Promise of Dusk (Endings #1)

Chapter 11

Morning comes too soon.

I awaken covered in dew and dreams of endings.

Ugly ones.

And we walk.

And walk.

And walk.

Until the sun falls.

And I, encumbered with a new life painted in all the same colors, fall straight into another slumber just the same, like leaves to the ground, trusting in the promise that I will rise once more, no matter my wishes.

And I do.

And we walk more.

And I worry more.

About Armund, who, in spite of every fever-calming plant I can harvest along the way, refuses to level out in temperature.

Being a Fae is likely the only reason he still walks and breathes.

My nailbeds are bloody and raw, and I worry because I have nothing left to tear at.

As we get closer to the Morrigana bog, the ground becomes softer and softer, my steps sinking further into the ground.

The dampness is normal for Suri, the near-constant cover of rainclouds is familiar, and it feels like a blanket to my soul. It makes everything green, lush, and alive. I can feel it in the moss beneath my feet, the ferns that caress my shins as I pass by, the trees that whisper to each other. It grows in the air the further we go, its heaviness settling in my lungs with every weary breath.

That lushness reaches throughout the forest, to the best of my knowledge. Everywhere, except for that hopeless patch of ground where Comraich sits, suffering a blight that leaves the crops small and sparse. “Something in the soil must have turned,” the people of the town said as year after year the crops dwindled to husks and people began paying the price for outsourced food from Farus. The city and its large sprawling countryside is farmed by indentured servants who were spared, by some fortune, from the mining camps situated in the shadow of the Ghaels. The food is pricey, but once the merchants determined there was a market for it, they made the trip, and people paid.

Some survived on alcohol, tobacco, and the occasional poppy milk if they’re lucky. What else are you to do when you’re too cowardly to die and too smart to think things will get better?

My introspection turns outward, peering into the gloom as the group begins to slow.

A thick rolling fog creeps along the ground, its tendrils reaching for us, fingers pulling us into its depths, towards the Morrigana bog and her lonely ghost .

Ahead I see Fionn, glowing with the condensation of moisture on his tan skin, mingling with sweat.

The mud sticks to my boots, pulling the ill-fitting things almost off. The ground beneath our feet has become clay-like, water filling the imprints of our footsteps.

As Fionn comes to a halt and peers through the brush, the group is completely silent, the distant calls of ravens the only vibrations in the air.

Fionn’s golden eyes shift to me, holding for a moment before meeting the waiting eyes of the rest of the group. He firmly whispers his commands, shoulders shifting to fully face each member as he addresses them. First Elva, then Konan, slither off to their positions as soon as he finishes.

He addresses Dealla, stunning in her fairness, even with the gray noontime light, “I need you to circle to the north. One call periodically to continue on, two calls in warning, three to abort.” He turns to Deri. “I need you to the east. Armund will stay with Aine…” Deri scoffs, crossing massive arms. “I know, I know you want to stay with her.” Deri advances on Fionn, making him seem smaller than usual. Fionn raises his hands, holding him off.

“No,” Deri says.

“Yes. Brother, you know they will be safe here. Armund won’t let her get hurt.”

“You want me to entrust the safety of my daughter to the one who almost got his arm torn off for a rock?” Deri’s voice is menacing, predatory. His normally unshakable demeanor has evaporated.

Nobody has shown a hint of insubordination the whole journey thus far. It seems Deri’s fatherly protective instincts overpower his sense of obedience. If he were an animal, his hackles would be raised.

Fionn’s voice is calm as he attempts to placate the man before him.

“Deri, you paint my brother in a bad light. You know him to be generally wise. Wise enough not to put Aine in any undue danger or let her come to any harm. He had one slight”—Fionn pinches his fingers together—“lapse in judgment over a rock, yes.” Armund fidgets, apparently dreading a lifetime of embarrassment over his actions. “But he has seen the error of his ways and would never repeat said mistake again. Right, Armund?” Fionn doesn’t take his eyes off the predator before him. “Right. So Armund and Aine, you will stay right up there.” He points one finger up at the sky, the other hand still out in front of his chest, warding off the snarling father in front of him.

Deri is not soothed.

Dealla has crept back from her position, somehow knowing something was going on, and is assessing the situation.

Aine steps up behind her father, touching his arm gently.

“I’ll stay with Armund. I promise. I won’t come down the whole time. You know I can scout, even if I can’t wield. I can tell if something is coming. I’m old enough.”

Can’t wield?

She pulls harder at her father’s arm, which dwarfs her small delicate fingers.

“Deri, she is right.” Dealla’s voice is twinkling bells, just like her daughter’s, though it’s more forceful than I can ever imagine from Aine. She seems to be a silent pillar of stone within her family. Aine and Deri both turn to look at her. After a moment of silent communication, Deri releases Fionn, shoving him really, and begrudgingly waits for the rest of his orders.

Aine gives me a triumphant smile as she walks to stand between Armund and me, unruffled by the confrontation. She gives Armund’s good arm a squeeze. Warmth infuses his expression, crowding out the chagrin. He ruffles her raven black hair, and she giggles and knocks his hand away.

Fionn finishes giving Deri his orders, to report to the east side of the bog and if three calls are sounded, to pull the Merrow’s attention elsewhere.

Fionn turns his attention towards me. I had almost forgotten what the full force of his attention feels like—like a burning enchantment. He steps towards me, graceful as a stalking cat despite the sucking mud.

“And you will stay silent. You will come with me. You will be helpful. And you will resist the urge to ruin my glorious plans. Do you understand your orders?” He ends his words glaring down at me, a hairsbreadth from my face, as if he expects me to back away from him.

I would rather die than give him the satisfaction.

“Understood.” I try my best to look completely unaffected.

His smirk says he sees through it.

Turning, Fionn tosses his pack at the base of a tree. I lay my cloak atop it, my most prized possession.

He grabs my hand and pulls me through the brush, not slowing even as I stumble.

A faint rustling of leaves behind us is the only sound of Aine and Armund following their own orders.

The bog-lands await on the other side. The water forms a silver mirror to the gray skies and mist that hover just over the top of it, snaking through the interspersed patches of grass and brush. The tree line we broke through fades to nothing but fog in every direction.

The land begins sinking into the water, slowly seeping over my shoes, and filling them. Tearing my hand from Fionn’s grip, I lift my feet from the spongy ground, remove my boots, and toss them back in the direction we came from. My feet are bare, pale and wrinkled from days slugging through the ever-dampening ground with leaking boots. The ground squishes beneath my bare feet. If they weren't already numb from cold, the icy water would be painful.

I glance up at Fionn, waiting for further direction. He’s staring at me, amusement dancing in his eyes.

“Well, that’s one way to do this,” he says quietly, keeping his deep voice from vibrating into the water into unwanted ears. He swiftly follows my movements, placing his leather boots, sturdy and whole, on a piece of high ground at our side. Is it possible for feet to be both manly and graceful?

Figures.

These people from another place, another world entirely, are gifted with strength, power, and beauty. What is it about their world that makes them so?

“What?” he asks quietly.

“Nothing,” I reply in a whisper.

“Stop looking at my feet.”

“Man feet are gross. That’s all.”

“My feet aren’t gross.”

“Yes, they are.”

“Your feet are small and pale.”

“We need to be quiet.”

“You need to be quiet,” he quips.

I shove back the urge to push him into the water. Arrogant prick. Instead, I brace myself with a deep breath and look at the still water before me.

From this vantage, I can see nothing past my own reflection. I look wild, terrified as I try to see my foot under the water. The days have not been kind to me. My mousy dark blonde hair is knotted and mussed from sleeping on the ground. The circles under my eyes are eyes dark and deep. It has been some time since I have seen my reflection, seen the dead woman in a mirrored realm. She looks like how I feel.

I try not to look at her as I take the first step; the task at hand is more important than my vanity or my fear that I have become something hopeless. Armund is not without hope, and that is what matters.

Fionn and I gently place our feet with every step, careful to avoid disturbing the surface of the water too much. Every ripple across its reflective surface feels like a call to the monster that lurks in its depths. All of our hissed conversation feels like a giant mistake.

After two steps, my feet begin to sink farther, the hem of my wool dress soaking up farther than the dirt had splashed.

Fionn leads me down the edge of the waterline, still gripping my hand steadily. His hand is warm around mine, huge and tan where mine looks veined and pale. His grip is as unyielding as him, palm roughened from the years wielding weapons. I try not to shudder at the warm contact. The feeling of someone’s heat seeping into my skin is as unfamiliar as the language across the seas. I fight the pathetic urge to grasp on with my other hand. To extend the feeling. To leech off his warmth.

The bog is much deeper than it appears, sucking me down into its murky depths past my waist. As we make our way, two trilling birds call every minute or so, back and forth. Not ravens, some sort of warbler. Not a native sound. Dealla and Elva signaling the way is clear.

We search for red and white flowers in the siding of the peat moss under the water. We make it about a quarter of the circumference of the silver expanse of water before I spot them, their scarlet teardrop petals a beacon several steps away .

I tug Fionn to a stop and point silently, my body bushing against his warm arm.

A trill from the south sounds.

“Perfect,” he whispers, starting for them abruptly.

He knocks into me in his haste, causing me to have to catch my balance.

My hand smacks the surface of the water as I try to keep myself from falling into it completely.

Two trills sound far to the north.

My heart stops.