Page 91 of Threadbound

And then he noticed that two threads, one from just under his own heart and one from Bran’s, were also spinning their way into the complex knot being tied by the two fae standing before the font, because it was clear that was what they were doing, even though their fingers never touched the glimmering threads.

It was obvious to Bran that Jamie could see the Threads of Fate as the Wyrthings knotted them together, weaving their threads into the larger pattern that was the weft and warp of Fate’s tapestry. Jamie hadn’t been able to see the threads that bound them before—not without Bran’s help—but he could clearly see them now. Perhaps it was only possible in Elfhame—or only possible during the threadbinding itself.

As the knotting continued, Bran could sense his lungs opening, the heavy weight of exhaustion starting to lift, the gentle tingle of magic beginning to return to the blood in his veins. He drew in a deep breath, relief augmenting the feeling oflife coming back into his limbs. Jamie’s fingers tightened around his, and warmth spread through Bran’s chest.

He saw me and still reached out.

Bran hadn’t realized just how afraid he’d been that Jamie would be repulsed by him, turning away or steeling himself to just get this all over with out of some sense of obligation. And maybe he did feel obligated, but Jamie’s response to seeing him had been wide eyes and an outstretched hand.

Bran’s heart had melted.

And now he stood exactly where he’d sworn he wouldn’t, at the Font of Binding with a half-breed. A half-breed with whom he was almost certain he was falling in love.

A half-breed who no doubt wanted to go back to Dunehame and might very well not be interested in Bran coming back with him.

An extended hand was not, Bran reminded himself firmly, an open heart. Even just the thought made his chest feel tight again, his breath coming short into his lungs.

And then Jamie gave him a worried look, and his fingers tightened once again around Bran’s. Fingers that felt to Bran like a lifeline, stronger and more precious than the golden filament of magic that had linked them since birth.

On the other side of the font, the Wyrthings’ movements grew larger as they wove the complex knot that was Bran and Jamie’s threadbond into the tapestry of Fate. Bran could see the slight furrow between Jamie’s eyes that bespoke a dozen or more questions, all of which Jamie was currently keeping to himself.

And then there was a flare of brilliance, a pulse of light that traveled from the tapestry of shimmering threads to both Jamie and Bran, momentarily casting their skin in a gilded shimmer. And then it was done, Bran’s lungs felt clear, his legs more stable than they had in months, his magic calm and steady. Whole.

He wondered what it felt like—if anything—to Jamie.

The Wyrthings looked up and spoke again in unison. “The threads are bound.”

Chapter

Thirty-Six

The congratulations had pulled Jamie away from him, and Bran found himself continually searching the crowd for Jamie’s tall, familiar form. Sometimes he would catch a glimpse, between the tiny flitting forms of half-drunk pixies and lanky wulvers and elegant morgen and tall and imposing fideal, including his sister’s husband, Bhàth.

It felt strange to not have Jamie’s hand in his, even though the ceremony itself couldn’t have been more than ten minutes long, and Bran had lost Jamie in the crowd what felt like at least an hour ago.

He’d expected that the most awkward part of the whole thing would be having to admit to his father, to Iolair, to Maigdeann, and to pretty much everyone else who’d known how resistant he’d been to the whole thing that they’d been right all along. He’d also expected that the worst part would be whatever grimace or resignation Jamie’s expression would show upon seeing his fae form.

But it seemed that his family weren’t feeling vindictive, and Jamie’s outstretched hand had given Bran hope that maybe, just maybe, there was or would be the possibility of a future that was less lonely than his past. Yet he wasn’t entirely sure Jamie wasgoing to do it again any time soon. That was the new worst part of this whole thing.

Around him everyone else was celebrating, and Bran had to admit that he was definitely glad he’d gone through with it—he felt better than he’d felt in a long time. And even if the sickness and exhaustion seemed to be lingering a little, at least his magic was as steady and familiar as he remembered. Whether he would fully recover in time, even Cairn hadn’t been able to say. The poisons of the Sidhe ran deep, and Bran might never again have strength enough to beNeach-Cogaidh, despite the fact that the Wyrthings had named him so. He was trying not to think about it. Trying to enjoy the fact that he at least felt better and stronger than he had in over a year.

But despite that, there was still an empty chill where Jamie had been, his big, warm body close to Bran’s side, his fingers wrapped around Bran’s, and the soft scent of Jamie—cotton and sun-warmed earth—in the air Bran drew into his lungs.

Bran wanted Jamie back beside him.

It was the opposite of what he’d expected.

He’d thought, once he’d resigned himself to going through with the threadbinding, that the magic would cement their connection so that he could move through the world without constantly needing to be near Jamie Weaver. But now that the threadbond was complete, he could barely stand to be on the other side of the room. It was turning his stomach in knots, even though he smiled and pretended to every well-wisher that he was so much better than he had been.

The glimpses he’d caught of Jamie in the crowd were of his profile, the back of his messy blond head, a crescent of smooth, tanned shoulder. Never his eyes, brilliant blue and impossibly warm despite their cool shade.

Yet this time, when Bran turned away from yet another well-wisher—a morgen friend of his mother’s, Gath nì Sleagh, herskin and hair pale shades of green—he almost immediately met those blue eyes with his own. And then Bran found himself carefully moving through the press of limbs and wings and hooves, drawn to Jamie like the proverbial moth to the flame.

Jamie had, or so it appeared, taken refuge from the press of people by tucking himself into the shadow of a draped branch heavy with fragrant purple blossoms. Bran walked up to him, finding himself oddly both calm and nervous at being close to Jamie.

Jamie offered that slightly crooked smile that curved half his mouth. “Hey.”

Bran pressed his fingers together, the talons at their tips softly clicking. “Are you…?” He wasn’t sure how to finish his question.

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