Page 9 of Matches and Mistletoe
“Do you not want me?” she whispered.
His palms came to rest reverently on her waist. “I think I will want you over and over, for a very long time.”
For the next year he worked less than usual. Cleaning days were conducted naked, and very little cleaning was accomplished. Thistle sometimes sauntered into Elatha’s workroom in her underthings, and usually ended up bent over his desk, gasping and thrilling with pleasure. She called out his name in those moments, and he would groan in response, pushing deeper.
Thistle often wondered what the villagers would say if they knew she was fucking the Felwitch. She’d imagine their shock and horror. And then she would go about her usual tasks, wearing the secretive smile of a well-loved woman.
On the next midwinter night, when Elatha held his pendant over the fire in the glen and his family awakened, he tucked an arm around Thistle’s waist and pulled her close to his side, a wordless confession.
His mother’s eyes lit up. She cupped Thistle’s face in both her hands and said, in a trembling voice, “Sweet girl. You were exactly the person we needed.”
The dancing was wilder that night, and all the Fae drank with more abandon. But as the moon waned and dawn approached, the family gathered around Elatha with expressions more sober than Thistle could have thought possible, after all the wine they’d consumed.
“You have done well, my son,” said Elatha’s father, Manannán. His dark beard was woven with moss, and a moth hovered around his lips as he spoke. “But each year we sink deeper into the forest. This is how it was meant to be.”
“What are you saying?” Elatha’s face turned ice-white.
“You’ve found a companion now,” said his mother. “Her love and belief will hold you safe in this form. You won’t be alone. It’s time to let us go.”
“I would never be so selfish as to leave you,” said Elatha through gritted teeth.
“It isn’t selfishness, sweet brother.” His sister stroked his arm. “We want this. My and love and I—we wish to rest.”
Her wife nodded, leaning on her shoulder. “Returning so briefly each year is difficult. It becomes more painful every time.”
“We are grateful, son,” said Ygraine. “But it’s time for you to be free. Wander the world as you used to, before the curse trapped us here. As long as Thistle believes in your magic, and you perform it occasionally for the good of humans, you will not fade. You are free. Let us set you free.”
Elatha reached behind him, and Thistle took his hand. He gripped it tightly, painfully, but she endured.
“I will miss all of you,” whispered Elatha.
“We will always be here,” said his brother. “As all our people remain in this world, in some form. We are part of the stones and the moors, part of the mists and the mountains. Our voices travel in the wind, and our spirits sail through the water. You will feel us again, every time you walk this wood.” He clasped Elatha in both arms.
Thistle wriggled her hand free and retreated, waiting while the Fae bid each other farewell. She inhaled, blinking away tears of her own. The sharp bite of the air crinkled the tender inside of her nose.
Tilting her head back, she stared at the lacy ring of treetops circling a cutout of deep, blue-black sky, snowy with stars.
Her whole body felt strangely alive with the significance of the event taking place before her. Six of the Fae, relinquishing the world. Their magic and memory, gone.
Their voices rose together, a soft chant, a hymn to the eldritch world of their youth, a eulogy for the past.
Thistle clutched her cloak around her and listened.
When pale yellow seeped into the sky overhead, she embraced each of the Fae, and Ygraine kissed her forehead. “For your protection,” she whispered. “I give you the last breath I have.”
Then she stepped back into the forest, and she grew still. Not still as death, but still as the towering evergreens, still as the snow glittering in the glen.
Elatha came to Thistle, his tall form shaking, a tree swayed in a tempest of emotion. He bowed against her, and she held him while he cried.
“This what they wanted,” he gasped against her shoulder. “I would never consciously cause them pain.”
“I know.” She sank her fingers into his chestnut hair, cupped the back of his head, held him together. “They want you to be happy. And now they are free, and you are free.”
“Yes.” He straightened, sucking in a shredded breath. “We can travel, you and I. We can see the ships you love so much, and make maps—so many maps. I will craft wonders with anything Unwanted we find along the way.”
“I am sure we will find plenty,” Thistle said dryly. “I suspect the world is full of Unwanted things—and Unwanted people.”
“If we can reclaim even a few of them, it will be time well spent.” Elatha pulled her arm through his as they walked back up the path. “And when you grow old, my love, I will let myself fade with you.”
