Page 12 of Eternal Thorns (The Feybound Chronicles #1)

11

MEMORY'S PRICE

T horne's return to his physical form felt like being dragged through ice. His power scattered like leaves in a storm, refusing to coalesce properly. When he finally managed to materialize in his sacred grove, the effort nearly brought him to his knees.

“Shit,” he gasped, bracing himself against the nearest tree. The twilight flowers dimmed around him, responding to his weakened state. Some closed their petals entirely, as if trying to hide from the chaotic energy rolling off their guardian in waves.

He'd known dream-walking would be dangerous. Had prepared for the drain on his power, the challenge of controlling shared memories. What he hadn't expected was how it would feel to relive those moments in perfect, excruciating detail.

Every scrap of hope and trust he'd carefully buried for centuries came rushing back. Teaching Marcus about forest magic. Watching wonder bloom in eyes so similar to Silas's. Feeling the pure joy of their powers working in harmony, when everything seemed possible and the future stretched bright before them.

But worse than his own memories was feeling Silas's responses through their temporary connection. His instinctive grasp of forest magic's nature. The way his whole being had lit up witnessing what Thornhaven was meant to be.

And then that shadow. Thorne hadn't meant to show that part, hadn't wanted to reveal how early the darkness had begun weaving its influence. But once the memory started flowing, he couldn't control every detail.

The sound of cautious footsteps pulled him from his spiral. Briar approached with a crystal vial of luminous liquid. But one look at Thorne's face sent her retreating back into the shadows.

“Leave it,” he managed. His voice sounded wrong, rougher than usual, like he'd been screaming though he knew he hadn't made a sound.

The grove's magic pulsed around him, picking up echoes of the shared memory. Fragments of power from that earlier time still clung to the air.

His carefully maintained walls were cracking. Centuries of practiced detachment crumbled under the weight of remembering not just what was lost, but how it had felt to have it. To believe in something larger than power or pride. To trust another being so completely.

“Damn it all,” he snarled, his form flickering violently between shadow and substance. The twilight flowers trembled, and somewhere in the darkness, he heard Briar squeak in alarm.

But he couldn't stop the memories now. They played through his mind like water through cupped hands.

Silas's responses colored everything with new perspective. Where Marcus's ambition had flared hot and hungry, his descendant's wonder remained pure. Where the ancestor had reached for power, the younger Ashworth reached for understanding.

The grove's magic swirled chaotically, responding to its guardian's turbulent emotions. And for the first time in centuries, Thorne found himself unable to bring it back under control.

He'd meant to test Silas. Instead, he might have just tested himself.

“Your magic's all wrong,” Briar said, creeping closer despite her obvious nerves. “Like a tapestry unraveling. Here.” She thrust the vial of moonflower essence toward him. “Before you accidentally kill all my favorite flowers.”

Thorne wanted to snap at her, but the young sprite's concern was genuine. His power leaked from him in uncontrolled waves, making the grove's magic shudder.

“It wasn't supposed to be like this,” he muttered, accepting the vial.

“What wasn't? The dream-walking or the fact that you actually like him?”

“Briar.”

“Sorry.” She didn't sound sorry at all. “But I felt the resonance too. When you were sharing memories? It was like watching two instruments tune to the same note.”

She was right, damn her. He'd revealed far more than intended in that dream. Not just the past's bright possibility, but his own desperate longing for that lost harmony. Worse, he'd felt Silas's natural affinity for forest magic - stronger even than Marcus' had been.

“The connection wasn't supposed to go both ways,” he said, more to himself than Briar. “It was meant to be controlled, directed”

“Since when has magic ever worked the way we intend?” The Elder Willow's voice drifted through the grove as she materialized beside them. Her knowing look suggested she'd anticipated exactly this outcome. “The truth, dear Guardian, often reveals itself in both directions.”

“Don't start with your riddles”

“They're only riddles to those who refuse to see clearly.” She gestured at his unstable form. “Your magic recognizes something in young Silas, just as his responds to you. Fighting that recognition won't make it less true.”

Another wave of memory crashed over him before he could argue - teaching Marcus this exact lesson about magical resonance. How some connections couldn't be forced or denied, only accepted and understood.

“Fuck,” he breathed, and Briar giggled at hearing her usually formal mentor swear.

But the amusement died as darkness crept into the grove's edges. That presence he'd sensed before slid closer, stronger now after the dream-sharing. It seemed to feed on his emotional turbulence, growing more distinct with each pulse of remembered pain.

Through his weakened magical senses, Thorne finally caught clear impressions of its true nature. This wasn't just shadow, but concentrated grief and betrayal given form over centuries. His own past pain, twisted and corrupted into something malevolent.

Did you think those feelings simply disappeared? The entity's voice used his own memories to mock him. That centuries of bitterness would have no consequence?

Images flashed through his mind: history repeating, another Ashworth's betrayal, a final devastating revenge. But this time the visions carried the weight of prophecy, as if the entity could shape reality through sheer malevolent will.

“Guardian?” Briar's voice seemed to come from very far away. “Your magic's going dark.”

The grove's protective wards flared to life, driving the presence back. But not before Thorne recognized the full danger of what he'd done. In seeking to test Silas, he'd made himself vulnerable to an enemy born from his own past choices.

“I need to go,” he said abruptly, pushing away from the tree he'd been leaning against. His form stabilized slightly, fueled by urgent purpose.

“But you're not recovered” Briar protested.

“The dream-walking was a mistake.” He cut off her objection with a sharp gesture. “It created connections that need to be severed before”

“Before you admit you care what happens to him?” the Elder Willow asked softly.

“Before that thing uses those connections to hurt him,” Thorne snapped. “You felt it too, don't pretend you didn't. Whatever's been waiting in the shadows, I just gave it a perfect path to both realms.”

The Elder Willow's expression softened with something dangerous like compassion. “Perhaps what was born of pain can only be healed through connection, not isolation.”

“Or perhaps some mistakes shouldn't be repeated.” Thorne gathered his power, preparing to withdraw deeper into the forest. Away from memories, away from dangerous possibilities, away from eyes too much like ones he'd once trusted completely.

But as he fled, the entity's whispers followed him.

Run all you want, Guardian. You've already shown him your heart. Now let's see how much it hurts when history repeats itself.

Summoning the council drained what little power Thorne had recovered, but there was no choice. The natural amphitheater at the heart of the Eldergrove filled quickly as ancient spirits answered his call. Root-carved seats that had stood empty for decades now held beings of myth and power, their forms shifting between natural and humanoid shapes as they settled.

Rowan arrived first, his moss armor gleaming with pre-dawn dew. The dryad queens followed, their bark-skin bodies adorned with the first spring buds despite the winter season. Last came the elemental lords - beings of earth and air who rarely bothered with physical form at all. Their presence alone spoke volumes about the situation's gravity.

The Elder Willow materialized at the center, her manifestation more solid than Thorne had seen in years. No gentle tree-woman now.

“Speak, Guardian,” she commanded. “Show us what has prompted this gathering.”

Thorne moved to the speaking stone, his unstable form a visible testament to the night's events. “The dream-walking revealed more than intended. There's something in our realm that shouldn't exist - a being formed from grief and betrayal, twisted into purpose over centuries.”

“Your grief?” Rowan asked quietly. “Your betrayal?”

“Yes.” The admission cost him, but honesty was required here. “When Marcus broke faith, my pain became something tangible. I thought I'd contained it, but instead it's been growing, feeding on every shadow of sorrow in our realm.”

Concerned whispers rustled through the gathered spirits like wind through dead leaves. Several of the dryad queens exchanged significant looks.

“We've felt disturbances,” said Oak Queen, her voice deep as ancient heartwood. “Patches of darkness that consume light. Places where joy simply dies.”

“The earth itself remembers old sorrows,” rumbled Stone Lord, his crystalline form catching the first hint of dawn. “Grief echoes through the deep places, growing stronger.”

“The wind carries whispers,” added Air Lady, her form shimmering like heat waves. “Old songs twisted into laments. My sprites return from their rounds weeping for sorrows they never knew.”

“Even the streams run darker,” Water Sister murmured, her liquid shape reflecting troubled depths. “As if they're carrying centuries of shed tears back to us.”

“The young ones are dreaming again.” Birch Queen leaned forward, her white bark glowing softly. “Not the gentle dreams of spring and renewal, but visions of the sundering. Dreams they're too young to remember living through.”

“Because they didn't live through them,” Rowan interjected. “These are Thorne's memories bleeding into the forest's consciousness. The entity isn't just feeding on grief - it's spreading it, making us all relive the betrayal.”

“The border guardians report similar disturbances,” added Ash Queen, youngest of the dryad rulers. “Shadow creatures that don't answer to our Guardian's power. They gather near Thornhaven, drawn to the key's magic like moths to flame.”

“Not moths,” Thorne corrected grimly. “More like vultures, circling what they believe will be the site of another breaking.”

“And will it be?” The Elder Willow's question silenced the chamber. “Are we so certain that history must repeat itself?”

Frost Lord, who had remained silent until now, stirred in his seat of crystalline ice. “The young Ashworth responds differently to forest magic. We've all felt it. His touch lacks his ancestor's hunger for power.”

“Which makes him more dangerous, not less,” Thorne argued. “His very genuineness could blind us to”

“To what?” River Lady cut in, her voice rippling with challenge. “To the possibility that not all humans carry betrayal in their hearts? That perhaps this one might choose differently?”

The council chamber filled with murmurs of both agreement and dissent. The younger spirits seemed more willing to consider hope, while the elders who remembered the original betrayal counseled caution.

“The entity plays on exactly these divisions,” Thorne reminded them. “Our hopes, our fears, our inability to trust fully or guard completely. It uses our own nature against us.”

“To what end?” The Elder Willow's question cut through the rising murmurs.

“What else?” Thorne's laugh held no humor. “To ensure history repeats itself. To twist another Ashworth toward betrayal. To complete what began centuries ago - the final sundering of our realms.”

The amphitheater erupted in alarmed discussions. Elemental lords flickered between forms rapidly, their agitation causing breezes to swirl through the grove. Dryads clutched their seedling-children closer, while earth spirits sent nervous tremors through the ground.

“Silence,” the Elder Willow commanded, and even the wind obeyed. “Continue, Guardian. Tell us what you saw in the dream-walking.”

“It's learning to use memories as weapons,” Thorne said. “Not just mine, but the forest's own memories of harmony and betrayal. It whispers possibilities, shows visions of revenge and power. And now, thanks to my foolish attempt at testing Silas, it has a direct connection to both our magics.”

“The dream created a bridge,” Rowan realized. “One that works both ways.”

“Which means we're all in danger,” Thorne concluded. “If this entity fully manifests, it won't stop at corrupting one human. It means to poison the very roots of both realms.”

The Elder Willow stepped into the center of the council circle, and the very air stilled. “There is more.” Her roots pulsed with ancient power as she spoke. “The prophecy stones have revealed new layers. What we face is not just a single choice between restoration and destruction. We face the breaking of a cycle that has bound both realms in shadow for generations.”

She wove magic into the air, creating images that made Thorne's heart stutter. Scene after scene of Ashworths through time, each approaching the forest with the potential for reconciliation. Each time, darkness intervened. Each failure added another layer of poison to the breach between worlds.

“The entity didn't just appear after Marcus's betrayal,” the Elder Willow said quietly. “It was already waiting, ensuring the breach remained open, feeding on each new failure.”

The revelation hit Thorne like a physical blow. How many potential healings had he inadvertently prevented? How often had his bitter guardianship played directly into the shadow's plans?

“This changes everything. Silas isn't just another Ashworth to test. He might be our last chance to break a cycle that's been poisoning both realms for centuries.” Rowan's practical voice cut through Thorne's spiral.

“If we can protect him long enough to understand the truth,” Oak Queen added.

“Which brings us to our choice.” The Elder Willow's gaze fixed on Thorne. “The dream-sharing must continue. It's our best weapon against the shadow's influence, our only chance to show Silas the full scope of what he faces.”

Thorne's form flickered violently. “Interesting, how quickly the council changes its mind. Not long ago, you warned me against this very thing. Called it dangerous, reckless, a risk to both realms.” His power lashed out, causing nearby seedlings to wither. “Yet now that we've seen the consequences, now that we know exactly how dangerous it is, suddenly it's our best weapon?”

“Guardian,” Rowan started, but Thorne cut him off.

“No. I want to hear the explanation for this. When it was my suggestion, it was too risky. When it nearly shattered my defenses, that was apparently acceptable collateral damage. But now that the great Elder Willow suggests it, we're all meant to nod sagely and accept the wisdom?”

The council chamber grew deathly quiet. Even the elemental lords, usually indifferent to emotional displays, seemed to hold their breath.

“You're right,” the Elder Willow said softly, and the simple admission stopped Thorne's building rage. “We were wrong to dismiss your initial instinct. You sensed what needed to be done, even if you didn't fully understand why.”

“That's not-”

“It is.” She moved closer, her root-feet barely touching the ground. “Your connection to Silas already existed. The dream-sharing didn't create it - it merely revealed what was already there. Just as it revealed the true nature of what we face.”

Thorne felt his anger deflate, replaced by something more complicated. “The entity. You knew it would show itself if I opened that connection.”

“I suspected,” she corrected. “But knowing and understanding are different things. We needed to see its full nature before we could know how to fight it.”

“But each shared memory weakens our barriers,” Thorne argued, though with less heat now. “Creates new connections the entity can exploit. You felt how it grew stronger just from one night's sharing.”

“Then we must choose our memories carefully,” Rowan said, stepping forward to bridge the tension. “Show him enough to recognize the danger, but not so much that we break our own defenses.”

Thorne's form flickered as he considered the possibilities. He could show Silas the warning signs that preceded Marcus's betrayal, the first stirrings of darkness that went unrecognized until too late. But those memories carried their own poison.

“Or,” the Elder Willow suggested, reading his thoughts, “you could show him what's possible. The harmony that existed before fear took root. The power of trust freely given and honored.”

“Those memories make us more vulnerable, not less,” Thorne protested.

“There is a third path.” The Elder Willow's voice held ancient certainty. “Show him both, not as observed scenes, but through your direct experience. Let him feel what it meant to trust, and what it cost to have that trust broken.”

The council chamber erupted in concerned whispers. What the Elder Willow suggested went beyond simple dream-sharing. It would require Thorne to lower every barrier he'd built over centuries, to make himself as vulnerable as he'd been before the betrayal.

“That's suicide,” Rowan said bluntly. “The entity would have direct access to both your powers, your emotions, everything that gives it strength.”

“Yes,” the Elder Willow agreed. “And that very vulnerability might be what finally breaks its power. Some poisons can only be drawn out by first admitting how deeply they've wounded us.”

Dawn light crept into the chamber as Thorne wrestled with the choice. Each option carried devastating risks. Show too little, and Silas might stumble blindly into the shadow's trap. Show too much, and they might give the entity exactly what it needed to manifest fully.

But there was something else, something he hadn't admitted even to himself. In that first shared dream, he'd felt Silas's genuine desire to understand, to heal rather than command. So different from Marcus's carefully hidden ambition.

“I'll do it,” he said finally. “The full sharing. But we need to strengthen the grove's barriers first. If this goes wrong”

“If this goes wrong, none of our barriers will matter anyway,” the Elder Willow finished. “Sometimes the only way forward is through our deepest fears.”

The council dissolved as the first true rays of sunlight pierced the canopy. Each ancient spirit departed with their own concerns, their own preparations to make. Soon only Thorne and the Elder Willow remained in the chamber.

“You know what this might cost,” she said softly.

“Yes.” Thorne watched his own form shift between shadow and substance, still unstable from just one night of sharing. “But you're right. The cycle has to break somewhere. And maybe it's fitting that it breaks through trust freely given, even knowing it might be betrayed again.”

The Elder Willow's smile held centuries of wisdom. “Or perhaps knowing that this time, it won't be.”