Bowing, Galen whispers, “My king.”
Iohmar hears rather than watches him leave. Pressing his fingers to his eyes, he attempts to erase the pain from his features. Lor cannot see him in such a way. Shame will not leave him. Galen was attempting to help, but how else should I respond when he threatens to overrule me? He was not harsh as he could have been. His parents would’ve been harsher.
His throat burns.
“Daidí! Look!”
Iohmar smooths his expression in time for Lor to barrel toward him, knocking aside the glistening grasses. He stops short of bumping into Iohmar’s legs, instead presenting him with the fawn in his arms.
“What have you found this time?” Iohmar takes the small creature, whispering soothing words when it squirms. It may take all Lor’s strength to carry, but it fits neatly within Iohmar’s hands. Its rain-soaked brown coat is soft and speckled with white, two large ears flapping. Branches sprout from its back, flowers from the long curve of its neck.
“It broke its leg,” Lor says with great seriousness. “You can fix it, right?”
“Of course, but I think you should ask Galen or one of the healers.” He places the fawn back into his son’s arms. “Now, you know it is yours to care for until it heals.”
“I know!” Lor curls his arms around the baby and marches off, several strides to match every one of Iohmar’s. “Where’s Galen?”
Iohmar forces his expression not to twitch. “I’m not sure. Wandering somewhere. We’ll take it to a healer.”
“Where did you go?”
“To speak with a human who was entering the edge of our woods.”
Lor glances up. He hasn’t entered the human world since he was a babe and Iohmar took him to the home of the man and his daughter. It is quite likely he does not remember the situation, but he’s heard stories. The boy might understand how different his father feels toward humans than the rest of their kin.
He is still young enough to simply ask, “Why?”
Iohmar anticipated the question but is still unsure how to answer. “I met one when you were still a babe. His daughter wished to tell me he passed from their world.”
“Oh,” Lor says, sadness in his voice. “Is it true human lives are very short?”
“Yes.” He puts his hand—not the one succumbing to illness—on Lor’s head as they walk, fingers combing his hair. “A human can be born, age, and die before you are even grown from infancy. It is their way, as it is ours to live for millennia upon millennia.”
“It’s sad.”
“Indeed it is.”
Lor shifts the fawn into one arm so he can take Iohmar’s hand with his own. They wander deep into the Halls. Dáithí joins them as they reach the chambers set aside for the healers. He is draped in light clothes and has no need for his weapons, even as ceremony.
“Everyone’s settled within the mountain, my lord. And what have we found, little Lor? Another thing to jump about your chambers?”
“Its leg is broken,” Lor says, a great deal of importance and magnitude in his tiny voice. Dáithí grins. It isn’t the first time Lor’s brought home some forest creature, injured or otherwise.
“And I suppose my talents are required?” Leihs approaches from one of the smaller rooms, bowing in a soft swoop. The chambers are round and pale and always precisely clean, bedrooms circling the main area. Leihs has a mate of her own, but a few fae always insist upon venturing into the storms and need a bit of soothing magic in the aftermath. Iohmar nods to her. Her dress is plain and pale, hands free of age though she’s half Iohmar’s years, a rather significant number. Of all his folk, she is perhaps the least noticeable and most competent at her caring work. Only Galen rivals her healing.
She leads Lor and his new pet to a table, speaking softly. Vines wrapping the arched doorway reach out, clinging to Iohmar’s horns and wrists in greeting. Dáithí lingers by his side, chuckling at the leaves obscuring Iohmar’s vision.
“Will Queen Rúnda reach the Halls before the storm worsens?” he asks.
“Not likely. The brunt of it is approaching.”
She and her folk will take shelter in the trees, away from the raging center of the storm. If Iohmar were to dispatch his crows, she would call the winds to bring her here alone. He can’t bring himself to send them.
“Are you well, my sweet lord?” Dáithí asks.
Perhaps he isn’t doing a fair job at keeping his expression soft. “Perfectly.”
Somehow, it doesn’t yet catch in his throat as a lie.
The trees and vines of the mountain are desperate to hold him tight today, and he uses his talons to unravel the little branches with care lest he rip them. One larger branch weaves around his ankle.
Dáithí snorts.
Iohmar levels a glare at him, pulling a vine from his horn before it can fasten his head to the wall. Centuries have passed since his trees ignored his wishes in such a way. Millenia. Dáithí is old enough to remember.
“So grateful I have a kingsguard eager to assist me,” Iohmar mutters without annoyance.
Laughing, Dáithí helps extract him while Iohmar sends soothing magic into the trunks and stems.
Something is wrong, he thinks as another tremor shudders against his bare feet.
Dáithí looks at the ceiling, but after his childhood, Iohmar has long secured all chambers of the Halls with vines and thick roots. Even if the shaking were to rival that which buried him, none of his folk will be in danger so long as they stay within the warmth of the mountain.
Uncertain, he casts his magic out until he finds Galen’s presence. He cannot tell precisely where he is, but nothing seems amiss.
More vines tug his hair. His head dips. Though the cut of rot still restricts itself to his finger, exhaustion creeps. It is always his head affected first; it becomes heavy and impossible to hold up under the weight of his horns.
“Dáithí,” he whispers. “Stay by Lor’s side awhile, please. I have some small things to attend to.”
