Page 112 of The Forever Queen

Aisling startled, pulling back her fingers.

“Did I hurt you?” she asked. And had it not been for their circumstances, Lir might’ve laughed. There were few souls in this realm or the next that could inflict pain on the Sidhe king, but none amongst them did so as brutally as did Aisling.

“You should return to your chambers,” Lir said instead. “We’ll travel to Castle Yillen at dawn.”

Aisling pinched her lips together, brow furrowing.

“Who was the creature that stood before the falls this evening?” Aisling asked, not moving an inch. She spoke confidently, her words as clear as a bell struck. “For the creature that cradled that mortal bairn was not the creature that stands before me now.”

Lir’s eyebrows raised. He wasn’t certain of what to say. They hadn’t spoken of Simril falls and he had no desire to.

“Don’t ask questions you won’t like the answers to,” Lir said.

“I do not ask so I might enjoy the answer,” Aisling argued. “I ask because I simply wish to know it—regardless of how I might feel.”

Lir turned his head to the side, preferring to stare at the dome of the astronomy tower than her violet glare. Eyes that would scald him should he deny her.

“Should a forge-born child endure an untimely death, the galleon will sail them into the Other for eternal peace. Mortal bairns are not awarded the same afterlife,” Lir explained reluctantly.

“Where do mortals go when they pass?” Aisling asked.

“I know not,” Lir admitted. “Some believe they shrivel to ash and nothing more. Others believe they reincarnate on the mortal plane until the end of time. And still, others believe they sail to a land of their own making, beyond the clouds.”

“What do you believe?” Aisling pushed.

Lir exhaled, running his fingers through his hair.

“I believe their afterlife is different from our own. That even in death, the Sidhe and mortals are cleaved apart. Perhaps the gods created a land for good-hearted mortals—if you believe in such a thing—after Ina’s mistakes. It’s impossible to tell,” Lir said.

“So why?” Aisling continued, not wasting a breath. “Why cradle those mortal bairns beneath the falls only to return them back to whence they came?”

Lir shook his head. “Those bairns do not return.”

Aisling’s expression pinched, puzzled.

“Under my reign,” Lir said, his voice roughening against his volition, “whether their blood is laced in iron or thedraiocht, no bairn shall be forsaken. Even in death. And so, the changelings bring the deceased human children to the Simril Glade where I then bless each one, gifting them a fae name by which they’ll peacefully enter the Other.”

Aisling blinked repeatedly, visibly sorting through Lir’s words.

Lir would’ve given anything to read her thoughts. Aisling understood him as a monster, this much Lir knew. So, what did she think of him now?

Lir watched her through the shifting moonlight—a veil that teased his eyes.

“You’ve bewitched me,” Aisling said finally. Her words rang through the tower, cutting to the center of their mischief. “I don’t know for what reason or what cause, but I’ve recognized your tricks.” Aisling narrowed her eyes, her voice like black wines. “I can feel you beneath my skin,” she continued. “I can hear your voice between my thoughts. And I can”–– she hesitated, seemingly catching her breath––“taste you on the tip of my tongue.”

Lir’s eyes cut to Aisling’s lips. A compulsion he didn’t care to fight. His chest rising and falling with every new, deep breath.

“I can feel the hand of your spell choking your name from my memory, squeezing while I beg. Still, it holds me down, staking me through the heart.”

She moved closer, the ends of her hair dipping into the water.

Lir’s expression bloomed darkly. Aisling’s magic went beyond flame and common charms or spells. Every glance, every word was witchery itself. And so when she spoke, Lir fell to the knee at her altar.

“Do you deny it?” Aisling asked, the edge of her lips closer to his own than he remembered them being seconds ago.

“Not if you’re confessing your heart to me.” Lir smiled, his accent thicker the faster his mind raced.

“Don’t toy with me,” Aisling growled, her tone, a contrast to the tilt of her neck so its supple edge shone in the moonlight.

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