Chapter 12 :
Over the next three days, I found myself joining Lucien on Andras's old patrol while Tamlin hunted the grounds for the Bogge, unseen by us. Despite being an occasional bastard, Lucien didn't seem to mind my company, and he did most of the talking, which was fine; it left me to brood over the consequences of firing a single arrow.
An arrow. I never fired a single one during those three days we rode along the border. That very morning I'd spied a red doe in a glen and aimed out of instinct, my arrow poised to fly right into her eye as Lucien sneered that she was not a faerie, at least. But I'd stared at her—fat and healthy and content—and then slackened the bow, replaced the arrow in my quiver, and let the doe wander on.
I never saw Tamlin around the manor—off hunting the Bogge day and night, Lucien informed me. Even at dinner, he spoke little before leaving early—off to continue his hunt, night after night. I didn't mind his absence. It was a relief, if anything.
On the third night after my encounter with the puca, I'd scarcely sat down before Tamlin got up, giving an excuse about not wanting to waste hunting time.
Lucien and I stared after him for a moment.
What I could see of Lucien's face was pale and tight. "You worry about him," I said.
Lucien slumped in his seat, wholly undignified for a Fae lord and said . "Tamlin gets into … moods." And has very severe anger issues.
"He doesn't want your help hunting the Bogge?"
"He prefers being alone. And having the Bogge on our lands … I don't suppose you'd understand. The puca are minor enough not to bother him, but even after he's shredded the Bogge, he'll brood over it."
"And there's no one who can help him at all?"
"He would probably shred them for disobeying his order to stay away."
A brush of ice slithered across my nape. "He would be that brutal?"
Lucien studied the wine in his goblet. "You don't hold on to power by being everyone's friend. And among the faeries, lesser and High Fae alike, a firm hand is needed. We're too powerful, and too bored with immortality, to be checked by anything else." Liar, wasn't Rhys like that with his court of dreams? It was only because the sping court had such mean, power-hungry people that it had to be like that.
It seemed like a cold, lonely position to have, especially when you didn't particularly want it. Unless u r like Rhys.
The snow was falling, thick and merciless, already up to my knees as I pulled the bowstring back—farther and farther, until my arm trembled. Behind me, a shadow lurked—no, watched. I didn't dare turn to look at it, to see who might be within that shadow, observing, not as the wolf stared at me across the clearing.
Just staring. As if waiting, as if daring me to fire the ash arrow.
No—no, I didn't want to do it, not this time, not again, not—
But I had no control over my fingers, absolutely none, and he was still staring as I fired.
One shot—one shot straight through that golden eye.
A plume of blood splattering the snow, a thud of a heavy body, a sigh of wind. No.
It wasn't a wolf that hit the snow—no, it was a man, tall and well formed.
No—not a man. A High Fae, with those pointed ears.
I blinked, and then—then my hands were warm and sticky with blood, then his body was red and skinless, steaming in the cold, and it was his skin—his skin—that I held in my hands, and—
I threw myself awake, sweat slipping down my back, and forced myself to breathe, to open my eyes and note each detail of the night-dark bedroom. Real—this was real. And I'd had to kill Andras, It was essential, essential I told myself.. but.. the guilt still lingered.
Not real. Just a dream. Even if what I'd done to Andras, even as a wolf, was … was …
I got up from bed washed my face, then remebered that Tamlin would be coming home about now and that I needed to go and clean up his hand. Great. What excuse should I give? I wasn't illiterate, and (no offence to Feyre ) but would die if someone thought I was illiterate. I'll say I was getting a snack, Yeah!
A breeze announced his arrival—and I turned from the table toward the long hall, to the open glass doors to the garden.
I'd forgotten how huge he was in this form—forgotten the curled horns and lupine face, the bearlike body that moved with a feline fluidity. His green eyes glowed in the darkness, fixing on me, and as the doors snicked shut behind him, the clicking of claws on marble filled the hall. I stood still—not daring to flinch.
He limped slightly. And in the moonlight, dark, shining stains were left in his wake.
He continued toward me, stealing the air from the entire hall. He was so big that the space felt cramped, like a cage. The scrape of claw, a huff of uneven breathing, the dripping of blood.
Between one step and the next, he changed forms, and I squeezed my eyes shut at the blinding flash. When at last my eyes adjusted to the returning darkness, he was standing in front of me.
Standing, but—not quite there. No sign of the baldric, or his knives. His clothes were in shreds—long, vicious slashes that made me wonder how he wasn't gutted and dead. But the muscled skin peering out beneath his shirt was smooth, unharmed.
"Did you kill the Bogge?" My voice was gental, soothing, even though if I'd had my way It would hve been sharp and cold.
"Yes." A dull, empty answer. As if he couldn't be bothered to remember to be pleasant. As if I were at the very, very bottom of a long list of priorities.
"You're hurt," I said quietly.
Indeed, his hand was covered in blood, even more splattering on the floor beneath him. He looked at it blankly—as if it took some monumental effort to remember that he even had a hand, and that it was injured. What effort of will and strength had it taken to kill the Bogge, to face that wretched menace? How deep had he had to dig inside himself—to whatever immortal power and animal that lived there—to kill it?
Drip, drip, drip.
Another splatter of blood on the marble. "Where can we clean up your hand?"
He lifted his head to look at me again. Still and silent and weary. Then he said, "There's a small infirmary."
I wanted to tell myself that it was probably the most useful thing I'd learned all night. But as I followed him there, avoiding the blood he trailed, I thought of what Lucien had told me about his isolation, that burden, thought of what Tamlin had mentioned about how these estates should not have been his, and felt … sorry for him. It didn't exuse his actions kn the future and past but... I still felt a little bad for him. and the state he was in after AcoFaS.
The infirmary was well stocked, but was more of a supply closet with a worktable than an actual place to host sick faeries. I supposed that was all they needed when they could heal themselves with their immortal powers. But this wound—this wound wasn't healing.
Tamlin slumped against the edge of the table, gripping his injured hand at the wrist as he watched me sort through the supplies in the cabinets and drawers. When I'd gathered what I needed, I tried not to balk at the thought of touching him, but … I didn't let myself give in to my dread as I took his hand, the heat of his skin like an inferno against my cool fingers.
I cleaned off his bloody, dirty hand, bracing for the first flash of those claws. But his claws remained retracted, and he kept silent as I bound and wrapped his hand—surprisingly enough, there were no more than a few vicious cuts, none of them requiring stitching.
I secured the bandage in place and stepped away, bringing the bowl of bloody water to the deep sink in the back of the room. His eyes were a brand upon me as I finished cleaning, and the room became too small, too hot. He'd killed the Bogge and walked away relatively unscathed.
I was almost at the open door when he said, "How did you learn to hunt, to survive?"
I paused with my foot on the threshold. "That's what happens when you're responsible for lives other than your own, isn't it? You do what you have to do."
He was still sitting on the table, still straddling that inner line between the here and now and wherever he'd had to go in his mind to endure the fight with the Bogge. I met his feral and glowing stare.
"You aren't what I expected—for a human," he said.
I didn't reply. And he didn't say good-bye as I walked out.
The next morning, as I made my way down the grand staircase, I tried not to think too much about the clean-washed marble tiles on the floor below—no sign of the blood Tamlin had lost. I tried not to think too much at all about our encounter, actually.
When I found the front hall empty, I almost smiled—felt a ripple in that hollow emptiness that had been hounding me. Perhaps now, perhaps in this moment of quiet, I could at last look through the art on the walls, take time to observe it, learn it, admire it.
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A/N :Happy Easter! Please reveiw with story idears And hope you enjoyed!
