Page 59 of The Shadow Prince's Ruin
Fenren clicks his tongue and approaches a desk, which belongs here like a fist belongs in a person’s eye. White, plain, and made of particle board rather than wood, it’s a cheap, mass-produced item from the world of humans. Maybe even from IKEA. But on top of it is a glass of black crystal, and a decanter in the shape of a howling wolf, which contains a black liquid. Still, Fenren has a sip of it and smiles at us, as if it’s exactly what he needs after such a rude awakening.
“So he removed the collar off your neck, and you removed his head from his shoulders? Naughty,” he adds playfully and wags his finger at us.
I might not be the most moral of men, but even I’m freaked out by the casual way he’s discussing the death of someone he apparently worked with for so many years. I’ve met some crazy guys in prison, and an attack might come at any moment from someone like this.
“Forgive me for meeting you in my underwear, unless…” He lets the silent proposition hang in the air as he gestures at the huge bed that would easily accommodate all three of us.
“No.” Sylvan frowns and steps back, even pinker than before, but then he grabs my hand. It’s so sweet that it’s me he reaches for when uncertain, even though I’m only human and have no other ways to protect him than my strength.
Fenren throws a braid over his shoulder. “Ah! I see… You woke me up so abruptly I’m still getting my bearings, but it all makes sense now. It’s a full moon day! And this, Your Highness, will be your Dark Companion. How splendid! A wedding at The Burning Corpse! We will provide all, as I’m sure you wish to spare no expense on a day of such great importance.”
There’s that stereotype about men being coerced into marriage—the cuffed groom cake toppers, bachelor parties all about losing freedom, grooms holding up signs with the phrasesave meat the altar, but while I never gave much thought to formalizing any of my relationships, the moment Fenren presents me with the idea of celebrating my blooming romance with Sylvan, I know that this is exactly what I want.
“How does that work here?” I ask, and the elf rests on a carved stool, capturing my gaze. His shirt rides up dangerously high on his bare thighs, so I hope he is wearing bottoms of some kind, or I might have to cover Sylvan’s eyes.
“Well, both here and in your world, the particulars are a matter of custom and wealth. But since you are marrying a royal of the Nocturne Court, you will have the most lavish party money can buy. We will bring out the best spirits, hire many musicians, so that the songs can flow all night without break. I will also personally see to you wearing the finest fabrics. Excuse me for being blunt,” he says and points to us both, “but neither a prince nor his Dark Companion should celebrate their union in rags.”
Sylvan hasn’t complained about my basic outfit of hoodie and sweatpants, but Fenren does have a point. Maybe I should change into their version of a suit at least.
Sylvan raises one hand while squeezing me more firmly with the other. “No, no, no need for any of that. All we need is our vows to one another.”
I stall, staring at our linked fingers. “What? But you said it would be a real wedding.”
Fenren leans against the desk and finishes his drink. “That is baffling, Your Highness. Surely, you are not trying to get all the benefit yet offer your promised no public commitment? There is no divorcing a Dark Companion. This is a once-in-a-lifetime celebration. You need the rose, the candle, the lace and frills, thespectacle. While lowborn, every guest in my tavern downstairs could be a joyful witness. Your human deserves that much at least for what he is offering.”
Sylvan’s ears twitch, which I’ve already learned is often a sign of nervousness. While I can see that he’s being prodded, it does feel kind of frustrating that he seems to want our marriage vows to be over with instead of following the customs of his ownworld. The choice is his at the end of the day. It’s not my money, but I do give him an expectant look. Is it really so wrong of me to want a celebration?
Sylvan clears his throat and gestures for me to put down the backpack. “Until I’m back at court, I only have select items and jewelry I can pay with,” he says, staring Fenren down like a dragon sitting on its hoard.
“Oh, let me see!” Fenren jumps to his feet and is at Sylvan’s side in an instant, eyes glistening with greed. “We will have to make the best of what’s here, and then write up a debt contract for all the other frills.”
I swallow and stroke Sylvan’s hand as our host pulls out a string of black pearls from a little velvet bag. “Yes, I can make this work. The best food The Burning Corpse can offer, the finest clothes, and guests to confirm that the prince treated his beloved Dark Companion right.”
I know what Fenren is doing, but I am marrying a prince. Do I not deserve a bit of luxury?
But as the elf pulls out the lava lamp and Sylvan’s hand tightens, I step forward. “Not this. Sentimental value.”
Sylvan swallows and looks up at me with the saddest puppy eyes I’ve ever seen. “No, it’s fine. He is right, you deserve to be treated like royalty, as that is what you will soon be.” When he turns to Fenren though, it’s as if he becomes a different person, the mask of dignity back on, and gaze sharp as daggers. “I need to keep a few trinkets and books, but other than that, all my possessions can be yours to keep.Butdo not think me a fool. We expect not only a celebration and lodgings, but also a guide to lead us to the Nocturne Court through the forest, and provisions for the trip. I have no doubt that someone who calls himself the King of Smugglers knows which routes are both safe and secretive.”
Fenren’s eyes narrow. “You strike a hard bargain, my prince. Very well,” he says and shakes Sylvan’s hand. The ease with which he agrees tells me he’s getting paid extra handsomely for his effort, but I decide not to mention it, because this is Sylvan’s moment, and I don’t want to embarrass him. I’m still a bit dazed about him willing to part with all the prized possessions I’d carried for him, just because he wants to treat me.
I watch Sylvan pack some items into the smaller bag while obscuring the Sunwolf crown with a shawl. I’m touched when I see him consider the jar with the redpole, only to take that too.
Fenren claps his hands and pulls a wide-skirted robe off the hanger. The lush dark blue fabric covers his undershirt and bare legs. His feet then go into leather slippers, and he opens the door, leading us out of his room. Initially, we’re in the tight channel of a hallway that likely belongs to his personal apartment, but then he takes us through a locked door, and the scenery changes.
I wouldn’t call the corridor palatial, since I manage to hit my head on the first beam in the way, but it’s definitely something straight from a fancy fantasy tavern. Only that the dark stone making up the floor and walls is real rather than made of Styrofoam.
I take the moment while we walk to arrange it all in my head. Everything I’ve experienced since meeting Sylvan is like a lucid dream and I hope I’ll never wake up. I’m no longer a fugitive, and I’ll be at Sylvan’s side and help him however I can with his plan of regaining his position at this Nocturne Court.
He first chose me for my shadow, but we’ve been through so much since that fateful night at Best Burgers Bonanza. Our feelings for each other are real. I might be a toppy guy, the kind of person who wants to protect those he loves. But it’s nice to be treated for once and for someone else to not just talk about theirlove, but to show it. Like I’m worthy of it. Like I’m not just a convenient means to an end, a big dick, or useful for my fists.
I can’t wait to explore this elven world alongside my perfect little prince and taste all it has to offer. I still haven’t wrapped my mind around us having a forever, and a part of me fears that it’s not Sylvan but me who’s having a mental breakdown and imagining things that aren’t there.
As we continue past numbered doors, toward a wide arch where the corridor leads into a more open space, I hear an unfamiliar melody, the murmur of many voices, and sense the aroma of grilled meat. A woman passes us in clothes that, while black as night, remind me of the one Ren Faire I’ve been to. She’s holding a platter with something the size of an ostrich leg on a bed of root vegetables and mushrooms. The skin on that meat looks so crispy my mouth waters.
“We will eat soon,” Sylvan says and strokes my hand.
I’m embarrassed by my voracity, but it’s still sweet of him to pay attention to my needs without me even saying anything.
