Finally, Niall looked away. “Do what you must to bring nourishment for the court.”
“And you,” Irial added. “A few fights aren’t enough and you know it . . . although I’m glad you are fighting at least, now if you were fu—”
“Stop.” Niall’s emotions were all over the spectrum. His gaze snapped back to Irial. “Don’t think I’m going to be easy to beat just because there were a few Hounds trying to pummel me.”
At this, Irial’s flash of irritation vanished. He lowered his fist and laughed. “You’ve never been easy about anything, love.”
The fist that slammed into Irial’s face was faster than he remembered Niall’s punches being, but it had a very long time since Niall had hit him. Striking a king wasn’t tolerated unless it was in an agreed-upon match, and for the past eleven centuries, Niall had known that Irial was a king.
And that I withheld that little detail when we met.
A second punch didn’t come.
Niall stared at him. “We’re in a ring, Irial. You can strike a king here.”
Irial grinned as he heard Gabriel call, “We ride.”
As the Hunt started to leave, the stable was a storm of emotions that both he and Niall consumed. While those emotions were still flooding them, Irial said, “Should I have extended that offer to you a second time when you learned that I was a king? Would it have pleased you to strike me?”
“Maybe.” Niall smiled briefly. “I thought about this often enough.”
“Hitting me?”
“No,” Niall corrected as he swung at Irial. “Beating you half to death.”
Then, they were too busy to talk. Irial wasn’t as quick with his fists, but he let every emotion he felt free. Reading Irial’s emotions put Niall off center enough that Irial was able to withstand the next hour better than either of them expected.
Eventually, however, Irial was prone on the ground. He couldn’t open his left eye, and he was fairly certain that at least one rib was cracked. “I’m done.”
Instead of walking away as Irial expected, Niall plopped down on the floor. He was covered in blood and sweat, and he was content.
“It’s easier than I thought,” Niall said.
“I’m not that easy to beat.” Irial smiled and then winced as the movement made his lip bleed more freely.
“It’s easier being their king than I thought it would be,” Niall corrected.
“I knew what you meant.” Irial forced himself to sit upright, and immediately reassessed the number of broken ribs to at least three. “You were always their next king. You knew that. I knew it. Hell, Sorcha knew it.”
Niall’s eyes widened slightly. “She told you that?”
Irial had forgotten how much more open Niall had always been after a fight. “Not directly, but her emotions did.”
Hesitantly, Niall asked, “What emotions? The High Queen doesn’t . . . does she?”
“She does in the presence of the Dark King.” Irial held Niall’s gaze as best he could with one eye swollen mostly shut. “I asked if you were ever going to be the next king, and she felt both excited and sorrowful. I didn’t know for sure then, but I hoped—and now, I think that she knew—that she looked forward to you being this.”
They sat silently, but not without communicating. Over the centuries, Irial had read Niall’s emotions without his knowledge. Tonight, for the first time, Niall consciously revealed his emotions for the purposes of sharing the things he couldn’t verbalize. The years had changed them both, but those changes had only made Niall more suited to being the Dark King. Niall was both relieved and disappointed that this was so. He was also happier than he’d been since he’d left Irial’s side more than nine centuries ago.
As am I.
Eventually, Niall stood. “Things will never be like they were before.”
“I didn’t think they would.” Irial stared up at him.
Unexpectedly, Niall extended a hand—and then grinned as he tasted Irial’s shock. “You fight better than I remember.”
“You broke several ribs.” Irial accepted Niall’s hand and was pulled to his feet. “I can’t see from one eye, and I think something in my knee ripped.”
“Exactly.” Niall released Irial’s hand and grinned.
“Maybe next time I’ll do better.” Irial regretted the words as soon as they were out, but he wasn’t going to admit that. Admitting that he hoped to do this again, that he’d settle for abuse at Niall’s hand if that was what he needed to do to be nearer Niall, was the sort of thing liable to send Niall further away. Irial concealed his emotions and stilled his expression as best he could.
For a moment, Niall said nothing; his emotions were likewise locked down tightly enough that they were out of Irial’s reach. Then Niall shrugged. “Maybe. I’d rather it be me injuring you than anyone else doing it.”
“I am yours to command.” Irial lifted the rope for Niall to duck under.
They walked out together in silence. Niall did not tell Irial to depart as they walked to the house that had once been Irial’s, nor did he invite Irial to stay. At the step, they paused, and for a foolish, hopeful moment, Irial waited. Then, Niall reached out to the gargoyle that adorned the door, and Irial left for his current residence. It was a peaceful parting.
Things might be all right after all.
“And you,” Irial added. “A few fights aren’t enough and you know it . . . although I’m glad you are fighting at least, now if you were fu—”
“Stop.” Niall’s emotions were all over the spectrum. His gaze snapped back to Irial. “Don’t think I’m going to be easy to beat just because there were a few Hounds trying to pummel me.”
At this, Irial’s flash of irritation vanished. He lowered his fist and laughed. “You’ve never been easy about anything, love.”
The fist that slammed into Irial’s face was faster than he remembered Niall’s punches being, but it had a very long time since Niall had hit him. Striking a king wasn’t tolerated unless it was in an agreed-upon match, and for the past eleven centuries, Niall had known that Irial was a king.
And that I withheld that little detail when we met.
A second punch didn’t come.
Niall stared at him. “We’re in a ring, Irial. You can strike a king here.”
Irial grinned as he heard Gabriel call, “We ride.”
As the Hunt started to leave, the stable was a storm of emotions that both he and Niall consumed. While those emotions were still flooding them, Irial said, “Should I have extended that offer to you a second time when you learned that I was a king? Would it have pleased you to strike me?”
“Maybe.” Niall smiled briefly. “I thought about this often enough.”
“Hitting me?”
“No,” Niall corrected as he swung at Irial. “Beating you half to death.”
Then, they were too busy to talk. Irial wasn’t as quick with his fists, but he let every emotion he felt free. Reading Irial’s emotions put Niall off center enough that Irial was able to withstand the next hour better than either of them expected.
Eventually, however, Irial was prone on the ground. He couldn’t open his left eye, and he was fairly certain that at least one rib was cracked. “I’m done.”
Instead of walking away as Irial expected, Niall plopped down on the floor. He was covered in blood and sweat, and he was content.
“It’s easier than I thought,” Niall said.
“I’m not that easy to beat.” Irial smiled and then winced as the movement made his lip bleed more freely.
“It’s easier being their king than I thought it would be,” Niall corrected.
“I knew what you meant.” Irial forced himself to sit upright, and immediately reassessed the number of broken ribs to at least three. “You were always their next king. You knew that. I knew it. Hell, Sorcha knew it.”
Niall’s eyes widened slightly. “She told you that?”
Irial had forgotten how much more open Niall had always been after a fight. “Not directly, but her emotions did.”
Hesitantly, Niall asked, “What emotions? The High Queen doesn’t . . . does she?”
“She does in the presence of the Dark King.” Irial held Niall’s gaze as best he could with one eye swollen mostly shut. “I asked if you were ever going to be the next king, and she felt both excited and sorrowful. I didn’t know for sure then, but I hoped—and now, I think that she knew—that she looked forward to you being this.”
They sat silently, but not without communicating. Over the centuries, Irial had read Niall’s emotions without his knowledge. Tonight, for the first time, Niall consciously revealed his emotions for the purposes of sharing the things he couldn’t verbalize. The years had changed them both, but those changes had only made Niall more suited to being the Dark King. Niall was both relieved and disappointed that this was so. He was also happier than he’d been since he’d left Irial’s side more than nine centuries ago.
As am I.
Eventually, Niall stood. “Things will never be like they were before.”
“I didn’t think they would.” Irial stared up at him.
Unexpectedly, Niall extended a hand—and then grinned as he tasted Irial’s shock. “You fight better than I remember.”
“You broke several ribs.” Irial accepted Niall’s hand and was pulled to his feet. “I can’t see from one eye, and I think something in my knee ripped.”
“Exactly.” Niall released Irial’s hand and grinned.
“Maybe next time I’ll do better.” Irial regretted the words as soon as they were out, but he wasn’t going to admit that. Admitting that he hoped to do this again, that he’d settle for abuse at Niall’s hand if that was what he needed to do to be nearer Niall, was the sort of thing liable to send Niall further away. Irial concealed his emotions and stilled his expression as best he could.
For a moment, Niall said nothing; his emotions were likewise locked down tightly enough that they were out of Irial’s reach. Then Niall shrugged. “Maybe. I’d rather it be me injuring you than anyone else doing it.”
“I am yours to command.” Irial lifted the rope for Niall to duck under.
They walked out together in silence. Niall did not tell Irial to depart as they walked to the house that had once been Irial’s, nor did he invite Irial to stay. At the step, they paused, and for a foolish, hopeful moment, Irial waited. Then, Niall reached out to the gargoyle that adorned the door, and Irial left for his current residence. It was a peaceful parting.
Things might be all right after all.
