~
Wren felt no less restless by the end of the first fortnight.
He felt stronger, to an extent. Pacing the cottage no longer exhausted him. Everilda’s exercises grew less painful and more possible. He could fill his hours not just with sleep but with sitting up in bed or at the work-bench to read or sketch—though, confined as he was, he had precious few worthwhile subjects to draw beyond his Shrike.
And while he appreciated Shrike’s gentle hand taking care of him, he found himself wishing those tender caresses would turn into something more.
On one afternoon, with Everilda not due to return until evening, and Shrike cooking their repast over the hearth-firewhilst Wren sketched his beloved face illuminated by the flames, Wren thought he had his chance. When Shrike stepped away to let the cauldron boil on its own, Wren caught his eye. And as Shrike knelt by his side and took his hand with a smile, Wren reached up to catch him by the jaw and draw him down for a kiss.
Shrike had kissed him oft since his initial kiss had awoken Wren. And while Wren loved every one of them, his desire demanded something deeper. He parted his lips beneath Shrike’s own and tried to draw him into his mouth. Shrike followed him. Amidst breathless gasps, something desperate stirred between Wren’s thighs—and between Shrike’s as well, unless he were much mistaken.
But when his fingers fell to Shrike’s tunic ties and began to fumble them free, a firm yet gentle hand caught them in its warm grasp.
Wren broke off kissing him.
“Will you not lie with me?” Wren asked, hating the desperation evident in his creaking voice.
It seemed to shock Shrike as well. He blinked down at him. Then a wan smile besmirched his perfect lips. It tore Wren’s heart in two directions; he loved to see Shrike smile, yet the knowledge of what this particular one meant sent all his hopes plunging into fathomless depths.
“Not just yet,” Shrike murmured in the low rumbling burr that set Wren’s soul aflame and yet now denied him any expression of his passions.
Wren stared at his beloved, all his fears realised. His convalescence had revealed him for the weak, frail, pathetic creature he truly was when compared against Shrike’s brawny courage. And now Shrike loved him not.
Shrike bent to kiss Wren again.
Wren—heart bruised, head spinning, thwarted desire knotted up within him—cut him off. “I know I’m not much to admire now, but we might still…”
He trailed off, half in shame at his own pathetic speech and half at the bewildered look Shrike cast down at him.
Shrike studied him a moment longer, his dark gaze searching Wren’s own. Then his hand arose to caress his cheek. Wren couldn’t resist leaning into the gentle touch. Even as his heart burned with indignant denial.
“You’ve everything worth admiring,” Shrike murmured. “Everything worth desiring. But your wounds are dire. If I were to hurt you…”
“You wouldn’t,” Wren blurted. He wished he could withdraw the words even as he spoke them—no schoolboy had ever sounded more desperate or more wretched—and yet his tongue spilled on. “I’m stronger now. I can…”
He trailed off again at the look which clouded Shrike’s handsome features. Not exactly pity, but near enough to it to ignite his indignation.
“When you’re well again,” Shrike said in a tone which reminded Wren far too much of a nursemaid.
A disappointed sigh escaped Wren’s lips.
Something hissed in the hearth. Shrike turned away to resume tending it. Wren picked up his gyrdel-book and pencil again. He attempted to continue his sketches. Instead, he tapped the pencil against the page as his mind turned its rusty cogs to try and find a solution to his problem. He found but one conclusion.
If he wished for Shrike to love him again, he must do the unthinkable.
Wren found the opportunity to put his abominable plan into action when he awoke one morning just after dawn to find Shrike gone—likely out to tend the flocks—and Everildaseated by the fire writing in her gyrdel-book. The moment Wren moved, she glanced up.
“Good morning, my lord,” she said, setting aside her book and taking up her instruments in its place.
Wren submitted to the ritual of glass and brass whilst she assessed his vitals. Then, after noting whatever conclusions she drew from him into her gyrdel-book, she filled a mug with water and made him drink.
“We’ve not broken our fast yet,” said Everilda. “The Oak King will return soon.”
Just as Wren had suspected. He’d awoken at the most opportune moment. And yet he couldn’t find the words to ask Everilda what he most needed to know before she returned to her seat and her book.
She was a doctor, he reminded himself sternly. She’d already seen all of him inside and out. She knew all about the peculiar living arrangements between the Oak and Holly Kings. She’d dwelled amongst the fae for—well, he knew not how long precisely, but longer than himself at any rate. And likely she’d tended mortal men and women long before that; tended mothers in childbed and counselled wives and husbands. There was nothing he could possibly say that would shock her.
Furthermore, he had perhaps mere moments before Shrike’s return. If he wanted an answer, he must ask now.
