“Oh, dearie,” Oona said as she tightened a strap of Sorcha’s armor. “Are you certain of this?”

No. She wasn’t certain of anything. But Sorcha knew she could not stand by while her people fought. She refused to stand atop a hill and watch people die when she should fight with them.

She was a queen now. That was her duty.

“Yes,” she finally said. “I will fight by their sides.”

“He wouldn’t have wanted this.”

Sorcha chuckled. “No, he would’ve tucked me in a corner and told me to wait until the screaming stopped. That isn’t me, Oona. And you know that even if he were alive, I would have found a way to go.”

“But you would have been healing people, not fighting with them.”

“I will admit that is the difficult part of this. I wish very much to heal, not harm. However, this is my only choice. I took these people as my family, as my wards, and I will not be a coward in their eyes.”

Oona smoothed her hands down the ornate breastplate covering Sorcha’s chest. They had chosen an armor to rival all others. Hammered swirls created a pattern on the flat plate covering her chest and belly. Interlocking pieces lay smooth over her arms, shoulders, and thighs.

It did not hinder her movement, the most important part of a good piece of armor. They found the set hidden deep within the bowels of the castle, and Oona claimed to remember it from long ago. It was not faerie made, but the Druids had worn such armor long ago.

“Dearie, someone has come to see you.”

Sorcha glanced over her shoulder, expecting to see a member of the war council. Instead, Elva stood in the shadows of the doorway.

“Enter.”

She gracefully stepped into the light, and Sorcha locked her jaw. Elven armor covered Elva in gold from head to toe. She remembered it well from the attack upon Hy-brasil.

“Are you joining us then?” Sorcha wanted to ask if she were joining Fionn’s army, wearing their symbol so blatantly.

“I am. I wanted to send a message to my beloved consort.”

“Which is?”

“I may bear his name, his marks, and his love, but I am not his.”

The fire blazing in Elva’s eyes was enough to set an answering flame crackling in Sorcha’s own breast. She nodded firmly. “Then select your weapon.”

“Thank you Oona, I can prepare her from here on.”

The pixie ducked her head and left the room.

Sorcha watched the elf circle the room, testing the weight and balance of sword after sword. “My council has warned me not to be alone with you. They do not believe you are to be trusted.”

“I am certain they believe I am here to assassinate you.”

“Could you?”

“Easily.” Elva selected a rapier thin blade and tied the strap over her shoulder so the sword hung between her shoulders. “I have no wish to kill you.”

“You say you are here to gain your freedom. How does starting a war with Fionn gain you that?”

“I am not starting a war. I am ending a war.” Elva’s gaze locked with hers. “Eamonn and I were very close in our youth. He protected me even though I didn’t want him to. He was like an older brother, and then someone I could put a pedestal and fall in love with.”

“And then Bran showed up.” Sorcha said, thoroughly pleased with the shocked expression on Elva’s face.

“How do you know that?”

“Eamonn mentioned something of your back story, and I pieced it together. Bran was here, you know.”

Elva nodded slowly, ducking her head until shadows blanketed her expression. “A long time ago, he and I would have made a powerful pair.”

“A long time ago?”

“I am weary of men. Their hands are grasping, their needs are great, and my mind no longer wishes to bend to their will.”

“I do not believe Bran would ask that of you,” Sorcha declared. “He seems an honorable man for all he is Unseelie and his family is unsavory.”

“It is a good word for them.” A small smile spread across Elva’s face. “I wish I had become a different person as I aged, but I did not. The woman residing inside this physical form no longer wishes for the attentions of any man. Even one I might have loved.”

Sorcha vividly remembered the state Elva had been in. The opium stains on her fingers, the glassy eyed expression, her fear when she thought Fionn might return. Although Fionn loved her, she had still been abused.

Stepping forward, Sorcha reached out an armored hand and grasped Elva’s. Metal scraped against leather in a harsh grind. “When I was little, a woman on the street told me that women were created to suffer. It was the card life dealt us, no matter our station or purpose. I never believed it, and I see now we make our own path in life.”

“If we choose to.”

“You have made that choice, Elva. I will fight at your side for your freedom. I will support your choices after this war is over and will let no one stand in your way.”

Sorcha meant every word with a power that vibrated through her body.

Elva nodded firmly, squeezed her fingers once more, and stepped back towards the weapons. “Have you selected a weapon, Your Majesty?”

It was the first time someone had addressed her as queen. Sorcha’s spine straightened. “No. My skills lie with the bow, but my war council has advised I must also adorn myself with a sword.”

“It is good advice. A bow is superb for long range combat, but a sword is the only thing that can protect you once his armies reach ours.” Elva pulled a small sword from the rack. “This will suit you well.”

It was much smaller than the sword Elva had chosen, but it felt good in Sorcha’s hand. It was not too heavy as many of them were. She slashed through the air.

“I like this one.”

“As I expected you would. It is a Druid blade.”

Sorcha tested the weight in her hand again. “It feels right.”

“That’s what you want in battle.”

“Have you fought in many?”

“Every Tuatha dé Danann has fought in many battles. We are a warring society. It is what we are good at.”

“That’s sad,” Sorcha said.

“Is it? Our men test their worth through blood and fire. Our women learn kindness through small acts of kindness.”

“Do any of you know how to love without the need to harm?” Sorcha shook her head. “I count my blessings that Eamonn was banished to that isle. For all the harm it did, he is a better man for it.” She caught herself. “Was. He was a better man, but no longer.”

Elva winced. “I envy you. At the very least, you carry him with you wherever you go.”

“Love is like that.”

“No,” Elva shook her head. “I didn't plan to fight with you until I walked past you in the hall. There are two heartbeats inside you.”

Sorcha blinked, not quite comprehending what Elva said. “Excuse me? Are you suggesting magic is at work?”

“Magic in the most earthly way. You are a midwife, Sorcha. I thought you would have recognized the signs before I did.”

It wasn’t possible. She couldn’t be carrying his babe, could she?

She tried remembering the past few months, but all she could think of was the stress and fear. Her spells of nausea were brought about by the yelling of the war council, the memories of Eamonn’s death, the responsibilities that rested on her shoulders. Not from a child.

“How is that possible?” she asked, pressing a hand against her armored belly.

“I suspect much in the same way my child happened.”

“But I am not Fae.”

“That has never stopped children from being born. There are plenty of half breeds, even in the Otherworld. Eamonn comes from a lineage of Fomorian and Tuatha dé Danann, as do you.”

A dizzy spell made Sorcha’s head spin. “I need a few moments.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.” Elva paused as she walked by and placed a hand on her shoulder. “I will fight by your side, to protect both you and the babe. Nothing will touch you. You have my word.”

Her hand slid from Sorcha’s shoulder and the door closed quietly behind her.

Sorcha stared at the racks of swords, the hanging crossbows, the shields leaning against the wall. A loud sob echoed through the weaponry, and she pressed a hand against her mouth to hold in any further sound.

A child? She was to bring a child into this life?

Still, it was the last bit of him she had left. She stumbled backwards and leaned against the wall.

“I am so sorry,” she sobbed as she pressed her fingers to her belly once more. “You deserve so much more than this life. So much more than war and violence. You deserve a father who loves you and a mother who will kiss your bruises.”

She couldn’t fight now. She couldn’t go into battle with thin armor and expect her child to live. What kind of mother would do that?

Rustling caught her attention, slicing through her fear and anguish. Looking up, her tear streaked cheeks turned cold as she saw a glimmering portal open on the ceiling.

A long, bristled leg reached through. It held a small clay pot in its claws, which it let drop onto the nearest hay bale.

The Unseelie Queen’s voice boomed through the portal. “A queen makes many hard decisions, and you will not be the first pregnant woman to march into battle. We fight many wars. With our bodies, with our minds, with our words. Go and be safe, Druid Queen.”

Sorcha watched the leg withdraw and the portal disappear.

Scrubbing her cheeks free of tears, she lurched towards the pot and wrenched off the top. Blue powder coated the inside. She recognized this, although she did not remember why. Sorcha dipped a finger into the substance and rubbed her index finger and thumb together. They both stained bright blue.

A druid voice sighed in her ear. “It is the symbol of our people.”

“Why did the Unseelie Queen have it?”

“None know the reasons why the Unseelie Queen collects anything. Woad has always been a druid symbol of anger and war. Our women and men paint their faces and bodies before battle. It brings the ancestors with them.”

“You will come with me to war?”

“We will guide your hand.”

Sorcha blew out a quiet breath.

She could make the choice in this instant to fight. Her people would charge towards Fionn’s and meet with them fierce pride, with or without her at their side.

But they would fight powerfully if she was with them. She would lift her blade and champion their injustices. The offending armies would fear the Druid Queen, rumored to control the whims and minds of the Fae.

She couldn’t force them to do anything. She hadn’t been able to since Eamonn left.

Sorcha dipped her fingers into the pot and swiped one across the high peak of her forehead. She glimpsed herself in the reflection of a shield. Each pass of blue paint made her anger grow stronger, louder, and all the more fierce.

Her hair tied up, swinging at her shoulders, she lifted a helm and placed it on her head.

As she stepped from the armory, all who saw her felt fear in their hearts. Gone was their healer queen. A warrior stood before them, hair like a waving banner of blood, and war in her heart.

* * *

Their banners snapped as loud as a drum. Sorcha’s horse shifted beneath her, restless for the battle to begin. It wanted to paw at the air, to crush skulls beneath its hooves, to race down the hill towards Fionn’s army and begin.

She sat and stared down at the golden army, measuring each breath, forcing her movements to remain calm and still.

“M’lady,” Angus said from behind her. “It is too late to turn back now.”

“I have no wish to turn back, dwarf king. I am merely allowing them to look at us as we look at them.”

“Why?”

“I want them to see our faces. To see the sheer number of faeries who disagree with their king.”

“It will not change their opinion of him.”

She shook her head. “I am not yet ready to believe these are not intelligent men and women. If they are not courageous enough to leave their king, then I want them to see those who were brave enough to do so. I want them to quake with fear before we even begin.”

Angus fell silent and stared down at the army with her. This would be a bloody battle. Each army had sent a massive amount of soldiers. Fionn’s was clearly well armed, but she knew they did not fight for the right reasons. They would falter because they were not angry enough.

The white stallion next to her huffed out a breath. Elva tightened her grip on the reins. “Will you give a motivational speech?”

“Is that necessary?”

“It is tradition for the leader to scream out a cry for their warriors.”

“Then I shall.”

Sorcha kicked her heels against the horse’s side, moving out from the army and riding parallel to their ranks. She racked her brain for something to say, anything which would give these men and women a reason to be here. A reason to lose their lives.

There was none. There was never a reason to take a life or give their own, nothing worthy of their soul.

She drew her horse still and looked out over the people she loved. The last of her family, the last of Eamonn’s great ambition.

The wind picked up, catching her hair and snapping it out like the red banners they all held. The Druid Queen—the Rose Queen—sat atop her mighty steed. She knew how small she looked, how small she felt.

In the end, the words came to her without the hard edge of steel, the metallic taste of battle, or the bitterness of war.

“Be safe!” she shouted. “Be well! And if you are not, I shall meet you in the halls of our ancestors with wine and stories to tell. We fight to take back what is ours, and we will not rest until we scream victorious in the halls of Cathair Solais!”

A cheer lifted into the air. Not enough, not nearly enough to strike fear into the hearts of the army behind her. Sorcha was too soft, too weak, too much a healer. She hardened her tender heart and screamed out a battle cry.

She was not a weak human. She was not faerie to hide behind armor and steel. The woad was her message, and it had been heard.

She reached up and pulled off her helm as green smoke swirled around her arms. The souls of druids dipped into her armor and would guide her hands as she fought.

The faeries fell silent as they stared. Blue woad covered one side of her face, patterns drawn across the other. She was an otherworldly creature, now. A being from their history who stepped out of time itself.

Her feral grin split the paint. “Let our swords feast this day! May your shields hold, your arrows fly true, and your battle cry resound through the Seelie courts from this day forth!”

The faeries screamed out. They lifted weapons into the air and cried out, for the Druid Queen rode with them.

Sorcha wheeled her horse around and stared down at the golden army readying themselves for war. Elva and Angus urged their steeds forward, their legs pressing against hers.

She could hear each breath she took, each beat of her heart thumping loudly against her ribs. The castle gleamed behind the army, so bright it burned her eyes. That was her goal, her destiny, where this would all end. Sorcha lifted her runic blade, inhaled, and shrieked, “Faugh A Ballagh! Clear the way!”

The horse’s hooves sounded like thunder as they raced down the mountain. Clanging armor beat against her ears and her thighs gripped tight to her mount.

Fionn’s army raised spears, ready to catch the horses the moment they reached them. But Angus had planned for that.

“Dwarves! Ready yourselves!”

They lifted great maces above their heads, swinging them wildly and releasing them at Angus’s command. The spiked weapons bashed through the lifted spears, shattering the staffs into thousands of shards. The faeries only had a moment to stare at their broken weapons before the horses struck them.

She heard nothing at first. Then, the ringing in her ears dimmed.

They were screaming. Men, women, and horses all screaming as their lives drained from their bodies.

Dwarves lifted heavy hammers and brought them down on the heads of those who were not riding horses. The great thuds sounded like gongs as the Tuatha dé Danann dropped to the ground. Pixies threw knives into the air, catching underneath armor and digging into flesh.

She flinched as a golden soldier swung his massive sword and cleaved a peat faerie’s head from its shoulders. He advanced towards her only to meet Elva’s double blades.

“Sorcha!” she screamed. “Behind!”

She whipped around at the last moment and lifted her sword. The blades locked, vibrations jolting down her arm and zinging through her nerves. The soldier staring back at her knew exactly who she was. A grin spread across his lips as he swung the sword back again.

A spray of blood splattered across her face. Sorcha cried out, but the soldier slumped forward on his horse which raced away.

Angus lifted his hammer in salute and turned to swing at yet another man.

There were so many people. All she could hear were the screams of the dying, the aching pain and agony that stretched throughout the battlefield.

This was only the start.

She lifted a hand and touched the blood on her cheek. None of it hers, her people wouldn’t allow that.

Elva screamed her rage into the air. She wielded dual blades, said she didn’t need a shield, and Sorcha could see why.

The fair woman was not just stunning in person. She used her body like a weapon. Leaping and striking out from the air. Her horse was long gone, groaning on the ground and kicking its legs to kill any who came near it.

Sorcha was infinitely glad she had forced Cian and Oona to stay at the castle. They did not need to see this.

A soldier fell to his knees beside her horse. He reached for her ankle and she flinched, but the golden soldier did not try to pull her off.

She looked down and lost herself in his eyes. He was dying, he knew, and wanted a small bit of comfort as his soul leaked out of the gaping hole in his chest. She reached out a hand for him to take.

Cold metal met her fingertips for a brief moment before he fell onto his side. The final sigh of his breath echoed so loudly that she swore it was the wind.

On and on it went, the dying screaming out for mercy, for help, for anyone to hear their pleas. Both her people and Fionn’s, all the same and yet infinitely different.

The Lesser Fae were brutal. They had so much anger built up over centuries and they showed no pity. The High Fae grew more and more angry that those who they believed beneath them would dare rise up.

She watched the ground grow slick with blood. Her heart beat slower and slower even as she refused to lift a blade.

A large man broke through her personal guard’s ranks. His chest heaved, and he rushed towards her with his sword lifted. She heard the angry cry of the dwarves, the sad wail of Elva as they all watched him charge forward.

Sorcha was so tired of death. She lifted a hand towards the great man and called out, “Enough.”

He stumbled but his sword remained in the air.

“Enough,” she cried out. “There has been enough death!”

He took one more step towards her and let the blade dip towards the ground.

Sorcha slid from her mount, armored feet touching the ground so lightly they did not make a sound. She walked towards him with her hands at her sides.

The fighting slowed in the small pocket around them. Lesser Fae watching in fear as Sorcha risked her life. The High Fae staring with stunned expressions, horrified their largest soldier was hesitating to kill such a small girl.

“Be at peace,” she said calmly. “You are not my enemy, and I am not yours. We did not choose this destiny, but we can change it. I do not wish to harm you.”

In the blink of an eye, he lifted his sword and jabbed it towards her. Sorcha cried out, her voice mingling with his shout, and waited for the pain. It did not come.

A sword split through the front of his armor and he staggered to the side.

“No,” she sobbed. “No more of this.”

Sorcha reached out and caught him as he fell to his knees. She pulled off his helmet and smoothed her hands over his handsome face.

Shock reflected in his eyes even as blood dripped over his cheek.

“You did not deserve this,” she said. “I am sorry.”

He lifted a shaking hand lifted even as Elva cried out a warning. “You are not what I expected.”

“Rest easy warrior.”

“You should not be in war.”

The life drained from his eyes as tears slid from her own. She smoothed her hand down his face, closing the vacant stare.

“M’lady!” Angus shouted as the Tuatha dé Danann advanced upon them. “Get back on your horse.”

“No,” she growled as anger sparked in her veins.

The green smoke of her ancestors swirled through her armor. They knew what she wanted to do. That she would no longer lift a blade towards these men and women who should be her people as well. They were Eamonn’s family, and they would be hers.

“Enough.”

The word carried across the battlefield. A druid tugged hard on her armor, “More, Sorcha. You must do more.”

She imagined a distaff in her hand and remembered in startling clarity her mother’s voice as she taught Sorcha how to weave.

“No, Sorcha, be patient. You’ll create bumps in the wool!”

“We’re just going to knit it anyways!”

“Silly girl, weave the flax around the distaff so it doesn’t get tangled as we work. That’s it, hold it like that, all the unspun fibers will keep still and then you can spin them into thread. Good. See? You were capable of it all along.”

A tear slid down her cheek and Sorcha wove all the unspun magic and souls in the air into a fine thread strong as steel. She wove it into the air, knotting and untangling until she had created a tapestry of this moment in time.

“Sleep,” she told the faeries on the battlefield. “Rest until this is done.”

Releasing her hold on the thread, she heard every Fae drop to the ground. Their breathing was even and synchronized, creating a hushed wind that brushed against her ears.

She was so tired. She wanted to sleep with them, to curl up with the dead soldier and let her mind wander. It had been a long day. And she had spent so much energy to calm their minds.

“No, Sorcha. Our work is not yet finished,” druids whispered in her ears. “You cannot sleep yet.”

She had to go to him. Once Eamonn was put to rest, she could finally sleep in peace.

A quiet chuff blew on her face. When had she closed her eyes?

The air puffed again, brushing against her cheeks and reminding her of a time when a selkie had awoken her on a beach. Was she back there? Would he still be alive if she opened her eyes? Had this all been a bad dream?

Sorcha lifted her gaze and flinched at the sight of red fields. The stench of death filled the air and clogged her lungs.

Breath washed over her and brought with it the salty scent of the sea. Sorcha inhaled deeply, clearing her mind and lungs of war.

A kelpie stood before her. His dark eyes spoke of pity and forgiveness.

“You,” she said in wonder and reached up to touch his velvet soft nose. A drop of water splattered on her forehead. “I remember you.”

He bounced his head in agreement.

“You were at the waterfall on Hy-brasil. How did you get free?”

His eyes seemed to say that kelpies could were wild creatures. The waters of the earth wove together like her magic, and he had come because she needed him.

The kelpie shifted, slowly getting to its knees and waiting for her to pull herself onto his back.

She stood, her knees crying out in pain and her back aching. Her hands glided over his seaweed mane and the bumps of his spine.

“Eamonn said you would drag me down into the depths and drown me if I tried to ride you.”

The kelpie’s eyes said otherwise, the same as they had at the waterfall.

She swung a leg over its side and pressed herself against the cool wet skin. “Bring me to the castle, faithful friend.”

* * *

The guards at the gate did not hesitate to open them for the warrior queen who rode alone into Cathair Solais. They could see the army laying on the field and wondered if they were dead. What had this witch woman done? What powers did this druid possess?

She balanced herself on the kelpie’s back and planned what she would say. She would call for peace, she wouldn’t give Fionn an option, she would force him to understand.

But then she rode directly into the palace and all words drifted from her mind.

They were having a ball. Gorgeous men and women swirled in colors she could not comprehend. Wine flowed from statues and laughter bubbled towards the ceiling.

The faeries wore fine masks, the metal so thin it looked like wire. Their dresses were pristine and their movements graceful.

They were so drunk they didn’t notice she had arrived.

Anger burned so hot that Sorcha couldn’t control herself. She leaned down, stuck her hand under a plate a passing waiter carried, and upended all the glasses onto the floor. The shattering made even the musicians shriek to a halt.

They saw her now.

The crowd parted, and she locked eyes with Fionn who relaxed on his throne.

“There is a war on your doorstep, Wise King,” she mocked. “Or had you not noticed the blood coating your stairs?”

“Kings do not fight in wars.”

“No, but apparently Queens do.” She swiped at the blood on her cheek and pointed at him with a hand that dripped seawater. “I have come to claim what is mine.”

“You think to take this throne?” he said, chuckling. “You are a mere human.”

“I care little for a chair. The crystal man beside you is mine, and I intend to take him back.”

“No.” Fionn stood and gestured with the glass of wine in his hand. “Guards, remove this woman.”

None moved.

“Guards! Take this human from my sight!”

Sorcha growled. “Sit down, Fionn.”

“You cannot order me, midwife.”

“I said, sit down.”

“No!” Anger mottled his face with red splotches. “You have no right to be here, to interfere with anything! You should be on your knees when you greet me!”

“It is you, false king, who will kneel!”

Her scream echoed through the great hall. The threads in her mind flared bright, and she tugged them hard, grabbing them in her fist and twisting cruelly. She wanted them to feel the pain and torment in her soul.

Each and every Fae dropped to their hands and knees.

Breathing hard, Sorcha clenched her hands into fists and slid from the kelpie’s back. Her armored boots clacked against the stone as she advanced towards Fionn. Anger, so vivid and raw it blew hot breaths against her neck, beat through her mind and screamed for release.

There was so much pain inside her that thunder echoed in her ears. She walked up the stairs to Fionn and fisted a hand around his throat. Souls tangled around her arm, giving her inhuman strength. She slammed him against the back of the throne and squeezed.

“Your time is up,” she growled.

“Never,” he croaked.

Not releasing her grasp on his neck, she reached over her head and pulled out an arrow from the quiver at her back.

“You have been tried and found guilty, Fionn the Wise. Your crimes are slavery.” She sank the arrow into the throne next to his head, reached for another, and continued. “Brutality.” This one just missed his ear. “And lies.”

She whipped the crown from his head and sank the last arrow so close that it cut through his hair.

Sorcha met his gaze with burning eyes and held the crown up for him to see. “This is not yours.”

Turning to the crowd of faeries behind them, she brought the crown down on her knee and broke it in half. The two pieces fell to the floor and tumbled down the stairs. She met the gaze of each guard, saw the fear in their eyes, and felt it resound in her own chest.

Sorcha snapped her fingers and yanked hard on the threads of their existence. “Bring your king to the dungeon and wrap him in iron chains.”

“No!” Fionn shouted. “Do not listen to this woman!”

“If he screams overly loud, tell me. I will ply him with herbs that will swell his tongue until he can hardly breathe.”

The guards linked their hands underneath Fionn’s armpits and dragged him from the room. His protests were ignored.

But then the faeries couldn’t do anything other than ignore him, could they? She hadn’t given them a choice.

Sorcha dropped into Fionn’s throne with a heavy sigh. “Get out. All of you.”

The faeries scrambled to their feet and left in such a rush that in three heartbeats she was alone.

A sob cut through the silence. Her agony rushed to the forefront.

“I have become everything I did not want to be,” she cried out.

Her hands shook, and she stopped breathing as she finally turned her head and stared into Eamonn’s cold, vacant eyes.

“My love,” she sobbed. “I have come for you.”

Pulling herself from the chair, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pressed her lips to his. Cold crystal bit at her flesh. So familiar and yet not at all. His chest did not move, his heart did not beat, and his eyes did not fill with the tenderness she had grown to expect.

Sorcha pressed her mouth against his again, “Would that I could save you. My love. My heart.”

Tears dripped from her eyes and splattered against the cold stone.

Rage poured through her again. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right that she was so close to him, and yet so far. He would never look at her with love again. Never touch her shoulder, wrap her curls around his finger.

It was a cruel and angry jest that the world played on her.

She whipped around and cleared the food and wine from Fionn’s side table. Screaming out her rage she fell to her knees beside him and gripped the Spear of Lugh.

“This does not belong here,” she cried.

As if the spear understood what she wanted, the staff shortened, no longer propping Eamonn up. Yanking with her entire weight, she pulled the spear out of Eamonn’s heart.

It clattered to the floor and all her anger drained, leaking from her eyes as tears slid from her cheeks. What was she to do with him? Bury him in the earth? Place him at the front of the castle like a watchful gargoyle?

She whimpered and wrapped herself around him once more. “Please, mo chroí. I want to hear your voice one last time. I love you.”

At first, she didn’t notice that her lips were pressed against silken hair. Then she heard the cracking of crystal as his fingertips moved.

Stumbling back, she landed on her behind and watched with wide eyes as the crystal shattered. It fell from his body in great shards, leaving behind warm caramel skin. He shook the stones from his shoulders, twisting away from her to rip off his armor and lift his hands to his face.

A chunk of crystal fell to the ground, the piece which had covered his face. Cold, blank eyes stared back at her, as if he had simply taken off a mask. Sorcha gasped and pressed her hand to her lips, watching with wide eyes as he stared down at his hands, then turned to face her.

He was perfect. Ragged and tired, but free from all blemishes. His face was smooth, his throat unmarked. Not a single crystal remained, not even a small one poking through his shredded shirt.

She watched his throat work as he swallowed.

“Sorcha?”

She moaned and scrambled to her feet. Launching herself in his arms, she tucked her face against his now smooth neck and breathed in his scent. “I thought I’d lost you.”

“I thought I was dead.” Eamonn pressed his lips against her shoulder and crushed her in his embrace. “How is this possible?”

“I do not know, but I thank every god who ever existed that they brought you back to me.” She leaned back and traced her fingers down his face, foreign now but just as beloved. “It’s really you.”

He said nothing. Eamonn palmed the back of her head and pressed their lips together. Warm and safe and wondrous, she framed his face with her palms and counted each of her many blessings.