House of Wings and Roses

Chapter 9

The three of them sat around the charred remains of a makeshift fire, long since blown out by the wind shrieking through the trees.  Astoria had returned to normal, but the glint of blood on her teeth was all too visible. Her tongue flicked out to catch a stray drop, glancing up halfway through the motion as if noticing Quentin's gaze.

"So where are we going?" She asked idly, lifting a hand to clean the grit from under her fingernails.

Florian's green eyes—brighter than usual in the lingering twilight—swivelled to Quentin, tipping his head as if to ask the same question. Quentin didn't know how to answer.

"Do you hear that?" The blue-haired fae asked instead, gaze settling unnervingly on the two of them. Their faces could barely be made out against the unfolding night. "The rumbling. It's under our feet, our hands. It never stops."

He raised his head to the night and let out a breath, eyes fluttering close. "It sounds like singing."

Astoria audibly shuffled, confused by the statement. But felt rather than heard Florian's shocked intake of breath—he could hear it too. They all could; the thrum of a chorus, the pounding of hands blurring with the faintest of silvery arias. It was the first thing they heard from birth and the last thing they would hear before death. The music filled his blood, his bones, his heart, weaving and fusing with the molten time in his veins.

"The gods," Florian breathed. "You want to recruit the gods. With nothing but a half demon and a prisoner." His last word stung with venom.

Quentin said nothing, curling around the log and shutting his eyes forcibly. His lips parted to softly hum alongside the pounding in his ears, under the earth.

-

He was still humming when they found their camp, a group of dragging boots and gruff voices.

"Look what we've got 'ere, boss," one chuckled, nudging Quentin's frozen form. "A loony fae. Two others as well."

"Any loot on 'em?"

"Nothin'. Just their scrawny bodies."

"Eh, this one could be worth something. Pretty little face 'n all that." The man crouched down next to Quentin, giving him a shove. "Wake up, fairy boy."

Quentin trembled, pushing himself up with jerky swiftness and skittering away from the man, blinking to clear his disjointed vision. There were five men, all solidly built with blunt iron blades hanging at their hips. A quick glance toward's Florian revealed what he already suspected—the fae was awake, green eyes alert and assessing from his spot on the ground.

Vines slithered out from the underbrush at the same time as Quentin's voice floated over the group. "Do not harm us."

"Aw, fucking hell. One of them." Despite the first man's burly appearance, he lunged towards Quentin with unexpected speed. Not bearing a weapon—bearing iron shackles. Iron, the one fault to any fae's ability.

Florian moved, then—kicking Astoria awake and sending paredions hurtling towards the men, unfurling into deadly crimson blooms midair.

"Torches!" Someone roared. A sweep of the open flame sent fire licking across the tangling barrage of vines, searing them into nothing but ash. Florian snarled as another man surged forwards to clamp iron bands around his wrists.

The human, a tall red-haired brute, snickered and shoved him backwards. "Flowers, huh? Pretty useless."

Florian tipped his head, slitted eyes unwavering. "So useless you had to drape me in iron?"

"Touché."

"Yo, brodie. Come check this one out." It was the gruff one facing Astoria that spoke, turning to gesture towards her limp form.

Brodie snorted, kicking away the remains of the campfire as he strode towards the other. "A human?"

"Not quite," Florian chuckled softly, the sweet cadence of his voice floating over to the pair.

"What do you mean?"

The fae shot them a lopsided grin at the same time as one of the men peering at her shrieked.

"Holy shit, dude— she's been chowing down on somethin'," the man got out, his voice peaking an unnaturally high octave.

Brodie turned sharp eyes towards Florian. "Explain."

"She's human," he drawled.

The human snarled and stepped forward, the flash of a blade glinting in his gloved hand. "Speak fast, or I'll wipe that grin off your face with my knife."

Florian's smile turned feral. "She's a switchling. Hosting an entity—ancient, by the looks of it."

One of the other men swore, eyes darting from Quentin's frozen form to the girl still dead asleep. "We gotta take them to the boss."

Brodie pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing deeply before reaching down and slinging Astoria over his shoulder.

"What about us?" Quentin squeaked, his voice cracking from disuse.

"You have legs. Fucking use them," the human growled over his shoulder, nodding for the four other men to take up the back.

The group of them trudged through the gloomy underbrush, which was becoming increasingly difficult to navigate given the steady drizzle of rain now pouring through the treetops. Quentin dragged his feet through the muddy sludge, freezing droplets tracing down his face and obscuring his vision.

"Well, I guess running didn't change much in the end," he murmured, to himself or Florian, he didn't know.

But the red-haired fae glanced up at him from the corner of hid eye. "I will never forgive you for that, you know."

A sharp, wounded look crossed the other's face. "I did it to protect you!"

"You left hundreds of innocents to die."

"You couldn't have done anything!"

"You didn't let me try—"

"Look," Quentin stopped, then, stopping in the mud to face the rose adorned prince directly. "Without you, the court of thorns and roses would be extinguished completely. Now we've got two magic touched fae heirs about to be led into the human rebellion's base of operations. Don't you get it? We can stop this altogether."

He drew himself up, gaze set with a glint of something cold and righteous. When he continued, it was with diamond-cut confidence. "So I apologise for saving your sorry soul, but don't let their deaths be in vain. You're a prince—pull yourself together and act like it."

Brodie, just a short distance ahead of the pair, whistled. "Harsh words for a small fella."

Florian barely looked at him before sizing up the smaller boy, eyes slitted with savage rage. "You have no fucking right to speak those words at me. What makes you think you could keep going after the death of innocents in your name—"

"Because I have." Quentin spat. He was drenched, shivering, droplets slipping down the sides of his face as he faced off the other. "And I'm still going. Do you know how awful it was to go through that not only once, but twice? Except now the blood is on my hands."

Florian just stared, the fiery anger in his eyes shutting into something cold and emotionless. "You should have been brave. We should have been brave."

Quentin turned away. He couldn't tell if the droplets catching on his eyelashes were tears or rain. "Nobody's brave in this world, Florian," he said softly, before trudging after their human capturers.