But it was not grief, not pain that drew him. Neither was it, like the moth, the flame and the heat it provided. No, he was drawn, now, like always, to this place not from the fire or the grief and certainly not the comfort. He had been drawn to it because it was a place of death and now, as in all times since she had known him, her prince was drawn to death, seemed to gather it about himself like a cloak, like some dreaded creature of the night which survived only by the death of others. In the end, it changed nothing that the creature regretted its existence, its need to make use of such macabre fuel to sustain itself, for the creature, like the moth, could do nothing else.
She wondered as she approached what thoughts ran through his mind as he stood staring at the blaze. Did any? Or did he only stand there, absorbing the death, the grief, the way those others around him absorbed the heat of the great pillar of flame?
His back was to her, and he did not turn at her approach. The sound of her footsteps was covered by the cries of the bereaved and the sparking cinders of the dead as the fire crackled and popped, yet he grunted in recognition. “Maeve.”
“Prince.”
He did turn then, regarding her with a blank expression. “I’ve asked you not to call me that—I am a prince no longer.”
“‘Course not,” she said, “and I’m not an old woman whose looks, such as they were, have been replaced with too many aches and pains to name. We are what we are, Prince, and we cannot change it just by the saying so. Priest was right about that much. I’m a woman who was once a celebrated beauty and who now is only old and tired and you…” She trailed off then, suddenly unable to finish.
“And me,” he said, as if he knew well enough the words she’d left unspoken. “But some things do change, Maeve. Caterpillars turn into butterflies.”
“We are not caterpillars, Prince,” she said softly, realizing how his words echoed her own thoughts from days before. “We are people and we do not change so easily as that.”
“Perhaps you are right,” he said. It was not easy to tell—it never was as far as the prince was concerned—but she thought she detected the slightest bit of regret in his voice. She understood that regret, had seen it, heard it, in him before, and now, like then, she had no comfort to offer, so she only stood silently, turning to gaze at the fire.
“But you are not right in all of it,” he said finally.
She turned to glance at him, raising an eyebrow. “Oh?”
He gave her a small smile, one that obviously cost him. “You are still beautiful, Maeve. Now as ever.”
Despite everything, she felt her face flush with pleasure at his words. Ridiculous, of course, to feel pleasure in the midst of so much death, so much pain, but then she told herself that it was only the way of the world. Tragedies happened, death happened. People lost those they loved—she herself had lost many—and they moved on. After all, what else could they do? But even that was not the most ridiculous part of it, for she knew that she was not for him. She had wanted him, once, she like every other woman in the kingdom, for while Cutter might be a killer, might be terrifying, there was often beauty, attraction in terror. It was why people feared the night—rightly so from what she had seen—yet still spent so many hours gazing into it, why so many bards and artists chose it as the subject of their works. Scary, yes. Unsettling. But beautiful.
Cutter had been much the same fifteen years ago, and even now time had done nothing to detract from his allure. A big man, strong and powerful, and what lines time and pain had left on his once youthful, handsome features had not stolen their beauty but served, instead, to accentuate them. Yes, there had been a time when she had wanted him, and if she were being completely truthful with herself, part of her wanted him still. Wanted him in the same way that a woman might, upon seeing a terrible storm heading in her direction, neglect taking shelter, unable to pull her eyes away from the majesty, the horror of it. Yet as beautiful as she had once been, as famous as that beauty had once been, he had never been hers to have, not then and certainly not now.
After all, a woman might appreciate that storm, a moth might seek the flame, but they could not cuddle up against it, and it would not keep them warm when the world grew cold. No, Cutter was not a man for love, or if he was, it was not for her. There had been one woman, once, one who Maeve believed the big man had loved dearly, at least as much as a man like him was capable of loving anything, but that had been a long time ago and it was that love which had led, in the end, to so much tragedy, to so much death.
She knew that he could not love her, not like that, yet she found herself wanting to say something, wanting finally to divulge those feelings which she had held so close for so long, the feelings which she had never dared to share for fear of what he might say, what he might do. The words were on the tip of her tongue, threatening to spill out of her in a terrifying, damning, relieving flood—then a scream rose in the darkness, one not borne of fear or pain but of terrible grief, and she swallowed, choking the words back.
Now, standing among such grief, with the ashes of Ferrimore’s dead rising in the air, was not the time.
