Oberon might have been cocky grins and vulgarity most of the time, but in the sparring ring in a grass-framed courtyard in the manor that morning, he was a stone-cold killer.
And when those lethal instincts were turned on me ...
Beneath all the silk and cotton of my tunic, even with the crisp temperature, my skin was slick with sweat. Each breath ravaged my throat, and my arms trembled so badly that any time I so much as tried to use my fingers, my pinkie would start shaking uncontrollably.
I was watching it wobble of its own accord when Oberon closed the gap between us, gripped my hand, and said, "This is because you're hitting on the wrong knuckles. Top two—pointer and middle finger—that's where the punches should connect. Hitting here," he said, tapping a callused finger on the already bruised bit of skin in the vee between my pinkie and ring finger, "will do more damage to you than to your opponent. You're lucky the Baphomet didn't want to get into a fistfight."
We'd been going at it for an hour now, walking through the basic steps of hand-to-hand combat. And it turned out that I might have been good at hunting, at archery, but using my left side? Pathetic. I was as uncoordinated as a newborn fawn attempting to walk. Punching and stepping with the left side of my body at once had been nearly impossible, and I'd stumbled into Oberon more often than I'd hit him. The right punches—those were easy.
"Get a drink," he said. "Then we're working on your core. No point in learning how to punch if you can't even hold your stance."
I frowned toward the sound of clashing blades in the open sparring ring next to us.
Nolan, surprisingly, had decided to spar one of the lone sentries in the hallway. Oberon was not happy about it as he'd disobeyed his orders, yet I knew he was taking this time to assess the problems at hand.
Assess—and brood, it seemed, since Nolan had barely managed a polite hello to us before launching into sparring with the poor sentry, his face grim and tight. They'd been at it now for an hour straight, their slender blades like flashes of quicksilver as they moved around and around. I wondered if it was as much for practice as it was for the sentry to help his commander work off his frustration.
At some point since I'd last looked, despite the misty spring day, they'd removed their leather jackets and shirts.
My eyes flicked to Nolan and it became a struggle to breathe. His tan, muscled back was covered with the writing—the Fae Language, I realised—the ink flowing across his shoulder blades and down the column of his spine, all the way to his lower back, right beneath where they typically strapped their blades.
"Some of us get tattoos after coming back from war—they're the names of the people we lost, and the people we've killed. Though, Nolan is the only one who does that. He still bears the scars of his past, never lets them heal," Oberon said, his voice soft as he followed my stare. I doubted Oberon was drinking in the rest of the image, though: the stomach muscles gleaming with sweat in the bright sun, the bunching of their powerful thighs, the rippling strength in their backs, all produced in one beautiful creature.
Cruel death on swift hands.
The title came out of nowhere, and for a moment, I saw the painting I'd create: the steely determination of their eyes, faintly illuminated with a gleam from the radiant spring sun, the glare of their blades, the harshness of Nolan's tattoos spotlighted in the sunlight against the dark tan of his back—
I blinked, and the image was gone, like a cloud of hot breath on a cold night.
Oberon jerked his chin towards the two males. "The sentry is out of shape, his moves too sloppy, and won't admit it, but Nolan is too polite to beat him into the dirt."
I glanced once at Oberon before returning to watch the ever-intensifying fight between Nolan and the sentry, my brows furrowed in disbelief. All three looked anything but out of shape. The Elders curse me, what the hell did they eat to look like that?
My knees wobbled a bit as I strode to the stool Oberon had brought a pitcher of water and two glasses. I poured one for myself, my pinkie trembling uncontrollably again.
As a way to hold memories of the ones who have died, I realised. A way to remember the lives he has taken and lost, their names quite literally imprinted on his skin.
Would the names of the Imperial Lords and sentries I kill be written on his back as well? I didn't push further into that question.
Oberon filled a glass for himself and clinked it against mine, so at odds from the brutal taskmaster who, moments ago, had me walking through punches, hitting his sparring pads, and trying not to crumple on the ground to beg for death. So at odds from the male who had gone head to head with Nolan, the tough commander who would do anything to save his people.
"So," Oberon said, gulping down the water. Next to us, Nolan and the sentry clashed, separated, and clashed again. "When were you going to tell me about killing the Baphomet?"
Maybe it was because exhaustion branded my bones and I was in a shitty mood but the question hit me so viciously that I sniped, "How about when you talk about being away protecting the border from the attacks yet it seems to have only become worse?" Because I had no doubt he was well aware of the problems at hand.
The beat of crunching steps and clashing blades beside us stumbled—then resumed.
Oberon let out a startled, rough laugh, though it was tinged with bitterness. "Old news."
"I have a feeling that's not that old."
"Get back in the ring," Oberon said, setting down his empty glass. "No core exercises. Just fists. You want to mouth off, then back it up."
But the question he'd asked still swarmed in my skull. Killing; kill; killed; killer.
I had killed—I'd meant it. But it had felt oddly strange, normal, to kill that faerie ... No, it had felt good to kill. Waves of heat coursed through my blood and a cold sweat glistened on my forehead.
Yet, after killing dozens more of faerie lives later on, their immortal blood warming my hands, then this ... I had been frightened by the maliciousness of the Baphomet, cowed by it. And what would become of me then—I had sacrificed for this so deeply, so greatly, but ...
"Kallistê told you?" I said.
Oberon had the wisdom to look a bit nervous at the expression on my face. "As you probably already know, she informed Phoebus, who is ... monitoring things and needs to know. Phoebus told me."
"I assume it was on the night you arrived, exhausted from the trip back." I drained the last of my water and walked back into the ring.
"Hey," Oberon said, catching my arm. His light green eyes seem to be paler today. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hit a nerve. Phoe only told me because I asked him if there was anything I needed to know for my own forces; to know what to expect. None of us ... we don't think it's a joke. What you did was a hard call. A really damn hard call. It was just my shitty way of trying to see if you needed to talk about it. I'm sorry," he repeated, letting go.
The stumbling words, the earnestness in his eyes ... I nodded as I resumed my place. "All right."
Though Nolan kept at it with the sentry, I could have sworn his eyes were on the both of us –had been on us from the moment Oberon had asked me that question.
Oberon shoved his hands into the sparring pads and held them up. "Thirty one-two punches; then forty; then fifty." I winced at him over his gloves as I wrapped my hands. "You didn't answer my question," he said with a tentative smile—one I doubted his soldiers or any faerie brethren ever saw.
I positioned my legs at twelve and five and lifted my hands toward my face.
"I'm fine," I said, stepping and jabbing with my left side. Fluid—smooth like silk, as if my mortal body had at last aligned.
My fist slammed into Oberon's sparring pad, snatching back as fast as a snake's bite as I struck with my right, shoulder, and foot twisting.
"One," Oberon counted. Again, I struck, one-two. "Two. And fine is good—fine is great."
We both knew "fine" was a lie.
I had sacrificed almost everything—everything for those whom I love. I had been ripped to shreds, I had sold myself to the Elders and I had to kill for them to be safe. And I might very well soon lose my life for them. And they couldn't do anything, hadn't risked it all because I hadn't allowed them to, fearing for their safety, and—
Again, again, again. One-two; one-two; one-two—
And now that I am here, when I was just a lamb in a land of wolves, I didn't know who to trust and what to believe. Yes, faeries can't lie but they can hide truths. I had a fool's hope—and this was a fool's mission.
Again, again, again, each pound of my fists a question and an answer.
The clashing steel stopped.
Standing there under the cloudless sky, the spring sun beating on my head, nothing around me save for sand and grass, no shadows in which to hide, nothing to cling to ... There it was.
My hands slackened as a shuddering breath worked its way through me. Oberon lowered his hands and retreated to the racks, as if knowing I wanted some privacy.
And there it was. The wicked truth of reality. There it was.
For a long moment, I just stared at my calloused, tan hands—maybe hands that were believed to be innocent, yet they are not after all the things I had done to keep my loved ones safe.
Then a shade swept in—no, shadow—and a sweat-slicked male body halted before me. Gentle fingers lifted my chin until I looked up ... at Oberon's face. Beyond me, far away, in another world, maybe, the sounds of steel on steel—Nolan and the sentry sparring—began.
"Look at me," Oberon said quietly yet strong enough to be a command.
I did.
"You will feel that way every day for the rest of your life," Oberon said. I could faintly smell the sweat on him, the rain-and-soil scent beneath it. His eyes were soft. Not a lover's gaze, not admiration or care but grim understanding. I tried to look away, but his hand held my chin firm. "And I know this because I have felt that way every day since my commander, my friend and father figure was slaughtered on the battlefield and I had to bury him myself, and even retribution didn't fix it. You can either let it wreck you, let it get you killed, or you can live with it."
For a long while, I just stared at the open, calm face—maybe his true face, the one beneath all the masks he would have worn to hide his internal scars and to protect his city. "I'm sorry—about your commander," I rasped.
"I'm sorry that you got caught in this mess. The attacks, the Covenant, everything," Oberon said with equal quiet. "You have a family to feed and protect, I get that. But trust Phoebus when he says they are well cared for. It will do you more good than stressing over it."
I had no answer to that—to the tenor in his deep voice. So I examined my hands, red and sweaty from each punch I threw yet beneath it all it was calloused and scared from the horrors of my past. Oberon was right. There was no point in mourning for things that have been done.
"I'm confused as to whether you hate me right now, as you seem to love giving little mortals heart-warming monologues."
Still sparring, the sentry and Nolan had been eavesdropping. The sentry launched into a coughing fit. Nolan just turned away, a hand clamped over his mouth.
Oberon's lips twitched. "There's the Eleena I know."
I scowled, but closed my eyes to draw in a deep breath. Darkness swept in, soothing, gentle darkness that caressed my mind like a kind embrace.
Quiet.
Soft.
Peaceful.
Here in the soothing, sparkling dark, a steady breath filled my lungs. I couldn't remember the last time I'd done such a thing. Breathed easily.
But soon the darkness splintered and vanished, swifter than smoke on the wind as I lifted my heavy eyelids. I found myself blinking back the blinding sun, Oberon now next to me.
With the silence being overwhelming, I asked, "Kallistê once told me about a faerie which was old, old and wizened enough to know much about this world." I turned my head to look at him. "I wanted to ask you if you knew much about the creature. We were attacked before she could explain more."
Oberon swore and jerked his chin towards me. "Names have power Eleena but yes, those creatures are old and have a wicked sort of cunning. Best not talk about them now when we already have too many malicious creatures wandering out of their cages."
I gave him a flat stare.
He shrugged. "You want to get answers, well, you are out of luck. I'm not going to cause more trouble than it's worth. And," He sniffed. "Go take a bath."
I presented him with a particularly vulgar gesture—and walked away quickly, not wanting to experience more of Oberon's arrogance.