by J B Black
Swallowing, the fae met the cold eyes of his fated mate. “I don’t regret loving you. I will never regret falling in love with you, Fannar. I only wish I could be someone you might have loved.”
“I’ve been informed I’m incapable.”
Idris shook his head as he rose to his feet. “You would love someone without a crown.” Fannar scoffed, rolling his eyes, but he didn’t argue. “Thank you. This is less than I had hoped, but...perhaps it is more than you wanted.”
Under his own magical might, he side-stepped, returning to Faerie and his kingdom. If the final show of his power made Fannar uncomfortable, no one was there to know, and if the silence of his cabin weighed oppressively upon him, Fannar resolutely dismissed the nervous shake of his hands as a drop in adrenaline and relief.
Chapter Ten
Alone never hit Fannar as lonely, but a chill took to the cabin. No matter how he built up the fires, nothing seemed warm enough. No baths - no matter how boiling hot - could steal the freezing feeling which settled in his chest.
He avoided the kitchen until his stomach churned, sick from the emptiness, but the warlock found everything he cooked distasteful and bland. His bed seemed too wide, and no matter how many cups of tea he made, he couldn’t bear to drink them once they grew cold.
When Ronan invited him to see his newborn son, Fannar went with more gifts than an infant needed, unloading every tome and amulet which reminded him of Idris.
“I thought you were against fated mates,” Ciar muttered as he gathered the pile. His dark brows furrowed until he found the carved wooden toys. “Guess these aren’t completely useless.”
Ronan shushed his husband, holding their sleeping son against his chest. “You’re going to wake Leo.”
Cooing at his son, the former familiar gently rubbed a finger against one chubby cheek before kissing the side of Ronan’s head. “Where’s Idris?”
“Why would I care?” Fannar grumbled. Two pairs of eyes widened, and the black-haired warlock sighed. “You both knew where I stood on fated mates.”
Ronan’s jaw dropped. Glancing to Ciar, he handed over their son, and without a word, Ciar took to rocking the small infant as the brown-haired warlock shifted to sit beside Fannar. Tentatively, he reached out, and when the black-haired warlock didn’t pull away, Ronan set a hand upon his shoulder.
“Are you okay?”
Fannar shrugged. “Fated mates are meaningless.”
“Why don’t you tell me what happened?” Ronan asked, and he listened, gentle as always, until the very end of the story.
“It’s over now. I cut the string.” Fannar nodded to himself. “We aren’t connected anymore.”
Pity contorted the other warlock’s face. “Oh, Fannar.”
“Fated mates hurt each other. It’s not nearly as idyllic as people make it sound,” the black-haired warlock replied. He glanced between Ciar, the baby in his arms, and Ronan. “Yourselves excluded.”
“As touched as I am by that, Idris isn’t your father,” Ronan said.
Fannar scoffed. “And what about Brandon? He cheated on his fated mate.”
“Who then left him and used a demon to sever their destiny. If it wasn’t for Brandon - and that fated business - his ex-fated mate wouldn’t have been able to conceive with the man he did love,” Ronan argued, but his romantic notions clouded his head as always.
“Or he could have used the deal with the demon to have a child instead,” Fannar pointed out.
At that, Cair snorted. “Notoriously a bad idea.”
“Regardless, the cord is cut.”
Ronan sighed. Patting Fannar on the back, he shook his head. “Fated mates aside. Did you love him?”
“Love him?” Fannar scoffed. “I hardly knew him.”
Living and breathing romance with an almost storybook worthy romance of his own, Ronan had no right to ask him that. Love served no purpose. Not for someone like Fannar. For the powerful, love proved a risk, and fate made it one not worth taking. No matter how Idris wept in the end, he had expectations which Fannar would never be able to live up to, and chained down, the idea of being lost in their relationship seemed too great a chance to take.
“Don’t dodge the question,” Ronan scolded. “Did you love him?”
Fannar shrugged off the hand, hissing, “I don’t know! Even if I did, the idea of being mated to anyone terrifies me. It’s a trap.” Rubbing his hands over his face, he groaned. “He put so much importance on fated love. I could never live up to it, and even if I wanted to, I’ve never trusted myself with children.”
“Which all sounds like a roundabout way of saying yes while being a coward. I never took you for a coward,” Ciar muttered as he swayed, smiling down at his son’s sleeping face.
Ronan clucked his tongue. “It’s not cowardice.”
“Trauma,” Ciar corrected, and when Fannar flinched, both glanced at him with apologetic expressions.
Slouching back onto the couch beside Ronan, Fannar sighed. “I cut the cord. It doesn’t matter anymore.”
“Obviously, it still does for you,” Ronan pointed out, and Fannar couldn’t argue. Nothing felt settled, so when Ronan added, “Maybe you should have an actual conversation. Put fate aside - love aside, just...talk. Get some closure.”
Fannar chuckled. “I don’t think the one who does the cutting gets closure.”
“I think he probably needs it too,” Ronan insisted, and though he feared it was against his better judgement, Flannar took his friend’s words into consideration.
Chapter Eleven
Returning to his kingdom without his mate had never been Idris’s intention. After his uncle’s coup, he had worked tirelessly to secure his kingdom in hopes of one day winning his fated mate’s affection, but even after defeating his uncle’s army, some of the generals murmured behind his back. A king without a mate - rejected by his fated mate - deserved no crown in their mind. If he had not been so strong, they would have stabbed him in the back.
“Your majesty,” General Luxian called, stepping up beside him as Idris glared down at the corpse of the king he had just defeated. “The soldiers are tired, your majesty. They need rest.”
They whispered among the ranks how he had returned more ruthless than ever. Kingdoms fell one by one. If he could not have his mate, he would take the whole of Faerie.
“If you have time to talk, you have time to plan the next attack. We march at dawn,” Idris growled.
Luxian sputtered, but before he could complain, Idris stalked away. One more. One more kingdom, and he would have all but the Wild Lands under his control. Let them whisper. Let the soldiers complain. He couldn’t trust them anyway.
When his uncle threw a coup d’etat, he survived on sheer will power, and if the populace never intended to respect his right to rule without Fannar by his side, they could crumble beneath his fury.
“Damn it,” Idris roared, throwing his helm against the wall of the room he’d taken for himself. “You fucking bastard. If you hadn’t interceded…”
Everything traced back to his uncle, and he would never forget the memory of that day:
Idris adored the festival. As heir to the throne, his parents rarely allowed him outside their sight. His mother suffered too many miscarriages before and after for them to feel safe without their son nearby, but his mother relented, and his father’s younger brother agreed to accompany him.
“Uncle Magnus - I heard a band of sirens will be singing in the lower stages,” the young Idris had said, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he scanned the brightly colored banners. “Can we go see them?”
Magnus hummed, adjusting his hood as he gazed upon the crowd. “Titania wanted to meet with her old coven. I promised we’d meet her there before going to any shows.”
“Aunt Titania is here!” Idris beamed at the news of his uncle’s mate.
Magnus doted upon his wife, and though some fae whispered their lack of children owed to Titania’s firm control over her womb, Idris had see
n the grief in his aunt’s face each month when they failed. No one wanted children more than the pair, and at the time, he yearned for a cousin for their sake.
Heading to the tents where the witches and warlocks stayed, Idris grinned at every new sight and smell. He wanted to take it all in. To absorb every moment. As he gazed out upon the crowd, his eyes caught on a thin boy.
Pale as snow with pitch black hair, the boy wore entirely black clothes. From his boots to his cloak, everything on his person was as dark as his hair. But his eyes - a winter’s sky could not compare to the subtle gray-blue which pierced him upon first sight. Pale pink lips served as the only other color on the boy’s pale face. Twisted in a determined smile, those lips were the first - and only - he ever ached to kiss.
“Uncle...I think I’ve found my fate,” Idris whispered, grabbing hold of Magnus’s sleeve.
Pausing in his approach, Magnus frowned. His gaze surveyed the crowd. “Where?”
“That boy! The one over there all in black.” Idris pointed, almost swooning when the boy adjusted the clasp of his cloak. “He’s beautiful.”
“Go speak with him then.”
The very idea struck terror into his heart. “What if I say something wrong?”
Magnus’s brows furrowed. “If it is fate, how could you say anything wrong?”
“But what if he doesn’t like me?”
Humming softly, his uncle had stood beside him, studying the boy, and when an older man - a master wizard by his dress and staff - approached him, the winter eyes turned ice cold. A flick of his hand - the old man vanished. His staff, however, remained. With a small smile, the boy picked it up, shrinking it down to the size of a wand before snapping it in half as if the magic stored inside were a pitance.
“You have a very powerful mate,” Magnus whispered as they both stared in awe.
Idris buried his face in his hands, but he couldn’t bear to look away. His eyes rose to find the black figure amongst the colors. “He’s so perfect. I love him already, Uncle.”
Glancing around, Magnus sighed before he had made that fateful offer. “What if I approach him for you?”
“Would you?”
So full of trust, he hadn’t expected to be utterly betrayed, so while he watched, his uncle approached, and when dismissal turned to terror, Idris had no idea how to process what was happening until he stood with his uncle and his aunt before the Head Witch Morgana.
“A boy all in black?” Morgana tapped his lips, considering. “Many of our apprentices dress that way. I would hate to give out a name unnecessarily. Names have power, after all.”
Titania smiled, laughing along with the other witch as if she hadn’t just implied a pair of royal fae intended to steal an apprentice warlock using his name. “The boy ran off, Morgana. You could simply confirm which one or yours is missing and give us a bit of information.”
“Hmmm…” Morgana turned, whispering to an older man with a red nose and bushy beard. Though Idris strained, he couldn’t hear what they said to each other, and the tent prevented his spells from being missed. But when Morgana’s eyes widened, and a sharp cry left her lips, Idris panicked until she smiled brightly. “I think I know which young man you’re talking about. He happens to be a journeyman, not an apprentice.” Her eyes turned to Idris. “You have a very powerful mate, dear prince.”
Idris smiled. “I know. He’s brilliant.”
“And his name?” Magnus pressed.
But the old warlock with the red nose shook his head, speaking in a gruff voice: “Not until I’ve spoken with him myself. He’s a bit touchy on fated mates.”
“Touchy?” Idris tilted his head. Glancing from the old warlock and witch to his uncle, he asked, “What does that mean?”
The old man with the red nose and bushy beard huffed. “He’s the child of fated mates gone horribly wrong. His father was a powerful king, and when he met his fated mate, he had already married half a dozen others.”
“Dreadful business. I have no idea how that fool could have thought his mate would accept what he had done, and to ask her to join his harem as his lowest wife!” Morgana clucked her tongue, shaking her head.
“Well, then, he need not fear. Our kingdom is renowned for equal treatment,” Magnus informed them, and when Idris looked at him with hope, the older fae had winked. It seemed so encouraging, but the pleased little hum later would haunt Idris, leaving him wondering if Magnus was pleased to find he had struck exactly the right notes to inspire Fannar to do the unthinkable.
“Come back on the last day of the festival. It should give him some time to get used to the idea,” the old man assured them, and each day of that long week, he excitedly waited, making mirror calls to his parents to describe his growing certainty that this was a sign their kingdom would prosper.
But on the seventh day, they found the tent of the witches and warlocks in disarray. Even Titania, who had gone early, looked ill. Immediately, Uncle Magnus raced to her side.
“Titania, my love,” he called, and she focused on him.
“It’s impossible,” she whispered, shaking her head. “I never thought...why are we still here?”
As his uncle fretted over his wife, Idris found the Head Witch. “Morgana, where is my fated one?”
Her foggy gaze slipped over his face. “Fated one? I’m sorry, child, who do you mean?”
“You said that you knew him. All in black with winter eyes. You said you would tell me his name,” Idris insisted, and when she shook her head, giving him no answer, he sought out the old man with the bushy beard and red nose. “Where is the journeyman you talked about? The one whose father was a terrible king?”
“There’s only one journeyman like that, and...and…” the man’s gaze grew as unclear as Morgana’s. “There’s no journeyman like that. I’ve never heard of a warlock of any kind who had a king for a father.”
“Idris!” His uncle called, and pale and confused, he had gone to his uncle’s side. Titania rested her head upon his shoulder. “It’s a spell, Idris. Your fated love somehow cursed the line of your connection.”
Idris shook his head. “I don’t...I don’t understand.”
He had thought it was pity which contorted his uncle’s features, but then Magnus laughed. “He hates you. Whoever that boy is will never want to be by your side, and it seems he has the skill to do it. Titania can’t even recall us ever discussing your fated love, and each time I asked, her mind grows closer to breaking. I had to spell my wife to sleep to keep her from losing her mind. It will take all our best healers to keep her mind from fracturing because your fated love hates you so.”
Nothing was funny, but his uncle just kept laughing. Terror clenched his youthful heart, and slowly, realization dawned. “What did you tell him, Uncle? What did you say to him to make him run?”
Magnus met his eyes and in a low voice said, “You’ll never inherit the throne now.”
Returning home to find his mother dead and his kingdom at war, Idris believed his life over, but he had fought his way back. Fought his way to the top, and when he separated his uncle’s head from his body, he believed - truly believed - he would take back everything which was lost to him.
Collapsing on the bed, Idris sighed. The red string hung broken on his finger. Though the unraveling tethers seemed to seal back together, he dared not hope, but his heart skipped a beat nonetheless. Then - before his eyes - the string tugged, pulling taut and stretching out as if connecting with another.
His mind could hardly process what he saw when a portal opened, and hope sprung anew when Fannar stepped through. The thread between them reconnected, and both men flinched.
“How?” Idris whispered, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Why?”
Fannar shook his head. “I didn’t think… didn’t think that would happen.”
All these years and Fannar still looked so beautiful. Pale and dark and those winter eyes, but his pink lips pressed together in a thin line. “As overjoyed as I am to see our lines r
econnect, knowing it wasn’t your intention...why are you here?”
“I love you,” Fannar confessed, and Idris whimpered, jerking forward only to stop himself when the warlock added, “But I don’t trust you.”
Nodding, Idris ran his fingers through his hair. “And what does that mean for us?”
“Ronan suggested we might benefit from a frank conversation,” the warlock informed him, and the fae inhaled slowly, trying to calm his thundering heart. “But I’m not sure where to start.”
Idris stood, turning his back to Fannar as he removed his armor. “I do.” He set down his sword. “The seer...the seer who came up to you at the festival was my uncle. He later killed my father and tried to kill me. What did he tell you that made you so terrified of me?”
When his eyes rose, Idris froze. He had never seen the expression which currently resided on the warlock’s face. His pale pink lips parted, and his eyes widened in some mix of horror and dread.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Fannar whispered.
Idris chuckled sadly. “How could I?”
The warlock bowed his head, seemingly gathering his thoughts before he spoke. “He told me I would become your whore. Your broodmare - spreading my legs like a bitch in heat for you. My magic would turn against me, and everything I worked for would crumble.”
“I thought that might be it.” Idris ran his hands over his face. “But I told you I didn’t want that.”
Fannar gestured vaguely. “Why would I believe you? All those witches and warlocks loved the idea of me being some sort of sold bride to you. Another way for somebody to sell me to get power.”
