Silently, the druid lifted his head. They looked at each other for an eternity, for an instant, and a thousand words passed between. Then the druid rose and started towards the wood.
Instantly, Skyre was on his feet, the calls of his cohort following after.
“Sire?”
“M’laird!”
“Skyre!”
The sound of his boots padding through the grass melded with his panting. The druid was small, but the swiftness of his steps was deliberate. Skyre followed, fighting through branches. They grew tangled, tethering his wrists. He shook them off, propelling himself forwards, delving deeper into the forest. Even as his pace quickened, the druid seemed to get further away, until Skyre was running, arm outstretched, grasping at the wool of his cloak.
“Druid.”
His fingers met air.
“Druid!”
He pushed on, his heart pounding ceaselessly in his ears. He lunged, grasping the druid and pinning him hard against a tree.
Everything went quiet.
The sound of his heart… the pulse of the wood… it all faded under the whisper of wind. His fingers dug into the druid’s soft flesh, as if to assure himself of his realness. No more illusions. Just him and that fragile thing.
“Why?” Skyre muttered. “Why do you look at me like that?”
Those pale eyes waited, endless and idle.
Skyre ground his teeth. “You led him on, didn’t you?”
The druid said nothing and it was louder than any scream. Skyre trembled and, for a moment, he was back in that dark chamber, with the druid beneath him on the altar.
He blinked as the memories rushed into him, but instead of Korv’s shrouded face, he saw himself, his body pressing the druid to the ground.
He gasped, staggering backwards, tearing his fingers from the druid’s skin. He felt as if he’d been doused in flame. A flame he could not control. A flame he could not traverse.
His shoulders heaved in rhythm with his gulping breaths, fingers clawing in his hair. “Why didn’t you cry out? Why didn’t you—”
“If I had wept, would it still haunt you?”
His eyes widened, cutting back to the druid who stood unmoved, as if he hadn't spoken. As if his words existed only within the king’s mind.
“I-I would have come—”
The druid shook his head. “No. No one would have come.”
“It isn’t true!”
Silence.
Anger knotted inside him. “I would have.”
The druid peeled himself away from the bark. “I wanted some air, but it is stale here. If you don’t mind, I’ll head back.”
Before he could stop himself, Skyre reached out again, gripping the druid’s wrist in a loose hold. “Please,” he whispered. “Don’t… I need…”
He had been taught to counter any enemy. He knew the blade, the fist and the fire. But this disquiet…
“… say something,” Skyre rasped, voice cracking with desperation. "Curse me, strike me! I need you to—”
