Page 26 of A Reign of Roses
Envy soared in my own chest. Longing. Sharp, splitting anguish.
What I’d give for detachment.
And the decaying leaves crunching loudly underfoot, fragments of red and gold like faded confetti. And the sun too bright on my weak eyes and cracked lips.
And…perhaps there was no point in taking another step.
Nothing would bring Arwen back. And I was a selfish fucking bastard. I always had been. What shit did I give about the realms or my father or any of it?
I didn’t want to be alive. I wanted to be with Arwen, and live if that was the only means to do so. Perhaps I’d end myself right now and let the worms feast. Perhaps I’d find her in the nothingness.
Despite how achingly appealing oblivion sounded—how my boots had stalled, how my hands had begun to shake from sheer exhaustion—I stalked for the sentry towers on reticent legs.
It would be an insult to her memory to give up now. An insult to her bravery. Her hope.
Shadowhold’s walls were surrounded by the sentries—raised stone turrets that were manned all day and night, poised and ready to sound the alarm against anything meandering in my woods that shouldn’t be.
“My king?”
The soldier that called down had found me before I’d found him.
I squinted up into the vibrant canopy until I could make out the stone battlement and the dark, skeletal face poking out of it. The man lifted the vicious helmet from his head and appraised me with something like awe.
Did I look that broken down? Had they not thought I would return?
Did I blame them?
A blaring horn sounded. Boomed through the forest and into the keep ahead. When I moved past a copse of dark, gnarled trees, wrought-iron gates wrenched open before me with a creak. That wrenching sounded like the first notes of a song I’d memorized long ago.
Behind them, my gothic castle loomed.
Shadowhold.
All the stained-glass windows lit from within, my banners and spires and stonework, etched and carved with such care. The sea of colorful wartime tents. A fortress I’d made into a home not only for myself, and for her, but for so many innocent mortals and halflings. Men and women and children who had built full, satisfying lives here.
And some ego, some pride didn’t want them to see me limp through the gates.
Didn’t want all of those people who’d relied on me to protect them, some of whom had crossed the channel with me and fled Lumera for a better life, to see their king ravaged by heartache and frostbite. Bruised and starved and damaged.
So I stood at the keep’s precipice, frozen anew, my feet unwilling to propel me forward nor back as the horn’s tune blared, signaling my return.
Still as death itself. Weaker than I’d ever felt.
The men in the barracks lowered their swords and crossbows and legs of meat. The women and children with apples and gourds halted at the brutal sight of me.
Silence rent the brisk autumn air.
One single glossy red apple toppled from a dropped wicker basket and rolled across the dry grass.
Thousands of eyes held mine. Not one person moved, or spoke, or so much as shifted. I wondered if they, too, were holding their breath.
And then, though I couldn’t fathom why, one thick, heavy-browed soldier in only half his full armor knelt. A single knee pressed down to the dirt, helmet in his hands, eyes focused on me.
Before I could react, two soldiers beside him followed suit. Kneeling, removing their helmets. Gazes steadfast and unflinching.
Like a mighty ocean wave, cresting slowly and then crashing all at once—the entire barracks stooped to their knees before me. A sea of men, women, children—soldiers, nobles, farmhands—bowing before their wayward king, returned home to them.Forthem.
And it was that truth that moved my feet down the wide avenue between all the kneeling faces. That truth that made my eyes burn and my throat bob.
