“Sorcha, my face itches!”

“Sorcha, my stomach hurts!”

“Sorcha, I can't breathe!”

Sorcha blew a tangled curl away from her face and stared into the rafters as if she could see her sisters through the floor. They claimed the plague had rendered them useless and refused to move from their beds, no matter how many times Sorcha reminded them that they weren't dying.

Yet.

Laundry obscured her vision, piled so high she could barely see over the edge, making her biceps shake with the weight. This was the first load of many that she would need to bring to the river. She was the only family member who wasn’t infected by the plague, and the only one the villagers allowed to leave the brothel.

“Small blessings,” she muttered before calling out, “I’ll be right there, dearest sisters!”

“But Sorcha!”

“I know your discomfort is great, but I beg you, have patience! I need to put the laundry away.”

“Is the laundry more important than us?”

She rolled her eyes. Her sisters had always been superb at convincing their father how ill they were. It was a shame they couldn't convince their healer sister.

Sorcha reminded herself that they were gravely ill. The blood beetle plague wasn’t something to brush aside. It was a silent killer. But she couldn’t shake off the feeling they could at least be attempting to help. Even Papa got out of bed for dinner. He didn’t make her carry plates all the way upstairs and bring them back down.

A cool breeze brushed her sweat stained nape. Its touch was welcome and pleasant though surprising considering nails held the windows shut tight.

Lifting a brow, she set the laundry on the floor and nudged the kitchen door open. Her father sat feeding a small brown bird on the windowsill, wooden planks leaning against the wall next to him.

Sorcha leaned against the doorframe and crossed her arms over her chest. Papa nudged the seeds forward. Patient, he let the bird peck and eat before setting more down. Closer and closer until the tiny nuthatch hopped onto his hand and ate from his palm.

“You have a rare talent,” she said.

He glanced up with a smile. “I learned this from you.”

“Did you?”

“When you were little you used to say, ‘Papa. Birds are scared of you because you're big. If you make yourself small and quiet, then they will like you as they like me.’”

“I don’t think you’ve made yourself small.”

“Well, I’ve never been good at shape shifting.”

The nuthatch shook its feathers and took one last bite, flying out the window on silent wings. Papa watched it with a melancholy expression.

“You miss the outdoors,” Sorcha said.

“More than anything. What season is it now?”

“Spring is coming. I think we’ve seen our last snowfall.”

“So soon?”

“It doesn’t feel soon,” she chuckled. “But we’re all still here. And that’s a blessing.”

“All of us?”

“Yes. Who else are we missing?”

Papa turned on the window seat and gave her a measured look. “I may be ill, but I am not blind. You left something behind.”

“Everyone leaves something behind after a long journey.”

“Even when it’s another world?”

“Yes.”

Sorcha took a seat at the long kitchen table, pulling the stained kerchief from her head. A mane of red curls sprang free to billow around her. It still felt strange that nothing had changed in her childhood home.

The wooden table held the marks she had carved into its edges to distract herself from family quarrels. Herbs hung over the fire to dry, filling the air with the scent of basil and rosemary. A cauldron bubbled with soup for dinner.

The same and not. She noticed details that never would have bothered her before. Dust around the edges of the hearth. Cobwebs in the high peaks of rafters. Drafts of cold air that never seemed to disappear.

She blew out a breath. “Do you want me to tell you more stories of Hy-brasil?”

“Your sisters were calling for you.”

“Yes, they were.”

“You don’t want to tend to them?”

“Not really.” Sorcha plunked her elbows onto the table and cupped her head. “Does that make me a bad person? I should want to help my sisters. They’re ill, and they deserve all my attention and care.”

She heard her father stand and shuffle towards her. The bench creaked as he sat down next to her. His thin hand rubbed her spine. “You’ve been so dedicated in keeping us all alive, I thought something terrible must have happened.”

“Why?”

“No one works with such fervor unless they’re trying to forget something. Or someone.”

“And I am.”

“I know.”

She turned her head to peer over at the man who had saved her life countless times. New wrinkles had appeared on Papa's face. Crow’s feet deepened into folds of skin, his forehead lined with worry and pain.

“It’s still hard for me to grasp how much time passed,” she said. “A year and a day? Really?”

“I can say it over and over again, Sorcha. We thought you were dead.”

“I’m sorry to have caused you worry.”

“Stop saying that.” He reached forward and pulled her hand away from her face, holding it in his tight grip. “You experienced an adventure that none of us could ever imagine. You tell us stories every night that fill our dreams with wondrous things. It is a blessing you have returned to us.”

She couldn’t think of it like that. Sorcha didn’t want to think about Hy-brasil at all. The haunting memories of ocean eyes and crystal skin plagued her dreams. The hole in her heart tore wider with each passing day. She didn’t know how to stop the ache, so she soothed it with family. But even their comforting presence did little to fix what was broken.

Sorcha squeezed Papa’s hand. “I’m glad to help. It’s good to be home.”

“But it’s not where you want to be.”

“No.”

“You want to be with him.”

“Yes,” she breathed. “Very much.”

“Then you must go back to him.”

“I can’t.”

Papa frowned. “Why not? You can go to the Otherworld, can’t you? You can find a pixie to help guide your way.”

“It isn’t like that. Pixies will let the king know I have returned, and he will track me down. I don’t even know if Stone is still alive.”

She had resorted to calling him by his nickname, for fear the wrong ears would hear his true name. Humans weren’t likely to get involved with faerie politics, but one could never be too careful.

Her heart throbbed. She hoped he was alive. His vigor and strength were such that he may have won the first battle with his brother, but she had seen the golden army and feared the worst.

“Does your heart say he’s alive?” Papa asked.

“Yes.”

“Then he is alive.”

“Ever the optimist. Did the bird tell you he still had breath in his lungs?”

“Birds tell us many things. This one told me you have not been yourself.”

Sorcha’s lips twitched. “Did it?”

“You know it’s the truth, dear one. You haven’t even visited the shrines.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Since when?” Papa dropped her hand and slammed his fist down on the table. “Those shrines meant the world to you, even as a child. What has changed?”

“I no longer believe they are useful.”

“You’re lying.”

She remembered how the faeries tasted lies on the air. Perhaps her father had more faerie blood in him than she did. Sorcha arched a brow. “You think so?”

“There’s a hard edge to you now. You break your back taking care of us, but I don’t think you want to anymore. There was a time when I thought you would work yourself to death just to save us. Now, I wonder if you even care.”

“Of course I do.”

“Then where is your faith? Where is your request for faeries to come and aid you? Have you grown so arrogant that you think you can do it on your own?”

She shoved away from the table. Her legs needed to move, her mind racing as she walked the kitchen end to end. “I am afraid! Is that what you want to hear? I did not fulfill my half of the bargain, and as such, I broke a faerie deal. I cannot go to the shrine because I do not know what awaits me there.”

“You think they will kill you?”

“I don’t know!” Sorcha threw her hands up, catching an herb on her fingers and tossing it to the ground. She sighed and stared at the ceiling. “I’ll go get the broom.”

“No.” Papa lifted his hand. “You will not. You’ll leave this house and go to the shrine.”

“What will happen if I don’t come back? Who will pull the beetles out of your bodies and keep you alive?”

“We managed for a year on our own.”

“Because I made that part of my deal!” Her shout rose into the rafters and a pigeon took flight. She sighed and rubbed her temples. “I’m sorry, I didn't mean to shout. I don’t want to see you die, and I do not trust the village healers.”

“Neither do I. But, I think the faeries still have plans for you. We’re alive for a reason.” He stood and pulled her hands away from her face. “You’re a talented healer, Sorcha. But you aren’t the only reason the beetles haven’t killed us yet.”

He was right. She had noticed how quickly they healed from her surgeries. The beetles weren’t multiplying inside them as they were in her other patients. In fact, the entire brothel seemed stuck in a single point of time. They remained ill, with the same amount of beetles, but the sickness did not grow.

“I have nothing to bring them,” she mumbled. “No sugar, no cream, no flowers from our gardens.”

“Then you will bring them your apologies.”

“Faeries don’t care for my guilt. They care for offerings.”

“Perhaps they will forgive you. I remember a time when people used to go to the shrines just to be with the faeries in nature. I don't believe everything is about giving them something. Sometimes, the giving is in being there.”

“When did you become a philosopher?” she asked with a wry grin.

“About the same time I looked death in the eyes and he told me that my daughter saved my life.”

Tears stung her eyes. “Oh, Papa.”

“Don’t you ‘Oh, Papa’ me. Get on with you girl, and pick some of those lovely greens on the way back.”

“Dandelions?”

“I don’t care if they’re a weed, they taste delicious and they do my old bones good. Say hello to the faeries for me.”

She cast a critical glance at the laundry and shrugged. “Why don’t you come with me? You’ve never greeted them before.”

“They wouldn’t want me to start now. They’d see an old man stumbling towards them and think I’d lost my way. It’s far easier for them to connect with a pretty, young woman. Now, off with you!”

Sorcha didn’t wait for any further arguments. Her sisters would yell again, and then her opportunity would disappear. She raced from the kitchen, wrapped her cloak around her shoulders, and plunged outside.

Cold air sank into her lungs with fine, claw-like points. It made her gasp, charging her blood with electricity. She came alive when she left the brothel.

She had changed so much.

Papa wasn’t wrong when he pointed out her lack of care. She’d missed her family dearly, but the distance had provided her with experience and perspective. Her sisters couldn't stop talking about trivial things, men, cleanliness, food and drink. Her father only spoke of his travels, though at least that was slightly entertaining. And none of them had the magical qualities of the Fae who she held dear in her heart.

The old fence door squeaked as she opened it. One of these days, she would fix the rusty hinge. She needed to fix the window shutters, the rotting holes in the roof, clean up the backyard… The list went on and on.

Perhaps she resented this life. For a time, she had lived in a castle, waited on hand and foot. Now she was the one who waited upon others.

“Have I fallen so far?” she questioned and cast a glance towards the silhouette of her home. “Do I resent them for being ill?”

Yes. The answer was a resounding yes that echoed in her head like a scream in a canyon.

She gripped the fence in her hands, glaring up at the house as if it was the problem.

“Sorcha! It's too cold to be outside.” The smooth masculine voice made the hair on the back of her neck raise.

Plastering on a fake smile, she bared her teeth. “Geralt.”

He strode toward her with all the grace of a dancer. Tight pants hugged his legs, accentuating what he believed to be his best feature. A grand cloak of black wool swept the ground behind him clear of fallen snow.

“You’ll catch a cold, Sorcha, and who will take care of you while you take care of your family?”

“I manage quite well on my own.”

“But you shouldn’t have to.” He stripped the leather gloves from his hands, finger by finger. “Please, allow me.”

“I’m not taking your gloves, Geralt.”

“You most certainly are! What kind of gentleman would I be if I let you wander without proper clothing?”

He reached forward and took her hand, pressing the gloves into her palms with a smile that made her want to smack him. She let the leather fall to the ground.

“Is this how you usually treat women? As if they don’t understand when they need to take care of themselves?”

“They shouldn’t have to take care of themselves.”

“What if some of us want to?”

“Why ever would you?”

Sorcha snorted and rolled her eyes. “You’ll never understand.”

“Nor do I wish to. I enjoy taking care of those who are dear to my heart—”

“Don’t.” She lifted a hand to interrupt him. “I have no interest in hearing what you have to say. I have places to be, Geralt. Now, if you don’t mind.”

“I’ll walk with you. Are you going into town?”

Certainly if a single woman were traveling, she must be going to town. Sorcha tried not to roll her eyes, and failed horribly. Where else would a single woman be going but to town? Ridiculous man.

“I’m going to the shrine.”

“What shrine? At the church?”

“No. In the forest."

“Ah,” he said and frowned. “You would never have admitted that before your disappearance.”

“People change.”

“Apparently so.”

Her boots crunched through the snow, leaving the faintest hint of footprints in her wake. She wouldn’t stand around and listen to him say anything else about her life. She had no interest in speaking with a man who wanted her to bend to his will.

“Where were you anyways?”

He didn't know when to leave well enough alone.

The hills were all white around them. No trees sprung up from the earth, only small mounds where stone walls stood. Even the sheep stayed close to their barns this time of year. No one wanted to wander too far from the safety of a fire.

Sorcha tucked her cloak tight against her body and ducked her head. Perhaps, if she was lucky, Geralt would leave.

“Did you hear me? I asked where you went.”

She sighed. “You’ve asked me that same question a hundred times over.”

“Yes, I have. And you have yet to give me any kind of answer.”

“I’m not sure why I’m required to answer you at all.”

“You aren’t. I wish to know.”

“Why?”

“I care for you, Sorcha. You know this.”

If she rolled her eyes any harder, she’d see the back of her head. “You care for the idea of me! You don’t know me.”

“I do! I’ve known you since you were a child.”

“You rode past me with your father a few times. That hardly counts as knowing.”

The tromping sounds he made through the snow grated on her nerves. Didn’t the man know how to be quiet? She wanted a peaceful walk to the shrine! Was that really too much to ask?

“I’ve been talking to Briana through the wall, and she told me where you think you were. The faerie world, isn't that the story you've told?”

“Briana talks too much,” she grumbled.

“You know faeries aren’t real, don’t you Sorcha?”

She cast a sidelong glance towards him and stopped walking. He had no right to tell her what was real, and what wasn’t. This man pushed too much, thought he knew far more than a simple woman, and she grew weary of men who thought so highly of themselves.

“Geralt, is the sky blue?”

“Yes.” He hesitated as he answered, looking at her as if she had lost her mind.

“Is the grass green?”

“Yes.”

“But it’s white right now.”

“Well, there’s snow on it.”

“Then how do you know there is green underneath?”

“Because I’ve seen it.”

“And if you hadn’t?” She gestured towards the fields. “If you had never seen green grass before, how would you know what color it was? Would you not think grass was white?”

“I’d move the snow.”

She kicked her foot, toeing the ground until it revealed the yellowed dead grass underneath. “You’d be wrong then, wouldn’t you?”

“What are you trying to teach me?”

“You haven’t seen the faeries, but you seem to think you know about them. Before you judge the hills to be green, I suggest you attempt to see them first. Faeries won’t like you entering their shrine without permission. I really must go alone.”

His jaw dropped, and she didn’t wait to see what he might do next. Geralt had tried for far too long to woo her. And as much as he would make a good, traditional husband, he would not be a good husband for her.

Women were two-dimensional to him. They fit into a little box of his own making so he could explain their reasoning and actions. Sorcha stunned him every time she opened her mouth. Perhaps that was why he found her so intriguing. But she thought it more likely that he wanted to tame her.

That would never happen.

Snow crunched behind her.

“If you keep walking towards me Geralt, I will put you on your back in the snow. Leave me be.”

“You’ve changed!” he called out.

“Yes,” she said. “I have.”

Her father wasn’t the only one to notice. The bitterness in her heart had spread so far that she couldn’t control it. Pain made her angry, and this wasn’t a physical pain she could mend with herbs or medicine.

Bran had been wrong. He said she’d put herself back together, find meaning in saving lives.

She had done exactly the opposite. Bitter anger festered in her soul until she looked at the blood beetle victims as weak creatures. Sorcha didn’t like the changes in herself, but she didn’t know how to stop them.

The forest appeared in the distance. A snow squall headed her way, small enough that it wouldn’t touch her once she ducked beneath the trees. Snow-laden branches touched the ground. They looked as though they were bowing to her as she stepped into the shadows.

If only they were. She wished the trees could hear her, that a man might step out of their bark and beckon her forward. “Come to us,” he would say. “Find our hidden secrets and faerie rings.

She shook her head. The villagers claimed she lost her mind. A strange man must have kidnapped her, done horrible things, and the poor dear had broken. Why else would she speak of faeries as if they were real?

“Forever misplaced,” she grunted as she ducked beneath a branch. “Always the one believing in the wrong things.”

The woods were quiet. Too quiet.

No branches pulled at her hair, warning her to hide her anger. No birds sang their songs. Only stillness and the muffled thump of snow falling from the trees.

Where were the faeries? Where was the wind that brushed through her hair?

Brows furrowed, she stepped into the well-known clearing with anxiety twisting her stomach. There was something wrong.

“Is it me? Have I offended you, Macha?”

Even the light had disappeared from this sacred place. No water burbled in the stones. The triskele carvings turned dull with age, no magical glow giving them life.

She hadn’t thought this was how they would punish her. Silence was worse than the threat of death.

“Are you never going to let me see you again?” A tear slid down her cheek. “You can’t hide from me. I can see through your glamour!”

No giggles danced on the wind. Nothing but silence.

“You’re just going to cut me off?”

She wanted to scream. She wanted to rage at the faeries who thought she deserved this, but the truth rang in her head. They could never see her again and it wouldn’t hurt them at all.

They ripped magic from her life and everyone she held dear.

Sorcha lifted her chin, locking her knees so she would not fall and embarrass herself. She would remain steady. Tears dripped down her cheeks, but she refused to admit that was a weakness.

Only those strong enough to feel let tears fall.

“I will not apologize,” she pleaded. “I was gone longer than expected, and I did not leave willingly, but I had to take care of my family. It was not a slight against you or your kind that I did not keep this shrine alive.”

A sharp pain dug into her ankle, twin points of agony that ground against the delicate bone. She gasped and glanced down. A bright green snake, as long as she was tall, rose out of the snow.

Its mouth closed around her ankle, impossibly wide with silver fangs that dug deeper and deeper into her flesh. It coiled, looping its thick ropey body around her shin.

Pain and numbness spread from the viper’s fangs. It stared up at her with glittering cold eyes.

“Impossible,” she slurred. Snakes couldn’t move in the winter. Snakes like that didn’t live in Ui Neill.

She tasted nightshade on her tongue. Her tongue thickened, lips growing numb. She knew the signs of poison well.

* * *

Eamonn lifted his face to the blistering cold wind. It whistled through the crevices on his cheeks, sinking deeper and deeper into his being. The freezing edge of winter was as much a part of him now as the exaggerated limp and useless right arm.

“Master!” Cian shouted through the shrieking wind. “We cannot keep going!”

“We must!”

They could not stop in the storm. Snow blew against them, pushing jagged edges of ice underneath their clothing. Relentless and angry, the Otherworld appeared determined to destroy them.

He pulled the hood of his fur cloak lower and tilted his head down. He would beat back the wind himself if it meant they would reach their destination.

There weren’t many of them left. His brother had ridden onto the isle with single-minded intent. Destroy everything in his path and leave nothing but smears of blood and ash.

“M-Master!” Oona coughed the words, her lungs weak from days in the frigid tundra. “I can’t go any further!”

“We have to keep going.”

“I—”

The wind swept past his ears, drowning out any words she might have said. Anger heated his blood. The crystals around his neck flared with bright violet light.

“Oona, I don’t have time to argue with you. We continue on towards the dwarven stronghold! It’s the only place where we might find sympathetic faeries.”

They didn’t respond.

Growling, Eamonn spun on his heel. His cloak flared around him and cold air buffeted his chest. It sank deep into the crystal wounds lacing his body.

Oona sat in the snow, shoulders slumped and heaving. Cian knelt beside her with his hand on her shoulder, his expression one of complete loss.

They were all bundled up in whatever they could find. Fifteen people left from the hundreds who had lived on the isle. A mother and her child hung near the back, the tiny pooka still healing from an injury a midwife might have tended.

Boggart hung near the back, her thin frame quaking with every breath. She was too thin, too small for such a journey.

He imagined he could see an outline behind the faeries. A pillar of shadows that shifted and moved. Red curls hung about her face, vivid even in the ghostly form.

She stood behind them, watching over each staggered movement. She haunted his footsteps with the echoes of her voice.

"Take care of them," she whispered on the wind. "They need you."

Eamonn sighed and rubbed a hand over his face.

“We’ll stop awhile.”

“The dwarves?” Cian asked.

“Nowhere to be found, my friend. We’re going in the right direction, but they don’t want to make themselves known just yet.”

“Damn dwarves. They’ll let us freeze to death and rob the clothes from our back.”

Oona whimpered. “I remember dwarves. They were kind creatures with hearts made of pure gold. They could sing magic that would let women spin gold from straw.”

“You’re delirious,” Cian grumbled. “That wasn't the dwarves.”

“You’ve never met a dwarf.”

Eamonn didn’t have time to listen to them quarrel about yet another faerie species. Rolling his eyes, he pointed towards the few who remained on their feet.

“You, find something for kindling. You, help me create a bank out of snow to give us some kind of shelter. You, gather up clean snow for water so we can boil it. You—” he pointed at the mother. “Take the extra furs and bundle him up.”

“I couldn’t, m’lord. The others need them just as much as us.”

“Your boy’s lips are turning blue. Let him have a turn with the furs first, and tuck Boggart in with him. We’ll pass them around later.”

Gods, he tired of the cold. He wished for a warm ale in his hand, an able-bodied woman on his lap, and the cold to disappear forever.

None of which were likely to happen. He had sent away the only woman he wanted in his lap, there was no ale, and frost was gathering around his lips again. He grunted and shook ice spikes from his shoulders.

The others quickly set up camp. They’d had enough practice over the weeks of travel. He looked back at them as he set his back to work, pushing the snow into some semblance of a shelter.

They huddled together for warmth and comfort. Not a single faerie kept a hand from each other. Even Cian reached out to smooth hair from a forehead, touching fingers to lips, whispering words of encouragement in ears.

He ground his teeth. They wouldn’t offer anything to him. He was the master, the invincible Tuatha dé Danann who held the sky at bay.

If only that were the truth. He shook his head and pushed the snow until a thick, tightly packed wall sheltered them. Wind dashed over the top, blowing flecks in his face as he stood. It would do for the night.

The selkie looking for kindling returned, shaking his head. “There’s nothing, master.”

“Of course not,” Eamonn grumbled. This cursed land was trying to kill them.

He raised an arm against the biting storm and charged towards their supplies. The sled made for perfect kindling, and it would be drier than whatever was buried underneath the snow. They could carry the food and water in their packs.

“Master!” Cian called out. The gnome was just a head traveling through the drifts, his body lost in the mass of white. “We need that!”

“We’ll put everything in the packs.”

“We can’t carry any more on our backs!”

“We need to stay warm.”

“Then we’ll huddle in the shelter you made.”

“Without a fire, we’ll all die, Cian. It has to happen.”

Cian reached his side, jumped, and grabbed Eamonn's arm. The weight pulled him to the side. “We cannot carry any more.”

Anger surged through his veins, so strong that he saw red.

“Then I will carry it myself!” he shouted as he loomed over the gnome. “I will lose no more to this fucking cold!”

The storm raged on. Bitter cold winds pummeled their bodies, digging into their furs, and leaving ice crystals on their bare faces. Cian stared at him with a frown.

“We will lose people, master. It is inevitable.”

“Not if I can stop it.”

Eamonn turned and pulled the remaining packs from the sled. He set them with the others, marking their location in his mind so he could find them tomorrow. The snow would bury them.

The sled had served them well, and now it would do even better. He lifted the six foot frame and snapped it like a twig between his hands.

Cian sighed. “Well, you’ll be wearing those.”

“I said I’d carry them.”

“It’s a lot of weight. That’s most of our food and water.”

“Enough, Cian.”

“I’m just trying to look out for you, master. You certainly aren’t doing it.”

“I don’t need someone to look out for me,” Eamonn growled. He cracked the remaining pieces and tucked them under his arm. “Let’s go back and get the others fed.”

They trudged through the snow. Cian spat into the wind as they reached the higher drifts, the wad froze before it hit the ground.

“What are you planning to say to the dwarves?” Cian called out. “They don’t like your kind!”

“They’ll like what I have to say.”

“And if they don’t?” The gnome hopped up to catch a glimpse of Eamonn’s expression. “They aren’t the most amiable lot.”

“They don’t have to like it; they just have to do as I say.”

“Right, because that has a history of working so well with dwarves.”

“They like my brother even less than they like me.”

“That’s not because he’s your brother or even that he’s the king. They don’t like Tuatha dé Danann. They might not even let you in.”

“Then we can all be thankful that I’m this large. I’ll force my way in.”

“Through solid gold doors?”

Eamonn lifted a crystal fist. His hand had been injured in the fighting, the bones turned to a solid mass of violet. He could still move it slowly, but it took practice. He considered it a small miracle and tried not to fear the change.

Cian audibly swallowed. “Point taken, master.”

It took only a few moments to get the fire started in the center of the bank. Magic assisted to dry the wood, and soon a merry crackle sang over the howling wind.

Eamonn set himself apart from the others. He was furthest from the fire, allowing the others to soak up the warmth. Their small bodies needed it more than he did. Oona roasted vegetables with a pan from Cian’s pack and a large packet of herbs, honey, and milk.

“Master?” she asked. “Will you join us?”

He shook his head and flashed a mouthful of dried venison.

They huddled together in a lump of Lesser Fae. The boy tucked himself so close to the fire that Eamonn worried he’d set himself alight. They were all exhausted, cold, and hungry.

He could do little more than shoulder the heavier burdens. He chewed his food, ignoring the worried glances Oona cast over her shoulder. The gnome must have told her about their conversation.

Worry ate at his mind. He didn’t want to tell them the extent of his injuries. His hand was the least of his worries. Valleys and crevices stretched across his body in all directions.

He barely felt the cold. The numbing ice sank into his crystals and only barely slowed his body; it didn’t affect him like the others.

It was worrisome.

Eamonn had never pushed the affliction as far as it could go. He didn’t want to know what would happen when he was more geode than man.

He hadn’t told them that Fionn’s blade had caught him by surprise. Eamonn could still see his twin as he rode from behind and lifted his blade. Eamonn had felt him, like a cold wind that danced down his spine.

He turned, and the blade followed the same path their father’s sword had. It dug along the dip of flesh and bone through his eye.

Eamonn took care not to show the others. He didn’t want them to see the fractured half of his eyeball, the crystal splitting the orb. He touched it now and then, musing that he didn’t even feel the touch. All the other wounds were sensitive, but not this one.

If he closed the other eye, he saw the world in fractured pieces. A few faeries turned in hundreds. Fire became a blaze that stretched all around him. He wondered if this was what madness felt like.

“Master?” Oona called out one last time. “We’re going to rest. Join us?”

“No.”

“It’s warmer by the fire.”

“Sleep well, Pixie. I’ll take the first watch.”

She grimaced. “The only watch.”

“Indeed.”

“You have to sleep sometime, Eamonn.”

“Not tonight. We’re too close to dwarven territory. I’ll not be caught off guard.”

He ignored the tears that welled in her eyes. He couldn’t fall prey to her emotions, no matter how tired he was.

Soldiering was what he did. Their travels brought back memories of a time long ago when he had pushed his men towards armies of Unseelie Fae. They had scattered before his great sword, running from the Untouched Prince.

He had never seen the Otherworld with snow like this. The drifts were nearly as large as he was in some areas. He guided the faeries around the mountain-like structures and hoped it wouldn’t tire them out too much.

Obviously, he had been wrong. They all fell asleep within moments of laying their heads down on the ground.

The fire crackled. The wind howled. And Eamonn remained so still that snow gathered on his shoulders in small lumps. Hours passed but his mind never quieted.

He didn't need the fire, for a fire lived in his memories. Sorcha, the one woman who had captivated his thoughts since the moment she burst into his throne room. She danced in his mind's eye, swaying to and fro with the fire. She wore the green dress, the one he was particularly fond of, and the flared skirt fanned around her like ocean waves.

Gods, how he missed her, but this was no life for a woman like her. He hoped she had gone home, found her family, and maybe a good man to give her children and warm nights.

The crystals on his throat throbbed. Any man who dared touch her would find himself at the end of Eamonn's blade. Perhaps it would be better if she were alone.

A shadow moved in the corner of his eye. Short, stout, and far too narrow to be a gnome, the dwarf slipped past the sleeping faeries.

Dwarves were shifty folk. They had sticky fingers, and no one could find them in the winding tunnel systems that made up the dwarven strongholds.

The shadow shifted again, but Eamonn did not move. Still as stone, he willed his body into complete silence. He didn’t even breathe as the dwarf slid over a mound of snow and made his way towards their packs.

At least, Eamonn thought it was a he. The beard suggested “male” but one never knew with certainty until they spoke.

Eamonn stood and silently made his way towards the thief. His footsteps made no sound, and he did not reach for his sword, knowing Ocras would sing for blood.

His face twisted into a snarl as he darted forward. The dwarf had no chance, Eamonn’s hands closed around its shirt.

“Oy!” the dwarf wriggled violently, trying to slide out of the jacket.

Eamonn twisted his fist, crunching crystals through the fabric, forcing the dwarf to remain still. “You’re going nowhere.”

“Le’ go!”

“I don’t let go of thieves.”

“I ain’t a thief!”

“You were stealing from our packs.”

The dwarf stilled its struggles, narrowed its eyes, and shrugged. “I was just looking at ‘em.”

“Why?”

“Thought they might ‘ave something interesting inside.”

“But you weren’t planning on stealing?”

“No, sir.”

Eamonn arched a crystal brow. “Let me get this straight. You were just going to look at the packs?”

“Sure was.”

“Just to see if something interesting was inside.”

“That was the plan.”

“And if you found something you fancied, you would leave it.”

“You got it, mate.”

“Even if it was a valuable sword?”

The dwarf’s eyes dipped to the red gem on the pommel of Ocras. “Well, that might ‘ave been a different story.”

“You would have taken that.”

“A pack of hungry peasants don’t ‘ave any need for valuable objects.”

“So you would steal something worth money?”

“I wouldn’t call it stealing,” the dwarf quipped.

“You’d leave something behind for it?”

“Sure would.”

“Like what?”

Eamonn could see that the question stumped the dwarf. It wiggled its feet and shrugged again. “I’d ‘ave found something.”

“Do you have any food on your person?”

“No.”

“Any water?”

“Just snow.”

“Then you have nothing worthy of trade. That’s called stealing,” he said as he leaned closer to glare into the dwarf’s gaze. “And do you know what I do with dwarves who steal from me?”

The soft creaking of a bow being drawn carried on the wind. Eamonn stiffened and listened for the telltale rustle of feathers as an arrow was notched.

“I think you would say that you gave thieves whatever they wanted and let them go in peace,” the heavily accented voice rumbled. “Now put the girl down.”

Eamonn cocked his head to the side and looked the dwarf in his grasp up and down. “Girl?”

“What?” she pinwheeled her arms at him. “You couldn’t tell? Come ‘ere I’ll show you what a girl looks like up close!”

The dwarf behind him barked, “Put ‘er down.”

“I don’t think so,” Eamonn twisted his hand until the girl yelped.

“Now.”

Eamonn glanced over his shoulder at the dwarf who planted his feet into the snow. His bow stretched higher than his head, and Eamonn was certain this one was male. His grey beard fluttered in the wind and silver-plated armor decorated his body.

Their gazes locked and Eamonn gave him a feral grin.

Oona stirred, waking from her slumber to blink at the standoff. “Master,” she murmured. “Perhaps you should do what he says.”

But he was already angry. So angry that he wasn’t thinking straight and frustrated that the dwarves were already pulling weapons. What had he done to earn their hatred? They didn’t know who he was. They had no right.

He twisted the girl’s jacket until she grasped the neck and wheezed.

“Shoot the arrow," Eamonn said. "Show us the true nature of dwarven hospitality.”

The dwarf didn’t hesitate. He loosed the arrow that cut snowflakes in half and struck Eamonn right over his heart. The metal tip bent as it struck flesh and then crystal. Wood shattered into splinters that decorated the snow in tiny shards.

Eamonn felt nothing. He cared for nothing. All he knew was that the dwarf had attacked.

Cocking his head to the side, he dropped the girl onto the ground and snapped the metal tip from his crystal. “You cut my jacket.”

The dwarf dropped his bow into the snow. “What are you?”

The smaller dwarf at his feet scuttled backwards. “Cursed.”

“Monster,” the other echoed. “You are not welcome on dwarf lands. We will drive you and your cursed people out.”

“You can try,” Eamonn growled.

Oona scrambled to her feet, holding out her hands. “No, please. He’s no monster!”

“Explain what he is then, because the dwarves do not abide by black magic.”

“He is your king!”

The wind whistled through his crystals and Eamonn stared the dwarves down. The little girl climbed towards the male, ducking behind him as if that would keep her safe. His hand hovered over Ocras, but he did not pull her free. Not yet.

“King?” The dwarf shook his head. “There is only one king.”

“You are correct,” Oona warned. “You stand before the High King of the Seelie Court. The firstborn son of Lorcan the Brave.”

“Who, the Untouched? He’s dead.”

“I’m not dead,” Eamonn said. “Far from it.”

The dwarf shook his head. “Well, pull my beard. If it’s really you, the lord under the mountain will want to see you.”

“Wait just a minute,” the female dwarf grumbled. “‘Ow do we know it’s really ‘im?”

“You don’t,” Eamonn said.

Oona shuffled forward, hesitating when the dwarves backed away. “I am Fae, just as you. I cannot lie.”

“You could believe that he’s the high king, and he might lead you astray.”

“I cared for him as a child. I sang songs to him when he slept, and I watched while they hung him. This is the eldest son, the one spoken of in song.”

“And what do you want with the dwarves?” He directed his question to Eamonn with a nod.

He shifted, placing his hand against Ocras. His furred cloak parted in the breeze and revealed his crystal fist and misshapen torso.

“I wish to speak with the lord under the mountain regarding an army.”

“For what?”

“For war against Fionn the Wise.”

“You want to take back the throne?”

Eamonn shrugged. “I wish to see my brother’s head on a stake.”

“You have no desire for the throne?”

“We shall see how the story unfolds. The rest is for your lord’s ears alone.”

The dwarves turned their back on Eamonn and the rest of his crew. They wrapped their arms around each other and mumbled. One of their heads would raise to meet his unwavering gaze before they ducked back down.

Finally, they turned as one. “We’ll take you underground.”

“You’ll feed and wash my people.”

“We take only you.”

“You take everyone.” Eamonn’s hand flexed on the pommel of his sword. “Or I’ll insist upon justice for the attempted theft and find myself another dwarf.”

“You’d never find another.”

“If you think I cannot tear this mountain apart, then you do not know my reputation.”

The male dwarf snorted. “Come on then. The lot of you.”

Eamonn turned his back on them and gestured at Oona. “Wake the others. We’re going underground.”