The Iron Crown (The Darkest Court)

“Forget something?” he asks.

No answer is the best answer. I grunt and hope he doesn’t press me on it. The response earns me an eye roll before he heads over to the messy pile. A minute later, my bedroll is butted up against his and our usual stack of furs has been laid out, ready for nightfall. I wish he could neaten my confused thoughts as easily.

“Sorry you’re stuck with me,” he says as he kneels near me and begins to prepare the fire. “I’m not good company right now.”

“Haven’t been for days,” I throw back. He glares at me, so I add, “Hasn’t scared me off yet.”

“Still isn’t fair,” he mutters.

Twigs twist and crackle in his hands as he breaks them into more manageable kindling. He sighs, fully aware of my staring, and gives up on the fire in favor of sitting down. “I know you’re worried,” he admits after a painfully long pause.

“You’re acting strange. What’s going on?”

“When Mother resettled the Triumvirate’s power, Roark and I gained access to more magick. Adapting to the new power has been...” He trails off and stabs a stick at the pile of kindling. “There’s just more. I don’t know how to explain it.”

“I wouldn’t understand anyway,” I tell him, trying to soothe his frustration. “No glamour, remember?”

“Lucky,” he mumbles. “Anyway, I’m trying to figure it out.”

“Is that why you’ve been having more dreams than usual?”

“Maybe,” he hedges. “Can’t shake them, no matter how hard we ride.”

He eyes the axe and does a poor job of hiding his exasperation when I draw myself protectively around the iron head. I’m too sleep-deprived to let him close while I sharpen it. Over time, Lugh’s grown seemingly immune to the constant presence of iron in the Wylds. He’s far less sensitive to it than the rest of the royal family at least. Still, I won’t risk him getting burned or nicked by a potentially deadly weapon. “Is there anything I can do?” I ask.

“You’ve already done it.” He snorts at whatever expression I’m wearing. For the first time in days, the hint of a smile tugs at his mouth. “You got me out of the sídhe before Samhain.”

“It wouldn’t have been so bad. A quick feast, a few speeches, and you’d be done. Probably better than a boring night of camping.”

“No. Not this year.”

Should I ask him why? Is that what he’s waiting for, or is this his way of telling me not to dig for more information? Unsure, I use the pad of my thumb to do a careful test of the weapon’s edge. Almost there. A few more passes and I’ll be content. Lugh tries to wait me out, but I’m dedicated to avoiding his gaze and to finishing up my task. After a while, he returns his attention to the fire. By the time I’m done with the axe and have put it away, we have a cheery blaze going and we’ve both found better footing in our own minds.

We sit together in more comfortable silence, chatting quietly from time to time, as the day gives way to twilight. There are too many good memories of slipping out of the Winter Court to camp together for the dark thoughts hanging over us to remain. The stars sparkle overhead by the time we’ve finished dinner and cleaned up for the night. We strip down to our shirts and breeches for bed, a familiar habit requiring no thought or complicated what-ifs. Lugh crawls into his bedroll first and watches when I follow suit, keeping the iron axe within arm’s reach. He helps arrange the furs over us before rolling onto his side, cradling his head against his arm while he watches me adjust on the slightly uneven ground until I’m comfortable. Sleep hovers a short distance away, promising an end to aching muscles and worries about tomorrow.

“You know tonight might be difficult,” he says.

I bite back my immediate response of Every night with you is difficult. The sarcasm isn’t warranted when faced with Lugh’s utter sincerity. “We’ll manage.”

Lugh doesn’t answer, so I close my eyes and imagine my body melting into the earth beneath me. Everything relaxes and the knots of tension in my back begin to loosen. Yes, all we need is one night of good rest and the world will be righted. Lugh will be happy again and I’ll be able to think clearly, without pesky thoughts sneaking in, and we’ll carry on for another handful of centuries.

“Keir?”

“Hmm?”

He speaks so softly I miss the first few words. “—you to promise me something. No matter what happens tonight, don’t leave.”

I roll over and reach for him, too exhausted to open my eyes. I find his shoulder and slide my hand up to the back of his neck. His hair’s getting long. It tickles the back of my hand and tempts me to bury my fingers in it. I wonder how long he’ll be able to stand it before he begs Armel to cut it for him.

My hand stays curved around his neck, and his muscles tense as he opens his mouth and starts to speak. He needs sleep, not conversation. Make him stop talking...

He gives a choked sound when I use my grip to drag him close. We lie inches apart, breathing together, while I wait for the tension to leach out of him. It’s as though he’s actively fighting against dozing off. I rub my thumb along the base of his skull until his pulse slows. Only then, when I’m sure he’s going to listen, do I scrounge enough conscious thought to mumble, “Not leaving.”

“Keir—”

“Sleep. Try. Please.”

A heavy exhalation gusts against my throat and Lugh shivers. The pressure of his arm settling over my side makes it hard to breathe. In all our time together, I am always the one to hold Lugh. He is careful to never reach back. I’m not sure why. I like it better this way. Moving my thumb over his skin is hypnotic. I could stay like this forever. Intend to.