This is an ongoing companion piece to be read after completing the Snakesblood Saga. Because it takes place during the final chapter of the last book, it will be very full of spoilers. It’s also unedited first draft fluff… just for fun! Read at your own risk, and expect installments no closer together than once a month.
* * * * *
Firal did not follow. She gripped her skirts tight in both hands and stared at the doors, but they did not open again. The dim windows promised Minna was no longer awake, and for all that the manor sprawled, there was no other staff.
The door would not be locked. He was angry, but he was not cruel—at least, the version of him she thought she knew was not. But to walk inside after being abandoned would be like a scolded dog slinking around with its tail between its legs, and Firal was too proud for that.
Whether she should be, she did not know.
For good or for ill, she held on to that pride with the same iron grip she had on her skirts. She hitched the fabric up high enough to expose her ankles and let her walk freely.
Instead of heading for the door, she sucked in a deep breath of cool night air and circled the house. The path to the back was not paved, but the feet of countless visitors had worn a smooth furrow into the lawn. Overgrown grasses encroached on the dirt trail and she made a note to have something done about it. Rune prized his peace and privacy, but it came with costs, and she would not live in a shabby house.
That indignation lasted only as long as her walk, though, for the moment she reached the low stone walls of the kitchen garden off the back of the house, rationality overtook such heated thoughts.
That she lived there at all was thanks to his generosity, and she had done little to deserve it.
She was no longer wealthy, no longer a queen, no longer a woman of worth notice. Yet he’d noticed.
He’d always noticed.
Worked to drive her away, too—as he tried now.
Firal settled on the narrow stone bench at the garden’s far end and for the first time, she noticed the flowers.
Spent heads bobbed on dying stems, their shape revealing more in the dark than the petals of living blossoms did.
Coneflowers.
Echinacea.
Her eyes slid to the next plant in the row. She had noticed some before; it was hard to miss the fragrance of lavender or the sweetness of fresh basil in her meals. But she had not cooked since her arrival, so she had not paid attention to the rest of the plantings.
Mint made sense for any home garden. Even lemon balm was ordinary enough. But the slender leaves of valerian had little culinary use, and that the plant was well-established made her heart ache.
Yet again, he had planted a garden for her.
He’d never even known if she would see it, yet he’d carved out a space for her in his home.
After all that time, after all his claims he’d given up, that fragile thread of hope was a blinding beacon in the dark.
And she hadn’t been ready. Not for that welcome, and not for persistent feelings. His questions caught her unprepared. Firal buried her face in her hands and inhaled again.
There were a thousand reasons she could have answered with, as there were a thousand desires she could have voiced to the counselor in the Royal City.
Why did fear and uncertainty rob her of words? She’d verbally battled mages and council members for years. None of them had ever silenced her that way.
But those words had been for others. Regarding others. Not regarding herself, her desires, her feelings.
How strange, the way wearing the crown got in the way of such things. She’d grown so used to disregarding herself in favor of what was best for her people. Now that she spoke only for herself, her voice had atrophied.
She rubbed her brows and stared at the back of the house.
The kitchen door would be barred, this time of night, but a touch of magic would open it. She crossed the garden and twisted the flows of air to open the way. Instead of making her way to her room, she slipped down the hallway to one of his quiet sanctuaries. The study was empty, as she’d hoped it would be, but the desk was as well-stocked as ever.
Firal took a fresh sheet as she settled and found a good pen with a brass nib, and the soft scratch of the ink left behind stretched far into the night.
~:~:~:~:~:~:~
The door at the top of the stairs was locked.
Firal had not attempted to open it since she’d moved in. Rune’s private quarters were closed off for a reason—shut off like he was, she mused, keeping everyone out. Some things never changed.
Her fingers tightened on the paper she held until they left wrinkles behind and for a moment, she considered waiting until morning. They would be rested then, without the heat of fresh emotion fueling what would likely be poor decisions.
And it would be another day between them. Another day nothing was resolved. Another day he believed she did not want to be there.
She gripped the door’s handle and focused on the lock as she poured all her frustration into a different power. It had always been easy to touch; heat was one of the keys to life, and in spite of it not being her affinity, fire answered readily at her call.
The handle grew hot as metal hissed and melted and she jerked her hand back as the door swung open. The hinges were soundless, well-oiled, and the room beyond was not as dark as she’d expected.
Step by step, she inched into the loft and found herself taken aback.
The large window directly across from the door had curtains, but they’d been drawn back and tied, and moonlight poured in through the glass. Piles of books and papers encircled the cushioned window seat, and pens with stoppered bottles of ink littered the floor between the stacks. It struck her with such familiarity that it made her reel. It had been the same way in the underground—the space he’d called his own, down the hall from the queen he’d once served.
The rest of the vast room was tidy, if dusty, and with the light that streamed in through the window, it was easy to see him sprawled out in bed.
She pushed the door until it thumped shut behind her and his head jerked up from the pillow.
No sense in putting it off. There was no going back now.
“I wasn’t ready,” she announced as she crossed the room with her notes in hand. “I never performed well when the Masters surprised us with tests. If I didn’t have my notes, I…” The edge of the paper crumpled.
Rune squinted at her in the dark and she recognized the signs of a headache before she spotted the bottle on the bedside table.
Annoyance and disapproval flared inside her and Firal worked to tamp it down. They would get to that. Now was not the time.
She dropped to sit on the edge of his bed and turned to let the moonlight illuminate the page in her hands, then cleared her throat. “I tried to sort these into categories but didn’t have time to sort everything, so you’ll just have to bear with me. Firstly, there’s your intellect. Your cleverness in problem-solving, including magecraft, management of people, and resource allocation was always admirable. I admire your literacy and your competence with linguistics. I am told you speak more than Old Aldaanan and the northern trade tongue, and I am not surprised. You’ve always been a swift learner.”
His brow furrowed and he sat up. The blankets pooled in his lap and she made herself avoid looking at him. He still slept without a shirt.
“Your priorities have always been pleasantly organized,” she continued. “You find value in people’s merits, regardless of their social standing. Our visions for the future, including household expectations and a desire for children, have always aligned.”
“Firal,” he said, his voice husky.
A hint of color rose in her cheeks and she went on. “As a healer, I find tour dedication to physical health appealing, though I… we’ll have to work on that.” Her eyes flicked to the partially-emptied bottle.
Rune rubbed one eye. “Firal.”
She refused to look at him. “You’ve always understood what I need, from ensuring my infirmary is outfitted to—”
He leaned forward and took the paper from her hands. “What is this?”
Heat crept up her neck and she didn’t know if it was embarrassment or anger that she’d been interrupted. “A list of…” Her throat tightened. “Of your qualities.”
His eyes did not glow as he peered at the page and tried to decipher her handwriting. “It’s too long for that to be true.”
“Well, you asked me for my reasons.” With the paper out of her hands, she could do nothing but twist her fingers and wish her hands did not shake. “I wasn’t prepared, so having a full list seemed like the least I could—”
“I’m sorry,” he interrupted.
Her heart leaped oddly.
“I shouldn’t have said that.” He folded the paper along one of the crease lines she’d put into it and laid it on the table, just beside the bottle. “It was both inappropriate and unhelpful.”
“But it’s how you feel.” Firal wouldn’t let him take that back. It had been too genuine, too raw.
The corners of his mouth twisted.
“There’s no shame in desiring validation, Rune. The counselor will probably tell you it isn’t vital and we shouldn’t seek it, but it’s in the list of expressions she gave us, and I… I need it, too.” She paused to swallow against the lump in her throat. The words tried to stick there; she wouldn’t let them. “The way you saw me—the way you valued and affirmed me, even when I had nothing to offer after the temple cast me out—that was the first reason.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t change its value, or that it was what I needed from you. You asked for reasons I loved you, and that… well, that’s one.”
For a time, he said nothing. Then he shifted back, gathering the blankets close to his waist. “We should sleep.”
Firal’s heart skipped and she glanced down at the bed.
In response, he opened an arm in invitation.
“I can’t sleep in this dress.” Her hands went to her back, but she could not reach to unlace the bodice on her own.
He offered a tired hum in response before his fingers sought the laces. It was faster now, without claws getting in his way, and her heart beat harder as he tugged the back of her dress open.
Then he let go.
Slowly, she slid her dress from her shoulders and peeled the sleeves from her arms. She let it fall to the floor and leave her in a pale chemise. With her heart in her throat, she shifted backwards onto the bed and reached for the blankets.
Before she could settle, his arm hooked around her waist and pulled her close. She squeaked as her back pressed to his front and the comforting warmth of his proximity spread through her.
Firal pulled the blankets to her chin and marveled at the familiarity.
“Mmm,” he sighed into her curls. “I missed this the most.”
“Missed what?” Having her in his bed? The notion was enough to make her blush.
But no response came, and it was not long before his breath shallowed to the easy pattern of sleep.
Questions for tomorrow, then. She stared across the pillow and listened to him breathing, savored the feeling of his arm around her waist.
They weren’t there yet, but it was better. Progress. She shut her eyes and willed her racing heart to still, and eventually fell into a soft, dreamless sleep that was only interrupted when morning came.
“Firal,” Rune called from across the room. “What did you do to my door?”