by Beth Bolden
Maybe what he needed was a little break. Some space, for both of them. Maybe Rory would miss him more when he was gone, and realize they were meant to be together, regardless of circumstance. “Not forever,” he admitted softly, setting down his glass and catching up Rory’s hand in his and raising it to his lips. He brushed a kiss, agonizingly slow, over Rory’s skin. “Just … for a little bit. I could use some time away.”
It was impossible to miss the hurt in Rory’s eyes. Truthfully if anyone needed a break it was him, but he was the King now, and he felt the obligation so keenly that Gray knew he didn’t believe a break was something he deserved.
Another problem, heaped upon the million others on Gray’s plate, and he couldn’t hope to solve any of them.
“I will put together a small company to escort you in the morning,” Rory said, and this time his voice wavered and Gray would have to be blind to miss the sudden sheen in his amber eyes. “But I will miss you.”
This time, Gray’s kiss landed on Rory’s lips, and it crossed the line from polite to something else entirely. He didn’t care. “I will miss you too, you know that. I don’t want … I don’t want to end up like this, me drinking too much wine, you working all the time, and us bickering at banquets.”
Rory wiped a tear away. “We won’t. I swear it.”
“I’ll forego the company,” Gray added. “I’ll take Evrard. I have Lion’s Breath. I shall be fine.”
“You’d best promise you will be,” Rory said, a smile threatening to break through the thundercloud on his face. “I will not tolerate anything less, and I hear the King of Fontaine is completely unable to compromise.”
Gray smiled back. He felt better already, like he could already feel the hard dirt of the road beneath Evrard’s hooves, and the wide-open grasslands of the Valley. “He’s still learning,” he said, brushing another kiss across Rory’s perfectly flawless nose, “but I believe he will get there. Someday.”
“Someday,” Rory agreed with a sniff.
———
As predicted, Rory fell asleep nearly the moment his head hit the pillow when they finally returned to their quarters from the banquet. Gray stayed up later, packing a bag, but mostly watching Rory sleep, his auburn curls spilled across the ivory sheets, his face so peaceful.
Even though Gray knew in his gut that going back to the Valley was the right thing to do, his stomach clenched at the inevitable sorrow they’d both feel at being separated. Even a few weeks was far more than they’d been apart since the first time they’d met.
Still, in the end, he wouldn’t be leaving if he didn’t believe this wouldn’t lead to a breakthrough. At the very least he had to try because they couldn’t keep going as they were.
When the first rays of early morning sun crept over the castle, Gray gently rolled Rory over and watched as his eyes fluttered open. For a split second, only joy and love were reflected in their depths, and then after a moment passed, and Rory woke further, he remembered why his lover might wake him, and a shadow crept in.
“You’re leaving,” Rory said, and there was an edge of hurt to his tone.
“I wanted to get on the road early,” Gray said softly.
Maybe leaving Rory right now wasn’t particularly kind, but at least to Gray’s mind, it was necessary. “Of course you did,” Rory said. Bitterness joined the hurt. “When should I expect to see you again?”
“I won’t be gone very long. Maybe a few weeks. Just to make sure the Valley is secure. Give you time with the Mecant elders.”
Rory could hardly argue that while the elders were at Beaulieu, and he was fulfilling his promise, there was very little time for Gray. Still, he’d just begun to frown, before Gray leaned down and kissed the disgruntled expression right off his face. Gray poured everything he felt into that kiss: the hope and happiness he felt whenever he thought of their long, glorious future, the pride in Rory’s accomplishments, the deep pervading heat that filled him at just the thought of Rory, panting and aroused, perched above him. They were both breathless when Gray finally lifted his head.
The shadows had disappeared from Rory’s eyes completely.
“I love you,” he said, and it wasn’t that Rory didn’t say it often, but this time it sounded fervent—like a vow. And Gray took it as such, holding the words close to his heart and letting the balm of them soothe the wounded hurt he’d felt when Rory had chosen to answer his proposal with silence.
“I love you too,” Gray responded, leaning in to brush one more kiss against Rory’s glorious curls. “I’ll be back home before you know it.”
———
“I thought we had solved this particular set of problems,” Evrard said, sounding incredibly put out, “and then I discover, to my utmost shock and horror, that we are going back to the Valley. The Valley! You hated the Valley.”
“I didn’t hate the Valley.” Gray made sure to keep the amusement out of his tone. Evrard wouldn’t appreciate Gray finding his outpouring of melodrama funny. “I was lonely there.”
“Yet, here we are, going back, and for what reason I am still endeavoring to discover.”
“We needed some space. I …” Gray took a deep breath. “I did as you suggested, and it was a disaster. Rory hated the idea.”
Evrard stopped trotting down the road so abruptly Gray nearly lost his seat. “He what,” he exclaimed.
Gray was even more relieved he’d decided Evrard needed to accompany him back to the Valley, because if he’d discovered the truth with Rory within lecturing distance, he probably would have put Rory so firmly off marriage, a wedding never would have occurred.
“I told you that he wasn’t going to want to be married because of Aplin and Rinard’s gossiping,” Gray said, despite the fact that he was truly afraid what Aplin and Rinard were doing was far worse than a little loose talk.
“Well,” Evrard sniffed, “I never suggested you inform him of that particular benefit. That was all on you.”
“I wasn’t going to lie to him.” That was something Gray had vowed never to do.
“Still,” Evrard hedged. “There is a method of communication called diplomacy.”
“And I’m exercising it by putting some distance between us,” Gray insisted.
“You are so sure this will work?” Evrard did not sound particularly convinced.
“It’s better than continuing the same thing and continuing to let it separate us further.” Gray took a deep breath. “By the time we get back, the Mecant tribe will have departed for the season, and perhaps Rory will have had some time to reflect on what he really wants his rule to be like.”
“And some time to miss you?” Evrard chortled. “Perhaps you are more conniving than I had given you credit for.”
“It’s not …”
“Yes it is, and I applaud it,” Evrard said, sounding very final about his decision. “After all, you are doing it with every intention of it helping Rory, not hurting him. You mustn’t worry. You’re not Sabrina. You could never be her.”
Gray let out the breath he hadn’t known he was holding. It was annoying that occasionally Evrard knew him better than he knew his own mind, but then it could be illuminating too. He’d never have thought what bothered him about being labeled “conniving” was that he never, ever wanted to resemble the sorceress he had slain.
“A half day and a hard ride and we will be at the Valley,” Evrard continued. “That is plenty of time to not only review your plan for Aplin and for Rinard, but to continue your etiquette lessons.”
Gray groaned, hard.
Maybe he shouldn’t have left Beaulieu after all.
Chapter Three
Rory wished fervently that Gray hadn’t left. He missed him already, more than he had ever imagined he would—and his imagination, from all the many years of burying his head in books, was extremely well-developed—and it was all quite a bit worse because Rory placed the entirety of the blame for Gray’s departure on his own shoulders.
“Your Majesty,�
�� Anya asked, breaking her silent position near the doorway to his office, and coming to stand near his desk, “are you alright?”
“No,” Rory said miserably. “I’m not.”
“I did wonder, because you were making a quite pitiful groaning noise just then,” Anya offered, a glimmer of a smile breaking through her solemn expression.
Rory didn’t know whether it was better or worse that Gray had left Anya behind, ostensibly to guard him. If he’d wanted Rory to think of him every minute of every day, and never be able to escape his memory, he’d have accomplished that even without Anya. But with his countrywoman right there as an additional constant reminder, Rory’s suffering felt particularly acute.
“I miss Gray,” Rory said, not that this revelation was particularly new to anyone, especially not to Anya, who had been present for the last two days and had witnessed every ounce of Rory’s regret.
“If you miss him so much,” Anya said, resting a hip against the edge of Rory’s enormous, intricately carved desk, “why did you let him leave in the first place?”
It must have been Rory’s somewhat shocked expression—in the six months since he’d ascended the throne of Fontaine, it was rare that anyone, barring Gray and Evrard, actually told him the blunt, unadorned truth. Anya must have realized a moment too late that she was addressing Rory, who was the King, and not Gray, with whom he knew she had a much more informal relationship.
“I … uh …” It was unusual to witness the Ardglassian warrior feeling anything other than supremely self-possessed and confident. “My apologies, Your Majesty,” she added, with an apologetic frown. “I appear to have overstepped my boundaries.”
Rory was not jealous, precisely, of Gray’s easy way with people, even those who did not like him, but he was beginning to see that his own stiff formality was doing him no favors. Another blame to lay at the gravestone of his aunt, who by allowing him to hide away, had neglected to teach him some vital lessons about social interaction.
“No, no,” Rory said, “it is I who should be apologizing. You said nothing wrong. In fact, I … I find I need more people who tell me the truth.” There was Gray, of course, but it was not the same. “And you are right, absolutely right. If I did not want him to go, I should have asked him to stay.”
“Your Majesty,” Anya said, absently reaching down to pet one of the enormous carved lions holding up each corner of the massive desk, “you have recently taken your throne. Gray is still coming to terms with his own legacy and his own power in your kingdom. Some … growing pains are to be expected, I think.”
Rory, who had spent the last two days, and in many ways, the last few months, beating himself up mentally for the problems he and Gray were experiencing, gaped at her.
“You really believe that?” he asked slowly. In all likelihood, it was entirely inappropriate for Rory to be having this conversation with Anya, but he knew she was good friends with Gray, and if he couldn’t talk to someone, there was a strong chance he would simply explode.
“Both your lives completely changed when you became King,” Anya said simply.
Rory knew Anya was right, and that even as they had both struggled to adjust to their new reality, their feelings for each other had remained steadfast and true. He still loved Gray, he still wanted and needed him in equal parts, and he hoped—no, he believed—that Gray’s feelings were similarly unchanged.
“Has Gray ever told you about how he came to terms with his exile in the Valley of Lost Things?” Anya asked.
Gray did not typically like talking about his feelings, especially feelings surrounding him leaving Ardglass. He had mentioned it offhandedly once or twice, but never in any depth, and Rory found himself more disconsolate at the fact Gray was talking to Anya, but not to him. But then, Rory reminded himself, when would you have time to have these deep conversations? You barely have any time to ask each other how your day was.
Rory was forced to shake his head, at least a little embarrassed that they were supposed to be soulmates, but Gray was talking to his countrywoman instead.
“I explain this because I have the impression that your upbringing, at least after the death of your parents, was quite different,” Anya said seriously. “But Gray was raised to be a king. He was trained from a very young age to not only be a statesman, but to be a general. Nearly everything he did was in service of helping him become a better, more just ruler to his people. And then, at age eleven, everything changed for him. Every bit of foundation that he had was ripped away, and instead of being a king, he was essentially told that he would be a farmhand the rest of his life.”
Of course Rory knew the facts of the situation; that at eleven Gray had fled Ardglass, and then had settled in the Valley of Lost Things. He also knew, from offhand comments Gray had made from almost the very beginning, that such an abrupt change weighed heavily on him then, and now.
“He dealt with this,” Anya pointed out, her voice gentling, “by staying so busy he couldn’t dwell on the sudden changes that had overtaken his life.”
Rory was renowned for being one of the most intelligent men of his age. With Anya’s words, he realized just how stupid and blind he had been. Instead of giving Gray something to do to help him adjust to the new circumstances in which he’d found himself, Rory had rebuffed every single attempt Gray had made to find an occupation.
He was silent for a long moment as so many of their conversations were re-framed in his head, taking into account this new angle. And all of them suddenly felt quite different. Gray, not dissatisfied with Rory, or thinking that Rory was not good enough or Rory was not working hard enough, but desperate for something to do because he was struggling and because he was bored. Here Gray was, with half of the education normally given to a king, and no way to use it, because Rory was too stubborn to let anyone else help.
“I’m an idiot,” Rory finally pronounced, disgusted with himself. He’d become so self-absorbed, juggling all the new duties he’d taken on, that he’d failed to notice the man he loved was struggling. It wasn’t like Gray hadn’t said anything; he’d asked more than once if he could help. But Rory, feeling his own heap of guilt from letting his aunt rule unchecked for years, had never made an effort to make a place for his lover.
A smile glimmered at the edges of Anya’s mouth. “Not an idiot,” she said, “merely a king trying to do right by his people and a man in love, trying to navigate a new relationship.”
A new relationship.
Was that why Gray’s proposal had bothered him so much? Rory, too, had taken it for granted that they would be married someday, and had been unpleasantly surprised that Gray would decide now, when they barely saw each other, was the perfect time.
Maybe it was the perfect time to use a wedding to silence any treasonous gossip, but it certainly wasn’t anything close to the most ideal time for Rory and Gray personally. He’d known they were struggling a little bit, had inevitably seen it, but had been unsure how to solve their problems. Had hoped, somewhat naively, that with time for them both to adjust to their new roles, everything would revert back to how it had been at the very beginning.
But that wasn’t right either, Rory realized. That wasn’t even something he should want. Their relationship shouldn’t march backwards, back to the beginning, but progress and move forward.
“I can see why Gray keeps you around,” Rory said to Anya, who only shrugged.
“I think he likes having me around because I’m from Ardglass and I make sure his head stays the same size,” she said.
“Maybe we can share your service, and you can assist me similarly,” Rory proposed.
Anya regarded him speculatively. “I don’t think a huge ego is your problem, Your Majesty,” she said.
“Perhaps not, but an application of brutal honesty never goes amiss,” Rory said firmly. Too many advisers were treating him like particularly delicate glass, afraid to see how much he could bear. The Rory of six months ago might have been equally concerned about his strengt
h of purpose, but the Rory of today had dug deep and discovered he was much tougher than he’d ever imagined.
———
Somehow, miraculously, the Valley looked unchanged as Gray and Evrard rode down the slope towards the farm.
“It never changes because I wish it that way,” Evrard pointed out, answering Gray’s unspoken question.
“Magic,” Gray muttered under his breath, even though he was perfectly aware that Evrard would hear it.
“You hardly disparaged magic when you summoned it with Lion’s Breath and saved Rory’s life as well as your own,” Evrard pointed out.
“There’s a place for it. That I won’t argue with. But to keep this valley green and bright and perfect?” Gray shook his head. “It feels like a waste.”
“It’s not my magic that keeps this place pristine,” Evrard observed. “But a much deeper, much more archaic magic set in place long before I even existed. I could hardly change it, even if I wished to.”
The crops Gray had planted in the spring before Rory’s arrival with his guard to the Valley were still sitting in the fields, seemingly frozen in time. He’d fully expected to ride in and immediately have to rip rotten crops from the fields, but everything was preserved, like the last six months hadn’t passed at all.
“You could have told me that we didn’t need to check in on the Valley,” Gray grumbled as he dismounted, running his fingers along the tall corn stalks Rory had once hid in.
“And deprive you of an excuse to run off when you and Rory were having problems?” Evrard said, clearly much amused by himself. “I wouldn’t dare.”
Gray glared at the unicorn next to him. “That isn’t why we came. We came …”
“Because Rory wouldn’t listen to you? Because he won’t let you help him? Because he turned down your proposal of marriage?”
Gray stalked over to the farmhouse and yanked the door open. He was already missing Rory and regretting leaving in such a huff, but Evrard was not making this any easier. A common problem with Evrard; he tended to rub your nose in it before you finally admitted he’d been right all along. Gray’s hands tightened into fists as he took in the main room of the farmhouse. It was just as he’d left it, like he’d merely stepped outside for a moment. “It wasn’t like I thought it would be,” he finally admitted in a low, despondent voice. “I thought … I don’t know what I thought.”
