to bear the bite of axes and the teeth of men. And so, when I stepped inside the hollow, it called upon an oak to endure, not a pulse to renew.’ His tone grows quiet.
Silence blooms between them and Marian has to fight the urge to reach out to him.
‘But there are nights,’ he softly adds, ‘when the canopy is hushed and the trees are sleeping, that I wonder what Sherwood might be if its heart still beat alongside its shield.’
Lox shakes his head as if clearing the thought before it can take root again, shattering the quiet. ‘All right, I’ve given you plenty of time to pretend you’re not stalling. Ready to end up flat on your back?’
Heat rushes to her cheeks. ‘I wasn’t stalling. Besides, you cheated.’
He spreads his hands and pulls his fingers forward in a come-hither motion. ‘Then cheat back.’
Her eyes narrow. She circles him slowly, letting the tension pull taut between them. Then, without breaking his gaze, she grabs the edge of her tunic and yanks it over her head, leaving only the thin linen shift beneath clinging to her damp skin.
Lox pauses, gaze dragging down her form, mouth twitching.