Promise of Dusk (Endings #1)

Chapter 16

Tristram, a bustling coastal city, seemingly grows from the rocky cliffs, shrouded in sea mist and clouds. The smell of shellfish entwines with brine of the raging sea as it blows through the streets. Fishermen wheel their carts up the ramps from the dock, shouting and cursing at their shipmates as they go. I’ve never seen a more brash collection of people. A testament to what happens when the noose around their necks is only slightly looser.

Few Crows pace the stone streets, the shadows of an omnipotent king across the land. A similar number of them as reside in Comraich, however this city dwarfs my small village. Despite the high taxes and exports of fish, stone, and salt, citizens of Tristram seem not to be worried about starving. There aren’t beggars in the streets. People appear to be at healthy body conditions. Children seem happy and fed as they run, shrieking through the streets. Precious few in Suri have such freedoms.

The fishermen park their overflowing carts outside businesses, eyeing the Fianna as potential customers as we trudge through the stone streets, our boots splashing in brackish puddles. I’m the only one not feigning the slouch of my shoulders, the stiffness in my walk. The rest of them dutifully play the part of weary travelers.

Comraich had been like this before the Crows brought their blight onto our farmlands, the fruits from the trees rotting as they passed through. We knew only how to survive from there on out. Sometimes I think that’s all there is, survival. Who can play this game the longest? I see no proof to the contrary.

The Crows still patrol Tristram’s streets, stalking along alleyways and perched near the busy intersections of main streets. I keep my eyes on the ground in front of my boots, certain that the missive with my description made its way here days ago. I’m a wanted woman. I almost snort at the idea of it all. My life is unrecognizable from a week ago.

The city has an artist’s soul trapped between two wild forces: shadows and monsters of the forest of Wynedd, and the Great Salt Sea bashing against the edge of the continent. The sea must whisper stories to the people who dwell near her; it’s in every mosaic of shell and seaglass that lives along the walls of buildings, every twinkle of wind-chimes, every driftwood statue.

We rent four rooms from an inn above a tavern. Shivers run down my spine when I behold a siren carved from a pale drift-log draped over the front stoop: a more beautiful sister to the monster of the bog.

Aine and her family stay together in one room, Elva and I are in another, and the men draw sticks for who gets the remaining one to themselves. Appearances must be upheld, so we purchased the extra to give the impression of married couples traveling together with an extra male.

Elva is draped in exotic clothing of the continent to the west. Her rich skin tone is uncommon here in Suri. The vibrant orange headscarf and cotton dress is a drastic change from the black leather and hood that allows her to melt into shadows. My eyes had grown wide at the sight of her flowing into the group from off the trail this morning, having donned her new clothes.

I spend the day hiding in our room, uncaring what the rest of them are up to. Staring at the ceiling, hearing the moaning of the building around me, not daring to mind-reach towards the denizens below. I need space from Fionn and his relentless training.

Elva had closed the blinds, inspected any cracks in the wood, seemed satisfied, and then disappeared. We aren’t close enough for me to ask what she’s doing or if I can come with her. So I just pretended to sleep until she left.

If I close my eyes for long enough, I can pretend I’m in a miserable shack on the outside of Comraich.

Armund pokes his head in once the light from between the curtains has faded to a dim gray. He bids me to come eat dinner with the group. “Fionn’s wife should be present for dinner. We have a narrative to uphold,” he cites as his reason with a slight smile. I sigh deeply and rise from my place on the bed.

The dimly lit tavern is filled with bellowing laughter and sloshing drinks. My steps stick slightly to the wooden floor. The air smells of stale alcohol and stew. I keep my eyes on the ground as I approach the table with Fionn, Konan, and Elva already present. Unsurprisingly, the trio decides to stay away from this pit.

My teeth grit as I begrudgingly sit, straight-backed, beside Fionn. Judging by the slumped posture and annoying chuckling, he’s already drunk. Konan with him, judging by his crazed laughter and six empties on his side of the table. They must have spent the entire afternoon here, letting loose in a strange place with strange people while we are all being hunted by the king’s lackeys.

Idiots.

My back collapses somewhat as Fionn slings his arm over my shoulders, pressing me against him from shoulder to knee, warming my chilled bones.

“There’s my beautiful wife. You look ravishing, darling.” The ale-drenched scent of his breath curls against my ear as I lean my face away from his. “You could try harder to blow our cover,” he whispers in my ear, no more than a drunk, handsy husband trying and failing to seduce his wife who is tired of finding him falling-down drunk in taverns.

I turn my face to his, forcing a meek smile to my face and looking into his surprisingly clear eyes, eyelids slouched to appear inebriated.

I feel every inch of contact in that gaze. Every space where the warmth of him presses against my chilled skin, separated only by pieces of fabric.

I look away.

I make myself settle into Fionn’s side.

I pick up the spoon. The soup is some sort of fish in a broth with coarsely chopped root vegetables. The taste is bland, but it warms me all the way down, from the inside out. I eat more, drowning out the sound of Fionn telling some fantastic tale of a hero waltzing to a fiery death, Konan and the men at surrounding tables are his rapt audience.

“Nobody could have known that all the tales were real. That something far more sinister lurked under the Mounds of Dun. Something with a horde to protect and no fear of man.” I could have sworn the noise in the room settled on that note. A charge goes through the crowd .

Those grass-covered mounds, north of the bog, in northeastern Suri. They roll all the way to the sea cliffs of the north, each one larger than any castle of this country. Holding all manner of creatures and inviting bad luck to any that near them. Some say that the entrance to Hell lay there, under the mounds.

Given Fionn’s mention of them, I know where the lore comes from.

“MacCumhail cared not for the warnings, nor the scent of fear that wafted from lesser warriors.” Fionn basks in the attention of revellers beside me, letting them watch with bated breath. I’m certain he’s making it all up. “He drew his sword, Mac un Luin, determined he would slay the beast that tormented Dun. Alone, but for his great storm shield and blade as mighty as the waves of the Great Salt Sea, MacCumhail found a crack in the worlds. Saw the home of his mighty opponent. Saw the smoke of endless flame slither through the sky, mountains spitting flame in the distance. Nothing could have prepared him for the creature who made such a place its home. Scales, black as night, slithering against stone. Wings, casting shadows bigger than whole towns. He saw how it clawed over its rocky home, talons on all four legs larger than MacCumhail himself. How it bathed in the rivers of fire and the charred corpses of other beasts, predators in their own right, that dared stumble fearlessly into its path.”

Dragon.

The whispers proclaim it. The sigil of the Dragon King has always been thought to be an exaggerated tale. A once-great king who ruled Ashvynd upon the back of a great red dragon.

Flashes of a dream from a lifetime ago appear in my mind’s eye. From that Deathless death. A river of fire, black iridescent scales against a smoke-filled sky.

The tavern has grown quiet, and suddenly I find Fionn more interesting than my half-finished stew.

Fionn looks over at me before he goes on. The molten gold of his eyes melts through me, holding me.

“He knew he must bring this creature out of its lair. Draw it towards the surface. Bring it to the rift in the worlds. So he did exactly that.” Fionn finally looks back at the room. The absence of his gaze leaves me cold in a new way, despite the heat from his body pressed against the side of mine.

“The beast scented the warrior quickly. Snapped its head towards him, and despite years of war under his belt, he knew he had never raised his blade to an opponent such as this. Never met someone who matched his lethality in such a way. Perhaps surpassed it. Some say his self-confidence even wavered for a moment.” Fionn smirks.

“MacCumhail barely made it beyond the rift, could smell the burning of the cloak at his back as he scrambled through the stone of the world. Could hear the wing beats like the earth itself had rumbled until he heard the talons scrape against shale as it clambered after him. He barely made it through. Barely threw himself to the side just as a violet flame seared the place he had just stood. Its roar could have ended worlds. They met in a flash of wits and their own sharp blades. For this beast, it was smarter than most men, its sinister thoughts were present in every attack, every malicious swipe of its claw. Toying with him, he realized. Playing with its prey. Letting him give it all he had before it finally ended their dance.”

Fionn almost looks green. Like he’s remembering something he can hardly bear.

It could pass for alcohol dizziness if I didn’t know his look so well .

He takes a restorative breath, pastes that smirk to his face, and continues, “But MacCumhail was not legendary for nothing. He had crossed worlds, fought winless wars and spent every day of his life with purpose. One purpose. To find his way back. To return to his home the hero that his people needed. To be the male that would defeat enemies so large they crowded out all hope with their shadows. He knew that if he could not defeat this adversary, he was worthless to his people, to the ones that needed it most. So he drew up his own power, his last stand, a hand he kept secret until he had no other choice. Unleashing the might of his power, he pinned the mighty beast to the earth, drew Mac an Luin, and sliced straight through that violet eye, right to the hilt. Slaying it where it lay, its shrieks ringing through the world, declaring him ready. Declaring him the warrior he needed to be.”

Roars of triumph echo through the tavern. The loudest by Konan, who has not sobered any through the tale. Thumping tankards on the wood tables, they cheer for MacCumhail’s victory. His bravery and grit. Even I can’t help a small upturn of one side of my mouth as I gaze upon him. As he looks back at me, there is something somber in his eyes. They lack his usual swaggering arrogance, malice, or spite.

It feels as though he told the story for me.

Never one to allow a good moment to linger, he reaches over to my half-eaten bowl of stew and proceeds to finish it while the patrons ply him with more ale. He accepts, downing it to the sounds of fists pounding on tables. The Fianna, Konan aside, are all watching with begrudging smiles and shaking heads.

I haven’t seen such life in a room in many years. Even Rhodri’s tavern, murky in my memory, never was as lively as this, even before the Crows moved in. Maybe these people of the sea have her spirit—have her roaring, forceful presence, untamed by fear or oppressor.

The thought makes me wish to feel it. The brined air on my face, wisps of sea-spray in my hair.

Maybe I can find just a shred of it too.

I get up from the table, mostly unnoticed. Only Elva marks me with a nod of her head and a pointed look, telling me to stay close.

The air outside is exactly as I hoped it would be. It smells of salt, and kelp, sand and stone washed with watery fury. I walk alone, searching for that elusive feeling. That thing that coils away from my grasping hands.

I keep going, even as I hear footsteps behind me.

I keep going even as he drapes a familiarly heavy arm over my shoulders once again.

“Cannot let my wife walk down the streets alone, can I?” Fionn says from beside me.

“No, but Fionn could let Alyx walk alone,” I snip back, though there is no ice behind the words. “Already tired of drunken re-tellings of your glory days?”

Fionn chuckles. “I wish I could get drunk on your human piss-ale. It’s probably the thing I miss most, good alcohol.”

I huff a laugh. “So you just act drunk for fun? Or did you have an agenda?”

“Of a sort, but what gave me away?” Playfully narrowed golden eyes trace my face. “I didn’t even give my first name.”

“Something about the way you talked the hero up, it gave you away. You could only think that highly of yourself.”

Fionn laughs heartily. “You read me so well.”

“So… you really did fight something that looked like that? You really killed it? ”

The scuff of our boots on stone mingle on the wind under the drone of the crashing waves.

“Yes. I did fight it.” Our steps pause. I look up at him. He’s already staring back. “But I don’t know if I killed it. It fled, my sword with it, still stuck in its eye. If I had to guess, it’s still there. Under the mounds.”

A chill sweeps over my whole body.

“Don’t look so afraid,” he says softly, brushing a lock of sea-swept hair behind my ear.

I can’t tell if it’s the whooshing in my own head, or the sound of the waves crashing, but it creates a white noise that drowns out all distractions. Our faces are indecently close.

Fionn has always been attractive. But the moonlight washes over him and suddenly it feels like there’s a tide pulling me to him. After our conversation yesterday, he doesn’t feel so much like a monster, but like a man with a purpose. What I had once thought was malice, was actually fear: fear for the Fianna, fear for me.

It’s as if he grasped at everything I am and holds it still for him to look at.

Golden eyes run all over my face, catching on my mouth.

My lips part.

He walks me back until my back hits the wall of a building, crowding me against the stone. I’m swept away, floating in the sea. Under the might of his body and power.

“You look beautiful like this,” he breathes. “You look beautiful always. You’re strong. You’re fierce. And spiteful. And challenging. I’m tired of you looking at Armund like he will save you from me. I’m not one to pretend I don’t want something. I want you.”

I only have time to pull in one swift breath, one of shock and relief. Relief that, at least in this feeling, I’m not alone.

His lips are on mine .

On mine. Consuming me.

I had been dead before. Recently. My body a cage to a ghost. Floating in a sea of numb and choice-less apathy.

But his lips on mine make me burn.

Burn with want and feeling.

Pressing all of me against all of him. Trapped between the stone wall and every hard line of his body.

Every stubborn, arrogant, infuriatingly handsome, hot line of him.

I breathe him in.

Smoke. Inebriating me. Setting me ablaze and adrift.

My hands dive into his golden curls, so soft and silky beneath my fingers.

I feel the lightly pointed tips of his ears beneath my palms and feel him shiver.

The warmth from his hands spans my waist as they roam desperately, down over my behind, back up and along the sides of my ribs and breasts.

I live and die in this kiss.

I find life in his breaths, the feeling of his chest panting against mine.

The burn spreads, spreads, spreads.

Making me lift my leg and hitch it around his hip. He pushes me more firmly against the wall, groaning, pressing his hardness where I desperately need him.

And then it’s gone, gone, gone.

His lips tear from mine and he drops my leg with a snarl. Jolting me from that place where I am passion and wildfire. Leaving me in free-fall.

Opening my eyes in confusion, I see the broad expanse of his back, caging me in against the wall. Breaths tear from him in big heaving movements.

“Just thought we would come check on you. Didn’t realize what we would be interrupting. Sorry, brother,” Konan’s voice is a smirk-laced grumble. Peeking around Fionn, I see the rest of the Fianna.

Fionn heaves a sigh, visibly pulling himself together.

My face is the only thing on fire now. How it must look for the weak human to be seen with Fionn, leader of the Fianna and immortal asshole. How foolish I am to allow such a thing to jeopardize my place here, to make me look like some preening harlot, willing to do anything for protection.

Shoving Fionn’s arm out of the way, I come out from behind him.

“I’m going to bed.” My voice is as wobbly as my knees. I hate it.

I run like a coward.

Elva watches Fionn with pressed lips. Konan fights a laugh as he meets my eyes. And Armund… disgust and betrayal lines his face.

My eyes drop, guilt blooming in my chest. Placeless shame, for what right does he have to feel betrayed? We are friends.

I can’t bear to look back at Fionn and see what’s left after we crossed that line. So I keep my eyes forward and my pace slow back into the inn. I can feel, more than hear, Elva following in my steps.

Elva forces me to take the bed for the night, stating she will be taking the first watch tonight, and will hardly be sleeping anyways.

As I lie in this straw bed, only one thought drags me the rest of the way back into that gray room of numbness.

I’ve never slept in a bed before.