Lord of Silver Ashes (Rowan Blood Book 2), page 31
“What do you mean?” He asked. Cylvan kissed him again, smiling excitedly, handsomely, then took Saffron’s hands to kiss his knuckles and under his wrists where the silver cuffs sat.
“I’ve chartered a carriage for the Winter Court,” he answered, and Saffron’s eyes widened. “We’ll leave tonight, after the sun goes down.”
“You—” Saffron pushed Cylvan away in sudden alarm, just enough to stare at him. “You did what?”
Cylvan’s smile grew, clearly getting the reaction he wanted—but it wasn’t what Cylvan thought. No, Saffron’s words weren’t rooted in thrilled surprise; they filled Saffron with fiery, icy fear in an instant.
They couldn’t leave. Saffron couldn’t go to the Winter Court with Cylvan, as tempting as it was. They couldn’t run away together, as badly as Saffron wished it was possible—not when Hollow’s life was so vulnerable. Not when Elluin still detained Baba Yaga. Not when Saffron hadn’t figured out a way to protect Cylvan and his name, yet. They couldn’t just… run away. They couldn’t just leave everything behind—
“We…” he croaked, holding Cylvan’s face. “We—we can’t, Cylvan. I’m sorry, but—we can’t go. Not like this.”
Cylvan’s sunny demeanor clouded slightly. He furrowed his brows, smiling in confusion and brushing his thumb over Saffron’s cheek.
“Why not?” He chuckled. “Don’t tell me… you would prefer to go back to Danann House?”
“No!” Saffron sat up quickly, nearly headbutting Cylvan who sat back just in time. “Of course not, I mean, I only… it’s just…”
He didn’t know how to say it. How could he possibly explain without saying too much? With Cylvan’s offer to whisk Saffron away… With preparations already made…
Saffron knew, if he suddenly offered too much of the truth, Cylvan would only further root himself into his plan. If Cylvan knew the extent of the threat on Saffron’s wellbeing, both from Taran and Elluin, Cylvan might even force Saffron to go against his will. Might even compel him to run away. But if they left, if Saffron never returned home from Connacht…
Taran would take it out on Hollow.
Elluin would take it out on Baba Yaga. And then they would both take it out on Beantighe Village.
Saffron could only hold Cylvan’s face, staring at him pleadingly.
“What about Taran…?” He croaked.
Cylvan scoffed. “What about Taran? I’ll make sure he never finds us.”
But his purple eyes grew dark, as if on the verge of saying something else, as if he could sense Saffron’s true hesitation. As if he suddenly wished to do exactly what Saffron feared, to exert his will as the prince, or a Sídhe, or something else—but instead, he closed his eyes. He clenched his jaw, and Saffron felt how hard it tightened beneath his hands.
“Have I done something wrong?” He asked flatly, and Saffron straightened upright.
“No!” He insisted again, nudging Cylvan’s face to look at him. When his eyes still refused to meet Saffron’s, Saffron huffed and pulled him more forcefully. Cylvan continued to resist, and Saffron finally realized, Cylvan seemed almost embarrassed.
He exhaled a soft breath, then kissed Cylvan gently.
“You want to take me away somewhere safe,” he reiterated thoughtfully. “Thank you, Cylvan. That’s so kind of you to think of me that way. Truly.”
Cylvan softened slightly beneath Saffron’s hands.
“I want nothing more than to disappear to the Winter Court with you one day, too,” Saffron continued in promise, kissing Cylvan’s cheek. “You must look so beautiful in the snow and the mountain lights. We would drink Luvon’s frost wines and eat warm nutmeg cakes with ice berries. And then we would read books by the fire, and fall asleep under fur blankets…”
“Yes,” Cylvan answered under his breath. Saffron smiled, nuzzling into the curve of Cylvan’s jaw.
“I wish to do that, too,” he promised. “Just… not now.”
“Why not?” Cylvan insisted. Emotions flared in his body again, Saffron feeling each and every one beneath his hands, how Cylvan’s heart pounded. Like he was one weakened resolve from breaking open and flooding the room with wind. Not in anger, not in rage, but in—confusion. Saffron kept smiling gently.
“Because… I don’t want to run away knowing we will have to live in secret. I know you would keep me safe… but I don’t want you to have to. I want to live freely by your side, without ever having to worry about people like Lord Taran ever again.”
He kissed Cylvan’s forehead.
“You are so kind,” he repeated. Cylvan’s hands found the crooks of Saffron’s arms, trembling slightly. “It makes me so happy to know you wish to take care of me, Prince Cylvan.”
“Then let me.”
“I will.”
“When?” Cylvan’s gaze cut into him; if Saffron didn’t know any better, it might have even frightened him. But despite how big and explosive Cylvan’s emotions could be, Saffron had no reason to be afraid of him. Still, he returned a look of matching intensity. Cylvan didn’t back down, a muscle twitching in his jaw as if sifting through every possible arguement he could counter with. Saffron spoke again, first.
“I will never deny anything you wish to do with me…” he started, pulling Cylvan down to hang over him on the bed. Extending his arms, they crossed behind the prince’s head. “… when we no longer have to worry about Taran mac Delbaith.”
“It’s not that simple—”
“I thought you were a prince,” Saffron whispered, and Cylvan’s eyes narrowed, nostrils flaring in a rush of genuine anger. Saffron didn’t mean it, feeling the first flicker of uncertainty pinch in his chest—but he just pulled Cylvan down to kiss him again. And then again. When Cylvan still didn’t respond, Saffron shook him stubbornly.
“Say something, your highness. Or am I making you angry?”
“Yes.”
“Do you still want to take me away?”
“Yes.”
“Even when I make you angry?”
“Yes.”
Saffron cracked a weary smile.
“Do you understand… what I’m trying to say?”
Cylvan’s jaw flexed again. He pressed his lips into a line, closing his eyes and knitting his brows, but nodded. Not in a way he agreed—but he at least understood. Saffron kissed him again, softly. He would keep kissing him, again and again, every time those overwhelming emotions flared up to the surface, like a reminder that they were still on the same side. There was no animosity in disagreement—at least, Saffron didn’t want there to be. It made him wonder who taught Cylvan to believe such a thing, though a part of him already knew.
“Don’t be angry with me, your highness,” he teased in a pitiful, coquettish way. “Oh, Prince Cylvan, what can I do to make it up to you? I spoke out of turn~ it was so rude of me.”
“It was.”
“What can I do?” Saffron pressed his mouth to the base of Cylvan’s throat, then trailed his tongue up the side of his neck. Cylvan’s breath shuddered, catching hard when Saffron’s hand moved down the center of his stomach, teasing the waistband of his pants. “Is this alright?”
“Y-yes,” Cylvan said roughly, and Saffron smiled, sliding his hand into Cylvan’s pants to play with him. The trembling breaths he summoned from the angry prince hovering over him was enough to warm every inch of Saffron’s body, finding Cylvan’s mouth and kissing it again.
“I want to disappear with you,” Saffron repeated. “As soon as we can be together freely.”
“I…”
“Until then—you have me here. Until tomorrow morning, when we have to go back, you have me all to yourself. Can we pretend until then?”
“I don’t want to have to pretend!” Cylvan exclaimed. Saffron pulled his hands away immediately, and Cylvan’s head drooped, shaking back and forth. “How much longer? How much longer—must I sit back and watch as you stand with nothing to protect you? Don’t you understand what will happen to me if I lose you again, Saffron? I can’t…”
His voice cracked. He shook his head again, and Saffron jumped when the smallest fleck of heat dripped to his neck. He took Cylvan’s face again, staring as emotion welled in Cylvan’s eyes. Cylvan avoided his gaze, but it didn’t matter. Saffron saw everything that flickered across his expression.
“I can’t… do it again,” he admitted weakly. “I can’t—lose you again. I can’t lose more of you again, I can’t…”
Saffron wiped Cylvan’s tears away, sitting up to embrace him. Cylvan sank against him in return, and Saffron pet the back of Cylvan’s hair in comfort.
“I’m sorry; I’m here,” he promised with every ounce of honesty he could give. Saffron needed Cylvan to feel it, even if he couldn’t speak it—though Saffron suddenly felt the crushing weight of his lies more than ever before. The weight of how badly he hurt the same person he held, who only ever wanted to protect Saffron, too.
But as badly as it hurt, as much as Saffron hated himself for knowingly hurting Cylvan further, when it would be so easy to open his mouth and explain everything—
Saffron was… terrified. He was terrified of witnessing this person he held in his arms break down into pieces, again. To crumble beneath his hands, realizing what Saffron had done to protect him. A terrifying Night Prince—who would never admit to needing help from anyone, but would cease to exist, otherwise.
Saffron was terrified of losing his friends. Of losing Hollow, who was being held over Saffron’s head like an object at ransom. Of losing Baba Yaga, who had never been given a fair chance at a good life. None of them had.
But if Saffron just maintained his act a little bit longer, just a little bit longer… he might be able to offer everyone he ever cared about something that was more than simply living, day by day.
“I’m here, Cylvan,” he begged his raven to understand. To hear the words he couldn’t speak, yet. Just a little bit longer. “We only have to pretend for a little bit longer. I promise.”
“How long?”
Saffron pressed a shaky kiss to Cylvan’s hair. He didn’t know how to answer. It was easier to sew his promise, to show his devotion through his hands, his mouth, his body, rather than speak anything into the universe that could be captured and twisted.
Saffron didn’t know when they could stop pretending. He didn’t know when he could stop lying. He didn’t know when, or if, he would ever be able to live peacefully with Cylvan at all.
That was why—he had to savor every single moment of peace he was given. Just like the first time.
He couldn’t squander it, just like the first time.
Not when the alternative terrified him into near nonexistence.
40
THE LOVELIER CHOICE
Cylvan helped Saffron into a straw-padded wagon outside the inn, handing over his crutch before climbing up, himself.
Journeying back to the city, they sat close to one another as Saffron sketched using new pastel colors and a palm-sized sketchbook, surprise gifts from Cylvan’s morning in Connacht. The passing trees, occasional peeks at some wild fey crunching through the undergrowth, another passenger’s intricately stitched luggage, Saffron’s hand moved like water over the page as Cylvan picked straw from his hair and complimented his work.
It was quiet. Peaceful. Perfect. And every time Saffron remembered it wouldn’t last much longer, he nestled closer into Cylvan’s side. Under his arm. Resisted the painfully strong urge to take the prince up on his offer to escape to the Winter Court, after all…
But Saffron had to think of Hollow. Baba Yaga. Everyone in Beantighe Village. There would be plenty more chances to run away together, to go wherever they wanted—but not until Saffron made sure the people he wanted to protect were safe, first. Saffron’s books in Cylvan’s bag, those given to him by Pimbry Scott, were his best chance at exactly that.
In Connacht proper, they met the others outside of the train station. Approaching as nothing more than beantighe and high fey, Saffron even kept a few paces behind as a sign of submission, though Cylvan made dirty hand movements behind his back the whole time. There were a multitude of reasons Saffron wanted to grab and drag the prince away somewhere private.
Kaelar stood a distance away as Eias handed Saffron his black veil. Saffron bowed in gratitude, relieved he hadn’t lost it. Asche watched them the whole time, before harassing Cylvan for abandoning them with Eias and Magnin who were so dull for going to bed early; it summoned retaliation from Eias, who complained about Asche keeping them all up too late at the street festival. Saffron bit back more amusement, especially once the silver choker squeezed around his throat, slightly. An unwelcome reminder of its return.
Waiting on the train platform for their turn to board, Cylvan remained in a great mood, and Saffron had to bite back the pure bliss of just witnessing it. The prince teased Asche, complimented Eias’ souvenirs, told Magnin his hair was looking particularly shiny that afternoon—and actively ignored Kaelar entirely. All three of them raised eyebrows like they knew something was different, and Saffron had to cover his laughter behind a badly-timed cough.
Boarding one after another, Saffron was settling in place when Magnin cleared his throat, then pulled a lacquered black box from their bag. It was half of Saffron’s height, and caught Saffron’s attention in an instant—which seemed to be Magnin’s intention.
“Will you step into the next empty carriage with me, beantighe?” He asked. “I want to get these braces fitted on you as soon as we can.”
Saffron glanced at Cylvan, who was distracted by something shiny Eias was showing off. Smiling to himself, Saffron nodded, getting back to his feet. It shouldn’t take too long; Cylvan might not even notice he was missing.
Slipping through a hidden door in the wall, they stepped into a narrow passageway on the other side that ran down the length of the train car. Clearly meant for the passage of drink carts and other hospitality workers, Saffron didn’t say anything, just followed Magnin to another door at the far end. They stepped inside right as the train rumbled beneath their feet with preparation to chug ahead.
Saffron claimed a seat on one of the cushions, and Magnin hooked the end of a long chain beneath the edge of the bandage at his ankle. Feeding it up the length of Saffron’s pantleg and over his waistband, Magnin pulled it through, the hook slicing through the bandages like pulling a zipper. Saffron was grateful to not have to strip entirely, though the pain of losing the stability of the bandages made his jaw clench uncomfortably.
When the carriage jolted forward, Saffron grabbed Magnin for balance, surprised at how tightly the fey held himself—and then the outer door of the car suddenly slid open. Someone stepped inside within a moment of the train taking off, before closing it again without a word.
Saffron’s lungs froze as Taran shook out his hair. He met Saffron’s eyes, then casually smiled.
“Hello, beantighe,” came his greeting—but something unreadable tugged at the corner of Taran’s mouth as he said it. “Did you have a nice time in Connacht?”
Magnin pulled away from Saffron to offer Taran a bow, but Taran put his hand out.
“Don’t let me get in the way,” he said cooly, stripping off his cloak and settling onto the cushion opposite where Saffron sat. Saffron could only watch, heart drumming as loud as the tracks clanging beneath the train.
Hardly another moment later, the back door suddenly opened, too, and Kaelar stepped inside. Saffron’s heart slammed harder.
“You look nervous,” Taran said thoughtfully, resting his cheek against a bent finger. There was no more gentleness in his voice. His normally golden green eyes were dark, never pulling away except to blink slowly. Kaelar, meanwhile, remained in the back corner. Saffron realized with a thud of his instincts, he might have been blocking the exit on purpose. He eyed Saffron no differently than Taran did, with bruises around his nose despite a healer’s best attempts at fixing what Cylvan broke with the heel of his boot.
Taran spoke again.
“Magnin, will you remove the beantighe’s collar? There are some things we need to discuss before returning to Morrígan.”
Magnin nodded. He reached around Saffron’s neck and unclasped the silver. Saffron gulped as he did, swearing the air in the car whisked away the very moment he could inhale freely. He prayed it was because Cylvan had noticed him missing, wind rushing from his hands, already on his way to intervene…
But Cylvan never came. And Taran didn’t say anything else, not for a long time. He just watched as Magnin used a small needle to pop holes within the seams of Saffron’s pants, then undid the clasps on the lacquered box and lifted the lid. Saffron didn’t know whether it was better to keep Taran’s gaze or pretend like nothing was amiss, finally shifting his eyes toward the box Magnin knelt in front of. Inside, four silver plates were nestled into a shiny black interior, laid out in the shape of a leg.
“Explain what you’re doing, Magnin,” Taran’s voice came again, and Saffron jumped. Magnin cleared his throat.
“With the opulent silver you provided, my lord… I was able to fashion these braces for the beantighe’s leg. But first, I have to form them to his anatomy. His bandages have hardened enough to keep their shape, so I will be using them as a mold…”
“Ingenious,” Taran flashed an impressed smile. “I knew I could count on you to be so creative, Magnin. Truly outstanding.”
“Th-thank you, my lord,” Magnin seemed genuinely complimented, but at the same time, as on edge as Saffron was. No—that was impossible. Saffron was about to plunge directly through the floor.
He focused on Magnin’s hands, suddenly desperate to cling to anything that wasn’t Taran’s gaze. They rolled up the bottom of Saffron’s pantleg as far as it would go, taking the bottom edge of the leathery bandages and gently coaxing them free. Like pulling a sheet of bark from a tree without tearing it, resulting in a single piece that could be shaped, just like Magnin intended. Saffron might have easily fallen into all the memories he had of harvesting sheets of bark to replace roof shingles on the cottages—
