A Treasure, reborn and reforged.
He had not been sure he could do it.
The vast wave crashed high upon the beach, slamming him onto the pebbled strand with bruising force. It retreated slowly, draggingaway all the rotten seaweed and rusted detritus. Wayland fumbled for the shaft of Fáilsceim, gripping it tight even as he swiped sodden hair from his eyes and spat great gushes of brine upon the glittering sand. When he looked up, Idris was standing there, silhouetted against the bright morning, Hog perched questioningly upon his shoulder.
“Did you do it?” Idris asked, tremulously. As if the brilliant shallows teeming with flickering schools of silver fish, the golden beach, and the deep blue expanse sweeping away toward the horizon were not answer enough. As if Wayland himself, wet as a seal and naked as a baby and miraculously alive after what must have been hours underwater, was not answer enough. “Did you reforge the Un-Dry Cauldron?”
“I did.” Wayland levered himself onto his knees. Distantly, he registered that his heavy arms were inked now with whorls and waves in a blue so deep it was nearly black. He stood, hefting Fáilsceim, which hummed faintly with a melody Wayland knew. From his childhood, from his dreams, from moments he had yet to encounter. Once, it would have filled him with dread. Now it only seemed to fill him with a contentment, asatiation, he had not experienced in a long time. Perhaps ever. A smile spread over his face, joyous and rueful. Hog fluttered over to his shoulder and nuzzled a few toothy kisses on his jaw. “Although I fear we may have to rename it.”
“Oh!” Idris matched his smile. “What’s the equivalent of the Un-Dry Cauldron? The Forever-Wet Trident?”
Wayland barked a laugh and surged forward to catch Idris around the waist. The other man yelped but did not push him away. One of his hands braced himself against Wayland’s warm, bare chest; the other slid idly over the curve of Wayland’s shoulder, tracing the recursive pattern of his new markings. Hog squeaked in annoyance, then hovered off to chase sandpipers over the damp rippled sand.
“If that is the best you can invent,” Wayland said softly, “you are not allowed to say another word on the matter.”
Idris smiled. “Then I shall speak no more.”
His chin tilted toward Wayland’s face, the fine sheet of his hair gliding off to reveal the furrows and pleats of his scar, glazed golden by the risen sun. Wayland’s gaze slid over it, then skimmed over the unmarked side of his face, before coming to rest on Idris’s lips, parted slightly in anticipation. He inhaled, expecting the familiar varnish of lust to paint itself flinchingly over the dark lacquer of his endless hurt and shame.
For the first time in forever, Wayland felt only ease. He knew that whatever happened—in this moment, or the next, or the one after that—he was enough. He was as constant as waves crashing upon a silent shore. He could be empty, or full, and still be complete.
He was not alone anymore.
Idris’s body pressed his; his face was inches away. Wayland asked, “Do you want this?”
“Yes,” Idris said, simply and without hesitation.
Wayland’s hand slid up Idris’s throat and fisted in the spill of his crimson hair. He closed the last few inches between them, tilting Idris’s jaw to his as he captured his lower lip between his teeth, sucking it gently into his mouth. Idris gasped, and Wayland inhaled the sound as if it were oxygen, drank it as if it were fresh water, devoured it like the delicacy it was. And when he bore them both down onto the glittering, shimmering sand, he knew:
He still wanted to give Idris something of himself. Something he now knew he had to give.
So he did.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Fia
The dungeons were dark and poorly lit, but at least they didn’t smell like death.
I paced like a dog at the end of its leash, prowling along the heavy stone walls until the hem of my dress was heavy with moisture and discolored with dirt. Irian sat with his back to the opposite wall and his long legs sprawled in front of him. Moonlight spilled from a high barred window over his closed eyelids.
“How can you rest at a time like this?” I asked peevishly.
“There is not enough room for both of us to pace, mo chroí,” he pointed out, without opening his eyes. “We should be constantly crashing into each other, which would ruin the effect.”
I huffed a laugh and conceded the point. “At least tell me you’re dreaming of a compelling escape plan.”
“Escape?” Irian cracked one brilliant eye to look at me. “If that is the plan, why did you not tell me? You are aware I possess a sword that cuts through anything.”
I turned a skeptical eye to the thick bars and even thicker walls. “Metal? Stone?”
“Must I defineanythingfor you?” A note of humor touched Irian’s tone. “The bars would be quick work. The walls might take longer. But unless you are deeply committed to your new pastime of pacing like an affronted wildcat, then we do not have much else to occupy us.”
“Surely Eala knows we’ll try to escape,” I said, half to myself. “What if it’s a trap?”
“It almost certainly is.” His eyelashes slanted, long and black, along his cut-glass cheekbones. “I suppose we shall have to fight our way out.”
A brisk but quiet knock on the dungeon door silenced my response. Irian was on his feet in an instant, the Sky-Sword a gash of night in his hands. I waved him back as I stepped up to the bars and the shadow-masked figure beyond. Fear breathed a chill along my spine as I peered out, expecting grinning teeth and a hollowed-out face. Instead, I saw tangled dark hair spilling over sallow brown skin, wretched amber eyes.
