Realms of Stone and Gold

by C. E. Olson

  When she tsks at him, he snaps his jaw shut, the need to please her superseding everything else. Only a few people in the world have seen him in this light, and being able to share this side of himself with his mate is nearly too good to be true.

  “It’s okay to love this, Var. You’re absolutely beautiful under me.” Aine tosses her head back, any other words she might have said are lost to the pleasure she feels as her body trembles with another release. “Let me feel you, Var... fill me up bef—”

  She isn’t able to finish that sentence because the request alone has Varis spilling inside her so much it leaks back down onto him. “Bloody hell.”

  Aine keeps rolling her hips, grinning once he twitches from overstimulation. “If this is hell, we’ll stay here together.”

  “Not as though I have much of a choice, hm?” he says with a grin, tipping his head toward the ropes. “Just keep me here. Fuck the King and his stupid war. I've got what I need right here in this house.”

  But as much as he wishes that was a possibility, they both know it's not, and Aine unties him with sadness on her face. He kisses her the moment he's free and tries to assure her that everything is going to work out, but as they dress and join the others, he's not even sure he believes it.

  “Not one word out of you, Reeve.”

  His brother’s face says more than his mouth ever could, yet he tries anyway. “Are we ready to go now? You seemed a bit tied up earlier.”

  “Reevus,” he says sharply. “Have you ever heard the term fratricide? If not, you may want to look it up.”

  Reeve rolls his eyes at the nickname and pulls him in a headlock. “Yeah? You wouldn’t dare, baby brother. Don’t make me restrain you. Aine, where’s the rope? Oh, right.”

  Varis kicks his brother’s legs out and smiles smugly down at him. “What was that? Couldn't hear you. Just sounded like an annoying screech.”

  “You’re—”

  “Reeve,” Laix interrupts. “Stop teasing your brother before I tell him what you ask for once a week. Get up and eat breakfast.”

  They wink down at Varis and Reeve lays there like he’s been betrayed. “Low blow, Laix. You’re supposed to be on my side.”

  “I am, which is exactly why I'm trying to get you to shut your mouth,” Laix says gently. “Now come on, we’re going to be late to meet the Queen’s guards.”

  Varis hears Aine whisper to Laix and ask about what Reeve wants to do once a week and Varis hopes they tell her. No way his brother would tell him himself.

  “Don’t ask and I’ll never bring up the bloody rope again,” Reeve rushes out as he stands.

  It's nearly worth it, but Laix is right. Vaenor’s allegiance to Varis is shakier than it is to Aine, and he doesn't want to give the man any additional excuses to turn tail. With a sigh, Varis agrees to drop it and clasps Reeve on the shoulder. “One day, I'll get you drunk enough that you'll tell me on your own. Until then, we have work to do.”

  He ignores Reeve’s insistence that there isn't enough alcohol in either realm to make him do any such thing as they set out to meet Vaenor. The trip itself is mostly silent other than the crunching of leaves and twigs under their feet, but thankfully, Vaenor and his men have already crossed over when they reach the portal.

  A tight-lipped nod is all they get by way of greeting as the small army begins marching.

  “Chatty bunch, eh?” Reeve bumps his arm.

  “Be glad for it. Vaenor has never uttered a single thing that didn't make me want to scream.”

  He hears Aine exchanging hushed whispers with the leader of her guard as they walk, but he tries not to listen too closely. At best, it's none of his business, and at worst, it'll cause him to do something stupid.

  They stop long enough to eat and quickly discuss the plan — not that there's much of one — and then head to Attarand to find Balian. To Varis’ surprise, he's in his throne room where he should be and not hiding somewhere else. “Your Grace,” Varis says with a bow. “May we have a moment of your time?”

  “Not that I have a choice. What made you think it was a good idea to flaunt that woman around with her head still on her shoulders?”

  Aine steps forward with an ice-cold stare Varis has never seen before. “Good thing my head is on my shoulders or you’d be a puppet by the next full moon. Or is it too late for that, King?”

  “Hells,” Varis mutters under his breath, but he stands beside his Queen. “Your Grace, she's on our side. You need her, and her men.”

  “Like hell I do,” Balian growls, but the way his fingers curl against the arm of the throne suggests otherwise. “Need their heads on pikes alongside yours is more like it. What's she going to do for me?”

  “You see what I’ve brought with me. Here to help your kingdom survive another day. Are you refusing the aid of the Sun Court, King Balian?”

  The King slams his fist down and everyone in the room twitches but Aine. “I've got an army marching to my doorstep and you talk to me about aid! Where was the Sun Court when Erathor took over in the first place?”

  “Where was your spine when Sontar pulled your strings like a puppet?” Varis snaps. “Every one of us has made mistakes. You can either accept her help and live to see tomorrow, or we can all die in a war that should’ve never been started.”

  “Never been started and yet you started it! All because you got to feel a Fae’s twat around your co—”

  “Your Grace,” Reeve intervenes as Aine’s eyes glow with rage. “They are on their way right now. There isn’t time for finger pointing. You know how the Fae are on the battlefield, we need them.”

  Varis squeezes Aine’s hand to stop himself from unraveling. “Reeve is right. We can fight with you or we can leave, it's your choice. And if you have any grand ideas about killing us, let me remind you who I am. If I managed to kill Sontar and take half his personal guard with me, imagine what I could do to you with them at my side.”

  “Fuck!” Balian screams, and Varis takes a small amount of satisfaction in his discomfort. “Fine! No one is to harm the soldiers from the Sun Court or their Queen... until this is over. The moment the Lunar Court is brought to heel, this truce ends. Am I clear?”

  “Not leaving much incentive here, King,” Reeve argues, but all of them can see that’s a losing battle.

  “We’ll take it.” Varis has no intention of letting Balian or anyone else hurt the people he loves, and it occurs to him in that moment that he's arrived at the place he's been fighting for years. Attachments are dangerous. Distracting. Troublesome. And yet, he's stronger because of them. “I suppose greeting the Lunar Court with an offer of peace is too much to ask?”

  “Peace. You think they march here by the hundreds — hell — thousands for some talk of peace?” Balian stands from his throne and stomps down the stairs. “You say you can help win this war? Go bloody do it, I’ve got a battle to prepare for.”

  Varis watches him with apprehension and a surprising level of curiosity. In all of his time in Balian’s service, he's never seen the man lift a sword for anything other than cutting the head off whatever animal they're about to feast on. Something tells him that won't be changing here.

  “So what now?” Laix asks once they're alone.

  “I need weapons. You and Aine should go with her guards to find a place to ride out the first wave.”

  When Aine tenses at his side he pulls her in, reminding her of the promise she made only hours ago.

  “I know,” she says. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

  He tips her chin up to kiss her softly as Reeve and Laix begin to say their own goodbyes. “It's temporary. I have no intention of dying today, and that I will vow to you.”

  “I’m sure anyone rarely intends to die, my love.” Aine cups his cheek and lifts up for a proper kiss. “Hurry back, I’m not afraid to come looking.”

  “Noted.” Varis bows to her slightly and waits for Reeve and Laix to part, then nods once to Vaenor and the others before pulling his brother out of
the throne room and toward the keep. “We don't have much time. We get what we need and go.”

  “Got a bad feeling about this. I mean, we win this war and then we’re still at war. Anything happens to any of you I sw—”

  Varis grabs his brother’s arm just outside. “Stop. One thing at a time, Reeve. We deal with the army at our doorstep and then we worry about everything else. If we think too far ahead, we’ll drown.”

  His brother clicks his tongue. “Any chance they’ll have some hope in this damn armory?”

  “It's doubtful.”

  Varis clenches his jaw as he walks into the armory and begins picking up weapon after weapon, each time disappointed by how they feel in his hands. Any of them will do, but his axe had become such a part of him that not knowing where it is nearly hurts. He draws a couple of bows to test their tension and ultimately puts them down, checking warhammers and other axes, but none of them feel right. The poetry of choosing a warhammer isn't lost on him, but he hasn't used one in a long time and something tells him this isn't a great time to experiment.

  Instead, he walks along the line of swords. Some, he recognizes by name — swords of heroes past with stories soaked in blood — and others that are a little less legendary. It's one of those he chooses; a blade as plain and unremarkable as he sometimes wishes he could be. It feels decent in his hand despite being a pound or two heavier than his axe, and he thinks he can handle it nearly as well. “This'll do,” he says as he turns to Reeve. “Do you have your arrows?”

  “Yep. A few throwing stars and a dagger, too. I'm as ready as I'm going to be.”

  Varis huffs. “Good. Then it's time to go.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Watching a full army approach is unsettling to say the least. The armor Aine forced him to don is cumbersome and strange, and Varis swears the veil between realms is thinner today than normal. The sun is beating down too fiercely for it not to be. “The air is rotten,” he mutters to Reeve. “Hasn't even started yet.”

  “Did you expect anything different? Ten thousand men all gathered for the same, gritty goal. We should've trained more, you and I. The Queen made you soft,” Reeve responds.

  Varis glances back to where Aine is watching with Laix. “You're one to talk about going soft.”

  “Oh, I assure you... nothing about Laix makes me soft.”

  Ignoring his brother’s innuendo, Varis considers his original point. “You're right, though. There was once a time I’d have come here today with nothing on my mind but taking as many of them with me when I go as I could,” he admits. “But now... they don't deserve this. Our soldiers don't deserve this.”

  “And yet, we’re here. How many do you think will die today?” Reeve asks.

  He screws up his nose and adjusts his grip on his sword. “Too many, and likely still not enough to end whatever this is. Why are we even here, Reeve? Not just the two of us, but all of us. What purpose is there to any of this?”

  “Revenge? Pride? Domination? Take your pick. Kings don't need reason to war with each other. Sontar kept the peace because Balian was useful to him. This new king obviously doesn't feel the same. Maybe he feels the need to posture to gain the allegiance of his people. Who knows.”

  “Either way, war is the dumbest thing that creatures with working brains have ever come up with,” Varis says bitterly. “No one should have to die to stroke another man’s ego.”

  “You're not wrong,” Reeve says as the sound of chatter around them steadily grows. “Seems you're not the only one who thinks so, either.”

  Varis squints at the soldiers around them to see what has them so talkative, and the answer isn't immediately clear. The enemy is still a couple of miles out, Balian is hiding in his tent as Varis predicted, and nothing out of the ordinary seems to be happening at all — but just as Varis starts to relax, he hears the horns blowing from behind them. Whirling around, Varis’ stomach drops clear to his toes when he takes in the sight behind him. There's another army heading their way, and this one is much, much closer.

  “Bloody hell,” Varis whispers. “Reeve, go join the archers. Now!” He shoves his brother and surges forward, grabbing Watt and dragging him along. “About face!”

  Hardly anyone pays attention to him at all. Most of them already see the threat, and he's not worried about the ones that don't — there is still an army at their front that'll need dealing with. He hears Watt hurling questions at him but doesn't stop to answer until they're at the very back, now front, of the lines. “I don't know how. Star Court, maybe? I don't think Braya would've let them pass, but they snuck around Balian’s spies somehow. We were guarding the coast facing Boedal and our own portal. Do you see dragons? I don't, which means either every damned one of them are High Fae or they came through Epriven.”

  “Nice of them to let us know,” he says sarcastically before flipping down the visor on his helmet. “Oh, fucking hells, we’re all going to die.”

  Varis sees Echo phasing in and out of their plane and whistles for her, then sends her toward Aine and Laix with a desperate plea to protect them. She hisses, but takes off for the tent where he'd left them and prays that Aine stays put, though he already knows she won't. She's too fierce in her own right to hide the way Balian is.

  “Where the fuck is Aylard?” Varis snaps. “Shouldn't he be leading?”

  Watt whips around to search for the leader of the Sentinel but comes up short. “None of them are here. Not Louvel, Batkin, none of them. Bloody cowards.”

  “Too late. Go signal the archers. If none of them are here, I'd bet Tamas left them high and dry, too. Tell Reeve it's his job now.” When Watt doesn't immediately move, Varis smacks the side of his helmet. “Go!”

  The soldier directly to his left scoffs. “It'll be a cold day in hell, I take orders from the Bastard.”

  “Bastard or not, I'm all you've got at the moment,” Varis responds. “Do you see your captains here? Do you see anyone here that isn't about to soil themselves except for me? Draw your damned weapon.”

  The guard doesn't answer, but he does obey. Varis watches as those around him reluctantly follow suit, and when he's reasonably sure they'll at least defend themselves despite their issues with his presence, he faces the oncoming enemy. The ground rumbles beneath their feet as the mounted soldiers come closer, but the sound itself is dwarfed by the ringing in his ears and the pounding of his own heart. I’m the Fae Hammer, he tells himself. I am battle-forged and lethal, and... oh, gods.

  His subpar, ridiculous pep-talk abruptly ends as he lets out a scream and charges forward. When the first mount reaches him, he ducks around the heavy blade and grabs the soldier’s arm to unseat him — even in war, he won't harm an animal unless he has to. The immediate area around him becomes deafeningly loud with yells, grunts, and the sound of swords angrily clashing against other swords, shields, and armor. His own finds its first taste of blood with that now-dismounted soldier, and that's only the beginning. Not having his axe proves to be a problem — he's not as fast nor as good with a sword, and it shows with every near-miss and every sharp breath.

  Arrows whiz past his head and sink into their targets with sickening thwaps, and they save him more than once when he gets overwhelmed. Reeve is to thank, he's sure of it, but the knowledge only serves to help him slip into a familiar, mindless rhythm as everything but survival fades from importance.

  He cuts his way through the mass of Fae soldiers and looks for the one that looks like a king, the one that can end this before too many lose their lives for a cause they don't understand. But much like Balian, it appears that Erathor has decided to hide.

  “Where is he!” Varis screams at a fallen Fae soldier. “Save the rest of your kind; tell me where he is!”

  They look terrified as they try and fail to put pressure on the wound in their leg. “I— please help me,” they stutter out, and Varis kneels beside them. Instinct tells him to end the threat, to take out yet another Fae enemy, and yet, he finds himself tearing off a strip
from the very bottom of his tunic to form a crude tourniquet.

  “Hells,” Varis hisses as he ties it as tightly as he can. “Hold o—”

  “B-behind you!”

  Varis barely has enough time to snatch his sword from the ground and pivot to shove it into his attacker’s gut. He has to kick the man’s body away as the momentum from freeing his sword nearly buries him, and the first boom of Ostusen’s war cannons reminds him they're not safe here. No one is, he reminds himself quickly. This is war... but a pointless one. These people are not our enemy. They're not my enemy.

  “What's your name?” he rushes out to the wounded soldier as he checks the tourniquet.

  “Winchen. My n-name is Winchen, get me out of here!”

  Nodding quickly, Varis whips his head around to check for immediate threats and then moves behind the Fae to grip him under his arms. Though he tries to keep his sword in his hand, it's too awkward with his unfamiliar, heavy armor, and he sheathes it with a loud curse. “Winchen, I need you to breathe for me. Okay? This isn't going to feel good, but I'm going to try and get you to your tent.” Because I'm apparently a fool and exactly as soft as Reeve accused me of being, he scolds himself. “Just hold on. You're going to be okay.”

  “Hurry!”

  Varis weaves the Fae through the thick of fallen bodies, warring knights, and the constant spray of blood and dirt. It gets so thick when a cannonball lands a short distance away from them that he has to stop to wipe his eyes, and when they're attacked just feet from the tent, Varis wraps his hand around Winchen’s and uses his sword to impale their aggressor. Winchen starts babbling and crying and Varis gets the idea that he's little more than a child, but all that does is solidify his decision.

  “You're here. I can't go in with you, can you make it on your own? Do you have wings?”

  Winchen shakes his head with a wince as Varis helps him up. “I'm not High Fae. But I can walk, I think. Thank you...?” His expression turns inquisitive as he takes in Varis’ hazel eyes and messy, matted hair. “Who are you?”