A shudder runs across Iohmar’s skin, and he struggles to tamp it down. Hesitantly, he says, “Yes?”
Túirt’s eyes glance in the direction of the rippling barrier, invisible past the trees. “Thank you for frightening them away. I ensured the wolves didn’t bother you while you were asleep.”
Iohmar closes his eyes. Wolves were not much a danger, not in the state he was in, but Túirt is not one to give out favors. More so, he doesn’t believe the solitary fae will speak of what he witnessed. Not with the look in his eyes. “Thank you, Túirt.”
Túirt rocks, arms around his knees, and pets his fingers along Lor’s sleeping head. Iohmar allows him the touch. Children are so rare that the creature may never have held one, and it seems no more questions will be asked.
“Do you wish to come to the Halls with me?” he offers, though he wishes to be left in peace.
“No, no, no,” Túirt mumbles, rocking quicker. “My trees need singing to. Sweet child.”
He strokes Lor’s hair, then unfolds from the ground and darts into a gap between the wide trees without a word.
Watching the shadows, Iohmar puts his feet under him, pleased his legs hold his weight. Though his head is heavy, it is no longer on the forefront of his mind. He wriggles his toes in the moss and fallen leaves and brushes at the dirt and tears in his robes from climbing from the earth.
The crack will still be there. He needs to investigate.
But first, he will take Lor home and let his body recover in full. Bending causes his head to throb, but Iohmar pulls Lor against his shoulder and steps into the sunlight.
When he wakes in his own bed, Galen is sitting in the great window feeding his crows. Iohmar’s chambers were abandoned when he returned. He sensed Rúnda somewhere in the Halls, and Galen as well, and put Lor to sleep beside him.
He rolls over and stretches, finding his limbs much stronger than before, only the smallest hint of trembling. He needs to change from his soiled clothes, and he flicks dirt from the bed covers.
“You’ve been gone a great while,” Galen says, spreading breadcrumbs along the window.
Iohmar stills. Hours must have passed in the cavern at most. His first sickness was days long, and though this one felt longer, Lor would not have slept past half a dozen days with Iohmar’s weak magic influencing him.
“How long?”
“Near two weeks. I made a point to count the days.”
Too long. His illness was not so long. Even the blooming grasses had not grown a week’s worth, flowers blossoming without withering.
It must have been the tunnels, the shadows dragging him down.
“You are dirty,” Galen says when Iohmar doesn’t respond.
“Yes.”
He doesn’t wish to have this conversation.
Touching Lor’s cheek and rising from atop the covers, he slips from his filthy robe, tossing it aside. Drifting to the washroom, he fills a basin with warm water and cups it between his hands, staring into the rippling reflection before running it over his arms and across his face and neck and shoulders. Dirt clings in the shallow divots rounding his horns. Galen’s eyes are on him from the washroom doorway, and Iohmar shivers, but there’s nothing of his bare skin the caretaker hasn’t seen.
Iohmar remembers the wounds he returned home with centuries ago. Galen hovering about him all times of day and night, concerned for his healing. Grief weighing the old creature’s eyes. Galen tending to Iohmar’s injuries when he relented and allowed it. Healing once he permitted himself to be cared for.
He sighs. “The shadows have returned.”
Galen cocks his head, taking this as permission to step inside the washroom and inspect him. His fingers flick at smears of soil Iohmar missed. “I thought they return often?”
“They’ve kept their distance since the time I tried to touch them.”
He plucks a leaf from Iohmar’s horn. “I am going to comb your hair.”
He has that tone that is not to be argued with, and so Iohmar doesn’t tell him he’s no longer a toddler in need of grooming. Galen works at snags with a bone comb. They can’t see each other’s expressions.
“They attacked you.” It isn’t a question.
“I’m not certain.” At first, Iohmar believed malicious intent, when they were brought to the cavern and Iohmar hated them for terrifying his son. But once in the dark of their domain, he was at their mercy. They caused neither of them true harm. “I don’t believe so.”
Iohmar uses a small rough file to shave the sharp tips of his talons. He’s never had much use for them and hasn’t missed their needle sharpness.
“Some of these scars seem irritated.” Galen runs a gentle finger across one of the long pale markings on Iohmar’s rib cage. He hisses, brushing Galen away and slipping from the washroom. They no longer pain him except in phantom waves, but the memories are fresh, and he hates the casual touch. Even when Rúnda pays them attention, he struggles not to shy. Only with Lor does he tolerate such behavior, but the boy has so little concept of pain and injury that they are meaningless marks to his eyes. He will find no judgment in his son.
None hurt—though he rubbed against the walls of the tunnels—but he doesn’t wish to inspect himself while Galen watches. He tugs a nightshirt over his head, hiding himself within the cloth. The fabric is made from a plant so soft that every moment wearing it is like feeling warm, calm water along his skin. Putting his hand in the pocket of his robe, he finds the fistful of grass he pulled before the illness weakened him.
“I . . . apologize, ” Galen says. His voice is so soft and uncertain that Iohmar gives a wave of his hand. No harm was meant. Galen hovers about Iohmar’s bedside, inspecting Lor’s sleeping face, running fingers over the boy’s dirt-streaked forehead and cheeks. The slightest, thinnest wisps of leaves drift.
Wandering to his window, Iohmar gazes at the vast woods bathed in purple twilight. He rubs at the scar Galen fussed over. Should I tell him of the ripplings watching me from across the border? He confided in him when they approached along Rúnda’s shores. After all this time, he saw the flash of terror in the ancient creature’s eyes.
“There is no harm to the shadows when they touch, just strangeness . . . When I am close to them, I can feel their little heartbeats.”
Galen joins him, arms tucked within his sleeves. He stares at Iohmar’s fingers, expression distant. “They sound like your sunlight creatures, the ones you played with when you were a boy.”
Ascia loved when Iohmar created them. Memories of her are returning to him in snippets, never gone, simply difficult to grasp from the past. Her name hangs in the air between them. He still creates those bright creatures, sending them dancing about Lor, slivers of brightness without weight or form or consciousness. What was her magic?
“Nearly,” he agrees. “But those are extensions of me. No life on their own. These are connected to nothing. They are their own creatures. Do you remember Ascia’s magic, Galen?”
