Promise of Dusk (Endings #1)

Chapter 23

The sight of rotting bodies became commonplace to me after the Crows came. However, as we approach the gates of Raith and see uncountable numbers of them strung up along the eastern wall, like a macabre garland, I realized that the numbness I had clung to does not come so easily anymore. What a sick re-acquaintance. The smell of baking human flesh on a hot summer day. The sight of birds tearing skin from muscle, muscle from bone. A warning, to those that would search for another way. A warning, to those that would look at their lives and ask for more.

Fionn tucks me further under his arm, that pulls with his swaggering gait. He plays well any part the world asks of him. I school my face, trying to match him.

We move amongst a large group of people traveling along the worn road that approaches the capital. We’re approaching the seat of the Pretty King. The city swarms with Crows on every street corner, lurking in every tavern, “protecting the peace.”

Whose peace is it? The king’s peace? Certainly not the people’s. Certainly not the mothers, fathers, children, sisters, brothers swinging in a dry summer breeze.

The walls tower over the city, only the highest of noon-sun shining into the walls as they stretch leagues to the salt sea in the west. The sea under the scorching heat of the sun smells different than the sea under endless clouds and storm. Like baked sand and warm salt underneath the waste and rot of the bustling city before us.

Ahead, the rest of the Fianna pass under the shadow of the gate. The Crows look for Fionn’s face and mine, so we stay away from the others. Fionn feigns poor posture, avoiding notice from his height. He still stands a head higher than me and at least a half-head above the rest of the men. In the end, we pass by unnoticed, a drop in a river of travelers that flood the city of great riches and even greater poverty.

As we are swallowed by the city, cast into the shadows of the wall, Raith Castle looms far to the west, the road we tread a direct route to the seat of the king. Its spindling towers of forest green stone are a blot on the otherwise airy, sand-colored style of Raith. Darkly beautiful, the whispers do it a disservice, for none could have prepared me for the draw it has on my gaze. From leagues away, I can still see the giant gilded rivulets that run through the rock, sparkling like the tendrils of energy I grasp for. The seat of the king was long ago constructed from the living stone mined from the Ghael mountains that form our only border between Suri and Ashvynd. The mines ran dry of that stone at the construction of such a monument; however, the slaves still mine for other things of value in the Ghaels. Such things that cause the Dragon King in Ashvynd to wage petty war on Suri.

Merchants selling wares line the street: oddities brought across seas, spices from exotic lands conquered by ambitious royals, swaths of silks fit for kings right at the gates. Performers toss flaming torches, palm readers look coyly from their rickety tables, trying to entice with the promise of foresight. Musicians play their fiddles and lutes, painters spattered in oils and pastels brush stories of war and glory on canvas.

The entrance to Raith is both a welcome and a promise, that the city holds any and everything one could seek. But a few streets in, the light and color washes out to gray and waste; homes of the most unfortunate who perform for the wealthy that flood through the gates. They crawl out of their decaying forts to put on a show for those that were born of bigger purses and privilege, then slink back in the night to their outer-edges homes. They delight and entertain for scraps of nothing—generosities that are tossed with an upturned nose wrapped in silken robes worth the cost of a whole life in Raith.

Walking down the streets, hood drawn against the blazing sun, I see them. Planted on the shaded corners, lurking down alleys, just inside doorways to the taverns lining the road. They fly in the places where the river of people narrows. Down a side-road, harassing a filthy street urchin, picking at his pockets, gaunt smirking faces satisfied with their afternoon entertainment.

Each step brings us closer to the castle and further away from poverty, further away from artists, and closer to middle class workers. The smiths, the bakers, the stone masons. Smells of exotic spices burn my nose as I pass what I can only assume is a restaurant, tables packed together in the space, all patrons delicately picking into their plates. Such luxury, to have someone cook for you, use such spices, and wait on your needs. My stomach, caved inwards, is practically yowling in desire, but I turn my face away and keep walking.

We turn down a side street in the middle-class district. Expansive properties can be seen ahead, lining the walkways and gates of the king’s keep. The wealthiest of merchant’s estates. Ragged servants unload carriages, moving along animals I have never seen, striped horses, large baskets covered with blankets. A scaled tail, the color of butter, hangs over the edge of one. The servant seems to hold the basket as far away from his body as possible.

“Looks as though someone is having a party tonight.” Fionn’s mouth lifts slightly, but his eyes burn as they watch. “I’ve had the pleasure of attending one such festivity. Disgusting wretches are the elite of humans. The embodiment of greed and excess. No wonder they care not if they live amongst parasites, for they are the same.”

The words coming from his mouth are those of disgust, but his face is pleasant, as if remarking on the sunny afternoon.

He leans down to whisper in my ear, “There are eyes Alyx, eyes everywhere.” His face says he just whispered some sweet nothing to a lover.

Fionn is not much for sweet nothings. The past week has shown him to be much for touch and kisses and endless nettling and challenging. Much for sneaking off into the woods for stolen kisses and wandering hands. Much for teasing me about my hair, about my skinny arms, and about my stance.

I nod and smile sweetly up at him, nestling deeper into his side despite the unendurable heat.

That night, we find ourselves meeting under the candlelight, crowded into one of our rooms, having arrived at the inn separately and unable to debrief until this moment. And by debrief, I mean argue about what we will do to pass the time in the coming days.

“I’m not going to some ridiculous theater so I can watch a bunch of powder-faced boys prance around a stage. I don’t care how pretty the actresses are,” Konan gruffly states. “I’ve got my own entertainment in mind.” He smirks, a manic twinkle in his eyes.

I have no desire to know what his preferred form of entertainment is.

“You cannot be serious,” Dealla says, looking back at him from her place perched on her mate’s lap, who is sitting on the bed, mindlessly caressing her sides.

“Oh fair one, I am,” Konan teases with an excited grin.

“What exactly is the point in fighting these humans if they don’t even stand a chance? It’s cowardly,” Dealla huffs.

“I’m not your mate to drag around, Dealla. Deri would join me if he weren’t so wrapped around your finger.” Konan looks nettled. “The point is that it keeps me from needing to beat the shit out of your mate for being so boring. Besides, it only makes them stronger.”

Dealla is glowing, even in her ferocity. Deri doesn’t even bother to look back at Konan as he strokes a hand down Dealla’s hair and says, “Your adoption of human slang lacks, brother. When you say, ‘beat the shit out of someone,’ it implies you would win. Last time we sparred I believe you came away with a few fractured ribs. At least in the human fighting pits, you pick fights you won’t lose.”

Konan’s biceps bunch and flex under his tunic. I’ve seen little of Deri’s fighting abilities, but if he can beat Konan… He must be powerful indeed. He is related to the most powerful of his race; maybe he nears that level of power as well.

Fionn steps in, commanding, “It also draws eyes, Konan. So if you’re going to risk it, at least ensure you bring home coin.” His seriousness melts into a male smirk. Elva rolls her eyes from the corner.

“Perhaps you could allow one of them to break your nose. Really sell the whole human thing,” Armund drawls from beside me.

“Nobody wants to go to the master’s library. Get over it or go by yourself,” Konan snarls.

Armund crosses his arms in front of his chest, seemingly put-out by Konan’s answer. It’s true though, nobody can agree on where to go.

Aine chirps in from where she leans into my other side, “Can we go to the docks? I remember a few years ago when we landed back here, there were those giant seals! Can we please, please, please go tomorrow?” She is practically vibrating in her seat.

“Well, we have to go tomorrow anyways, to meet up with our contact. I don’t see why we cannot spare a few minutes to go look for them on the rocks,” Fionn says, with a grin at her.

Aine squeals and the sound makes me smile at the ground.

“But absolutely no feeding them, Aine. I mean it,” Dealla speaks sternly.

Aine’s excitement dies instantly as her squeals turn into a whine only a child can release. “Mom, but Konan did it last time!”

Dealla shoots Konan a glare. “I know. But he isn’t going to do it this time either.” She speaks firmly, but his answering grin is a baring of teeth, and something tells me he will be feeding those seals.

“Fine,” Aine says, mischief flinting in her green eyes. She is already plotting what type of food to bring. She turns to me. “They are bigger than even Konan, and they just flop around on the sand because they don’t have any real legs!” She giggles.

Fionn leans across me to say, “Aine, Alyx won’t be going tomorrow. With her eye and the hair, she draws too much attention. Her posters are already plastered all over the city. She will be staying here.” He eyes me briefly, assessing my reaction. I smother my disappointment for Aine as she begins whining anew.

I place my hand on her leg as I grit out my agreement with Fionn, though it chokes me as it comes out. In a city full of thousands, what attention does one stranger with a hood up warrant? And if someone does talk to me, it’s not as if I’m incapable of acting inconspicuous. People have strange eye colors sometimes. Fionn is just being overly cautious.

Is it born from lack of trust in me? Is he just that protective? Of me? Of the Fianna? Does he just want time away from me?

That last thought pangs through my chest. We have been spending much time together. Our nights spent sharing breath under the stars, our days spent training on the road. Endless companionship that, to me, feels like eating hot soup after a cold day outside, but probably not to Fionn. After all, he’s always had people. He’s had romance and connection. The endless contact with someone he willingly described as “dull” and “morose” not long ago must get old after some time.

I eye him a little, watching his gorgeous profile as he continues planning with the Fianna. He is so handsome it makes my heart flutter, with his tan skin and sparkling gold eyes, ever-glinting with humor. His beautiful lips pull up at the side as he smiles at something Konan says. I see him now... I see him laugh, and redirect tension, and read every single room. I see him be the leader worth following, and I know why the rest of us do. He is the reason nothing has dissolved completely between this group, why they are unfractured. And he… likes me—well enough, even if he might need space from me. That is normal, right? And I will let him have it. Far be it from me to cling when I’m not wanted somewhere.

My resolve hardens and I force a slight smile to my lips as he looks at me for one warm moment, and gives me a soft, sweet smile. One that he reserves for me, for our times alone in the woods—for the heartbeats between kisses.

Will someone be waiting outside my window if I try to go spend time on my own? Am I but an errant child to control?

As he looks back at the rest of the Fianna, Fionn rubs my knee in consolation. He’s grateful for my acceptance without a fight.