Page 25 of Once Upon a Woven Wish
That first moment when he met her, something shifted deep inside him.He felt it, as real as he felt his breath expand in his lungs.The cold pierced him, making him shiver.For the first time in ages, he feltalive.
That first day, her face was lined with desperation.She did not beg as others had in the past.She simply made the wish, her voice strong and sure as she said the words.There was no power in this realm that could refuse her.He was compelled to grant her wish as he was compelled to remove the memory of her mother.
And he hated himself for that.
His self-loathing grew when she returned a second time to ask him to save her father and he took away her memory of her father’s love.
He was grateful she didn’t make a third wish.Another piece of him died as he turned her away and made a desperate, silent plea for her to never return.
The girl returns.And yet she does not wish.
The stranger’s head snapped up.The Well had not spoken in years.
Perhaps I shall send for her.A low, deep chuckle from the Well.
“Leave her be,” he snapped, his breath crystallizing in the air around him.“She is nothing to you.”
But she is something to YOU, Weaver of Wishes.
His eyes closed as he leaned on the stone edge.He dropped his head and murmured, “Please.”
Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
He ignored the voice, refusing to acknowledge the barb.Yes, he was once a Fae Prince of the Seelie Court.Until—
No.He shoved that away, pushing the memories back down into the dark recesses of his mind.
You keep her memories close to you, do you not?The Well requires them and yet you have not deposited the price she paid.The price you took.
His stomach knotted.He hadn’t deposited her memory.Hadn’t given the Well its price.He had refused.And in his moments when he was the loneliest, when the realm had abandoned him once again and the woods were cold and silent, he conjured the one of her mother making a flower wreath and placing it on her head.Serena’s laughter was warm and infectious.Her smile, beautiful and bright.Her joy, palpable.
You keep them because they remind you of HER.Another disembodied laugh.
“They do,” he admitted.And, gods, he hated that admission, too.
Fool.
“No,” he snapped.His gut churned acid.Then, slumping to the ground, he put his face in his gloved hands.“Yes.I am a fool.Worse than that.”
Serena’s dazzling smile reminded him of the mortal girl he once loved.But not just her smile.Her kindness.Her bravery.Her selflessness.In truth, he could not recall his lover’s face or the sound of her voice or the way her hair smelled.Perhaps hewasfoolish to project those feelings onto Serena.
But somewhere deep within him, he was certain it was more than that.It was a growing feeling.
Thinking of the girl he once loved was like an arrow piercing his heart.Painful.So painful.All he wanted to do was help her and so, he did.He gave freely, which broke the laws of Fae magic—the laws that say all magical things must be bartered and all power must be earned.Now, he was nothing more than a vessel through which all wishes must be spun.
He had become the weaver—neither prince nor shadow, forever trapped in the mortal realm collecting payment from all who wished.
She will return.And when she does, the price will be high.Are you prepared, weaver, to take it?
His jaw clenched so tight, his teeth ached.Refusing was not an option.The Well knew that as he did.
If she returned, the Well would demand more.A darker memory or, perhaps, even her name.And he—he would take it.Because he always did.
“Yes,” he faintly said, the word ice.
He sent up his own fervent wish.
Stay away, Serena.Do not return.Not because I do not wish it…but because if you do…I will take something I can never give back.
