“Hmm,” she says, and her tone hardens. “Have you seen them again? The ripples?”
Speaking of them puts a chill along his skin. Rúnda must notice when he shivers. Her hand slides around the back of his neck, but she doesn’t mention it.
“No. I check their borders often. I feel them. They’re closer to the edges of their land than they once were. But they aren’t leaving. And they don’t approach the edges while I’m there.”
She shifts until his head rests upon her chest, her legs propped over his. He’s no longer sleepy, not with the topic of ripplings and shadows, and allows himself to be cradled. Lor’s bouncing little flame of magic scurries nearby, in no distress. Iohmar’s never experienced such a strong bond between his soul and another—not with so little effort. Even his union with Rúnda was created by time.
“They haven’t come to my borders either. I wonder if the two of us together brought them out.”
They’ve been together countless times since, but Iohmar has no better explanation. “Perhaps.”
Hopefully it was curiosity. A great number of years have passed since the time on the shores, and the cursed lands have not spread farther.
Placing his hand against her chest, he feels her quick windswept heartbeat as the ocean waves. They’ve fought alongside each other. Confided in each other. He has allowed her near to him as he has allowed no other. She worries as he does about the shadows and ripplings. She should not worry over his little fears and the stories he does not tell her.
Everything about Lor should be told, he thinks, and the words catch in his throat.
“When we are alone, there are things I wish to speak of,” he whispers.
Her eyes fall on him. “Oh?”
Wind twines Iohmar’s hair, knotting it about his horns, covering his eyes. Laughing, Rúnda presses a kiss to his temple and sits up from under him. “Then I await our being alone. My queensguard is coming.”
“Harass them for me.”
“Ah, and so are the winds.”
“You didn’t call them?”
“No, these are wild. Will you join?”
Iohmar sits, watching the frigid gales whip from Rúnda’s seas over his mountains, tugging at some of their folk dancing about the clearing. Shouts and whoops ring against the trees. Galen holds tight to his lute and looks quite put upon by the wild chaos.
“No, I believe Lor’s still too young, even with me alongside.”
Rúnda squints and shakes with a withheld laugh as Lor comes barreling out of the grasses to hide himself against Iohmar’s back. “I believe you’re correct.”
Iohmar smiles.
“I’ll be back in a few hours,” she says, then darts into the clearing.
One of her queensguard, Fainne, meets her with a grin. Though unnecessary and a tad dramatic, Rúnda flings her hands upward. The winds gently lifting those who choose to appear from the trees and step into them suddenly fling their folk upward. Her dress and hair whipping about, Rúnda and several of her guard and Iohmar’s follow, shooting straight into the sky until they are no more than dots and swirls of leaves picked up by the gales. Iohmar believes he sees snowflakes brought from elsewhere. They’re carried over the mountains and woods opposite the rippling lands.
Sometimes the winds choose to come to Iohmar’s folk on their own, carrying them at their whimsy before depositing them back upon his mountain. They’ve taken them over the human lands enough that the mortal creatures have tales of the fae hunting the skies. With Rúnda alongside, it’ll be quite the experience. Though it isn’t dangerous, wild and rough magic seems too much to inflict upon Lor when he’s only begun to realize he can call butterflies and flowers with his heart. When he’s steadier upon his feet and surer of his limbs, Iohmar will enjoy taking him.
As the winds die, Lor peeks around Iohmar’s shoulder, staring at the sky, before shrugging and toddling back to his foraging.
Those who did not join the gales return to their eating and drinking, conversations and singing restarting. Someone yips, tussling with another. Galen brushes at his lute as if it gathered dust and shoots Iohmar an offended glance. Iohmar tries not to laugh at the old creature’s expression.
Rising, he leaves the celebration and wanders after the rustling shape of Lor exploring the undergrowth. His trees reach their leaves and tender branches to him, caressing his skin and catching his clothes. He brushes at them with his hand, and they drift about in welcome. After the roar of the winds, the quiet is thick and heavy about him.
The thicker trees are still a ways off, but Iohmar is not concerned about the creatures dwelling there. Lor is fae now as any residing in Látwill, and the reactions Iohmar once feared are no longer a danger.
“Daidí, look!” Lor bounces into his leg, presenting him with one of the small blue flowers carpeting the woods.
“Thank you,” he says, letting the boy stack a pile into his cupped hands.
They wander the trees. Laughter and music float from the clearing, but the deep quiet of the woods is overtaking. It is not quite near the heart, and the trees’ voices are calm with sleep, but Iohmar’s head and limbs are still heavy from wine and the heat of the afternoon. It is a welcome silence.
Lor babbles to himself. For a time, he skipped between clumsy noises and speaking a handful of words. His body seems to have settled into knowing how to string together small sentences and comprehend conversations, though he remains shorter or taller depending on the day. It’ll be a while yet before he grows in one linear way.
“Daidí,” Lor calls, and Iohmar listens without looking up, gazing at the grasses poking between his toes.
“Daidí, look at the creatures!” Lor says, excited now, and Iohmar raises his head.
Shadows surround them. Close. Closer than they’ve been since the day he touched them. Taking a soft breath, Iohmar unfolds his hands from his robes. Glancing at his stained fingers, he finds them unchanged as ever. Lor is half a dozen paces before him, a bundle of blue flowers in his hands, gazing at the swarming ink about his feet. Iohmar steps closer, meaning to scoop the boy into his arms, and the shadows squeeze, near touching Lor’s skin.
“Lor, come here,” Iohmar says, throat tight. If they touch Lor, will they cause harm?
Ignoring him, Lor reaches down with a flower, ready to present one to the creatures. He’s never known a world where something would mistreat him—even the woods will not touch him with Iohmar present—and all in Iohmar’s and Rúnda’s courts adore the boy. Lor is too young to have a concept of anything close to horror.
“Lorcan,” Iohmar says firmly, with a tone he’s never before used on the child.
Startled, Lor turns to him, flower half held out, lips pouting in hurt. His chin trembles.
Iohmar bends and gestures to him, eyes still on the slithering creatures. With the gentlest voice possible, he says, “Come here, Wisp.”
Sullen, Lor waddles to him, fistfuls of flowers held out. The shadows slither. Iohmar takes a step toward him, and darkness covers the space between. Sunlight is blocked out. Sound dips. Iohmar stumbles.
