Page 9 of A Crown So Cursed
Mortal.
Day.
I.
Have.
Borne.
Without.
Her.
More than twenty-two years have passed since I last glimpsed Gwendolyn’s face, and still the pain of our parting hasn’t dulled one gob. It has simply transformed, reshaping itself into this cancerous sorrow that spreads through my veins with every beat of my immortal heart.
How old is she now?
Forty-one? Two?
Her life will pass in the blink of an eye, and regardless, I will love her at seventy, her blue eyes dulled by age, and even into the grave, when there is naught left but bones.
And make no mistake, Iwouldcrawl into that tomb, and there remain if I could.
Do you think I would not?
If so, then you have forgotten I am a monster—a sordid creature only saved by the heart that now beats only for her. No empyreal decree nor courtly machination can steer the course of a love so deep, so all-consuming, it does not recognize the passing of decades, but grows stronger with each passing day.
If I could command it so, I would halt time’s relentless march, keeping her vibrant and fierce, with laughter that could light the darkest corners of any realm.
But I cannot.
And I have already put off this decision for too long.
Lirael’s eyes brighten as I shove my arse out of the throne.
Joy?
Triumph?
I curse silently, imagining the machinations to come.
She is her father’s daughter, after all, and whilst she might have presented a facade of gentility to this court, I know that gleam in her eyes—a blinding, diamond-hard ambition that outshines any jewel in this hall. But this is a malady that consumes us all. We are Fae, and greed is the marrow of our bones, the root of our banishment, the silent architect of every wound we have ever caused or suffered. We are not creatures of harmony; we are the children of acquisitiveness, grown monstrous in our exile, forever denied the world we crave.
I see myself in Lirael’s ambition, and in that cruel reflection I recognize every ancestor who ever lived, every offspring who will ever be born. Without Gwendolyn, I am simply another link in the same unbreakable chain.
My legs grow heavy with the gravity of my decision, and the court’s attention shifts. Every eye now turns to me. Every face—painted in the cold light of a false moon—betrays a singular, primal anticipation. With leaden steps, I move to the edge of the dais, then pause, my gaze drifting across the assembled. And for all anyone knows, I have paused merely to allow the import of this moment to settle, but it is to still my beating heart.
I will speak the words, then die a little, even as Lirael smiles.
My hands clench and unclench at my sides as I dare to meet Lord Elric’s gaze.
Gods know. If there were any hope for joy—any at all apart from my beloved—I would choose a bride other than Lord Elric’s simpering daughter. But even as I consider this, I know I will not. If I cannot have Gwendolyn, a union with Lirael will serve its purpose, even if thereafter, I will become a puppet king. I will command the military, and matters of High Law, but what I eat, how I eat it, where I eat it, and with whom shall be dictated byher.Shewill be the master of my demesne, and I, her unwilling slave—a huntsman again, only this time for an unworthy queen.
Choking down my bitterness, I begin. “Ladies...lords of this court...” My smile is tight, insincere. “As you all know...this occasion is long overdue...”
My regard turns to Lirael, standing tall in her costume of silks, so confident in her victory. Unflinching, her eyes meet mine as the rest of the court draws a breath.
My answering smile is forced, and the words taste like ash in my mouth, “The realm has too long been without an heir,” I add, flicking a glance toward Lord Elric and the odious smirk that carves its way across his visage is as intolerable to me as hispolitiks. I yearn to wipe it off his face. A few bawdy jokes filter to my ears, but I’ve no impetus to laugh. There is no humor here, and nothing appealing about the thought of bedding Lirael Silvershade.
