This was the way it had to be. How could he justify the druid’s nonsense? Bandits and turncoats… these were real problems. He was putting his men first. He was being a good king.
A good…
“He watches the east.” Skyre stirred as Nacht stepped up beside him. “His land calls him home. A thing like that… Suppose even a king has no right to claim it.”
The words were not a challenge, but a lash, like the snap of a whip against his back.
For a moment, he’d let himself believe he had power to follow a path purely of his own accord.
The druid’s hair loosed from its braid, catching in the light of the amber sun. Skyre had never known freedom—had never known choice. But he imagined, in that moment, he knew what it meant to dream.
For two weeks, they travelled south and each day felt like a strap pulled taut.
Each day, Skyre thought it would snap.
He could no longer hold the druid at knifepoint. Rather, the hostility he’d once harbored for him had mutated into something else. Something far more queer. He found himself coming before him like an altar, handsholding offering. Every gift became a prayer desperate for blessing. But the druid’s quiet endured.
They stopped at the edge of a forest. The sun was high and a warm wind kicked up, sweeping the grass till the blades bowed.
“I’d be wary those trees,” said Greyv. The two had come down between the hills for a piss. Normally, they wouldn’t go so far out, but in the presence of the máraigh, one need be respectful.
Skyre shook himself dry and said, “If the bastards are that rampant, my kingdom is beyond saving.”
“Aye, maybe I’m just itching to cut a cutthroat.”
Skyre laced his braks, looking out into the distance. Yellow blooms blanketed the hills and the air smelled like honey. “You ken what they are?”
“You mean, do I ken what the bloody flame are those weeds?” Greyv lifted his brows. “Do I seem like a botanist to you?”
The Vaich went up and gathered some. They were small, but plenty. He had seen the druid foraging as they went; He seemed to know what was good and what wasn’t. It was nearing the end of spring. His satchels would be bursting soon. Skyre thought to give him a place to practice once they returned to Rhyd-hal.
“What is the matter with you?”
Skyre glanced up. “What?”
“You’ve been acting strange,” Greyv muttered. “It’s that druid. You’re tending to him.”
He scoffed. “Dinnae speak nonsense.”
“Nonsense?” Greyv smiled, but his dimples didn’t dip. “You come to his hand like you’re waiting for your belly rubbed. When did you learn to kneel?”
Skyre’s grip tightened on the stems. “When didyoubecome so bold?”
“I’ve been bold since they brought me to Righnach’Dúir. And you have always suffered it. But now you take insult? I asked what’s the matter. Is it his cunt you’re after?”
The yellow blooms spilled from Skyre’s hand. In an instant, he was before him, fist full of collar. “Leash your tongue! You speak of my consort.”
Greyv’s stormy eyes clawed back at him. “I’ve never been the one on a leash, and I shan’t start now.”
Skyre’s fingers itched for his blade, but a bolt of shock shot through him. He forced himself away.
“Greyv, I’m—”
“Forget it. You’re the king, after all. Why explain yourself to me?”
He turned and went back up the hill, leaving Skyre to steady his trembling hands. He had nearly drawn a blade to his throat—a boy who had grown with him into a man and now… now looked at him with eyes that judged.
Just like all the rest.
