Page 159 of Threadbound

“You do not see why we need to defeat the Sidhe?” the blue-and-black man asked, incredulous.

“I do not,” Bran confirmed. “Millennia ago, we went to war over the balance, and we have just fought to keep that balance. Attacking the Sidhe will upset that balance yet again.”

“They attacked us!” the kelpie insisted.

It struck Jamie that this was the war-council equivalent of the childish retort thatthey started it. It was a foolish response then, and it seemed foolish to him now, as well. Moreso, perhaps, because the people around him were perhaps centuries old.

“Bran has the right of it,” a woman with vibrant green skin and horns that seemed to be made of branches spoke up. “The balance should be our first concern.” She ducked her head. “And we should be shamed that we put ambition before it.”

“But for the balance to be restored,” the Wyrthing man with solid black skin said smoothly, “Darach mac Craobh-na-Beatha must also agree. Without peace, there can be no balance.”

The room went quiet. “I will take the offer to him,” Bran rasped, and Jamie gaped at him.

“Absolutelynot,” Cairn snapped. Jamie had to agree, although he wasn’t going to say so out loud.

“We think that would perhaps be unwise,” Cuileann mac Eug remarked diplomatically. “Given that it was your power that destroyed the armies of the Sunlit Court.”

Jamie swallowed. Bran had not quite mentioned that part of it.

“It was your power filtered through me, my lord,” Bran replied, his eyes turned down toward the wood of the table.

“But it was your tactics and your ability that were necessary to channel my power,” Cuileann replied. “We neither of us could have accomplished the victory alone.” He looked around the table. “Nor could we have been in a position to do so without the sacrifices made by all. Would we ask them for more blood? Or shall we do them honor by seeking peace in balance once more?”

“They will just break it!” blue-black man insisted.

“Perhaps in a century or a millennia, they will,” Cuileann acknowledged. “We cannot know, and we should not let what they may choose to do in dishonor drag us to join them.”

Bran wassick of the infirmary and insisted that he be able to sleep in his own bed. With Jamie, although Jamie seemed uncertain about this.

“Are you—” Bran couldn’t quite make himself finish the question, in part because he didn’t want to know the answer, if it wasn’t what he wanted it to be, and in part because he didn’t know which of a dozen questions he actually wanted to ask.

“I don’t want to roll over and hurt you!” Jamie explained, clearly frustrated, probably with him.

“I dinna care if you do!” Bran retorted. “I just—” Exhaustion hit him, then, and he half-collapsed onto the edge of the bed in question.

Thegealach marcaichethat had clearly become a permanent fixture in Jamie’s life let out a distressed chirp and then shoved her fuzzy head against Bran’s thigh.

“Bran?” Jamie was on his knees, one big hand on Bran’s calf.

Please, just stay with me.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Jamie repeated, and it sounded like his heart was breaking.

Please.

Jamie helped him undress, his nimble fingers gentle, and then turned back the covers, good-naturedly moving Patch when she got in the way of the bedclothes. Then he helped Bran lay back, arranging a mountain of pillows behind him so that he didn’t have to lay all the way flat.

“Jamie.” He needed to feel Jamie beside him, Jamie’s warmth, Jamie’s hands.

Jamie opened his mouth, and Bran could see his objection on his face.

Please.

Jamie took off his shoes and carefully—still dressed in a pair of loose trousers and a tunic—climbed in beside Bran.

“I—”

Please.

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