Page 88 of The Forever Queen

Take flight, little wolf.

Lir hummed the verse his mother sang when she’d taught him how to fly. Ina repeated the verse again and again, mending his wings and carrying him between the turrets of Castle Annwyn when he was too afraid to attempt the flight himself. And even after he’d grown, after he’d led legions and vanquished them, she’d sing it again.

Lir woke from his reverie, his interest piqued by the commotion darting through the forest in his direction. It was the distant brushing of leaves, splitting branches, and the stench of their adrenaline that stole his attention. A wild fox leaping through the brush for an elk finch.

The fox’s first bite forced the greatest cry; gory and gone was the first wing. The second bite was a whimper and rip was the tearing of the second wing.

“Easca,” Lir hissed, more silent than a whisper.

His voice cast shivers down the spines of every oak, elm, and willow. The forest rustled, chilled to the bone, shaking rain from its canopies like hounds.

The fox obeyed, stopping itself short of devouring what remained of the elk finch. Slowly, despite the racing of its heart, the beast brought Lir the bird.

The elk finch flailed in the Sidhe king’s palm, painting a pattern of blood across his markings.

“Hush, little wolf,” Lir whispered to the bird. The finch’s fluttering heart slowed as it fell to its side. “I wish you a kinder death in the next life and thereafter.”

The elk finch puffed three last breaths: one for its king, one for its forest, and one for the life it lived.

Lir closed his eyes, and the bird crumbled to bone and soil and the flowers that fed there. He turned his hand over, returning to the forest what it had lost.

The greenwood groaned.

“Pity does not become you, mo Damh Bán.” The voice emerged from between the songs of rain. A female materialized before the Sidhe king, strikingly tall, elegant, stained by the same paint the gods used when they forged the first thunderous skies.

“Leave me,” was all Lir replied, not bothering to lift his eyes.

“I always knew there was mischief afoot,”Niamh smiled coyly.

“I said, leave me,” Lir repeated, his voice more a wolf’s than his own. Fangs bared and nose scrunched like a beast prepared to snap. This time, a flash of anxiety possessed Niamh’s expression but only for a breath.

“You may be high king of all the Sidhe in the mortal plane, but here, I am queen, and you will obey me,” Niamh said, holding out her hand for Lir to take. Lir sneered at the gesture, ignoring her while he unfurled from his seat at the base of the tree. “Come with me, Son of Bres and Ina.”

Lir turned to snap at the Seelie queen. Instead, the storm roared alive until the forest was cloaked by the cloudburst. The rain was so dense, Lir struggled to see anything other than Niamh until, at last, it quieted to a whisper and no longer did they stand in the Other’s forests below Castle Yillen. Now, they stood in one of Niamh’s glass domes at the height of her palace, adorned in stained-glass portraits perpetually weeping.

Lir exhaled, both annoyed and frustrated with her magic. He scraped his fangs against his bottom teeth. After centuries, patience was a virtue Lir had mastered. One couldn’t withstand eternity without first learning to surrender. Still, Niamh burrowed under Lir’s flesh and festered there, making his skin crawl.

“Calm down, mo Damh Bán.” Niamh spoke first, appraising his expression with a glint of fear she couldn’t manage to hide. “I only wish to speak with you in private…and show you something.”

Niamh waved her arms and water descended from the ceiling in great sheets tracing the edges of the room. And once the water dispersed, twenty or so Sidhe females stood in its place, each dressed for a celebration. Butterflies fluttering between curls, honeycombs sewn into corsets, raspberries dangling from earlobes, and sweet mushrooms sprouting between the folds in their skirts.

“Your bride has forgotten you,” Niamh said. “So, why don’t you do the same?”

Niamh walked along the edges of the room, gently brushing her fingers across each Sidhe female. They stood still, smiling coyly at Lir beneath dark, dew-jeweled lashes. Most trembled in his presence, searching to meet his eyes, yet too afraid to hold his gaze. To Lir, they were lovely like flowers, and he felt for them the same as he would a tulip, a peony, a dandelion, or lavender. Yet, everlasting would be his desire for flames that burned, for teeth that bit, for curses that held him by the throat.

Lir scoffed.

“You’re trying too hard, Niamh,” he said, turning to face the Seelie queen.

Niamh’s expression fluttered before collecting itself once more.

“I simply wish to know what it is you want,mo Damh Bán.”

Sakaala had asked Lir the same before they’d ventured to the Other. The answer was complex and yet all who asked already knew the truth of it. They simply wanted the satisfaction of hearing the dark lord of the greenwood speak it aloud.

Niamh snapped her fingers, and the females were washed away once more, vanishing at her whim.

“Katari and Siwe might find forgiveness still pumps through their hearts if you continue your pursuit of their daughter,” Niamh pushed.

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