Cutter turned to look where his brother was staring and felt his own breath catch in his throat, felt a thrum of emotions—so many that any one was nearly impossible to define—run through him as if he’d been struck by lightning.
She was there, standing only feet away from him, as beautiful, as perfect, as he remembered. She wore the white dress she had worn on her wedding day. Cutter remembered it well, remembered staring at her, wanting her as she made her way up the aisle, past those gathered to commemorate the event, to where his brother, Feledias, waited for her.
He remembered the way she had smiled, the way his brother had smiled. It was the last time he had seen his brother happy. And he, too, had been happy for Feledias. At least, he believed so. Mostly, though, he had been jealous. He had wanted her, had thought he deserved her, he who had led the assault against the Fey, who had killed their king and sent their forces retreating back into the Black Woods.
It should have been a beautiful moment, as perfect as the world ever allowed, but even then, his lust, his desire had almost been too much to contain. Yes, he remembered it, remembered it all too well. “L-Layna?” he asked.
“No,” Feledias rasped, “no, it can’t be. You’re…you’re dead. You can’t be here.”
And yet, she was, standing and saying nothing, watching Feledias. And even now, despite the knowledge of how terrible his crimes had been, of what terrible atrocities they had led to, Cutter found himself jealous of even that much, found himself wishing that she would turn, would look at him. But she did not, only stood and stared at his brother, her husband, saying nothing.
“I-it’s impossible,” his brother said in a choked, strangled voice. “It must be some trick, has to be, but the mage…the mage is dead.”
She did move then, her hand reaching out slowly toward him. She took a step, a single, small step, and Feledias screamed. It was a terrible, heart-wrenching wail that would have sounded more at home coming from some tortured, dying animal.
Then, Feledias turned and ran, sprinting as fast as he could into the darkness. There was a shout from Commander Malex and those few soldiers who had not fallen to the villagers’ rage turned and sprinted away, following their prince. Cutter barely noticed. Instead, he was staring at her, marking the lines of her face. And, in another moment, she was gone, vanishing as if she had never been, and he was left standing alone.
There was a scuffling sound behind him, and Cutter turned to see Chall limping up. Each step seemed an effort, and there was a dark bruise around the mage’s throat, a bruise in the unmistakable shape of hands. Cutter grunted. “I thought you were dead.”
Chall winced, rubbing at his throat. “It was a near thing,” he rasped.
Cutter nodded, turning to look at the villagers. What few soldiers who had not managed to extract themselves were currently being thrown to the ground and beaten to death by men and women who had likely never raised a hand in anger and who, in the right course of events, would have lived out their lives quietly and peacefully in this small, out-of-the-way village. But by coming here, he had changed all of that, ruined their lives the same way he had ruined the lives of that happy bride and groom so long ago.
“Chall!”
They both turned at the sound of rapid footsteps and, before the mage could speak, Maeve was wrapping him in a tight embrace. They stayed that way for several seconds, Maeve with her face buried in the mage’s shoulder, Chall’s expression slowly turning from shock to pleasure.
“Gods, I thought those soldiers killed you,” Maeve breathed.
“Wasn’t for lack of trying,” Chall said softly.
After a moment, Maeve seemed to remember where she was, and she pulled out of the embrace, turning to Cutter, her own face red with embarrassment. “What about you?” she asked in a voice full of compassion, for she could not have failed to see the apparition the mage’s magic had created. “Are you okay?”
Cutter forced a smile he did not feel, understanding that she meant more than just physically. “Of course,” he said. “I’m fine.”
And then he fell.
***
He dreamed of blood and pain and regret. But, mostly, he dreamed of her. Not standing as she had been when she’d wed his brother, nor beside him near the village pyre. Instead, she lay sweaty and weary from her exertions in a bed stained with her blood.
He could hear the newborn babe in the other room, squalling as any should when brought into the world. The nurse maids were gone, for she had dismissed them, and it was only him and her, her watching him with eyes that seemed to know so much, to understand so much.
“I knew you would come,” she said, her voice weak and thready.
“Yes.”
The baby let out another squall, and she turned, her eyes going to the closed door, beyond which her newborn baby boy was being seen to by the nurse maids, the concern and love known only to mothers showing on her face. “My husband will come for him, will come for me.”
“Yes.”
She sighed heavily. “It was wrong, what I did. What we did. I did it out of a fool’s jealousy, I think, tired of coming second in his eyes to you, always to you. I thought…” She shook her head, frustrated. “It doesn’t matter what I thought. I love Feledias.”
“So do I.”
She frowned. “Do you? I am not so certain. I am not so certain that a man like you can love anyone, even himself. Perhaps especially himself.”
He said nothing to that,
