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.
* * * * *
The teapot’s spout clinked against the edge of the teacup to shed the last hovering drop. Firal watched it with envy as it slid down the white porcelain and disappeared into the cup. She felt more like that droplet than she liked to admit, trapped hanging at the edge of something, unable to move. She wished something would come along and scrape her off the same way. Even if she landed in a sea of strangers, it had to be better than clinging to uncertainty familiarity. Yet she couldn’t let go.
“So.” Kytenia put down the teapot and took their drinks from the table, moving slowly as the cups rattled on their saucers. “It’s been a few weeks. What’s happened since then?”
Firal held out both hands to accept her serving of tea. The cups were elegant in shape, but plain white, like the Master mage’s robe her friend wore. The robes here were more modern, and Kytenia’s bore ornate braid work and embroidery, befitting an Archmage, but it did not change the stark austerity of the color. “That’s the difficult part,” she said as she lowered the saucer to her lap and balanced it there. “Nothing.”
Kytenia offered a tray of sugar cubes as she took one for herself. Firal shook her head, so she shrugged and put them away. “What do you mean, nothing? He kissed you, he said that he loves you, you live in his house. Surely something must come of that.”
And yet, nothing had. Firal tried to make sense of it as she drank.
She hadn’t expected it would be easy. Theirs was a relationship torn apart by deception and war, and mending it was no small feat. She had expressed her desire to rekindle things, Rune had kissed her, and then… She swallowed her mouthful of tea and let herself sigh. “If I’m to be honest, he’s avoiding me.”
Kytenia’s brows rose. She shook her head. “Men.” The Archmage of Lore settled in the wingback chair on the other side of the low table and sipped her tea. “But I suppose we already know communication isn’t his strong suit. Are you still planning to go through with it?”
“With what?”
“Trying to remarry him.”
Firal’s cheeks heated. “Of course I am.” She still loved him, after all. She always had.
“Well, there’s only one thing to do, then.” Kytenia sat her cup aside.
“And what’s that?” Firal almost dreaded to ask.
Her friend leaned forward with her hands braced atop her thighs. “You’re going to have to seduce him.”
~:~:~:~:~:~:~
“Been a long time since you were here.” Garam’s voice echoed in the emptiness of the gymnasium. He was the only one who sat on the sidelines; the other two people present were in the sandy ring.
Rune snorted as he descended the last few stairs. “Only what, a month?”
“A long time, for you. You used to be in here every single day.” The former captain did not rise to greet him.
Rune didn’t expect him to. Garam was old; their days of sparring were long gone. The captain was little more than an instructor now, but he hadn’t come for guidance. His eyes swept to the figures sparring in the round, sandy ring. Or, they had been sparring. They’d stopped when Garam spoke, and Rune raised his chin in greeting.
The king nodded back.
“What brings you down?” Garam asked.
“Heard Vicamros was down here.” Rune rocked on his feet and stayed where he was, rather than joining Garam on the long stone benches that ringed the training arena. His boots still felt strange. His feet still felt strange. He wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to walking with his feet flat on the ground.
“I meant here as in the Royal City. You’ve asked to be excused from every council meeting since…” Garam trailed off.
“We assumed you’ve been busy,” Vicamros called.
Rune gave him a flat look. He should have expected such ribbing.
A low chuckle welled in Garam’s throat. “That’s one way of putting it. How are you liking life as a family man? Never expected you to settle, if I’m honest.”
The question had been inevitable, but it still made Rune grimace. “I’m not.”
Vicamros signaled to his sparring partner, telling him they were done, and strode toward the edge of the ring. “Not enjoying it?”
“Not a family man,” Rune said.
A faint line creased the space between the king’s brows. “You’ve got the mother of your child and the child living in your house. You can’t pretend you don’t know how that seems.”
Rune crossed his arms and rocked on his feet again. “Well, you missed the part where she spent the last thirty years with a husband who’s now dead. The last thing she wants is for her host in a foreign country to be clawing at her.”
“You can’t claw at anything,” Garam said with the smallest hint of a smile. “You haven’t got them anymore.”
Which should have been a relief. It was the one thing Rune had spent his life pursuing.
After Firal, that was.
“You know what I mean,” he replied, irritated.
“All right, all right.” Garam made a soothing gesture with both hands. “But I am surprised. You have history, you seemed hopeful at the idea of having them there… what happened?”
Rune couldn’t think of anything he wanted to discuss less. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?” Vicamros repeated. A hint of concern touched the king’s face, laced with skepticism.
Of course they didn’t believe him. It wasn’t the truth. There had been the argument over correspondence from the ruin-folk, the confessions of feelings and the single kiss that followed, and a thousand longing glimpses shared ever since. But he’d chosen not to press, and she had chosen to allow the distance between them to remain.
When she was ready, she would come to him.
He feared he might die of anticipation before then.
“That’s when you’re supposed to charm her.” Garam leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, though he grunted as it pushed his aging joints beyond what was comfortable. “You did it once before, didn’t you? How’d you win her over the first time?”
Rune hesitated.
“You had to have charmed her,” Vicamros added. “It’s not as if you have any other redeeming qualities.”
“Thank you for reminding me why I enjoy your company,” Rune said dryly. But they were right; she’d chosen him, in spite of the now-lost power that had made him a monster. Somehow, she’d seen past that.
“You said once that you met when you were young, when you were both studying magic. What was the one thing you did that made her see you as something other than a classmate?” Garam adopted the same tone he used when coaxing information out of a shaken soldier who was supposed to deliver a report. Given the situation, it was dangerously close to patronizing.
Rune gave him a flat stare. “I startled her. She fell and gave herself a head injury.”
“Oh, well, that explains a great deal,” Vicamros said.
“What?”
The king smirked. “There was something wrong with her head.”
Rune could not have been less impressed. Both men had been fellow soldiers; harsh jokes were to be expected. Yet that one landed differently and sent a prickle of agitation up the back of his neck. He smoothed it away with one hand.
It was difficult to tell what the turning point had been for her; he’d never asked, had never paid it much thought. All that mattered was she had reached it. She had accepted him, loved him, accepted his proposal. Looking back, he saw the moments when her feelings showed, but when had they begun?
He scrubbed the back of his neck a little harder with his palm, then sighed and bent to untie the laces of his boots. “Let’s go a round.”
“Us?” Vicamros asked, surprised.
Rune nodded as he pried his boots from his feet and then peeled off his shirt. He would have liked to tie back his hair—it had grown shaggy enough to be annoying again—but just getting in the sparring ring would help.
The king frowned. “You’re changing the subject. We’re trying to help you.”
“I’m not. I’m thinking, and this will help me think.” Rune looked to Garam, though he wasn’t sure why. Seeking approval from his commanding officer, maybe, or counsel from one of few trusted friends.
Garam’s face told him nothing.
“Well, we all know I won’t dissuade you.” Vicamros retrieved a set of wool-stuffed leather pads from a nearby supply shelf and wiggled them onto his forearms. “I’d much rather be prepared for you to hit me.”
Rune paced out onto the cool sand. It still felt strange, the soles of his feet too sensitive. Every lump and gritty grain of sand brought new and strange sensations, yet they were comforting, too. Satisfying and grounding in a way he’d never realized was possible.
He waited for Vicamros to join him in the sparring ring. He was used to this by now. A few punches to warm up, then they’d move on to wrestling or some other martial art.
The first crack of his knuckles against the pad was jarring, a harsh reminder of just how much had changed. Where his scales had protected him before, now thin, ordinary skin scraped.
He ignored it, welcoming the pain.
For a time, no words were exchanged. Nothing but the smack of fists against padding filled the air, a steady rhythm that only grew in intensity.
There had been something. A force that had drawn them together, that tied them together as inextricably as any knot. Something that had given them both purpose, that had helped them grow close.
Memories flitted through his head as his heart rate rose and each strike became more focused. Memories and frustration.
He hit harder, faster, training his thoughts on the single thread that had bound them.
“Whoa,” Garam called.
Vicamros stumbled as his heel hit the edge of the ring, the transition from soft sand to hard stone unexpected and difficult.
Rune dropped his hands to his sides. “Magic.” His knuckles stung. Dark smears across the wool-stuffed pads told him why. It was amazing how completely he’d been changed; even his blood was different.
“What?” Vicamros asked between unsteady breaths.
“Magic. When she was teaching me. That was what changed things, what pulled us together.” A job that was impossible now. His power and control had eclipsed hers long ago—and then it had vanished, snuffed our by a force no mortal could wield. He thought of the streaks of white he now sported at his temples, signs of what he’d survived.
What should have claimed his life.
Garam’s frown only deepened. “Not an easy path to retread.”
“No,” the king agreed. He glanced at the pads on his arms and his mouth tightened in mild displeasure, though what for, it was hard to say. He’d been tempered on the battlefield; it wasn’t the sight of blood that unsettled him. “I suspect you’ll need to find another way.”
Rune had already known that. It wasn’t as if they could just pick up where they’d left off; they’d ended things the same way they had reunited, with him bound and held prisoner before her throne.
There was much to atone for. Much he suspected she may never forgive.
Ever diplomatic, Garam cleared his throat. “If I may…”
“Please do.” Rune had come seeking, after all. Whether it was guidance, companionship, or momentary respite from the troubles he faced, he did not know, but all were welcome.
The former captain nodded as if he’d known. “Maybe you should speak with a counselor, instead of the king’s council.”
Rune considered that the same way he considered the sting in his hands. Something present, something he was aware of, his own doing and yet something he could no longer change. Slowly, he flexed his hands. “Yeah,” he agreed, the word a long, drawn-out sigh. “I think you may be right.”
