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CHAPTER XXV

LIR

“Is there no way to remove it?” Lir asked the fox.

Cara’s expression pinched, his paws fiddling with the edge of his cloak.

“Only the wearer can remove the Blood Cord from their body. It must be of their will and no others.”

Lir cursed.

“How can it be by the will of the wearer if the Blood Cord transforms their will entirely?”

Cara frowned. “It is the nature of magic to take as much as it gives. This much, you already know, mo Damh Bán .”

Lir clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth together. His draiocht tossed with frustration, snapping and clawing for release. The forest felt it too—the trees whipping their heads to the rhythm of his anger.

Lir turned on his boot, bidding one last farewell to the fox. Aisling was waiting for him and Anduril’s keen eye would breed suspicion in her heart if he stalled too long. He felt the battle the belt waged in Aisling’s mind. How it twisted his words, his image, and her memories till Aisling couldn’t recognize truth from deceit. It was enough to drive Lir mad by the mere influence of its proximity.

The Sidhe king stepped into the rain and lifted Aisling onto Geld’s saddle. She obliged, sitting straight-backed before him so as not to touch him more than was necessary. The lavender of her perfume and soaps mercilessly wafted and overwhelmed his senses. If he could, he’d rip Anduril from her body and crush its metal to dust. If he could, he’d tip her chin up so her lips met his mouth. If he could, he’d remove every plate of armor, every bit of chainmail, every strip of leather, and memorize her. If he could, he’d listen to her speak till the sun rose. He’d watch her cast petty spells in silence. He’d be close to her. If he could, he’d love her.

But he couldn’t.

Lir, Aisling, and Geld trekked through the forests of the Other, its cliffsides, and its mountain ranges, making quick work of the path they’d intended to travel. Lir trusted the trees when he bore no other option but mostly referenced Fiacha’s stars to guide him. They pointed northward, through the misty planes of what the yews called Kaster: a vast and sparkling meadow, wealthy with cornflowers, Imbolc lilies, and bulbs of greenmary. The walnut trees that punctuated these fields slept peacefully, snoring alongside the creatures that hid in its knots and bends—a faith-filled sign Kaster was a safe enough place to rest for the night.

“ Ellwyn ,” Lir whispered to Aisling. She hadn’t spoken in several hours, sitting silently before him as they rode. “ Ellwyn ,” Lir repeated when she didn’t answer.

The Sidhe king shifted, peering over Aisling’s shoulder and at her face. Her eyes, gently shut, twitched with dreams. He’d wondered why her breath had grown deep and steady, but he hadn’t believed she’d be capable of rest on Geld’s saddle. Riding was not for the faint of heart, but it appeared Anduril’s strength had proven useful in this one capacity.

As gently as he was capable, Lir lifted Aisling into his arms. She stirred and Lir held his breath, watching her lips pucker with conversation. The realm of dreams had ensorcelled her fully, immersing her in another world entirely. She convulsed softly, her body forgetting that only her spirit moved in its parallel realm.

The Sidhe king slipped off Geld, carrying Aisling beneath the arms and knees. Her head rolled back, so Lir adjusted her till her cheek pressed against his chest.

“ Samsaral ,” Lir said. Obedient, the draiocht responded, blooming a plush bed of mage’s moss. He set the sorceress down in the shadow of a walnut tree, crowning her head with violets as she settled into the emerald cushions he’d summoned.

Geld lowered to his knees and rocked himself to sleep as well. Midnight beetles and opal snails climbing up the stag’s pelt. They cleaned the beast’s furs of dirt and debris from their travels, polishing his hooves and antlers.

Lir lowered himself beside Aisling, leaving a space between them. Still, he watched her, eyes fluttering shut with exhaustion.

The Sidhe king slept hard, waking just before dawn bled across the horizon.

Lir blinked, adjusting himself to morning. The sun was already breaking and spilling across the sky. He’d overslept and he was still groggy. The Sidhe king propped himself up on his elbows, immediately searching for Aisling.

She lay next to him still, sound asleep, but to Lir’s horror, no longer was the sorceress uncovered.

Grin mushrooms grew from her skin, from the moss, from the fertile soil of Kaster. Pale as bones, the plant bled from sharp, tooth-like edges, pointed enough to cut. But it was the aroma of its scarlet sap that dealt the greatest damage. A syrup of bottled rot, some called it—if you were brave enough to collect it and stopper the bottle before the first whiff entered the nostrils and began its death-bidden work.

A rot—a disease that didn’t belong in the Other.

Lir’s chest tightened with dread.

Almost buried, Aisling’s chest rose and fell with the fungus bleeding atop her armor. Consuming her. Geld was similarly cloaked by the disease, lulled asleep by its poison. Only Lir had been spared, the grin tracing his body but never touching him—as if afraid of his might should they bite into his life breath. Rot and disease was a mortal machination. The Other suffered no death, only life eternal, and so did the Sidhe. Lir himself was the antithesis of such poison. He, the bloom and not the wilt. Only he, spared.

Lir cursed.

The Sidhe king sprang from the moss and lunged for Aisling. He ripped the bleeding tooth from her skin, but for every mushroom torn, three more grew in its place.

No, no, no, no . Lir’s fear transformed to anger and then panic, clawing at the disease like a rabid dweller. He gritted his teeth, ignoring the heat pressing the backs of his eyes.

“Not our will , mo Damh Bán ,” the walnut groaned above him. Lir glanced up, staring at the tree for the first time. It, too, was overcome with bleeding tooth. The fungus had overcome everything and all, taking the life of the Other and rendering it to rot.

“This is not of the Other,” the walnut choked beneath grisly, haggard breaths. “This is a mortal contagion seeping through the cracks.”

Lir blanched.

Mortal contagion.

“What do you speak of?” Lir asked, his voice stripped bare by his fury and fear alike.

“They’re coming, mo Damh Bán ,” the walnut said, blackening before his eyes. Darkening like old blood on the belly of a blade. The walnut tree was dying. Its life sucked from its bones by the vampirism of death’s grin. “They’re coming.”

Lir dove into the mushrooms around Aisling and ripped her from the earth. The pace of her heart was slowing and her breath was thinning. Soon, the rot would take her too.

Lir screamed, uncertain what else to do. He bore limitless draiocht , unmatched strength, twin blades gifted by the gods themselves, and still he couldn’t spare her. Couldn’t stop the grin that grew even as he tore their buds from her freckled flesh.

“Aisling!” He screamed again and again with none to bear witness but the meadow of Kaster. Even Anduril’s glimmer was extinguished, consumed by the maggots, the spiders, and the infection as was Aisling.

Lir looked over his shoulder, searching Kaster for an answer. There was nothing and no one. The meadow was populated by only chattering flowers, and beyond, only dense forest as far as the eye could see.

Lir leaped to his feet and raced toward Geld. The stag, covered in grin as well, breathed slowly. The great barrel of his belly swelling as the fungus devoured him. Lir tore through the rot, digging for the satchels Cara had prepared for them. Mushrooms exploded where Lir searched, growing between his fingers, crawling up his arms, his shoulders, desperately trying to latch onto his throat, his face, his hair but failing and falling once they tasted a morsel of his life-giving magic. Still, Lir ripped at the rot, diving into the disease until he could curl his fingers around the nearest satchel.

Lir pulled and flew away from the stag with a single bag in hand. He opened it, ignoring the rot that still fell from his body, and squirmed on the ground around him. He dug through Cara’s supplies.

Blackberry swords, mint salves, belle figs, wild milk thorns, broad leaf, briar balms. Nothing, nothing, nothing, until Lir’s fingers wrapped around a glass box. The Sidhe king almost crushed the delicate thing between his hands in his frenzy, fingertips trembling as he snapped the box open.

A single dose of morning breath: an elixir to cleanse the body of contaminants, infections, and disease.

Lir’s heart took flight inside his chest. His cheeks flushed, blood rushing through his veins like frothing rapids.

The Sidhe king scrambled to Aisling, all his elegance and ease gone and replaced with utter desperation.

Lir clawed at the grin once more and once more the grin grew more thickly. No longer could Lir see Aisling. She was a mound of white, bleeding grin. Its toothy smile mocked him, swallowing Aisling whole as he bore witness.

The Sidhe king drew his axes. He swiped at the grin, hacking at the rot with his teeth bared. At last, between the fungus, her face shone. Delicate, sleeping, and serene, she lay in her hungry grave.

Lir moved quicker than he believed possible, adrenaline pulsing through his body as he neared her, reaching for her, until, at last, he could bring the morning breath to her lips. Three droplets fell and slid down her tongue.

Lir waited, watched, fought past the growing grin even now. Nothing was happening. The elixir wasn’t working.

Dread filled the Sidhe king, bottomless and black. He shook his head.

She wasn’t drinking the elixir, still fast and hard asleep. Several sky-blue droplets leaking from the corners of her mouth.

No, no, no, no .

Lir—perhaps driven mad by his desperation—tipped the elixir back and filled his mouth. He cut through the grin one more time, holding his breath as he brought his lips to Aisling and kissed her.

Gently, the Sidhe king spilled the elixir from his mouth to hers. Lir wasn’t certain how long they lay in the meadow of Kaster, his lips to hers. He only knew that if they both died there, buried in the forest’s death, he’d be happy he’d died beside her.