Chapter 1
The day Wild Thorn realizes that he is in love is the day his wings start to grow.
And yet, while the two things occur on the same bleak Autumn day, they are not inherently related otherwise. The latter is inevitable and, he supposes, so is the former.
However, one does not cause the other. It is just a coincidence, or, for the more cynical minded, a misfortune. In fact, if Wild had any choice in the matter, he would have preferred the two things happen much further apart. Say, a century or two.
Because while the love is a marvelous, precious thing, the arrival of his wings signals his downfall.
Lord Bleddyn is talking of crop yields when the pain begins. With a sharp intake of breath, Wild doubles-over, jaw clenched. His fingers press against the marble table, leaving smeared impressions of his turmoil.
Wild knows what the pain signifies immediately, as do all of the fae sitting in the room.
His wings have begun to grow.
Lord Bleddyn stumbles over his words momentarily, and Wild can feel the other tribunal members shifting awkwardly around him. On his left, the brown, paper-thin wings of Duke Halias flutter once, causing a small puff of cold air to dislodge a curl from behind Wild’s ear.
Even with his eyes squeezed shut, he knows they are not looking at him though, averting their gaze as if Wild is exhibiting some impropriety.
And perhaps he is.
It’s not very princely to show pain, to succumb to one’s bodily limitations in such a public way.
He swallows against the bile rising in his throat and straightens his back even as nettles skitter down his spine.
The tribunal had long ago abandoned the more formal Oak Room in favor of the open courtyard lined by stone columns, and a brown leaf skitters across the stone floor as Wild draws his head upward, smoothing his face into something he hopes is as impassive as the grey sky unfurling around them. He takes a deep breath of Autumn air, heavy with thistles and sharp with the smoke from a fire down the side of the mountain. If he squints, he can see the thin tendril of it floating up and into the steel sky.
His father, King Cadoc Thorn III, sits to his right, at the head of the table. There is no outward change to his expression, no twitch of his wings, which stretch beyond his shoulders like flames. Yet, there is a softness to the corner of his eyes that tells Wild he has done the right thing, tamping down the pain like soil in spring.
The pain is the seed, but you are the earth and rocks and roots, he tells himself and he halfway believes it.
The Council meeting proceeds a second later, but Wild’s attention continues to waver. He attempts to block out the pain, to focus on the words being spoken around him, but his efforts falter against the sound of his heart against his ribs, scratching and stuttering. His attention falls prey to the twin spots of agony against his shoulder blades, like two palms pressing out from within him. Saliva rushes into his mouth, and his muscles tense with the effort of his silence, even as his blood burns with the fear of what’s to come.
It’s not the wings that truly worry him, though. The process of wing-growing is slow and painful, but entirely necessary.
However, it’s what the wings signify that has Wild’s heart tattooing a frantic pattern against the thin skin at his wrists. The wings mean that Wild is ready to fulfill his royal birthright, to wear the crown that sits, now, against his father’s temples.
Not immediately, of course. He still has some time before the wings finally break through the skin, ready to feel the sun and that first gust of air. But soon, when the wings unfurl, wrinkled and still bloody, he will bend forward as his mother kisses his forehead and places the crown atop his head. He will sit on the throne until a future heir endures the same process.
It is the way of the Eventide Fae.
Bones breaking.
Skin splitting.
There is no room for softness among the harsh realities of the clouds, as his mother once told him. You must crack upon the cliffs and carve new grooves in the mountainside.
Becoming King will change everything for Wild. No longer will he spend his days in the company of trees and wildflowers. No longer will he be free to go riding through the markets, purchasing handmade trinkets and honey cakes. His days will be filled with tedium. With rigidness. With expectations.
His wings will change many other things, too. They will signal the full awakening of his immortal light, his birthright granted to him by ancestors long since rejoined with the stars nestled in the Eventide Wake, a stretch of inky black sky right above the mountains.
Beyond immortality, the light usually comes with a second gift, manifesting in the form of a skill, such as fire-work or water-sending, or earth-carving. Sometimes, it is Seeing and others, it is Reading.
There will be much speculation about which one he will gain. Regardless, Wild has little time for any skills. He much prefers the feel of bark and branch, the soft tread of bare feet against moss, the sounds of animals in the wood mixed with laughter or the hushed tones of amiable talk punctuated by the soft crackle of a warm hearth. Even now, as he clenches against the pain, he aches to bite into the soft flesh of a peach, to feel grass against his skin, to let dew drop against his tongue and paint his lips with jasmine pollen. And he yearns to do it all with Aspen by his side.
He’s sure his father didn’t expect the stalwart guard to become more than a watchman to Wild. A loyal protector. Then again, his father never expects the right thing from Wild. Or, rather, Wild always seems to fulfill the wrong expectation.
Soon, the pain subsides, and Wild attempts to refocus on the conversation, to work through the request at hand, but the meeting is already ending, tribunal members scraping chairs back and adjusting their high-necked collars or twisting gold rings around their fingers as they stand.
Wild feels the brief pressure of his father’s hand on his shoulder, recognizes the grip, the heavy signet ring snagging on the wool of Wild’s tunic.
The fleeting touch is the only form of emotion fit for a king.
Wild stands stiffly, nods, and leaves the terrace, his pain swallowed up by the act of walking through the adjoining hallway, winding down in circles deep inside of the mountain.
It is only when he finds himself at the bottom, spilling out of the dark hallway and into the brisk afternoon light, that he glances over to the familiar figure of Aspen. His wings, a pale yellow, frame either side of his face, fluttering slightly at Wild’s sudden attention.
Wild opens his mouth to say something but the words are ripped from his lips and all he can think is, By the Stars, I wouldn’t be able to do any of this without him.
Not quite a declaration of love for most, but for Wild, it is momentous and it quickly twists and reforms into a single, echoing realization: Yes, Wild Thorn is in love.
Aspen looks worriedly at his prince, as the silence billows around them, up and away to join the trail of woodsmoke that Wild can still just see over the tops of the crimson and ochre leaves.
“You should rest today,” says Aspen, at length. His voice is soft, barely a puncture in the silence. “I’ll have a message sent to your mother. I’m sure she’ll want to start planning the coronation, but there is plenty of time for arrangements to be made.”
Wild nods, gritting his teeth. Aspen’s frown deepens as they return to the Wild’s quarters, walking beside each other with Aspen’s hand gripping Wild’s elbow in surreptitious support.
It wouldn’t do for others to see the prince being carried by his guard.
Wild, for his part, could probably walk on his own if only he hadn’t been stunned blissfully with the realization of love and the comfort of Aspen’s hand. Should he say the words? Speak them out loud and give them a form?
At the door, Aspen pauses, an uncharacteristic wrinkle marring his forehead.
“Sire, I…” he begins. His mouth forms a straight line, a resolution behind his eyes. Then, his face is blank again. “Rest. I will let the staff know you are not to be disturbed.”
The words stay lodged in the back of Wild’s throat, a red-lined coal at the base of a fire that has barely gotten started.
The wings continue to grow.
His armor has to be refitted, his shirts altered.
He stands in the middle of his room, while his mother consults with a tailor, a portly Fae with dark brown wings and a pair of eyeglasses perched upon his long nose. His mother is discussing fabric with the tailor, her slender fingers testing the corners of various swatches.
Wild’s posture is straight, his shoulders squared, as he gazes at the view of the sky beyond his balcony.
His runway, technically speaking. A perfect slab of stone stretching out into the emptiness of the sky, hatched lightly to allow for ultimate grip as he will, one day, push himself upward to take flight.
The pain has been his constant companion for some weeks now, but he ignores it as best as possible. As he stands, he feels a trickle of blood slide down his back.
“I’ll look like a fool if she chooses that color,” he mutters, glancing at Aspen by his side.
“No more than usual,” replies Aspen under his breath, a smirk in the corner of his mouth.
Wild snorts in a most un-princely way and begins to form a response. But then his mother breaks away from the tailor and arches an eyebrow at Wild.
Queen Hyacinth is wingless, a Daughter of the Valley, of lily petals and birch branch, but her look is imposing enough to earn her respect among the Mountains, among the descendants of the Fallen Eventide Stars who value cruel honesty at all costs. Wild has enough wherewithal to avert his gaze downward.
With a curt wave, she dismisses the tailor as she makes her way to Wild. Thin as a lake reed, her periwinkle dress shimmers softly in the low light of the room. She places a cool hand on his cheek and draws his eyes upward.
“The coronation will take place at the Solstice celebration,” she says, her expression glittering with something Wild isn’t sure he can live up to.
He knows the look well, has grown up with it, felt it against his cheeks with something like embarrassment. It is a particular blend of emotions only his mother could balance: a hint of pride, a smidgen of sadness, tinted with love.
He swallows thickly and nods. He glances to Aspen, silent again, at his side.
His mother tilts her head, her golden hair a waterfall against her shoulder. Eyes still trained on Wild, she says, “Aspen, would you excuse us?”
Aspen nods to the queen, then to Wild. He leaves the room, though Wild knows that he is standing just outside of the doors, as if he can feel a string between them being pulled taut.
“Aspen has been a loyal guard,” she says. Her amethyst eyes are almost onyx in this light.
“Indeed,” replies Wild. “I would imagine that is why father chose him.”
She nods. “Your father is wise. But, he is also blind.”
Wild furrows his brow and, for a moment, wonders if his mother can see his love, wonders if, perhaps, he has been changed physically by it as he has been emotionally.
Or perhaps it isn’t him, so much as it is a mother’s ability to see the truth of her child.
Queen Hyacinth smiles softly. “When you are king, your protection will no longer be up to the Palace Guard, but fall under the purview of the Royal Guard,” she says, absentmindedly straightening his collar.
But his mother is never absent minded.
Her unspoken meaning rings in his ears. The Royal Guard is an elite team tasked with protecting the king and queen. They only accept one new recruit every two centuries and even then, they require all members to forsake personal ties at least fifty years before recruitment.
“Aspen takes his position quite seriously,” she continues, tucking an errant curl behind Wild’s tapered ear. “He has a sister in the Westlands, does he not? Half his salary goes to her and his nephew.”
More than half, thinks Wild. He knows Aspen is supporting his sister and her child. They are the only blood relations he has and is, in part, why Aspen became a Palace Guard in the first place. A Palace Guard sees very little action with the benefit of an ample salary and free lodging.
“Winter is fast approaching. It has already taken hold of the ground here. The Westlands will be next.”
The ground will be frozen solid, thinks Wild. Food will be scarce. Firewood scarcer. Illness spreads easily during the colder months.
“Aspen’s sister has already lost a husband to the whims of nature, if I remember correctly.”
Again, his mother’s unspoken words seem to hang in between them, a ripple on the surface of a lake: What would happen if she lost the only support she has? Aspen could never forsake his sister and his nephew as the Royal Guard demands and neither could he risk losing his position as a Palace Guard.
It’s a thinly-veiled threat wrapped in a veneer of caution. He’s sure a part of it is his mother’s innate desire to see him protected—to see his heart unbroken by his birthright—but he’s not so naive as to blind himself to the full reality of what his mother is trying to tell him.
It is not in the custom of Eventide Fae to take same-sex partners, and it is even more unseemly for those of royal blood to do so. Neither is it acceptable for a king to have a dalliance with a guard, regardless of the guard’s designation.
His mother’s eyes turn sad, a flash of concern. They are skirting around the issue, as propriety dictates, but the truth thrums through him as sharp as the first gust of winter wind.
Whatever tender feelings he has for the guard would be better forgotten, the tilt of his mother’s chin seems to say.
He feels the weight of his wings growing heavier and wonders when their weight will outgrow the tender bloom of affection he feels for his Aspen.
Because it must.
It is the way of the Eventide Fae.
But his mother isn’t finished. She takes a step back and gives him an appraising look. “After the coronation, we’ll begin considering suitable matches for your queen.” She smiles. “The brown is a bit too dowdy, I think. Why don’t we try green next?”
Panic claws up the back of his throat, and he nods his acquiescence as a swatch of fabric is held up to his face. Queen Hyacinth continues flitting around the room, commenting on patterns and textures, and Wild feels his chest caving in, the room growing darker, his heart fading.
The tailor is brought back in, as is Aspen. The latter arches an inquisitive brow at Wild. Wild shakes his head curtly, but his gaze strays to Aspen’s mouth and the way he stands and how his hands are folded together in front of him and Wild wants desperately to feel them in his hair, against his throat and his hip.
The sun breaks free from a cloud and the late-morning light stretches its fingers across the floor as Wild feels the first petal of his love turn brown at the edges.
He will just have to make use of what little of time he has left with Aspen, burn the fuse out quick and dirty, even though his heart will surely turn to ash.
