A/N: The long awaited scene from the summary is finally here. I hope you're not disappointed.
my heart lingers in your hands
Chapter 5
I long so much to make beautiful things. But beautiful things require effort and disappointment and perseverance.
—Vincent van Gogh
Tom returned to his castle in a worse state than he'd left.
His riding clothes were torn, his boots muddy and missing a sole, his skin was as pale as dolomite and his hair stuck up in places, and he stank of a slaughterhouse.
The fae king was a frightful sight for his subjects who knew him to be immaculate and in full control of his inhibitions. Fae were wild creatures by nature, but this king stalking through the halls made servants cower against the wall and the males stand protectively in front of the females.
No one dared intercept him as he made his way to his parlour where his knights waited.
He entered with a chilling breeze following on his footsteps. There was a new coldness in his eyes, a cold that did not bode well for any that crossed him. His knights knelt immediately in subservience.
"Avery."
The knight jumped to his feet, head still bowed. "My Lord."
"There is a mess in the eastern forest, clean it up."
If Avery was confused he did not show it. "Yes, my Lord." He nearly ran out of the room.
"Malfoy."
The blonde stood and pressed a hand over his heart, head down. "Lord King, I am at your service."
Tom ignored his arse-kissing. "How is my bride?"
Malfoy's lips tipped down. "My Lord?"
Tom threw out his hand and Malfoy went flying into a wall. He slid to the floor with a groan.
"How is Hermione?" The fae king hissed.
"I don't know, my Lord," the blonde said honestly, trying and failing to sit upright. There was a sharp pain in his side every time he inhaled. "My mother tells me she sleeps most of the day and barely touches her meals. She only gets up to use the lavatory and read one book in the last two days, which I'm lead to believe is uncommon."
Tom fell into his seat heavily. "Leave us," he ordered the others. They silently filed out of the room and privacy wards fell into place as soon as the door closed behind them.
Tom waved his hand and Draco's pain eased. At his king's nod, he took a seat in front of the large desk.
"Apologies, Malfoy," Tom sighed, rubbing his hands over his face. All the blood he'd shed to quell his frustration had not been enough, it seemed.
"There is no need," Draco quickly appeased.
Tom's mouth pressed into a thin line. "Has she truly not eaten?" he asked softly.
Malfoy swallowed. "Not a full meal since you last visited her chamber."
Not since you made her cry, Tom's mind whispered.
"Am I doing the right thing?" he wondered out loud.
Draco startled at his lord's question. "My Lord?"
"How did you get Astoria to marry you, Draco?"
Draco didn't know what to focus on first. The fact that his king had just asked him such a personal question or called him by his given name.
"I-I courted her, my Lord," he said.
"How?"
"Uh, first I sent her gifts to catch her interest and proclaim my intentions."
"I have done that," Tom mumbled to himself.
Draco looked at his king but when Tom said nothing, continued, "Then I asked her if she would be partial to my company."
"Asked?" Tom interrupted.
Draco's eyes furrowed. "Yes, of course. She is a highborn fae, a lady of repute, I could not just take her like a—oh, oh." Draco made the connection and would have smiled if his lord's stare did not slightly terrify him.
"What?"
"My Lord, I… what you are asking me, does it have anything to do with the witch?"
Tom's jaw clenched, and he grudgingly replied, "Yes."
Draco stifled a chuckle. "My Lord, witches are not the same as fae, our customs and traditions, they will not be enough to win your lady over."
"The what do you suggest I do," Tom snapped.
Draco shrugged. "I don't know. Have you tried asking her what she wants?"
Tom's lips jutted out in a pout that he hastily smoothed out. "She…she wants to leave. She wants nothing to do with me."
"Do you know why?" Draco pressed.
Tom's fisted is hands. "I will admit, I have not been the best when taking her feelings into consideration," he relented.
Draco sent a quick prayer to the God of the Wild and pushed, "Why not? You care for her, right?"
"Of course I do!"
Draco pressed his back further into his seat and willed his heart to beat slower. "You know that, my Lord, but is the Lady aware? Have you made your intentions clear, have you made sure she understands how much you lo—uh, feel for her?"
Tom opened his mouth to reply but snapped it shut quickly. Their last interaction replayed in his mind for the millionth time since he left her room, but this time he looked at it with new eyes.
"I took what was rightfully mine!"
By Slytherin, he'd spoken of her as if she were an object.
"You have what you were after, now let me go."
She had been so adamant to leave she'd given him Basilisk. Although Hermione had only had the wand for ten years, that was more of her lifetime spent with it than without, and to just give it away…she must have been extremely desperate.
"I DO NOT WANT TO BE YOUR ANYTHING!"
She'd all but shouted her feelings and yet he still refused to listen.
"Your personal feelings play no part in my decision. Like I said: you were promised to me and I am collecting."
Had he truly said that? By the Wild, he was tactless. Tom dropped his head in his hands, fingers fisted in his dark tresses. He had to fix this.
"My Lord," Draco called tentatively.
Tom snapped out of his inner turmoil. "Gratitude, Malfoy. I will…heed your advice."
That was clearly a dismissal. Draco bowed his head and stood. "Of course, my Lord. Anything you need."
He had his hand on the door handle when Tom spoke, "Actually, Malfoy, would you gather the knights and Hermione and meet me in the great hall." Though it was phrased as a request it was clearly anything but.
"Now, my Lord?" Draco questioned, taking in his king's appearance.
Tom narrowed his eyes. "Is that a problem?"
"No no, but, uh…" he trailed off and looked pointedly at Tom's bloody tunic.
Tom's face blanked. "Tonight," he amended.
"Of course, my Lord." Draco couldn't help the small chuckle.
Her head was a mess; she couldn't think.
When had her life gone so wrong?
Hermione laid prone in the large and luxurious bed. Since she'd dismissed Narcissa, the fae had sent in a dark-haired female to try and coax the witch out of her depressed state. She wasn't successful.
"My Lady," Narcissa's sweet voice spoke through the door.
"Come in," Hermione said, voice a rasp from disuse.
The door opened and Narcissa entered, a lovely figure in a pale lavender dress, and a guilty look.
Hermione's heart thudded. "What is it?"
"My Lady, it's the king." She wouldn't meet Hermione's eyes.
"What about him?" the witch asked breathily.
"He has returned, and he requests your presence. Now."
Hermione's head flopped back onto the pillows. "Do you know why?"
"I don't mean to presume, but it might be to discuss vows."
"Vows?" Hermione echoed.
"Your wedding vows for tomorrow," the blonde fae said remorsefully.
Hermione closed her eyes against a torrent of fresh tears.
"Is that all?" she croaked.
Narcissa nodded.
"Okay," Hermione said, resigned. "Okay."
She gathered her strength and tossed the covers off her.
"Make me ready, Narcissa." If she was going down, she was going down with one last fight.
What Reason weaves, by Passion is undone.
—Alexander Pope, Essay on Man and Other Poems
She walked into a large hall with Narcissa at her side and two knights at her back.
The hall was sparsely decorated. Darks wall, a few portraits, a large candle chandelier and exactly one chair.
She saw him lounged on the single chair as if it were a throne. His knights were stationed around the room, twelve in total.
Narcissa curtsied and gestured a hand at Hermione.
"My Lady Hermione Granger," she announced.
Hermione stepped forward, gait steady, eyes locked on the fae king.
Tom's dark eyes lit up at the sight of her. His lips twitched, and he would have smiled if he's façade allowed it.
His joy was such a dichotomy to her infernal unhappiness. She hated it.
Tom stood from his seat and addressed his knights, Narcissa having departed immediately after announcing Hermione, leaving the witch as the sole female in a room of dangerous fae.
"Knights, behold Lady Hermione, my bride." Modest clapping followed his words.
Hermione pressed her lips together, drew her shoulders back and steeled her nerves. She channeled all her negativity into single-minded determination. She would not lose her focus, she would remain calm, she would get out of here, she chanted to herself.
"I am no bride of yours," she said clearly.
Tom's eyes flashed to something darker for a second before they reverted to their charcoal grey.
"Of course, we are not yet married, but that will be amended soon enough."
Hermione ground her teeth together to keep from retorting recklessly. Control, she reminded herself. "I will never be you bride, not tomorrow and not ten years from now."
Some of the knights placed a hand on their sword, baring teeth at the insolence of the witch.
Tom put up a hand and they eased back.
"You don't know what you're saying." His eyes flashed in warning.
Hermione took a deep breath. "We've had this conversation before, Tom," she reminded him.
Tom stepped closer to her, leaning his head down to stare at her upturned face. "And I am willing to compromise, take your wishes into consideration, but we will be married."
He made to walk back to his seat. Hermione darted a hand out, grabbed ahold of the hair at the nape of his neck and pulled.
He turned to her with wide, shocked eyes. His knights went still.
"There is nothing to consider, I will not marry you. Ever."
He grasped the hand holding his hair, and forcefully removed it from his person.
"You will be my queen," he told her, dark eyes flashing red for the briefest of moments.
"I won't," she said with a daring flare in her eyes.
His grip on her hand tightened until she felt her wrist bones grind together and had to clench her teeth to suppress a whimper.
"Then you will be my whore," he hissed, the sounds sibilant and unintelligible to all but her ears.
The slur hurt, it hurt right in the heart he had ruined once upon a time. It hurt so bad she struggled to breath until she remembered he should not have this power – any power – over her. She leaned closer, encroaching on his space and making his knights draw in a collective, horrified breath.
"No, I won't," she said again, the words as sharp as razors. Refusing to yield, to bend.
He snarled at her and pulled her into his body with a harsh tug. She crashed into him and it shouldn't have made her stomach flutter the way it did, her hands shouldn't have flattened themselves on his chest as naturally as they did, his eyes shouldn't have strayed to her lips and stayed fixated as they did.
He dropped his head to the crook of her neck. She tensed, thinking he would rip out her throat like the savage nundus from Luna's stories.
Yet she only felt the hot whisper of his breath on her sensitive skin. "Please," he said – pleaded, as if he were a mere peasant on his knees before a god and not a king that ruled the most powerful and feared supernatural.
"You don't need me, fae king," she said not unkindly, although all her instincts were shouting at her to rip into him while his guard was lowered, to decimate him until there was nothing left but the wicked horns that had haunted her dreams for years. "You have your wand, let me go."
His arms went around her and he held on tight. He was gripping onto her like a lifeline that would cease to hold him up if he let go; she pretended it was a restraint.
"Please," he repeated, groaning as his tongue flicked out to taste her skin. She exhaled shakily at the fleeting pleasure his touch stirred.
She gathered every single shred of composure and shoved him hard enough to loosen his hold on her. "No," she said firmly, still pushing on his chest.
That was all it took for him to become that snarling, mad creature again. This being in front of her, he was Tom no longer.
Voldemort captured Hermione's wrists and held them tighter than ever. The witch couldn't withhold her wince as she felt the beginnings of violet bruises take root on her skin.
"Malfoy!" the creature roared. A blonde fae whose features she vaguely recognized almost stumbled in his haste to get to his king's side.
"What am I doing wrong?"
The question took all by surprise, but none more than the brunette in the devil's clutches.
Malfoy's grey eyes (Narcissa's eyes, Hermione realised) darted between the fae king and the witch. "I think you're hurting her," Malfoy mumbled.
"You think?" Voldemort seethed.
"You are," Hermione said shortly.
"Be quiet, witch!"
Hermione's cheeks colored at the scolding, she turned her eyes away and looked at the door. It was a fair distance away but there were two knights near it. Could she make it if she ran?
"Advise me, Malfoy!" Voldemort commanded.
"I-I – my Lord, I—"
"Speak!" Voldemort's breathing was labored and his finger's pressed deeper into the wrists he was holding as he grew more agitated. Hermione cried out, Voldemort ignored her, Malfoy looked at her in alarm.
"My Lord, please, let her go." The words were a plea but the effect they had on Voldemort was staggering.
The fae king released Hermione and reared back as if struck.
"Let her – go?" He sounded so very confused that a part of Hermione wanted to reach out and cradle him to her chest.
But that part was miniscule, negligible, so Hermione rubbed her bruised wrists and stepped well out of his reach.
"Yes, my Lord. It would be for the best," Malfoy spoke softly, comfortingly. The other Knights of Walpurgis squirmed. They were clearly uncomfortable with the sight of their ruler so downtrodden.
"I can't," Voldemort stressed. "I cannot, I will not." He was no longer speaking to anyone, his ramblings were turned to himself but said aloud, not meant to be heard but uncontrollable in his distressed state.
"You must," Malfoy urged.
Hermione watched all this with a blank face and cold eyes. She should toss him around on a witchwind, she should turn the swords of his knights on him, she should reach into him with her magic and shred his insides.
She did none of those, just watched as the most frightening creature in her life and dreams fell apart before her eyes – as he abandoned the Voldemort and retook the simple, mortal name Tom. And she relished it.
No more, she decided, no longer would she look over her shoulder on windy nights in paranoia. No longer would she wound her magic tight around her in preparation for another visit, another attack.
No longer would she be afraid.
She stepped towards Tom, each step a reckoning of her unbridled dauntlessness. He straightened when her chest brushed against his. She looked up at him and he down at her, but their roles were reversed.
There was something broken in his eyes, a deep sadness that she would have never associated with him. And in her brown gaze, Tom saw fire and ice clashing and colliding, creating a storm so hot it felt cold. He shuddered.
When she spoke, it was controlled, collected, searing in its intent and intensity. "I will find a way to break this bond."
He believed her. How could he not, when she was so brilliant and brave, so determined to rid herself of the monster. Tom felt as if he were swaying on his feet. He wanted to close his eyes and sleep for a long, long time, but he forced them open because this was the last time he was ever going to see her, he was sure of it.
"I am going to leave, and you will not stop me – none of you will," she addressed him and his knights "I am going to leave, and you will never, ever come after me again."
She looked at him then, right into his eyes. Whatever she saw must have been enough, because the next moment she spun on her heel and walked, unhurried, to the doors.
He let her go.
And when the doors closed behind her, he whisked himself to the deepest part of his lands, far, far away from the line of ash trees. There, he fell apart.