21. Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-One

Rory wished fervently that Gray hadn't left. He missed him already, more than he had ever imagined he would—and his imagination, from all the many years of burying his head in books, was extremely well-developed—and it was all quite a bit worse because Rory placed the entirety of the blame for Gray's departure on his own shoulders.

"Your Majesty," Anya asked, breaking her silent position near the doorway to his office, and coming to stand near his desk, "are you alright?"

"No," Rory said miserably. "I'm not."

"I did wonder, because you were making a quite pitiful groaning noise just then," Anya offered, a glimmer of a smile breaking through her solemn expression.

Rory didn't know whether it was better or worse that Gray had left Anya behind, ostensibly to guard him. If he'd wanted Rory to think of him every minute of every day, and never be able to escape his memory, he'd have accomplished that even without Anya. But with his countrywoman right there as an additional constant reminder, Rory's suffering felt particularly acute.

"I miss Gray," Rory said, not that this revelation was particularly new to anyone, especially not to Anya, who had been present for the last two days and had witnessed every ounce of Rory's regret.

"If you miss him so much," Anya said, resting a hip against the edge of Rory's enormous, intricately carved desk, "why did you let him leave in the first place?"

It must have been Rory's somewhat shocked expression—in the six months since he'd ascended the throne of Fontaine, it was rare that anyone, barring Gray and Evrard, actually told him the blunt, unadorned truth. Anya must have realized a moment too late that she was addressing Rory, who was the King, and not Gray, with whom he knew she had a much more informal relationship.

"I . . . uh . . ." It was unusual to witness the Ardglassian warrior feeling anything other than supremely self-possessed and confident. "My apologies, Your Majesty," she added, with an apologetic frown. "I appear to have overstepped my boundaries."

Rory was not jealous, precisely, of Gray's easy way with people, even those who did not like him, but he was beginning to see that his own stiff formality was doing him no favors. Another blame to lay at the gravestone of his aunt, who by allowing him to hide away, had neglected to teach him some vital lessons about social interaction.

"No, no," Rory said, "it is I who should be apologizing. You said nothing wrong. In fact, I . . . I find I need more people who tell me the truth." There was Gray, of course, but it was not the same. "And you are right, absolutely right. If I did not want him to go, I should have asked him to stay."

"Your Majesty," Anya said, absently reaching down to pet one of the enormous carved lions holding up each corner of the massive desk, "you have recently taken your throne. Gray is still coming to terms with his own legacy and his own power in your kingdom. Some . . . growing pains are to be expected, I think."

Rory, who had spent the last two days, and in many ways, the last few months, beating himself up mentally for the problems he and Gray were experiencing, gaped at her.

"You really believe that?" he asked slowly. In all likelihood, it was entirely inappropriate for Rory to be having this conversation with Anya, but he knew she was good friends with Gray, and if he couldn't talk to someone, there was a strong chance he would simply explode.

"Both your lives completely changed when you became King," Anya said simply.

Rory knew Anya was right, and that even as they had both struggled to adjust to their new reality, their feelings for each other had remained steadfast and true. He still loved Gray, he still wanted and needed him in equal parts, and he hoped—no, he believed—that Gray's feelings were similarly unchanged.

"Has Gray ever told you about how he came to terms with his exile in the Valley of Lost Things?" Anya asked.

Gray did not typically like talking about his feelings, especially feelings surrounding him leaving Ardglass. He had mentioned it offhandedly once or twice, but never in any depth, and Rory found himself more disconsolate at the fact Gray was talking to Anya, but not to him. But then, Rory reminded himself, when would you have time to have these deep conversations? You barely have any time to ask each other how your day was.

Rory was forced to shake his head, at least a little embarrassed that they were supposed to be soulmates, but Gray was talking to his countrywoman instead.

"I explain this because I have the impression that your upbringing, at least after the death of your parents, was quite different," Anya said seriously. "But Gray was raised to be a king. He was trained from a very young age to not only be a statesman, but to be a general. Nearly everything he did was in service of helping him become a better, more just ruler to his people. And then, at age eleven, everything changed for him. Every bit of foundation that he had was ripped away, and instead of being a king, he was essentially told that he would be a farmhand the rest of his life."

Of course Rory knew the facts of the situation; that at eleven Gray had fled Ardglass, and then had settled in the Valley of Lost Things. He also knew, from offhand comments Gray had made from almost the very beginning, that such an abrupt change weighed heavily on him then, and now.

"He dealt with this," Anya pointed out, her voice gentling, "by staying so busy he couldn't dwell on the sudden changes that had overtaken his life."

Rory was renowned for being one of the most intelligent men of his age. With Anya's words, he realized just how stupid and blind he had been. Instead of giving Gray something to do to help him adjust to the new circumstances in which he'd found himself, Rory had rebuffed every single attempt Gray had made to find an occupation.

He was silent for a long moment as so many of their conversations were re-framed in his head, taking into account this new angle. And all of them suddenly felt quite different. Gray, not dissatisfied with Rory, or thinking that Rory was not good enough or Rory was not working hard enough, but desperate for something to do because he was struggling and because he was bored. Here Gray was, with half of the education normally given to a king, and no way to use it, because Rory was too stubborn to let anyone else help.

"I'm an idiot," Rory finally pronounced, disgusted with himself. He'd become so self-absorbed, juggling all the new duties he'd taken on, that he'd failed to notice the man he loved was struggling. It wasn't like Gray hadn't said anything; he'd asked more than once if he could help. But Rory, feeling his own heap of guilt from letting his aunt rule unchecked for years, had never made an effort to make a place for his lover.

A smile glimmered at the edges of Anya's mouth. "Not an idiot," she said, "merely a king trying to do right by his people and a man in love, trying to navigate a new relationship."

A new relationship.

Was that why Gray's proposal had bothered him so much? Rory, too, had taken it for granted that they would be married someday, and had been unpleasantly surprised that Gray would decide now, when they barely saw each other, was the perfect time.

Maybe it was the perfect time to use a wedding to silence any treasonous gossip, but it certainly wasn't anything close to the most ideal time for Rory and Gray personally. He'd known they were struggling a little bit, had inevitably seen it, but had been unsure how to solve their problems. Had hoped, somewhat naively, that with time for them both to adjust to their new roles, everything would revert back to how it had been at the very beginning.

But that wasn't right either, Rory realized. That wasn't even something he should want. Their relationship shouldn't march backwards, back to the beginning, but progress and move forward.

"I can see why Gray keeps you around," Rory said to Anya, who only shrugged.

"I think he likes having me around because I'm from Ardglass and I make sure his head stays the same size," she said.

"Maybe we can share your service, and you can assist me similarly," Rory proposed.

Anya regarded him speculatively. "I don't think a huge ego is your problem, Your Majesty," she said.

"Perhaps not, but an application of brutal honesty never goes amiss," Rory said firmly. Too many advisers were treating him like particularly delicate glass, afraid to see how much he could bear. The Rory of six months ago might have been equally concerned about his strength of purpose, but the Rory of today had dug deep and discovered he was much tougher than he'd ever imagined.

Somehow, miraculously, the Valley looked unchanged as Gray and Evrard rode down the slope towards the farm.

"It never changes because I wish it that way," Evrard pointed out, answering Gray's unspoken question.

"Magic," Gray muttered under his breath, even though he was perfectly aware that Evrard would hear it.

"You hardly disparaged magic when you summoned it with Lion's Breath and saved Rory's life as well as your own," Evrard pointed out.

"There's a place for it. That I won't argue with. But to keep this valley green and bright and perfect?" Gray shook his head. "It feels like a waste."

"It's not my magic that keeps this place pristine," Evrard observed. "But a much deeper, much more archaic magic set in place long before I even existed. I could hardly change it, even if I wished to."

The crops Gray had planted in the spring before Rory's arrival with his guard to the Valley were still sitting in the fields, seemingly frozen in time. He'd fully expected to ride in and immediately have to rip rotten crops from the fields, but everything was preserved, like the last six months hadn't passed at all.

"You could have told me that we didn't need to check in on the Valley," Gray grumbled as he dismounted, running his fingers along the tall corn stalks Rory had once hid in.

"And deprive you of an excuse to run off when you and Rory were having problems?" Evrard said, clearly much amused by himself. "I wouldn't dare."

Gray glared at the unicorn next to him. "That isn't why we came. We came . . ."

"Because Rory wouldn't listen to you? Because he won't let you help him? Because he turned down your proposal of marriage?"

Gray stalked over to the farmhouse and yanked the door open. He was already missing Rory and regretting leaving in such a huff, but Evrard was not making this any easier. A common problem with Evrard; he tended to rub your nose in it before you finally admitted he'd been right all along. Gray's hands tightened into fists as he took in the main room of the farmhouse. It was just as he'd left it, like he'd merely stepped outside for a moment. "It wasn't like I thought it would be," he finally admitted in a low, despondent voice. "I thought . . . I don't know what I thought."

Evrard paused in the doorway. "You thought even though Ardglass was lost to you, you could pick up where you left off with Fontaine." He tilted his great head, his bright white mane falling to the side. "You thought you'd found a purpose again."

"I did," Gray said savagely. It annoyed the ever-living hell out of him that Evrard knew him so damn well, but it turned out there was some benefit to discussing his problems with someone who could read Gray's mind. He wasn't used to Evrard being so entirely wrong. "I found a purpose, I did, I had adopted Fontaine as my own, and Rory as my future and . . ." Gray broke off with a muffled oath and stomped over to a chair and slumped down into it.

When he glanced up, Evrard was carefully picking his way across the threshold, despite Gray's longstanding order that animals, even animals who talked, didn't come in the house, they stayed outside or in the stables. "You thought being Rory's consort and protecting him would be enough," Evrard said softly. "But it's not."

"I'm angry with myself for believing that was the case. For thinking that loving Rory would be enough." Gray's head fell into his hands. "I want it to be."

"How could it be? You," Evrard said, his voice growing, and taking on that magical quality of excessive confidence, "you were born to be a king."

How was that supposed to make him feel any better? "And now, thanks to Gideon, I'm not," Gray observed wryly.

Evrard's mane shimmered in the dim light of the farmhouse. "You are not listening," he said, clearly frustrated. "What do you think you would be if you and Rory were married? An assistant? A mere consort? You would be a king, same as him. He is able to bestow the title and powers onto you, same as his own. And you should share the throne. You possess some of the knowledge and the skills needed for ruling Fontaine, and while Rory's learning was different, it's complementary. Together, you are the balance."

"That means asking him to share his birthright," Gray said. He wanted to believe Rory would be willing, but then very few men who obtained power were ever able to give it up. Rory definitely was not most men, but he was still a man, with the same weaknesses, no matter how fiercely his intelligence shone.

"He would do it and more, for you, and for Fontaine," Evrard pointed out softly. "And regardless, he cannot, if you do not ask."

"But I have asked," Gray burst out.

Evrard's gaze seared into him. "Did you truly ask? Or did you hedge, afraid that he'd turn you down?"

Gray stared moodily at the floor. "I did ask him to marry me, and while he didn't outright reject me, he certainly didn't agree either."

"It sounds to me like you both need to talk through your problems." Evrard's voice was unbearably wise. And Gray was fairly certain he was also trying to point out that the last thing he should have done was run away instead of talking through everything they were struggling with. Because that was what he'd done, wasn't it? At the first overt sign of trouble, he'd packed up and left.

"I needed to know this was still here, in case . . ." Gray hesitated; he didn't even want to say it out loud.

"Rory has taken on a huge responsibility, but you've given up your life twice now, without hesitation." Evrard paused. "Looking back to make sure that what you left still exists isn't the worst thing you could have done. And as you can see, the Valley is still here. If you wanted to come back here and live, you could."

Even though Gray didn't respond to Evrard, he already knew what his answer was. He wouldn't be coming back here, not permanently. He belonged in Beaulieu, with Rory. They just needed to figure out his place there, and how to rearrange things so he fit a little better.

After settling Evrard into his stable with fresh straw, Gray collapsed into his old bed, and to his surprise, slept well, and then rose with the dawn, feeling his mind settle on a decision.

He'd cared for this farm for too long to see it stand stagnant, even with the strange preservation magic that had settled over it.

"We made the effort to come," was all Gray said when Evrard questioned their schedule, "and so I'll harvest this crop. We'll leave at the end of the week." His heart was already yearning to return to Rory, but another part of him—the part that had worked so long and so hard to make this farm his home—knew he couldn't leave it like this.

"We talked about this . . ." Evrard began to say, but Gray held up a hand, stopping him.

"I don't care if it stays frozen like this for a hundred years. I'm not leaving these vegetables behind when the people of Fontaine could eat them."

He'd have to be a lot blinder to see Evrard's satisfied expression as he turned away.

The days passed more quickly than Gray anticipated. He worked hard from sunup to sundown, harvesting the crops in the fields, and then packing them away in crates he'd put together during many past winters. Evrard could not be expected to carry such a heavy load, as well as Gray, so he traveled to the village, and with his coin purse full of Fontaine gold, bought a solid work horse and a brand-new cart. It was the first time he appreciated not having to bargain for every piece of dried meat or stick of wood. He'd had the results of his hard labor to barter with before, but never before had he been able to outright purchase anything. He hadn't even wanted to take the gold, but Rory had insisted. Now Gray was glad he had, because, when he returned to Beaulieu, he'd have something to show for his absence. Without the gold, and the transportation it had purchased, the crops never could have left the Valley.

The day before they were planning to leave, Gray was out in the corn field, sweat dripping down his forehead even though it was very late autumn—nearly winter—and the weather had definitely turned cooler. This was the last field he had to harvest and pack onto the already full cart, and he wanted to get done earlier so he might have time to relax in the bath, in anticipation of the journey home.

The noise of hooves pounding the ground startled him out of his rhythm, his knife falling to his side as he glanced up.

Since they'd arrived almost a week ago, he'd seen not a soul except for the quick trip he'd taken to the neighboring village. He was certainly not expecting to see anyone, though he supposed that the rules of the Valley still applied. If someone was lost and needed shelter, the Valley was accessible to them.

At first, Gray couldn't see anything, even as he shaded his eyes from the weak wintery sunshine.

Then, like a vision from his fantasies—or perhaps from his memories—he made out a group of riders, horses in formation, with a slight, but erect figure crowned with bright auburn hair riding at the forefront.

Gray's first thought was sweet, blessed relief. He'd known he was missing Rory terribly, but he'd pushed the feelings away because they'd hurt, and keeping busy helped numb him, at least a little. His second thought, as Rory and his guard rode closer, was that something terrible had happened to make them flee Beaulieu again. You never should have left him. You weren't there to protect him when he needed it the most.

Gray wiped his face with an already dirty sleeve, and stepped out of the corn patch, waiting for the riders to come closer. When they were finally near enough to make out which of Rory's guard had come with, joy swept through him in a dizzying rush. Marthe was not with him, which hopefully meant that all was well, and Rory had left her behind to maintain Beaulieu's defenses.

Which meant only one thing—Rory had come for him.

Finally, they stopped. Gray met Anya's gaze, and she smiled brightly at him.

Then Rory swung his leg over his horse and Gray couldn't look at anything except his lover as he walked towards him.

Rory was smiling too, so sweetly that Gray could barely stop himself from rushing and throwing himself into his arms, no matter how dirty and sweaty he'd gotten.

"I hear this is an excellent refuge for the lost," Rory said, his hot, possessive gaze making it clear that he didn't care how dirty or sweaty Gray was either.

Rory might be one of the most brilliant minds of this age, but Gray could still keep up. "Are you lost, then?"

Rory didn't say a word, but walked closer, closing the last few feet behind them. He reached up, cupping Gray's cheek, rough with the beginnings of a beard because Gray hadn't been bothered to shave while he was alone in the Valley. "I was lost without you," he admitted softly. "I'm so sorry, more than I can even say."

Gray let out the breath he'd been holding—maybe from the moment the crown had been placed upon Rory's brow, or maybe even earlier than that, from the first moment they'd entered Beaulieu.

"I'm sorry too," he said. "I was coming home. I swear." He gestured towards the loaded cart. "But I couldn't let all this go to waste when our subjects could use it."

The corner of Rory's mouth quirked up. "Our subjects?"

Gray steeled himself—reminding himself that they both wanted the same things, that they were still wildly, madly in love, and that most important fact hadn't changed, even though nearly everything else had. "I hope to call them my subjects too, whether or not you consider my proposal," Gray said quietly. "I want to help you. I want to help them. Please let me."

Rory's expression didn't waver. "I think we can work something out. But first, there is something you should know." He paused, and his gaze grew darker, more determined. "I'm afraid that Sabrina isn't quite as dead as we hoped."