Our Vast and Yearning Ends: Rise of the Death Fae, #4

CHAPTER ONE

SHE HAD HEALED him before, and every time she healed him, she healed everything, even the things he had broken within himself on purpose.

The Night King Duranth let his eyes flutter open, and he thought, Note to self, when I’m feeling better, I have to remember to magically re-crush the connection between my balls and my cock, or I’m going to knock Magda up again.

He could have done it to himself right then, he supposed, but he didn’t have the energy for it. It had taken everything inside himself to hold on to a sliver of life as his brains were leaking out of a hole in his skull.

Now, he lay on his back in the palace library, looking up at Magdalia’s worried face, her forehead streaked with blood—his blood—where she must have pushed her hair out of her eyes, and he concentrated on breathing.

Duranth? she whispered.

He tried to smile at her.

Duranth, say something, she said. Are you in there? Because I don’t know if I got here in time. I put everything back and I healed it all as best as I could, but a person’s brain, it’s so complicated, and I can’t be sure you’re…

I’m fine, my love, he breathed. I’m going to sit up in a minute. I really am.

No, she said. No, you don’t have to. She buried her face against his chest.

He brought his good hand up to stroke her hair.

They were quiet.

Duranth had just been shot in the head. His chief minister, Larent, had done it. Larent had spouted something beforehand, something about honor and the fae people, enough for Duranth to know that Larent hadn’t done it for personal reasons but because he was trying to protect the people that Duranth kept killing.

Everyone always got so bent out of shape about death.

Duranth didn’t understand why.

Everyone was going to die, after all, and it was just a question of when and how. When Duranth killed, it was quick and typically painless. He supposed that when he raised an army of the dead and had them kill people, that death might be neither quick nor painless, but it was sort of luck of the draw, and it wasn’t any worse than dying in a battle might be anyway.

The recent deaths, however, had not been at the hands of the newly risen dead, however. Duranth had touched people, zinged his magic in to stop their hearts, and—boom—dead.

It was a good death.

Maybe it was premature. Maybe one could argue that. But, honestly, Duranth thought people moaned far too much about death, and it gave him a headache, all the weeping and caterwauling.

Why? Magdalia’s voice was muffled against his chest. Why did he do it?

You know why, my love, he murmured.

She lifted her face to look at him. Now her face was wet with tears. He supposed that it only made sense that she felt she could cry now. Before, she’d been too intent on healing him to bother with such things. She’d acted, not felt. Now, her emotions were catching up with her.

He didn’t cry. He couldn’t remember crying.

Well, that maybe wasn’t true. He knew he used to cry, but he’d been very small then. He’d watched his father’s head get cut off when he was four years old, and he hadn’t cried then. He hadn’t cried in all the years since, if you didn’t count times when tears had sprung to his eyes when he was in pain. He hadn’t had much control over that.

He supposed people like Magdalia—normal people—didn’t have control over their tears either.

Maybe it was faulty to say that he was controlling himself, keeping the tears back. The truth was that they were simply gone. They didn’t come to him when awful things happened. He didn’t weep or sob, and this was because he didn’t feel things that other people did, and he hadn’t in a long time.

Or maybe ever.

What sort of emotionality could he have had before he was four years old, as a toddler?

He knew, however, that the death of his father had altered him in some way, made him into what he was. It was the first time he’d felt his magic surge in him.

Later, under the cover of night, he’d pushed his magic into his father’s dead body. He’d made his father put his head back on his head, and Duranth had snuggled into his father’s cold, dead chest. He’d wanted to cry then, but he hadn’t.

They found him the next morning with the corpse, and they were disturbed at how back-together it was, and that was why they sold him to the Villa Cyria. Well, who knows? Maybe they were going to sell him in any case. He had no family on his old villa, but there was Old Lady Vona, and she was like a grandmother to him. He had been staying with her while his father had been locked up awaiting execution. It was painful to leave her.

But he didn’t cry about that either, and he didn’t feel that pain, not in a fresh, stinging way. Instead, it was dull and crimson, a burrowing feeling that went down deep in him, putting down roots.

And from those roots, all this had grown.

He had done everything he had set out to accomplish. He had destroyed the empire, triumphed over their legions. He had set himself up in the csaer’s palace, and he ruled the entire Vostrian Empire.

It was true, he thought, what they said about how a man shouldn’t achieve all his dreams.

What was the point of anything now?

What more could he want?

I don’t know why. Magdalia’s voice cut into his thoughts. I thought Larent liked you.

I think he does, said Duranth. Or he used to. He liked who I used to be.

She adjusted herself, rocking back to sit down on the ground and to look at him. So, you admit you’ve changed.

We’ve both changed. He sat up, grimacing. His body was sore. His head gave a dull throbbing pulse where the gunshot had been.

The magic has changed us, said Magdalia.

He shrugged. He supposed it was true. The magic had created this bond with Magdalia after all. Magdalia was never supposed to be… whatever it was she was to him. She was meant to be a means to an end. He was going to manipulate her and use her power. He was never supposed to have any actual feelings for her.

Honestly, he didn’t have feelings like that for people.

He didn’t care when people died.

He hadn’t cared since his father. He didn’t know what this was, but he surmised it was some kind of survival mechanism that his psyche had clicked into place for him. When people died, it hurt, and if one didn’t care about people, it didn’t hurt. So, he no longer cared.

Except with Magdalia…

Well, nothing had gone according to plan, and he supposed that was the magic’s fault. It had turned him into whatever he was with her—lovesick, weak, and doting. But he wouldn’t change it for the world. Magdalia was the only person in the world who mattered to him.

He could lose the whole empire and still survive as long as he had her.

If he lost her, though…

Well, that could never happen.

It doesn’t bother you?

Ah, that was odd. He hadn’t heard that thread of accusation in her voice in quite some time. Did I see your sister? Or hear her. I don’t know that I was capable of seeing anything. But I heard her shrill voice, didn’t I? You always get this way after you see her. He got to his feet, touching his forehead. He looked at his fingertips, sticky with blood. He needed to wash.

How hard was it going to be to get a servant to bring up water for a bath? They were all so afraid of him these days. Maybe he’d just animate some dead men and have them haul water.

But no.

He was too weak to tap into that magic, which would require using the bond between himself and Magdalia.

Where are you going? said Magdalia.

I need a bath.

You’re an arsehole, she pronounced.

He rolled his eyes.

"Duranth, you can’t act like this is nothing. This was an assassination attempt."

A failed assassination attempt. He was going for the door.

She caught up to him. She got in front of him, blocking his way. Listen, the magic makes us crazy, and us being crazy makes people hate us. We need to do something.

We’ll kill them all, he said. Then they’ll be too terrified to try to kill us.

I don’t think it works that way, she said.

He sighed. She was right. It didn’t work that way. They had talked of this, how they were in an impossible situation. People wanted to kill them, and so they didn’t feel safe. So they tried to root out the killers and kill those people, but they messed up and killed some innocents in the process, and this made more people want to kill them, and it was all a vicious cycle.

"We need to do something about the magic," she said.

He only shook his head. No.

Duranth—

The magic is our bond, my love. If we break that, I don’t even… What if he fell out of love with her? He didn’t want to face that world. Besides, it’s impossible.

Is it really? she said. How do you know?

I’ve been reading fae texts here, he said. I’ve been hoping to find some way to… to contain it or to divert it or to… tame it. But it’s wild, Magda. It’s wild and it’s powerful and there’s nothing.

The corners of her lips turned down.

He leaned in and kissed her forehead.

What about the thing you used on our wedding night?

The barrier? he said. Well, how long did that work? Twenty minutes? Our magic is too strong for such things. And that was before we… Fucked. Were truly joined. It’s different now. You feel how different it is.

Her shoulders sagged.

He cupped her cheek with his good hand and he kissed her again, kissed her mouth. Then he pulled away and continued toward the door.

She didn’t stop him this time.

The guards were gathered outside the library. Apparently, they’d been too terrified to come inside. They all looked at him with wide, worried eyes.

I need water for a bath, he said. Do you think you could find someone to arrange that?

C-certainly, Your Majesty. The fear came off them in waves.

He didn’t mind the fear, but it did make them stupid sometimes, he had to admit. I suppose Larent got away?

No one answered that.

Of course he did, muttered Duranth, making a face. Well, it goes without saying that if anyone sees him to shoot the bastard. He made his way through the guards, who moved out of the way for him. He went down the hallway and into his bedroom.

To his surprise, within moments, servants came in with steaming buckets of water for his bath.

It was the csaer’s old bathing chamber, and it was a beautiful polished marble bath, built into the wall. It was quite deep and quite luxurious when filled, which took nearly a half hour, because of the servants needing to make multiple trips up the stairs.

The water, however, was the perfect temperature by this point, since some of it had cooled and some of it had been quite hot. It mingled and was lovely.

He dismissed everyone, took off his clothes, and sank down into the water.

He shut his eyes and sighed in pleasure, just relaxing for a bit before he started scrubbing off all the blood.

Must remember to re-crush the connection between my cock and balls.

Yes, yes, he’d get to it.

He didn’t remember when the first time he’d discovered her comprehensive brand of healing, but she’d done it at least twice, and he’d gotten her with child both times. It was because they fucked too much. Or maybe they were just very fertile, which would be ironic and annoying if true.

She hadn’t noticed either time, but he did. Their bond, it allowed him to feel as if he was inside her body, and he noticed any time anything was different. Both times, he’d felt it, and it had only been the promise of a child, not really even a child. Both times, it had been too early for her bleeding cycle to even have been disrupted.

So, she’d never known that he’d used magic to take care of the problem.

He didn’t want to have to do it again, so he needed to remember to fix himself before he put his cock in her again.

A child between them would be a disaster, and he was certain of it. Not to mention he didn’t have one inkling of the ability to care about a child. He’d had a good father—well, maybe he had—if his father had been such a good father, why hadn’t he valued his own life, why had he taken such risks? Duranth’s father had risked everything to help the slaves on their villa, and he had been a hero to many, but to Duranth, he had been a major fucking disappointment, because he’d gotten himself killed, and Duranth had practically been a baby, and he still needed his fucking father.

But that was neither here nor there.

Duranth remembered being loved, and he had observed fathers loving their children, and that wasn’t in him, and he wasn’t going to… to try. He loved Magdalia, but that wasn’t in him, either, it was in the magic.

He’d be a terrible father.

Magdalia would see it, and she’d hate him for it.

Of course, Magdalia was not the most unselfish person in the history of the world either. He supposed women went through various transformations when they were preparing for motherhood, and that there were physical alterations, enough that Magdalia might be a fine mother. Maybe.

But assuming she wasn’t, she’d probably only be mediocre. It wouldn’t be too bad if the baby would have a proper father, but it wouldn’t, so…

So, any children made by the two of them were better off dead.

He felt a tickle at the back of his skull, all he ever felt of guilt, and he quickly smothered it.

He didn’t like snuffing out those tiny things inside Madgalia’s womb. He didn’t enjoy it. But it had to be done.

ONIVIA REACHED FOR her son, Junius, who was fussing. She was on Quinta Island, within a hundred feet of the door of the Villa Cyria, where she had grown up, and she didn’t know what she would find there.

This had not been the plan.

The plan had been to kill the Croith, but that had failed. She and Larent had been in the palace, and Larent had shot the Night King in the head, but he hadn’t died. He must have used his connection with Magdalia to use her healing magic on himself.

Onivia had been with her sister when it had happened, and Magdalia had known it—had felt it—the moment it happened. The bond between her sister and the Croith was strong.

I’ve got him, said Larent, lifting Junius out of Onivia’s friend Marta’s arms. The baby quieted, folded into Larent’s large arms. He was often very happy when his father was holding him, Onivia had noticed. Maybe this was because of some thread of connection between blood, some sixth sense. Or maybe it was only because Larent was precise about discovering the best ways to hold and rock the boy, employing various experiments, always perfecting his technique. He was quite serious about it, but Onivia found herself amused by it, and also…

Well, it made something tight inside her chest, and it was a pleasant sort of tightness. She liked the look of them together, her son in his father’s arms.

Which made no sense, because—by all rights—she should hate Larent.

Now, they were thrown together, since they’d had to escape the capital after their failed assassination attempt. Besides Marta and Junius, they also traveled with Olirius Cassus, grandson of a senator turned revolutionary, and Isha, a former fae slave who’d thrown in her lot with them to attempt to get rid of the Night King as well.

Onivia looked away from Larent and Junius because she saw movement out of the corner of her eye.

Fae men, carrying wooden spears with sharpened bits of rock at the ends, were coming for them. She had not seen them before because they’d been behind the foliage that grew around the villa. When she had lived here, it had been carefully pruned and cut back, but now it grew wild and tall.

Stop! said the men, leveling their spears.

Everyone stopped.

Onivia realized she recognized them. Aidan? Denher? Is that you?

The fae did not lower their spears. Dominissa, said Aidan. You are here in the company of so many others. We will need to consult with the Avera before we can determine you are welcome.

They were slaves on the villa, but they had never looked like this. When she had been here, their hair had been cut close to their heads and they’d been pierced in their ears and noses with iron rings. Now, the men’s hair was growing long and flowing—Aidan’s was blue and Denher’s was purple. There was no iron on them anywhere. They looked strong, healthy, and fearsome.

Who is this Avera? said Onivia.

Neither man answered. They gestured with their spears.

Come with us peacefully, and no harm will come to you, said Aidan.

Your weapons, said Denher.

Onivia looked at Larent. He had a revolver. Spears were no match for it. Cassus was armed with a gun too if it came to that. But Larent was holding the baby now, and he couldn’t draw a weapon at the same time.

Larent stepped forward, and the men with the spears jabbed at the air, baring their teeth. He spoke to Onivia in a low voice. Avera is a fae word. It means the matriarch of a family, the oldest living female, usually considered the wisest in a fae village.

Onivia nodded slowly. She addressed the men with spears. Your Avera? Is she in charge here at this villa? Is she someone I knew before, one of the former slaves? She waited, but there was no answer. If we are not welcome, we will go elsewhere. She didn’t know where that would be. But please understand, I am not here with any intention to dominate. You are no longer slaves, and no one will attempt to enslave you again. Tell your Avera that we mean no harm.

She wasn’t sure what it was that she and the others had expected, but from most of their conversations, she supposed they’d all assumed the place would be abandoned or for most of the fae to have fled. The land around the villa had been divided up and parceled out to former slaves, that was what Larent had told her. The villa itself, though, they’d thought that the slaves would have left it behind when they had the opportunity to have their own plots of land to farm.

However, she supposed it made just as much sense for the fae here to have formed their own sort of government. After all, it was easier to survive in order than in chaos.

Your weapons, insisted Danher.

Onivia held up a finger. One moment. She turned to look at the others, beckoning them to come closer. Larent, Marta, and I are the only people who have spent any time on the islands here, she said to them. So, you may not be aware, but the jungles are not safe. There are all manner of dangerous animals and poisonous plants, and we can’t simply sleep under the stars the way we could on the mainland. We need shelter. She glanced up at Larent, hoping he might have an idea.

He was looking down at Junius, furrowing his brow.

Here, perhaps I should take the baby, said Onivia, holding out her arms for him.

Larent hesitated and then handed Junius over. He had not turned entirely away from the men with spears. If we give you our weapons, we’ll be helpless.

If you wish to enter the Avera’s territory, said Aidan, you will surrender them.

"But who is the Avera? said Onivia. Do I know her? If I know that we are in no danger, perhaps we can be less wary. Please. Is she one of the former slaves I grew up with?"

Aidan and Danher exchanged a glance. Why, she is your aunt, dominissa. Avera Toria.

CHAPTER TWO

LARENT WAS AFRAID Onivia was going to drop the baby, and he reached out to steady her, one hand on her shoulder, one hand on the baby’s bottom.

She glanced up at him.

Apologies, he murmured, letting go of her.

My aunt? said Onivia in a very high voice. B-but my aunt is not fae. How could she be your Avera?

Your weapons, said Aiden.

Onivia looked up at him. We’ll be all right. Give them your weapons.

Larent debated internally for several moments, unsure if he should trust Onivia’s aunt, of whom he knew nothing. But she was right about the jungle on these islands being inhospitable. They must have shelter. His son needed shelter.

So, he unbuckled his belt and took it off. He rolled it up around his revolver and knife and then held it out.

Danher shifted his spear to take it from him and then everyone turned to look at the others.

Cassus didn’t look pleased, but Marta was handing over a knife that she had strapped to her ankle, one that Larent hadn’t even known about, and Cassus finally acquiesced and gave over his gun and knives as well.

This way, said Aidan, and they entered the villa.

Larent had never been inside this particular villa, but they were all set up similarly, and stepping inside this one sent a rush of nostalgia through him. His memories of growing up were not all bad, after all, he supposed, and for one moment, he felt like a child again, unaware of all the things that would come to cause him agony in the future.

The main entryway of the villa was well cared for, swept and scrubbed, furniture in its place, dusted and gleaming. There were portraits on the wall, and one of them was of Onivia as a little girl, holding hands with Magdalia. They were standing next to a seated woman, who must be Onivia’s mother.

All of the portraits of every human family had been destroyed in the revolution. Any fae uprising did this first when they took the villa.

Seeing them here, it was jarring, alarming. But he also couldn’t help but enjoy the fact he could see Onivia as a little girl. That stirred some soft, pleasant feeling within him.

It was foolish, of course.

He had caused nothing but pain in Onivia’s life, and the fact that he found himself so smitten with her, even after everything, the fact that her having given birth to his son had only strengthened his feelings toward her… it was disgusting.

He had vowed to himself that he would keep those feelings to himself. He might never be able to make up for his trespasses against her, but he could, at the very least, do no more harm to her.

It was hot inside, but as they descended the steps into the villa, they moved into the center rooms of the place, which were set half into the ground. This, coupled with the clay used to construct the houses, contrived to keep them much cooler than they might be otherwise. The temperature was bearable inside here, cooler than it was outside.

They were led to a room which had once been a sitting room but now was stripped of furniture. The two fae men with spears shut them inside and left them alone.

Onivia sat down in a corner and put Junius to her breast. She did this all the time, absently, as if her nudity was nothing, and Larent always felt acutely uncomfortable, unsure how to feel about her breasts at all.

It was one thing to know intellectually that breasts’ purpose were to feed babies. This should wipe away all discomfort, but it didn’t, because breasts were not only… that was not the only purpose…

Well, at any rate, he thought he could properly compartmentalize all of it easily enough if it weren’t Onivia. Even if it were a different situation, and she was his wife or something, he would be able to see them as food sources during certain circumstances and sexual during other circumstances.

But she was… he was ashamed of the fact he was still sexually attracted to her. He wanted not to feel sexually attracted to her. His sexual attraction to her was a badge for his worst failure in life, for the most awful thing he’d ever done to another person, and every time he saw a glimpse of one of her nipples, he felt a jolt of awful arousal which was immediately followed by hot shame, and the two warred within him all the while he attempted to