Page 6 of The Mortal Queen

“I’m not your queen,” Aisling said, her smile fading as she shifted her attention to the throng of fair folk celebrating with renewed energy, stomping their feet, singing wildly, hollering, cheering, dancing like animals. Their bodies pressed so near together. Aisling’s hands grew slick around her dagger, folded away in her skirts. “I’m theirs,” she said, meeting the prince’s eyes.

A muscle flickered across Dagfin’s jaw. That unfamiliar, untapped anger swimming in the oceans of his eyes. Eyes that never strayed from Aisling’s own, searching her with an intensity she’d never grow accustomed to.

“You shouldn’t be.” And, although he hadn’t fully expressed it, Aisling knew what he meant: she should be his queen. A queen of Roktling, ruling over the coastal kingdom when the day came for Dagfin to inherit his own father’s throne. Their marriage would’ve been prompted by politics, just as the one she’d now undergone had been. Nevertheless, there’d been a comfort in knowing she’d one day marry an old friend and now guilt that they hadn’t. That she’d wed anotherbefore his very eyes. Perhaps Dagfin felt similarly.

“Your father is wrong for this.” He’d said it so abruptly, Aisling straightened, startled.

“You shouldn’t speak that way about Nemed. Not here. Not anywhere. It doesn’t matter if you’ve sailed the eleven seas, he’d punish you for such a tongue.”

“I’m not worried about Nemed. Because of this”—Dagfin gestured towards the celebration spinning around them—“he can burn in the Forge for all I care.”

Out of habit, Aisling’s eyes darted towards her father, afraid he might overhear their conversation. Thankfully he was far enough away, their voices cloaked by the revelry and music. Still, Aisling was well aware Nemed bore eyes and ears in all corners. Even if one believed themselves to be entirely alone.

“And you, Aisling,” Dagfin continued, “the days of running from your father’s scoldings are done and gone. He’ll pale in comparison to your enemies going forward. You mustn’t hesitate to defend yourself, protect yourself, find ways to survive amongst them.”

“The peace contract ensures my safety?—”

“Enough of contracts, of peace treaties, of political alliances. Your journey from here on out cannot rely on the words of kings written in the name of power.” Dagfin moved closer to her, anger carving out every inflection. “I’ve spent this last year searching for a way out of this for you, and in this effort I’ve failed you.”

“Fin—”

“If you ever feel you’re in danger, if ever you need an escape, Ash, write to me. I’ll find a way. I offered to run away with you once and you denied me; that offer still stands, will always stand.”

Aisling stared at her friend, searching—despite not knowing quite what she was searching for. These words were blasphemous to Tilren, to Nemed, to all of the North, and any effort to spare Aislingfrom committing this sacrifice was an effort in vain.

And despite all the thoughts, feelings—rage, regret she’d never consciously acknowledged—drowning Aisling’s lungs, all she managed was, “This is my duty, Fin.”

And indeed, it was her duty, her purpose, to ensure the union between fair folk and mankind remained intact until the day she died. The marriage hadn’t been her choice, but this was the circumstance she’d been dealt. She could—she would––make her tuath proud and all of Rinn Dúin.

Dagfin’s expression twisted as if Aisling had cursed his name. As though she’d rebuked him and all their experiences lived together thus far. An urge to reach out to him tugged at her heart. She wanted to cradle his cheek with the palm of her hand, but she sat still. Arms suddenly as heavy as the monoliths that surrounded them.

“So be it,” Dagfin said, his voice frosted over like the Roktan shores come winter. Cold enough to send a shiver down Aisling’s spine.

Before she could respond, Dagfin looked past the princess. His eyes narrowed, expression darkening as he considered a figure approaching from behind. Somehow angrier than it had been moments before. The fae king was nearing, pacing forward like a wolf pads across the forest floor. He ignored the prince, his knowing eyes searching Aisling’s own then dropping to the little space left between herself and Dagfin.

Instinctively, Aisling leaned away from the Roktan prince. Was such nearness just as inappropriate amongst the Aos Sí as it was amongst the mortals? Dagfin and Aisling were only friends, childhood playmates. They’d even held hands since they were toddlers, but the fae king wasn’t aware of such history.

Before Aisling could utter a word, Dagfin was standing. Aisling’s stomach plummeted. He placed his body between the fae king and Aisling, sheltering herfrom the barbarian stepping any nearer.

The fae king dragged his eyes from Aisling’s to Dagfin’s, the corners of his lips curling in amusement. And as they stood face to face, the attention of the surrounding fair folk, as well as Starn, Iarbonel, Annind, and Fergus, slowly gravitated towards the Roktan prince and fae king.

“Step aside, princeling.” The fae king’s voice was deep, every word dripping with his fae accent. Aisling considered this demon more closely. She had assumed the Aos Sí knew little if not nothing of her language. A barrier she’d dreaded until now. But she’d been wrong. The fae king spoke her tongue confidently, even more beautifully than herself.

Dagfin didn’t waver. Rather held the fae king’s gaze as he spoke. “Save your commands. You’re no king in these parts and certainly no king of mine.”

The fae king’s emerald eyes glittered with mischief, his mouth tearing into a sardonic grin. The sight of which unnerved Aisling, the image of a wolf baring its fangs.

“It wouldn’t take a title to bring you to your knees, princeling,” the fae king replied, the axes crossed behind his back glinting with promise.

The surrounding fae knights as well as Starn, Iarbonel, Fergus, and Annind inched closer, hands drifting towards the hafts of their weapons. Their rising anxiety was palpable in the evening wind. As for Dagfin, he may have outwardly appeared unfazed, but Aisling knew the signs of his cleverly masked fury, the slow closing and opening of his hands at his sides. A gesture followed by many a fight with the boys who’d teased Aisling as a child for her height, her lack of strength, her temper.

“M’ Lord,” Aisling interjected, rising to her feet and stepping forward. She now stood a shoulder before Dagfin, her friend’s reluctance to allow her to do so thick in the silence that lingered after she’d spoken.

Immediately, all eyes shifted towards the mortal queen. The fae knights. Aisling’s brothers. She’d addressed the faeking, bowing her head so her crown of braids glittered in the firelight overhead. The demon considered her with those gleaming eyes.

Aisling’s pulse quickened, hands slick despite the cool evening breeze. For without another glance at the Roktan prince, the fae king closed the distance between himself and her. Every step nearer, testing Dagfin’s impulsive will to fight. But he couldn’t stop this union from occurring nor proceeding. No one could. Their marriage sealed in the blood they’d shared from a single goblet.

“Rá an t-amt ragtha done lúra a raoire a thógáil!” A member of the fair folk shouted across the celebration, gesturing towards the fae king and Aisling, now positioned at the head of the dining table.

---