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CHAPTER XLVI

LIR

The sun, passion-filled, broke the heart of night each dawn. And so, too, did the night run weeping this morning as Lir collapsed into a bed of pelts in one of Simril tower’s wings.

He’d knocked off his boots, tossed his ritter onto a nearby chair, and unbuckled his belt, sparing not a moment longer to throw himself into sleep. But the moment Lir closed his eyes, he saw her.

Lir turned, immediately locking eyes with Aisling.

She was a star: shining and commanding the green earth below. The berry-black of her curls a mouthwatering variance from the ivory of her robes, the hem floating around her ankles like a halo.

Both mind and heart stuttered, blinking to ensure she was real and not an unholy specter. He hadn’t anticipated she’d follow him to Simril’s falls, but with retrospect, he should have.

The violet of her eyes studied him from where she stood. And despite the distance, the intensity of her gaze struck him like a reed, his hand drifting to his heart without thinking.

The memory of Simril falls clung to Lir and Lir to the memory, thinking of it again and again—cursed to wonder endlessly what Aisling saw when she looked at him. Even now—after he tossed in his bed after he’d woken in the middle of the night—he struggled to sort out his thoughts.

The door to his chamber creaked open. The Sidhe king stilled.

He’d heard her footsteps in his half sleep and smelled the lavender of her soaps before she even flipped the door’s latch.

Aisling knocked on the door before fully opening it.

Lir said not a word, rather curious to know if she would enter regardless of his silence. When they’d first arrived in the Simril Glade, the changelings had arranged a chamber at the crown of the tower for both Aisling and Lir. And the Sidhe king hadn’t the interest nor the desire to explain that the sorceress no longer loved him. That he’d sworn an oath to the high queen of the Otherworld to never act on his love for Aisling again. That he couldn’t disappear because he’d rather live on with a sword in his heart than be without her. But only if the blade was forged by her hands.

And so, he’d said nothing at all. Rather, arranging a bed for himself in this west wing tower where he could avoid Aisling in the evenings. Lir wasn’t certain what Aisling felt or remembered of their relationship, and he wasn’t armored with the courage to ask. And so, he wondered if she bore the nerve to enter his chambers uninvited.

Aisling slipped into the room like a dream. Slowly, she padded across the mosaicked tiles. Her head turned, searching for the Sidhe king between the shadows of a still reigning night. The fog of evening rendered her more fantasy than reality.

“Lir,” she said, almost a spell.

The Sidhe king caught the moment she laid eyes on him, standing from his bed of pelts.

The darkness ran its fingers over Lir as he stepped into sight, the light undressing the shadows that surrounded him. He met Aisling at the center of his rooms where the moon showered them in a pillar of silver.

Aisling looked up at him and her eyes darkened, her chin turning even as her eyes stayed, tracing the ink of his markings from his chest to his hips where he slept with only trousers. His wounds were tightly bandaged, gauze wrapping around the muscles of his arms and abdomen. The violet of Aisling’s eyes grew wet with need.

The moment Anduril had settled on Aisling’s hips, her eyes had dulled. Vacantly, she often stared for several beats, blinking as if trying and failing to rekindle the fire that once burned beneath her eyelashes.

Lir had mourned the way she looked at him now, and yet here she was, waking from the graveyard of his heart like an immortal foe.

“I wanted to inquire about your wounds,” she said, collecting herself swiftly.

Lir looked down at his burns. Still, they bled, purified by Simril’s waters despite their gnarled appearance.

“I’ll survive,” Lir said, unable to help the way the corner of his lip curled.

Aisling didn’t mirror his expression, nor did she soften. A smile received from Aisling was a victory and a laugh, a celebration. And so her stoicism now stoked his hunger to chase the high her joy inspired.

“May I?” Aisling asked, gesturing to his wounds.

Lir nodded, his smile fading as she leaned forward.

“You can relax,” Aisling said.

“I am relaxed,” Lir countered, eyes darting toward the axes at the edge of the pools and not strapped to his back. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d undone his bandolier in the presence of another, even Aisling. He hadn’t anticipated she’d come searching for him and, somehow, she’d caught him both off guard and unprepared.

Like ink, Aisling’s hair slipped over her left shoulder as she leaned further.

“Do these—” She hesitated, eyes flicking to his before falling once more to her trembling fingertips. “Do these still pain you?” she asked.

Lir nodded his head, his heart thumping in his throat.

Torturously, Aisling’s nails brushed his bare flesh, tracing the edge of his wounds with her fingertips as if exploring their violence.

Lir shut his eyes, his entire body stiffening like stone.

Aisling paused, biting her bottom lip before speaking. “I can stop if you’re?—”

“No,” Lir said, despising himself for saying it so quickly. He hungered for her touch. For the smell of her dusky perfume, the sound of her voice, the vibration of her draiocht rubbing against his own when she was near. And he knew she felt it too. Felt it and didn’t understand its energy: an intense compulsion to move closer to the other—to let go and sink their teeth into one another’s magic.

Thankfully, Simril Glade was a sacred haven of both serenity and peace. Those forces did well against the might of Aisling and Lir’s bond but couldn’t stifle their energy entirely.

Aisling resumed her work, growing more confident as she continued. Finally, she reached the worst of the blisters scarring the side of his abdomen. Her eyes grew wide till all the whites were visible, her fingers freezing in place.

“So this is what mortal fire does to Sidhe flesh,” Aisling said, running her eyes over the gory mess. Indeed, Lir healed swiftly and efficiently from all wounds unless they were dealt by either iron or fire. And this time, even Leshy’s tears had struggled to mend him fully.

“I knew,” Aisling confessed, “but never have I seen it up close.”

Aisling didn’t remember. Didn’t remember him or the experiences they’d shared. For Aisling had seen the destruction of her flames on Sidhe flesh up close—several times before. Scars Lir cherished. Anduril demanded she forget Lir, attempting to unravel all that’d inspired her love for the dark lord.

Lir clenched his jaw, turning his head away instinctively.

Aisling frowned, considering the Sidhe king through tired eyes.

“Why can’t I remember you?” Aisling asked at last. The question took Lir off guard, demanding his full attention. In some capacity, Aisling was aware all was not as it should be.

You do not need to remember. He is only destruction. He is only your loss , Anduril said, buzzing hotly, speaking more quickly.

“Sometimes,” Lir said, as matter-of-factly as he could manage, “it is better to forget.”

“But, you haven’t forgotten,” Aisling said. Her violet eyes devoured him—the intensity of her gaze, overwhelming.

“No,” Lir confessed, “I haven’t.”

Against his own volition, the Sidhe king’s eyes wandered toward her lips. Raspberry red, they hid two growing fangs, sparkling with hunger. Lir swallowed, swatting away thoughts of his own fangs chewing on her bottom lip.

“Promise me you’ll never love Aisling again.” Niamh said, her voice strained and quick. “Promise me you’ll let Aisling go.”

“I promise,” Lir said and the Forge boomed like a drum, snapping lightning and thunder in its fury, threatening to crack the skies in half. The Other and the mortal plane both, trembling with the finality of their high bargain .

The memory struck Lir like an arrow. He hissed from the pain of it, his nose wrinkling.

Aisling startled, pulling back her fingers.

“Did I hurt you?” she asked. And had it not been for their circumstances, Lir might’ve laughed. There were few souls in this realm or the next that could inflict pain on the Sidhe king, but none amongst them did so as brutally as did Aisling.

“You should return to your chambers,” Lir said instead. “We’ll travel to Castle Yillen at dawn.”

Aisling pinched her lips together, brow furrowing.

“Who was the creature that stood before the falls this evening?” Aisling asked, not moving an inch. She spoke confidently, her words as clear as a bell struck. “For the creature that cradled that mortal bairn was not the creature that stands before me now.”

Lir’s eyebrows raised. He wasn’t certain of what to say. They hadn’t spoken of Simril falls and he had no desire to.

“Don’t ask questions you won’t like the answers to,” Lir said.

“I do not ask so I might enjoy the answer,” Aisling argued. “I ask because I simply wish to know it—regardless of how I might feel.”

Lir turned his head to the side, preferring to stare at the dome of the astronomy tower than her violet glare. Eyes that would scald him should he deny her.

“Should a forge-born child endure an untimely death, the galleon will sail them into the Other for eternal peace. Mortal bairns are not awarded the same afterlife,” Lir explained reluctantly.

“Where do mortals go when they pass?” Aisling asked.

“I know not,” Lir admitted. “Some believe they shrivel to ash and nothing more. Others believe they reincarnate on the mortal plane until the end of time. And still, others believe they sail to a land of their own making, beyond the clouds.”

“What do you believe?” Aisling pushed.

Lir exhaled, running his fingers through his hair.

“I believe their afterlife is different from our own. That even in death, the Sidhe and mortals are cleaved apart. Perhaps the gods created a land for good-hearted mortals—if you believe in such a thing—after Ina’s mistakes. It’s impossible to tell,” Lir said.

“So why?” Aisling continued, not wasting a breath. “Why cradle those mortal bairns beneath the falls only to return them back to whence they came?”

Lir shook his head. “Those bairns do not return.”

Aisling’s expression pinched, puzzled.

“Under my reign,” Lir said, his voice roughening against his volition, “whether their blood is laced in iron or the draiocht , no bairn shall be forsaken. Even in death. And so, the changelings bring the deceased human children to the Simril Glade where I then bless each one, gifting them a fae name by which they’ll peacefully enter the Other.”

Aisling blinked repeatedly, visibly sorting through Lir’s words.

Lir would’ve given anything to read her thoughts. Aisling understood him as a monster, this much Lir knew. So, what did she think of him now?

Lir watched her through the shifting moonlight—a veil that teased his eyes.

“You’ve bewitched me,” Aisling said finally. Her words rang through the tower, cutting to the center of their mischief. “I don’t know for what reason or what cause, but I’ve recognized your tricks.” Aisling narrowed her eyes, her voice like black wines. “I can feel you beneath my skin,” she continued. “I can hear your voice between my thoughts. And I can”–– she hesitated, seemingly catching her breath––“taste you on the tip of my tongue.”

Lir’s eyes cut to Aisling’s lips. A compulsion he didn’t care to fight. His chest rising and falling with every new, deep breath.

“I can feel the hand of your spell choking your name from my memory, squeezing while I beg. Still, it holds me down, staking me through the heart.”

She moved closer, the ends of her hair dipping into the water.

Lir’s expression bloomed darkly. Aisling’s magic went beyond flame and common charms or spells. Every glance, every word was witchery itself. And so when she spoke, Lir fell to the knee at her altar.

“Do you deny it?” Aisling asked, the edge of her lips closer to his own than he remembered them being seconds ago.

“Not if you’re confessing your heart to me.” Lir smiled, his accent thicker the faster his mind raced.

“Don’t toy with me,” Aisling growled, her tone, a contrast to the tilt of her neck so its supple edge shone in the moonlight.

They shared a heavy breath, lips a thread’s width apart.

Fate was humming, spelling them together. Lir could hear the laughter in its voice as it worked, humming louder and louder until Lir feared Simril’s Glade would burn. His draiocht scratching at the walls of his consciousness as if trapped in a jar. The sound of its claws against the glass, unbearable.

“Rest,” Lir commanded by a miracle, and he’d despise himself for it for another millennium. He turned his back to her, tearing her hands away from his bandages. With her so near, touching him as she did, he’d lost the ability to cloak his true feelings. He’d made an oath, and even if it killed him, he was bound to uphold it. And this temptation—this torture of her proximity––forced Lir to wonder if he’d survive his promise to Niamh and the Forge or if perhaps a death, intertwined with her, was preferable.

Still, Aisling remained, watching him quietly.

“Were these scars forged by my magic as well?” Aisling asked.

Lir closed his eyes, exhaling. He didn’t need to ask what she referenced. His shoulder blades were grossly scarred where his wings had been taken.

“My commands aren’t suggestions, sorceress,” Lir said, ignoring Aisling’s questions.

“Command me something else then,” Aisling offered, her voice lowering.

Lir forced himself to remain still. If he turned and faced her…he wasn’t certain what would become of them both.

She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, lazily traveling down the length of his arm. She traced every muscled curve with her fingertips, followed shortly after by her nails.

Lir swallowed, his tongue a stone in his mouth.

“Command me,” she repeated as she moved closer to him, her lips brushing against his spine. Lir shuddered, unsure whether this was dream or nightmare incarnate.

The Sidhe king shut his eyes tightly, bracing himself. The need to resist, thinning by the breathful.

Lir turned, bending to her will.

She stood before him, half-soaked by the light of the stars shimmering from the dome above. Her robes and hair stuck to her body, mercilessly exposing her figure and the flesh beneath.

Lir jerked his head away, averting his eyes, fangs grinding into his tongue.

Wicked as a wolf, Aisling grinned. Her red lips spread apart, and Lir imagined his tongue between them, tasting her dark, effervescent magic.

Aisling grabbed his jaw and gently turned his head so he faced her once more.

Lir held his breath, eyes half-closed by her opiate.

“Command me,” Aisling said again, “before I command you.”

A muscle flashed across Lir’s jaw.

“Either way, you’ll do as you like,” he said, his voice not his own. Thick, raspy, and heavy as wine.

“Is that what you’re waiting for?” Aisling asked, placing her palm flat against the center of his chest. Lir’s draiocht shivered, chilled to the bone. Pupils drowning his iris in black.

With whatever wisdom remained, Lir grabbed her wrist and held it in place. This way, she was unable to stroke the hard angles of his abdomen.

Aisling stood on her tiptoes, craning her neck so her mouth barely pressed against his throat as she spoke.

Suddenly , Aisling hissed with pain, doing her best to obscure the sound from Lir’s ear. But the Sidhe king heard it regardless the moment Anduril emitted a soft luster that burned like a blade dipped in the Great Forge of Creation itself.

He cursed beneath his breath, able to smell Anduril’s magic but not hear it, fearing what whispers it spun inside Aisling’s mind.

Lir leaned into her touch, the will to resist her, melting and dripping between his fingertips.

She lifted her head, bringing her mouth to his. Lir pulled back but only slightly. The distance between them fathomless, so long as they weren’t wholly intertwined.

Her adrenaline smelled of ripe cherries, dripping down her chin as she bit into its flesh and succumbed to the draw of their intimacy.

Lir closed his eyes.

Their lips met, melding together effortlessly. Lir sank into the kiss, hands flying around her waist and pressing her against him. He felt her soft curves, her supple angles against him, and growled between breathfuls. He was ravenous for her.

Aisling slipped her hands around his neck. She panted against him, pushing herself against him as if to feel every line of his body against her own.

Lir groaned against his own volition.

He couldn’t…he shouldn’t.

Anduril was glowing hotly, forcing a violent reaction from Aisling as she visibly resisted its magic. Aisling focused on Lir, her pupils dilating and shrinking wildly as she fought for agency.

Lir clenched his jaw, forcing himself not to tear the Blood Cord from her body like a diseased branch on an oak. She was in pain, her mind tearing at the seams of Anduril’s and her consciousness, sewn violently together. Fury flamed inside the Sidhe King—the overwhelming urge to protect her, overcoming him as he witnessed this dark magic. He’d cut it from her if he must?—

In the midst of his anger, Aisling slipped her tongue between his teeth and Lir unraveled. He picked her up by the backs of her thighs and lifted her. She wrapped her legs around his torso, pressing herself against him as she kissed his lips hungrily, hands weaving through his dark hair.

“Who are you to me?” she said as Lir’s hands found her thighs and slid up.

“Your undoing,” Lir said, his mind lost to her. His heart blazing. His draiocht whistling with heat, begging to be unleashed.

Listen to him , Anduril roared.

But as soon as the last syllable dropped from Lir’s lips, Aisling let go and pushed herself back.

It was hot and then, in a breath, it was cold, her body no longer against his own.

And when Lir emerged from her spell—magic brewed with the spices of hers and his longing—he saw the destruction their intimacy wrought.

Flames licked the surface of the baths and beyond, the forest whipped to and fro, growing like giants before their very eyes. No longer was the moon visible beyond the great canopies of plum trees—gnarled and contorting oddly. Faces burnt into the trunks that screamed alive and thrashed as if Simril’s Glade stormed. The night, crushed by the devastating blow of a morning sun.

“And that,” Aisling said, wiping her bottom lip as she stepped back from him, “is all I needed to know.”

Lir flinched as if physically struck. Aisling had deceived him. Seduced him for answers. He’d been a fool to believe she’d want him despite Anduril who still muddied her mind. And yet, he’d known that. Known that and succumbed to his desire for her regardless.

“Be well, dark lord,” she said as she climbed the bath stairs and rose from the waters, her robes sticking to her legs. Her every movement, feline. “Be well and think twice before you bewitch me again.”