Page 22 of The Longing

For the first time since I got here, entirely involuntarily, anger bubbles up within me. I run at him with a roar, slamming my fists into his broad chest.

“Howdareyou leave me here on my own without even saying goodbye!” I yell as I pound on the unyielding flesh. “You can’tdothat. You can’t bring me here and leave me alone.”

A growl ripples through his chest, and I feel a hand wrap around my waist. Which is when I remember the towel.

The one I found in another room. The one I wrapped around myself instead of the big dress which was getting on my nerves. The one which clings to my every curve.

“Female, desist,” Fenrother rumbles. “I have been out hunting for meat. And where is your garment?”

“It’s…I…oh!” I exclaim as I lift my head to look at him and spot the old woman out of the corner of my eye.

An old woman dressed in grey and brown, her clothing is shapeless, covering her from head to toe. She leans on a short, stubby stick, the handle of which is intricately carved with designs I can’t quite make out. Her long, curly hair, white peppered with grey, pokes out from a rather natty printed scarf in direct contrast to the dull colours of the rest of her outfit. She has a kind face, crinkled with age.

Of all the creatures I’ve met so far in the Yeavering, she provides by far the best impression. Although she might yet offer me a shiny apple from the woven wicker basket she carries, so I decide to reserve judgement.

“I came because I thought I was needed, but perhaps not?” she says in a rheumy voice with a glint of mischief.

Fenrother nearly jumps a foot in the air, his body flinching badly as he too sees her.

“You,” he growls. “What are you doing in my castle?”

“Oh Wyrm, you don’t need an answer to that question,” she says with mirth infusing her voice as she gazes around.

“I do,” Fenrother snarls. “And I will have it, or I will bite you in half, crone.”

“Less of the crone, I’ll thank you.” The old woman straightens and puts her stick in front of her like a weapon. “Meg of Maldon, if you please, as you well ken, Fenrother.”

Fenrother lifts his lips to reveal his fangs. “No witches here. Leave, now.”

He has not released my waist. If anything, he clutches me tighter.

“I am here to help you, Wyrm, and your female.” She turns, inspects a stone shelf behind her, and then sits like she’s here for the duration. “Although, perhaps I am not as needed as I thought I would be.” She eyes where Fenrother has hold of me.

And the towel which is slipping under pressure.

“The last thing I require in my life is another Faerie, even a half Faerie,” Fenrother growls. “I have brought food for my mate, and I intend on feeding her.”

I look between him and her. “I am here, you know.”

Fenrother’s attention returns, mostly to where the towel is slipping. “I know,” he rumbles.

His voice goes right through me, reverberating in my core and making parts of me tingle. It’s probably because I’m gripped tightly to him, no other reason, andnothingto do with the fact being left alone in this castle for twenty-four hours has driven me half mad.

“You need me, Wyrm.” Meg sighs. “If you’re to do as the queen requires.”

At the mention of the queen, a snarl is ripped out of Fenrother. “She sent you?” A set of vicious claws appears on his free hand.

Meg laughs, and it’s about as far from a witchy cackle as I could imagine. Instead it tinkles through the air like music.

“I do not bow to the queen,” she says, and her words carry an element of danger which I think Fenrother can feel as his body tenses. “I am beholden to no one save myself.”

“Worse than being beholden to the queen,” Fenrother says, almost as if he’s oblivious to the threat she poses and the way the air seems charged. “A rogue Faerie halfling has no place in my domain.”

“Ah,” she says as some of the threat dissipates, “but you’d know all about the rogue Faerie, wouldn’t you?”

Fenrother wrinkles his nose. “I did what was required of me in the Night Lands and nothing more.”

Meg grunts ambivalently and gets to her feet painfully, using the stick to assist.

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