Wicked is the Curse.

41 | Into the dark

Chapter 41 | Into the dark

Into her flesh, those sharp teeth tore. With Eoban searing inside of her, Aire barely felt it. Barely felt the hound raise his great head and shake her violently. It was just another pain slicing into her.

Then, as quick as he pounced, the Cú Sidhe froze. Those teeth were frozen in her flesh, and she felt warmth on her arm, her shoulder hiked up uncomfortably. He tore away from her, hacking and whining. He rubbed his blood-soaked muzzle into the rocks and snow.

Slumped uncomfortably, Aire tried to turn herself around. Her body didn't seem to listen; everything was so heavy and searing sharp. Light burned, her blood burned, and the mountain just stared down at her silently, content to let its shadows lay over her imminent death. The Cú Sidhe kneaded the ground with his great paws, regarding her with bright, intelligent eyes.

Retreating a step, he wiped his mouth against his leg before turning his attention to the mountain path. Wind stirred in his untamed fur and his heavy tail was stiff behind him. Whatever he saw along the mountain disturbed him as his great head lowered and a rumbling snarl tore from his throat.

Aire's gaze dropped. Rot darkened his paws. He didn't look to be injured because of it, but something sharp and familiar prickled inside of her chest. Guilt. I am sorry, her racing mind managed the thought, as clear cut as a winter lake.

"Éalaire," The Bloodbound called quietly, "You have grown still."

Éalaire. She thought of the High-Queen who she was named after. The powerful woman who had braided her hair so gently and sang her low, lilting songs had been the same one who had kept the enemies of Cearna at bay for years with fire, steel and a clever mind. Her fingers curled in the dirt and she could smell it there, heavy and damp under the burning Eoban.

Teeth closed around her once more. With a cry tearing from her throat, the Cú Sidhe whipped her into the forest. He dragged her through the bushes and stone tore at her clothing and skin. She tried to lift her heavy head to protect her eyes from damage. The world titled and turned, a cycle of browns, whites, and the dark brush of the Cú Sidhe's fur. He did not struggle with her weight and her struggling was if a gnat was bothering him. Irritating.

She was dumped on cold stone. The Cú Sidhe departed quickly, and Aire could hear only the whistling wind through the trees beyond and the rasp of her breath against the freezing stone.

The cold burned, but her world continued to ripple like a calm lake disturbed. Her world rolled and darkened, with bile burning in the back of her throat.

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In the back of her mind, Éalaire Aryshalin knew that she was dreaming. The world was bright, too bright, with the oiled colours like brushstrokes across a great canvass. The colours burned if she looked too long, the details blurring if she examined them too closely.

She knew this place. This garden. The reeds that rustled and the ducks that would eddy across the water, content and safe. There were shadows cast by the moonstone pillars that encircled the small garden. One of many gardens scattered across the expansive fortress of Álmhath.

Her hand was small before her, her hands smooth and unmarked by Eoban scars. At the outstretch of her hands, the ground began to sprout with flowers. Great bright blooms that tore into the earth with wild abandon. Daises and primroses and foxgloves and the rapidly growing sprouts of carrots; she could taste the honeyed carrots from dinner still lingering on her tongue.