It was soundless.
The priest took their hands and bled them with a branch of thorns. And as their blood dripped down, he spoke,"In sight of the fire that burns eternal, beneath the eyes of the king who raised the sun. We join these two together in soul…”
Their skin was slick as it was bound. The twine wound tight, the knot sealed firm. Skyre felt the slow thrum of the druid’s pulse against his torn palm.
“Flesh to flesh, blood to blood. What was separate now made whole.”
He could not look at him.
“By branch and vow, by seed and sacrifice, by the will of gods and men…”
His golden eyes flicked out to the watchers. Their gazes pressed down upon his neck.
“Now wedded in name.”
Weak.
“Wedded in fate.”
Bound in gold and silver, tied in fire and night, locked in a battle neither of them could fight.
“I name thee, Cerys Cillchéinn.” The twine pulled loose. “Consort of the Sun.”
All of Cullach held its breath. Waiting… waiting for…
Skyre’s fingers dared to tremble, and so he set them against the druid’s face—pristine but a faint mark upon his flushed cheek.
Those crystalline orbs beheld him once and for all, and every unuttered fear reflected back at him. And they were his own. The druid, unshaken, did not blink once, as if to hold his truth against him. And Skyre hated him for it. Hated the blood rushing through his loins.
He tilted the druid’s face to the torchlight, parting the pearl veil with the slip of his thumb. His teeth ground with fury. Silence screamed in his ears. But he forced himself forwards, pressing their lips together.
The druid tensed within his grasp, his lips parting in a smothered gasp. Skyre pulled back and whispered the words, “Why didn’t you run?”
He tugged him towards the center of the room, his vision blurring with each step. His senses frayed, splitting between past and present—every word he’d ever heard whispered in his ear.
The man who will live forever.
The boy who will be king.
The druid braced before the altar, his face filling with recognition. The thread that bound them pulled taut as the truth of their fate sat cold. Skyre moved as if through honey, his fingers finding the small of his back and guiding him to his knees. All eyes in that room were upon him and the weight of them… the weight of it all…
Chosen of the Sun.
He hiked the druid’s gown above his hips.
The smaller man’s fingers scratched against the stone, a gesture Skyre could not ignore. He covered the druid’s hand with his own, pressing it flat against the surface. They spoke nothing and the quiet ached. Once more, his gaze flickered to the watching crowd, then back to the druid’s gentle form, open and tempting and…
He pushed himself inside, finding it smooth and tight. The druid gasped sharply, his fingers arching beneath Skyre’s palm. That moment… thatsoundetched itself upon his heart. His eyes closed in a wince, and bile filled his throat. His fingers trembled still, and so he fastened them against the druid’s waist, holding him steady as he set a deep pace. The druid’s shoulders, too proud, refused to drop, but his head fell forwards, the pearls of his mask clicked together with every thrust.
Disgust churned in Skyre’s belly, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. His body craved like a man starved. His hips drove forwards, his lips wetting with lust. The taste of wine was on his tongue. He didn’t stop. Even as the druid weakened. Even as he went slack beneath his hold. Not till it was complete, and he hilted himself deep, and with a pained groan, released.
The druid tensed once more, and the moment he was free, collapsed upon the altar, lips parted around slow breaths. Skyre’s exhales left ragged, his eyes shifting from the druid’s shrouded face to the thin trail of blood between his legs.
Skyre could hear himself snapping. All his bones splintering, all his muscles torn.
All at once… he broke.
“Get out,” he muttered to the room. When no one moved, he spoke again, this time, a growling roar. “Getout!”
