Melissa Marr - Fragile Eternity

“I do choose this,” he said for the second time.

“To be subject to a faery queen is to give every breath at her command. With no hesitation, you offer your fealty and presence here in Faerie for a month each year as long as you draw breath?”

He was kneeling on the earth in front of her, touching her perfect hand. In her eyes, moonlit slivers beckoned. He’d be destroyed by them if he erred. He let go of the charm he’d been clutching so he could reach out to her.

My queen.

“Will you give me your last breath if I ask it of you? Do you choose to accept what I’m offering you, Seth?”

He shivered. “I will. I do. I choose this.”

“Then give me my kiss, mortal.”

Sorcha waited. The Summer Queen’s mortal knelt at her feet, clutching her hand, and unable to shake free of her residual glamour, despite his charm, despite her gentleness. She held her appeal in check, but this mortal was meant to be hers. She’d seen it when he first stood in front of her, boldly asking for the gift of immortality. She saw it now when she looked to the future. Seth Morgan belonged to her, to her court, to Faerie. He mattered—and he needed to be not just a faery, but strong as few faeries were.

As he faltered, she debated the wisdom of how she’d chosen to make this so. It was of her own self she was giving. He had no need to know that or to know what a rarity it was. Simply because she could engender a transfer didn’t mean she often did so. Mortals simply didn’t become faeries, not without being bound to the faery who’d shared an essence with them. There were two ways to do so—as a loved one or as chattel. If he came to her more out of pure selfishness, she’d offer him only selfish use. If he offered more selflessness than self-gain, she’d return that generosity.

“A kiss to finalize our bargain, to unmake your mortality…” Sorcha didn’t let her hopes into her voice. She wanted him to be worthy of what she was giving to him; she believed him to be so. He could still turn away; he could fail her in this moment.

“You’re not her,” he whispered. “Only should kiss her.”

“Be strong, Seth.” She kept her glamour in check. “If you want this, you must give me my kiss.”

“Give you a kiss.” His words weren’t slurred or unclear, but they were slower.

Sorcha couldn’t reach out. She couldn’t take his will-power. The choice was his; it was always theirs. “Seal the bargain, or reject the offer.”

His eyes were unfocused; his heartbeat was rapid. Then he quirked his metal-decorated brow, and she saw a spark of something unexpected.

“Yes, my queen.” He held her gaze as he turned her hand palm up. Then, he gently kissed her palm. “Your kiss.”

For a moment, Sorcha didn’t react at all. Here was a bold one. Mortals strong enough to resist the temptation of the Unchanging Queen were a rare treasure. Bananach had been right; her own visions of what might be were true: this mortal was different.

Wars are fought over lesser things.

She aided him to his feet, holding his hand in hers as his body began to sway under the first crush of the change. “Our deal is binding.”

He pulled away. “Good.”

She had intended to leave him drunk on a kiss, lost under a narcotic touch that would lessen the pain. He ought not have to suffer for being clever. It’s not unfair to offer a kindness to my subject. When Keenan had changed his mortal girls, they had almost a full year to adjust. Seth had only a month—and within Faerie. The first wave of change would be harsh.

She didn’t allow her subjects to suffer unnecessary cruelty. It was irrational. “Give me the charm.”

She was his queen now: Seth obeyed.

Then the High Queen donned a glamour to look like his other queen. “Seth? Come here.”

“Ash?” He stared at Sorcha in confusion.

She held her hands out. “Let me help you.”

“I feel wrong , Ash. Sick,” he muttered, weaving slightly on his feet as he tried to look around. “Where’d you come from? Missed you.”

“I’ve been here all along,” Sorcha told him.

Few truths were more complete than that revelation.

“Need to sit down.” He stretched a hand out for a wall that was not there.

Sorcha stroked his face. “Mortals have no business playing in this world. Sometimes they attract the wrong attention….”

“Just trying to keep your attention.” He leaned his forehead against hers briefly and then pulled back with a puzzled look. “You’re not this tall.”

“Shhh.” Then she kissed him while his mortality was pushed out by the new faery energy coursing into his body. She let her own calming breath slip into him. It wouldn’t take away all the pain, but it would help. Sorcha could remake the world in Faerie, but she couldn’t change everything. Pain, pleasure, sickness, longing, there were things that even the High Queen couldn’t affect.

Sorcha found herself hoping that the Summer Queen was worthy of this mortal-no-more’s passion and sacrifice.

Because he’s my subject now.

And like any good queen, Sorcha did what was best for her subjects whether they asked it of her or not.

Donia waited at the fountain on Willow. This late at night the mortal saxophone player was long gone, and the crowds of children who had frolicked in the water were tucked into their beds somewhere. Matrice, one of the Hawthorn People, perched in a tree nearby. The white-winged faery was one of the only fey in the area. Her tattered wings fluttered like ripped spider webs as she sat watching the sky on the edge of a branch. On the ground at the other end of the courtyard, Sasha crouched attentively. Somewhere farther out, several glaistigs roamed the perimeter.

Donia wanted answers, and of the four faeries she could ask, only one seemed likely to be helpful. Sorcha was unquestionable; Keenan was silent; Bananach was mad. That left Niall. After Seth’s sudden disappearance and the whispered rumors coming from Faerie, Donia had little reason to doubt that Seth was in Faerie, a place from which mortals—and more than a few faeries—didn’t return.

The High Queen was inflexible, cruel in ways that sometimes made the Dark Court look meek. Or maybe I’m swayed by my own fears…. Summer’s rising strength made her melancholy. Winter had no business being out in the increasing heat of the season, but inviting Niall into her home felt like a betrayal of Keenan. Even now that their chance at a real relationship—however brief—was gone, she couldn’t bear the thought of hurting him.

Niall arrived, alone and moving with the fluid grace of shadows stretching over the earth. His stride bespoke the same easy arrogance as his predecessor; his hand held a lit cigarette, a habit he’d adopted along with the responsibility of the court. Violence and temptation, he was the embodiment of the court he’d once rejected. The hint of it had been there when he was with the Summer Court—it was a part of why Keenan had kept him near, in her opinion—but the comfort he had with his own shadows was new.

Niall said nothing as he sat on the bench beside her.

“Why is Seth in Faerie?” she asked by way of greeting.

“Because he’s a fool.” Niall scowled. “He wanted to become fey. Bananach took him to Sorcha.”

“Do you think Sorcha will keep him? Or turn him or—”

Niall cut her off with a look. “I think Sorcha has a habit of stealing away Sighted mortals, and Seth is likely in trouble.”

“And Keenan?” She didn’t stumble over the question, even though it stung to ask about him just then. She’d had her hopes raised, heard him tell her he loved her, and mere days later, he told her good-bye. Solstice was approaching, but she wouldn’t be in his arms.