33. Conor

33

CONOR

C onor tore through the woods. He sensed Rowan's panic as sharply as her grief and fear. He just needed to get to her, but she was so far from the keep.

The forest parted for him, but he was moving so quickly that branches and thorns snagged at his skin and clothing as he sprinted through. Finally, he came to the end of the Dark Wood and found Rowan in a heap at the very edge of the magical forest.

"Rowan!"

He slid to his knees beside her and almost collapsed from relief when he realized she was breathing. He searched her for wounds but found none. He could find no cause for her sleep.

His eyes passed over the purple stain on her lips. He leaned forward and sniffed it.

Mother's Mercy vine. She must have mistaken it for another plant. He listened to her heartbeat. It was slow but steady.

Then he saw the red plant on the ground beside her—Vibrant Vine, a magical herb specific to the Dark Wood that spiked bursts of energy in the body. When he and Charlie went on patrols, they often chewed it to stay awake.

Why would she have taken two herbs with such opposing effects?

He reached for her hand, and only then did he notice the Mother's Mercy vine wrapped around her wrist. It looked strangely wilted, and the sharp scent of it mixed with the sweet smell of Rowan's blood.

The scene was baffling. The Dark Wood had always reacted to the Maidens, but with Rowan, it felt almost sentient. Perhaps it was simply because he had such strong feelings for her, and the magic was a reflection of his own.

He looked over the scene again. It seemed as if the magic of the Dark Wood had somehow tried to help her.

He looked up at the forest. "Can I move her?"

In response, the Mother's Mercy vine unlatched from her wrist and drew away. Conor scooped Rowan up into his arms. He turned and found the Crone standing just outside her cottage door, watching them. This was her doing.

"I'll be back for you," he said quietly.

Her face betrayed nothing but grim acceptance. She nodded just as a girl who looked about Rowan's age burst out of the Borderwood.

The girl was startled at the sight of the Wolf holding Rowan before her eyes narrowed suspiciously on the Crone.

"You're Conor," she said, her gaze returning to Rowan. "I'm Sarai. Take me with you. I can help."

He recognized the name. She was Rowan's friend, the Crone's daughter.

She turned her accusatory gaze on the Crone. "What did you give her, Mother?" Her tone was clipped, and even without knowing her, Conor read the fury in her eyes.

"Mother's Mercy," the Crone called.

Sarai nodded as she stepped closer to him and brushed Rowan's hair back from her face. "I'm sorry, Rowan. I should have known she was up to something when she sent me away." She felt Rowan's pulse. "I'll be right back."

She scurried into the Crone's cottage before reappearing a few moments later with a bag. "Let's go," she said, a determined set to her shoulders.

"I know you are the Crone's protégé, but you might still struggle in the Dark Wood. Even those with magic struggle to make it to the keep," Conor said.

"Then help me get through because I'm not leaving her right now."

Conor nodded. He liked Rowan's friend already.

Sarai worked quickly when they returned to Wolf's Keep, grinding herbs into a tea that Conor helped her feed a barely conscious Rowan. Now, she sat on the edge of the bed, keeping a nervous vigil by checking Rowan's heart rate every few minutes.

"It's still strong," Conor said. "I can hear it all the time. You don't have to keep checking. I will know if she needs us."

Sarai sighed. "I hate waiting. I feel helpless."

"I know," Conor said.

She chewed her fingernails, caught herself, and busied her hands by picking at a thread on her sleeve. "I'm sorry. I should have realized there was a reason my mother was sending me away. I should have paid closer attention. I just never thought she would try to hurt Rowan," she said.

"You can't blame yourself. She's all right now," Conor said.

"I suppose you're also not blaming yourself?"

He sighed. "Fair enough."

Sarai came to sit next to him by the fire. "You're not what I expected."

"And what did you expect?" Conor asked.

She shrugged. "She made you sound more commanding, but right now, you mostly seem terrified."

"Yes, well, it seems that Rowan has softened some of my edges."

"As you've sharpened some of hers," Sarai said.

Conor liked the idea of that—an exchange of sorts. He knew it was true for him. Rowan had softened him immeasurably, but had he really sharpened her, or had he simply allowed her to see herself as she truly was deep down? It was possible Sarai was giving him too much credit.

Rowan groaned, her eyes fluttering. Conor was instantly up and at her side.

"Conor," Rowan said with a smile. "Am I dead?"

He stroked her cheek. "No, love, you saved yourself once again."

Sarai huffed out a breath. "Speak for yourself! You mostly saved yourself, Row. Conor and I helped."

Rowan laughed weakly before her eyes narrowed on Sarai. "Did you know?"

Conor had been wondering the same thing in the back of his mind, but seeing Sarai's growing panic as they waited, he felt only true fear for Rowan's life, not guilt. Centuries of experience taught him the difference.

Sarai's eyes filled with tears. "Row, of course not. I would never do that to you. Not when you found a way to save Raya and help me hide her. You're my dearest friend."

Rowan nodded. Her movements were slow and pained and her skin was alarmingly pale.

"It doesn't make sense the way the magic of the Dark Wood seems sentient and connected to her," Sarai said, meeting Conor's eye. "It stands to reason that if her voice beckons to dead things or acts as a reminder of life, that she could bring back plant life or lure spirits across the forest, but why would the Dark Wood work for her?"

Rowan struggled to push herself up to sitting. "I whispered my name to the Dark Wood. It knows me. I feel this sort of understanding of it."

"When?" Sarai asked.

Rowan laughed and shook her head. "Names have power. Of all the things for my mother to be right about."

"Rowan, you're not making any sense." Conor brought a hand to her forehead, checking for a fever.

"When I was five, I whispered my name to the Dark Wood, and it whispered it back. It was permission of sorts. I didn't realize it at the time. I'd accepted my fate. The same way I've willingly given my power to you," Rowan said.

Conor stared at her. Consent . She'd given the Dark Wood and Conor both consent.

Sarai paced the room. "Goddess above! It finally makes sense! The prophecy that made my mother want to kill you. The prophecy about the one who would shift the balance said ‘ the one who gives up her name .' We took that to mean a Maiden who married the Wolf—a symbolic way of giving up her name. My mother thought, because you fell for him, that you'd marry him, eventually solidifying his superiority over the Mother, but the reality is that you gave your name to the Dark Wood. In theory, you sacrificed some power over you, and so the Dark Wood gave you some back. You consented to an exchange. A sacrifice given of your own accord would carry more weight than something you're compelled to do. It's why you enchant plants everywhere, but especially the Dark Wood."

"Sarai, we need a plan," Rowan said. "The Crone said that the blight is still spreading in Ballybrine, and I think the Mother is doing it. There must be a way to strip her of power and pass it to someone else, just like she was planning to do with Conor."

Sarai furrowed her brow. "Well, theoretically, the magics are two sides of the same coin. Death is just the pause before life. It's all an endless circle." She leaned back in her chair thoughtfully. "I have an idea, but it's going to be a long shot, and it might not work at all if we don't have enough people to witness the transfer of power. Still, it's our best option."

Conor sat down, and the three of them set about making a new plan.

Rowan stood in front of Orla's shrine, striking a match to light a candle and bowing her head in prayer. The afternoon light pouring through the stained-glass window cast her face in an array of colors.

Conor stood awkwardly off to the side. He'd been following her around all day. Even Sarai teased him about it, but so much had happened in the past day, and he had a strange fear that if he let Rowan out of his sight, she would disappear. Or, worse, change her mind about him.

Rowan had been presented with quite a bit of startling information in the past few days, from the Crone's prophecy to Rowan's ability to control the Dark Wood to the fact that the Mother was still spreading the blight into Ballybrine to the revelation that Conor had killed most of the past Maidens.

She'd been uncommonly quiet and reserved, even when he made love to her that morning. She was more tentative. Her emotions were carefully tucked away from him.

Conor's mind spun wildly. It was the first time he'd been able to see a real way out of the mess he'd made so many years before. The plan that he, Sarai, and Rowan had formed meant that he'd no longer need to be bound by taking Red Maidens. Unfortunately, it also meant that as soon as they handled the Mother, Rowan would no longer be bound to him. She could finally have a life of her own, and as much as he wanted that for her, he didn't want to think about how his days would drag without her.

She lifted her head and sighed, brushing her hair back behind her shoulders as she turned to look at him.

"What's going on in your head?" Conor asked.

A smile tugged at her lips. "I thought you knew now with our bond."

"I know what you feel at times, which is quite a lot, but I have no idea what you think."

Rowan considered it, wringing her hands and twisting them into the skirt of her dark green dress. "I think that I wasn't surprised when you told me about the other Maidens. I wanted not to believe it, even if it's what I suspected. I'm not sure it changed anything, but I can't exactly say that it's comforting."

Conor waited breathlessly for her to say more. He didn't remember ever feeling so terrified. It went far beyond what he felt for her physically. Lorna might have introduced him to compassion, but Rowan had demanded it. She dazzled him, and now, as all of their truths were borne to each other, he was desperately afraid that she wouldn't want him. He knew asking her to love him still was asking a lot, but he foolishly hoped for it anyway.

"I want to keep you," Conor said desperately.

Rowan's face softened. "Keep me?"

"Yes. Keep you in my arms. Keep you safe. Keep you smiling."

"And if I don't want to be kept?" she challenged.

"Then I want you to keep me," he sighed. "I just want to be with you."

She frowned, and apprehension buzzed through their connection. "But I will continue to age. I will get old and gray, and you'll be just as handsome as you are now."

He was surprised she had thought of such a thing. When they met, she'd seemed so certain of her early death that she hadn't even bothered to think of what she might want if she could decide for herself. Rowan had come such a long way.

"That's not necessarily true, lass. The magic of this place preserves you while you're here."

Rowan's eyes went wide. "So if I stayed here forever and never went back to Ballybrine, I would stay the same age?"

"It's not instant—if you walked back to Ballybrine after a year, you wouldn't instantly age a year. It's simply that when you're in Ballybrine, you age normally, and when you're here, the eternal magic keeps you as you are."

If she was thinking that much about the future, perhaps he had more of a chance than he thought. Perhaps she could love him with the same certainty with which he loved her. Perhaps he could satisfy all of her questions until the only answer she had left was "yes." Could he be so fortunate?

"You know, I would make the whole world dark for you so that you can be the only bright light," Conor said.

She smiled. She'd let him drag her down into the dark, or perhaps she'd always lived there and he simply found her and made her unafraid. She'd lived at odds with her nature, but he wanted to set her free.

"There is an ember in you that glows brightly all the time. To have been hurt and forgotten, to have been wounded and betrayed, and to still do nothing but burn… I am blown away by you, Rowan Cleary."

Conor lowered himself to his knees.

For Rowan alone, he was devout. He had spent centuries as someone who exclusively received reverence and homage, not one who gave it. But Rowan demanded his faith with her very presence, and he never wanted to worship anyone or anything else.

Rowan stared at the monster humbled before her. In the past, Conor would have been humiliated by doing such a thing, but he was bolstered by the hint of satisfaction on her face. The god of death was kneeling in his own temple to her, a girl who'd spent her life feeling powerless. He wanted her to feel strong, loved, perfect exactly as she was—because that was how he truly felt.

"What are you doing?" she rasped.

He took both of her hands in his, kissing her knuckles softly as he held her gaze. "Bind my heart to yours if you deem me worthy. Weave your life with mine."

Rowan went utterly still. He held her hands, kissing each fingertip, her palms, the insides of her wrists. Recognition lit in her eyes, and Conor felt the warmth of her joy and the buzzing of her apprehension in his chest as if they were his own. They were the words of traditional Eireione wedding vows, and it was clear that, despite her sheltered life, she recognized them.

He took a breath and continued, "From my lips may only truth flow. From your heart may only peace grow."

He hugged her around the waist, staring up at her. It was dangerous to share his power. He had no idea what would happen if he took a wife, but in their culture, marriage was a spiritual vow, binding one soul to another forever. Conor hadn't thought about his own soul in quite some time. Perhaps it would act as a millstone for hers, dragging her down to the depths. Perhaps she'd gladly fall. He was far too selfish to feel guilty for it.

He spoke again. "You are the mirror of my heart. You help me see myself even when I want to stay blind."

She blinked back tears.

"From this day until my last, I bend to no one but you, Rowan Cleary."

Rowan held her breath as shock reverberated through their connection. She'd likely never dreamed she would hear those words.

"Say it back, Rowan. I know it's an untraditional proposal. I know it's not really a proposal at all, but please say it back."

In Eireione culture, couples married themselves. They committed their vows either privately or in front of friends and family, but there was no officiant necessary. If she said them back, they'd be so.

Conor felt the impulse to pray, though he had no clue to whom gods were supposed to pray. How did mortals bear the lack of control?

Rowan was still as a statue. Tears streamed down her cheeks. He couldn't tell if they were a product of grief or joy.

There was no accounting for Conor's heart. He loved this woman. Perhaps he'd pushed her too far. Perhaps it was asking far too much. Perhaps the past few days had convinced her how truly unwise it would be to bind herself to him in any significant way. Still, he would not let fear stop him from humbling himself for her.

It astonished Conor that he could still experience new things after his centuries of existence. He wasn't certain Rowan understood what it meant for him to be on his knees and say those words. Even long ago, when he'd been mortal, he'd never had an interest in companionship. He was a warrior first. He was someone who had built his entire existence on certainty.

Now he knelt before a beautiful woman with nothing but uncertainty stretched out before him. The words he'd said to Charlie weeks before came rushing back to him. " I'll not make hope a noose from which to hang myself. "

He feared he'd done just that.