Promise of Dusk (Endings #1)

Chapter 33

The days following meeting the king are a torment of their own. My mind’s questions buzz relentlessly as a swarm of flies to a corpse, inhibiting me from slipping into blissful nothingness.

Thoughts of past crimes and the sentence I now endure pound at me with every heartbeat. Knowledge that my life up to this point has been retribution for my very existence. Dreams of a mother that sacrificed herself for my miserable life float through my subconscious. A healer. A healer who endured unimaginable torment to give me a life. One I have squandered being a selfish, bitter, waste. Who gave me her hair and somehow, her life’s purpose.

I wonder if Diana knew with all of her ramblings and nonsense. With her book of otherworldly language and training. Did she look at me and see something familiar? A token from her home that fell short of every expectation?

At last it all finally aligns, like viewing something from a different perspective. Why nobody could survive me. Why the plants wither beneath my touch. Why I feel so disconnected from the people I so desperately want to belong to.

Because I don’t belong with anyone. My solitude has always been the only outcome.

Who could love a monster who is predetermined to take and take and take?

What future can I have? Living within this body, this fractured soul torn in every direction, belonging to everyone and no one?

Should I not try? Could I be more than this?

Can I do anything to be worthy of such a sacrifice? Can I mitigate any of my atrocities?

Light from the doorway pierces the darkness and my retinas.

The detached voice that greets me is muffled beneath my pounding thoughts, “Get up, I have need of you.”

I cling to the floor, knowing I’ll have to face the world if I leave this cell. I’ll have to walk and talk. I’ll have to pretend to be a life worth words and feeling.

A guard jerks me to my feet, my knees wobbling under the weight of it all, bringing me to face the king outside my cell.

I’m relieved that I didn’t have to bring myself to my feet; I don’t think I could have.

I meet the king’s ice blue eyes as they peer through me. “Come.”

No words are exchanged as I am bound by the same cobalt chains Fionn wore in the throne room. They feel like a blanket over my senses. The cuffs are power-dampers. Like an extension of the cells.

The king walks with a smooth, casual gait. Unrushed, almost insolent .

I claw my way up from my mental pit of despair to note the hallways, the guards, the doorways, the windows, the light that trickles through them, how it glints off the golden crown. Mentally, I map out the layout, for Fionn. For him, I scrape my mind together off the floor and I plot.

We arrive in a chamber of lush emerald curtains, floor-to-ceiling shelves lined with books—timeless tomes of war and rule, scattered with tales of heroes of old. Paintings hang in the spaces between. Oil paintings of various landscapes ranging from rolling farmlands to sea cliffs bashed by roaring waves, forests of rowan and pine. Streets I recognize, bustling faceless patrons. The kingdom of Suri, painted. The view from the windows indicate we are several stories above the ground, in what I assume to be a receiving room.

A terribly beautiful ruse the king creates. It’s all so human. From the story books to the fine artwork, clearly captured by an artist that sees the soul of something. And such a monster resides here—pretends to belong here.

A light hum of music streams from the seated man strumming some gargantuan instrument. The notes vibrate softly, beautifully. Like every string has a life of loss and love that it sings about. The man doesn’t look up from his playing as we enter, humming slightly underneath the chords, as if wanting to sing but knowing better. He’s strikingly handsome with his light blonde hair and sharp features. Something about him seems so familiar.

A table at the center of the room is set with fine, golden utensils and bone-white tableware with golden detailing. Succulent meats, prepared with rich sauces, and roasted vegetables sit at the center.

“Sit,” says the king, gesturing to the seat across from him.

My mind whirls, contemplating in what ways he will turn this into a game. Will this be a new method of torture?

I observe him. His delicate features and stoic expression give nothing away.

I sit.

The smell of rich food assaults me, spurring something like revulsion. I don’t recall the last piece of stale bread that was thrown at me. Perhaps it was days ago. I clench my fists in my lap and prepare to watch as he consumes his lavish meal, likely the third of the day. Surely, I am not welcome to eat at the king’s table.

White-gloved servants move to place food on the empty plate in front of me. One child—perhaps eight years old, pours wine into the two goblets on the table. The king begins to eat, all refined manners and elegance trapped in the beautiful body of greed.

He notices my stare and gestures to the plate in front of me. “Eat, Alyx.”

Surely this is a trap. Surely some ghoulish punishment awaits me the moment any of this decadence hits my tongue.

Or perhaps it will be less bluntly painful. Perhaps it is poison to make me delirious. Perhaps something to purge truth from me.

Besides, there are so many forks. Which one would I even use?

He sighs deeply across from me. “Poisoning you would be a waste of a good execution, Alyx.”

I don’t waver in my certainty that my eating will be worse than starving to death.

“Surely you’re starving. I know what accommodations we keep down in the cells. Leaves a lot to be desired.” He quirks a brow, dead-eyed. He reaches across the space between us, spearing some strange root vegetable on my plate with an elegant, gloved hand and eating it, the muscle in his jaw moving with every bite. “There. See. Not poisoned or tampered with in any way.”

I can’t even tell if I am hungry, if I am even capable of such a feeling anymore. I pick up a fork, uncaring if it’s the correct one, and spear a vegetable, the same type he had eaten, and place it warily in my mouth. It tastes sweet and spicy, glazed in some sort of sauce that coats my mouth as I chew. It tastes like a trap.

I look back at him and he rolls his starry eyes, taking a gulp from the goblet in front of him. “So mistrusting. What have I ever done to you?” He huffs a dry laugh at his own joke.

This is a joke to him. All of it, laughable. All of the death and destruction he wreaks.

I place my fork down on the cloth, uncaring that I soil it with the glaze from the vegetable.

I feel some force caress the ice surface of my mental shield and scramble to freeze any thawing edges.

He smiles at me knowingly. “I had to try.”

“What is this?” I ask.

He looks at me like I’m dull. “Well, pain doesn’t seem to work very well on you. Pity, it is my favorite method of getting what I want.” He quirks a soulless smile at me. I may puke all over his beautifully decorated table. “I figured, why not show you what you’re saying no to?” He gestures at the food. “Surely this is preferable to dying a slow, painful death. To sitting in my dungeon. To having dates with Gyddeon and his beasts.”

“Perhaps that works on you soulless leeches. You know no loyalty.”

Unaffected, he goes on. “Leeches, what a lovely comparison your companion makes. Tell me, what was the nature of the relationship between the two of you? You looked so devastated when he gave you up, it was almost sickening.”

I give him dead eyes of my own. He doesn’t get to touch any of it. Nothing of Fionn. Nothing of us.

He quirks his head to the side, leaning forward, ruining his impeccable posture to speak lowly to me, as if telling a secret, “You know, he gave you up. He told us that he found you trying to steal from them. He told us how you discovered your powers at your ramshackle little house, killing our kind, avoiding the consequences awaiting you in town. How you two developed a little romance, how you threw yourself at him.” He leans back again, assessing me, twirling the fork in his hand. “This is what you are loyal to, Alyx. This male, you mean nothing to him.” He straightens, catching me in his ice blue eyes. “But you mean something to me. You have more power here, with me, than you ever will with him. I can teach you. I can make you into someone who inspires fear. Males would crawl for you. We could take you to Danu, make you their queen. You deserve more than what Fionn can give you.”

“What is there to rule over, if your people laid it all to ruin?” I ask.

“Much has been laid to ruin, as you say, certainly. But the leaders of the Fomorians did not seek to destroy it all. It is a beautiful place.” The king swirls the liquid in his goblet. The look in his eyes says he likes my engagement. Likes that I’m looking at the pieces in his game.

“Aren’t there more like us? Why would you need to find me?”

The king chews a bite of his food, giving him time to find the right answer. “No. There aren’t more like us.”

I blink.

“What do you mean? Surely there are more than two of us,” I say.

His starry eyes bore into mine as he says, “There were.”

“What happened to them?”

“Nothing pleasant.”

“And won’t there be more?” My stomach turns, thinking of those few Fae left. Trapped, and kept like broodmares.

“Probably not.”

“Why not?”

He takes another bite, this time of the succulent lamb shank. He fully chews and swallows before he responds, “Such dreary table conversation that is. Suffice it to say that we are special.”

“Were the others killed?”

“No.” He takes another bite, chewing thoroughly before continuing. “Nobody killed them. At least not purposely. It’s probably for the best. You’re very powerful, you just don’t know the extent of it yet. Let me show you. Take me up on the offer, Alyx.”

He’s so…normal. So good at playing a part that I could almost forget how lethal he is. How he had Fionn on the brink of death in that throne room. The monster within him is buried so deep, I cannot even see it in his eyes.

“Why not you then? If we are the same, why are you here and not there?” I ask, blowing by the proposition.

The corner of his mouth quirks up. “I am needed here if we are to continue our mission in this realm. If you agree to help me, I will tell you what that is, but as things are now, I cannot divulge that information.”

I feign consideration, infusing my expression with stubborn loyalty but letting my eyes flicker in struggle. Laying my own traps.

I let my voice wobble, sticking my chin out. “I want to talk to Fionn. ”

“Unfortunately, I don’t think he wants to talk to you.”

That truth pings through me, but I shove it down. I just need to tell Fionn what I learn—need to get him out.

The musician doesn’t halt his playing as I look over and make eye-contact with him again.

It hits me where I recognize him—the actor in the square, the one who played the Pretty King and performed so perfectly. This man is in the employ of the king, willingly or unwillingly. Regardless, he’s sat in these rooms. Listened in on meetings. Observed the king perhaps more than any other.

A servant comes to the king’s side, who glances up at the man in regal question. The servant hands him a note, which he reads, a muscle in his jaw beginning to tick, eyes flickering over the note rapidly. He stands, placing the napkin from his lap onto the table. He seems to search the tablecloth for a path forward, like eyeing a chessboard. “I hate to cut the meal short, but I have some duties to attend to. If you would like some more time to think on it, you may have it. Just know that if you would like to be returned to a more comfortable room, all you must do is tell me about the rest of the party you were traveling with, and if perhaps they are in contact with a much larger group.” He cocks an eyebrow at me, eye contact unflinching.

A much larger group?

I keep my face neutral. Would it be too obvious if I were to accept now?

He grinds his teeth.

I’ve taken too long to respond.

I wait for the other shoe—the demonstration of power. I wait for him to steal the breath from my lungs and force me to the floor.

“Fine. Don’t say I never tried to do this together. Enjoy your cell.” He sweeps from the room, presumably onto whatever has his usually stoic demeanor so agitated.

I map the hallways again on my way back, verifying the partial layout I have in mind.

When I’m back in my cell, cuffs removed, I plot. For everyone I owe a life debt. So that I may do something worthy of them, just once.

As I readjust, rolling onto my side facing the door, I see it.

A tiny sliver of light, the most infinitesimal crack where the door is.

I scramble towards it. Using my cracked and bloody fingers to grasp the ledge, I pull the heavy door open.