31. Chapter 31

Chapter 31

D inner was less awkward than Cyril expected it to be, and that was unsettling.

She was sure the moment they settled into the small, private dining room inside Runa and Lars’ suite that she and Mikael would both get one hells of a dressing down.

But nothing happened.

Runa hugged them both, got them all seated around the table, and spent their entire meal talking and asking questions about perfectly innocuous things. The family’s hunt before the solstice, Cyril’s trip into Brynnhold, and her first lockmead hangover.

Not a single mention of a certain solstice hallway entanglement.

Now, after a bit of guilt-tripping from the queen, Cyril and Mikael followed her into an adjacent, well-appointed sitting room armed with three glasses and two bottles of wine.

The overstuffed sofa and its periwinkle blue velvet felt like it might swallow Cyril whole, but she wasn’t complaining about it.

“In the spirit of being transparent, I have two things I’d like to offer,” Runa said as she finished pushing open two sets of glass doors, letting the evening breeze sweep in off the terrace. “The first is for both of you, and it’s a bit of advice.”

Mikael paused mid-pour of wine to glance at Cyril, and she was certain he looked as tense as she felt. The damn queen had waited until they had their guard down to corner them.

“And that advice would be…?” Mikael asked warily.

Better him than Cyril.

“Discretion.” Runa sighed as she settled in an armchair opposite them and fixed them both with an unimpressed stare. “Personally, I don’t care what the two of you get up to. You’re both adults, and it isn’t my business. Lars doesn’t care either and, in fact, I think he seemed rather supportive of the entire idea of the two of you. But Dion ?” She raised her brow at Cyril and shook her head. “I cannot fathom what would have happened if he had been the one to stumble upon the two of you down each other’s throats that night.”

Cyril’s cheeks burned .

She opened her mouth, but Runa held up her hand. The damned prince just busied himself with his glass of wine.

“I don’t need or want an explanation, apology, or defense from either of you. I would just like the both of you to promise me you will exercise some amount of caution in any of your future…encounters.”

Well, at least all three of them looked equally uncomfortable now.

Cyril and Mikael both nodded.

“Good.” Runa sank back in her chair and took a languid sip of her wine before she fixed her eyes on Cyril. “Now, my second offering. Just for you. When I was giving my son hell yesterday for his deplorable behavior, he mentioned something very…interesting to me.”

In the entire month she’d spent in Reykr so far, Cyril had never seen Mikael look as meek as he did when she glared at him. The prince commander slumped back into his seat, avoiding eye contact.

“What did you—” She looked back at Runa. “What did he say?”

The grin that crept across the queen’s face brought Cyril no comfort.

“My son mentioned that, if given the opportunity, you would have an interest in seeing memories of Malia and Hector?”

To hear her parents’ names spoken with such warmth and ease?

Gooseflesh rippled up Cyril’s arms.

Dion enjoyed keeping a degree of separation between the people he referred to as her parents and the dead family members whose names he must have once used often. There was an implication, too, to what Runa was asking her that Cyril didn’t want to consider the possibility of.

“I… Yes,” Cyril’s voice was hoarse, and it took an effort to swallow down the lump building in her throat. “I would.”

Runa’s eyes searched her face, and she nodded.

“If you are certain about it, I’d like to offer you that opportunity.”

“What do you…” Cyril hadn’t realized her hands went slack until Mikael swore and reached for her tilting wine glass. Her chest suddenly ached . “You know someone? Someone here that could…?”

No. It couldn’t be possible. This was just some cruel joke.

Runa's smile fully lifted her eyes as she nodded again. “I do.”

If it weren’t for the speed with which Cyril clamped her hand over her mouth, she surely would have made a gods awful noise. She looked to Mikael, who nodded in confirmation and gently squeezed the leg she hadn't even realized she was bouncing off the floor.

“I take it Dion never told you then that it was a possibility? I had my suspicions that he hadn’t, but…”

Cyril just shook her head.

She wasn’t confident that she’d be able to string together more than one or two coherent words with the way the shock and anger took their turns surging up through her.

It wasn’t even like Dion keeping another damn secret should have been a surprise. But this? He had no fucking right. No matter what his feelings were about what happened, how much grief and anger or indifference he harbored, they were her parents. She had a right to know that it was possible. The right to decide what to do with that information on her own.

Dion was probably going to have one hell of a fucking excuse about why he kept this from her.

Cyril took an unsteady breath.

A bitter quip about Dion was about to leave her lips when she looked at Mikael and everything clicked.

“When you asked me about them…you knew?”

“I pieced together a few things, yeah.” He gave her a tight smile. “I just wasn’t sure how to bring it up, honestly.”

“Do my uncles know?” Cyril looked at Runa.

She wasn’t sure if she wanted to know the answer. If everyone but her knew…

“I don’t believe so,” Runa said, shaking her head. “Truthfully, Cyril, I would have told you much sooner, but after the letters…I didn’t want to upset you anymore than I already had if it was something you didn’t want.”

Cyril tried not to think about that afternoon, and not because of Runa’s gesture. The queen's attempt to forge a connection with someone she owed nothing to was generous. Cyril avoided thoughts of that day because of her abysmal behavior and the gods damned fight she’d had with Dion afterward.

“You caught me off guard that day.” Cyril’s response was sheepish, but true.

She hadn’t been at all prepared for that, not from someone she just met, and especially not from someone who reigned over the people she spent her whole life being taught to distrust. Things were…different now.

“I realize that now. You’re sure that this is something you want?”

“ Please , I—” Cyril clenched her teeth. The desperation tumbled out before she’d even thought about it. She tried to reel herself in, to take a breath and calm down, but her efforts failed. “This person…they’d be willing to meet with me? I can pay them if that matters, I just… Are they close to the palace? It’ll be difficult, with Dion, to get away, but I think I can—”

Runa and Mikael's smiles grew as the questions and words and half-thought-out statements kept tumbling out of Cyril. Like it was funny that she was so worked up.

Finally, she scowled and ground out, “I don’t know how any of this works, okay? I’ve never met a weaver before. I…I don’t know if they want money, or—”

Runa came to perch on the sofa arm beside Cyril.

“You don’t have to worry about any of that, Cyril. You don’t have to go anywhere, or pay anyone, or make any sort of arrangements.” She took Cyril’s hands in her own, tattooed and warm, and just looked at them for a moment as she brushed her thumbs over Cyril’s knuckles.

Cyril braced herself for the incoming wave of sentimentality. Some speech about the friendship Runa had with her mother. Some debt the queen felt she owed to her departed friend, that she would bear the burden of—

“And trust me, Cyril, when I say that it would be an honor beyond words to share my memories with you.”

Her memories.

No.

Cyril hadn’t heard that right.

Because that would mean…

“You…”

Some new, budding instinct drew her eyes to Mikael. It felt like she hadn’t heard him speak all night.

He exchanged a glance with Runa.

“My mother is a weaver, or vefari, as we call them here. It just wasn’t my place to share that with you when you were drunk in the grass on solstice.”

A quiet huff of a laugh left Runa and Cyril looked back at her.

There was a veil of emotion on the queen’s face that Cyril couldn’t quite place. Like she was happy and devastated, wary and eager, all at the same time.

“Thank you, I…” It was all Cyril could manage.

There was more that she wanted to say.

So much more.

But her thoughts were a fucking mess.

She was sure the hand Mikael was skimming up and down her back was the only thing keeping her tethered to reality. Because there was no way any of this was real.

“You are so very welcome, Cyril.” Runa cupped her cheek and smiled at her with the sort of warmth that made her chest tighten and ache. “Finish your wine, and we’ll get started.”

It took two glasses of wine, and the start of a third, for Cyril to settle down enough for Runa to feel comfortable dipping into her mind.

The queen spent the entire time explaining how it would all work and checking, over and over, that Cyril was sure she wanted to do this now. That she didn’t want to wait a few days.

Cyril was certain.

She didn’t want the chance to think about it, to work herself up to the point she’d back out. Or worse, risk Dion’s unpredictability and be robbed of the opportunity in its entirety.

According to Runa, it might feel unpleasant at first, to have someone slip into her thoughts and forge that connection, especially for the first time. Then, Cyril would have to show Runa something clear and deep-seated in her memories—thoughts of Helia, they decided—for that strand of connection to forge and flow.

Simple enough, but Cyril would have to place total, unrestrained trust in Runa.

For this, she would throw every bit of caution to the wind.

Sitting on the ground, cross-legged on a plush rug in front of the queen, Cyril watched as Runa rubbed a few drops of oil on her fingers. Whatever it was, its scent was sharp and minty.

“I won’t spend long in your mind,” Runa said as she motioned for Cyril to move in closer until their knees brushed and Cyril was locked in face-to-face with silvery blue eyes. “Just long enough to show you a couple of things, and then I will back out. We can always do more another day, but I don’t want to overwhelm you right now, alright?”

“Okay.” Cyril nodded. As if it was possible for her to feel any more overwhelmed right now.

From the sofa beside them, Mikael cleared his throat.

“You’re positive you don’t want me to leave?”

That was the second time now that he asked if she was sure. After the other two times he clarified he had no problems leaving them on their own, to give Cyril and his mother some privacy.

He was uncomfortable about it, apparently, and Cyril may have taken an ounce of enjoyment in that. His mother may have as well.

“I’m sure.” She smiled at him and looked back at Runa. “I’m ready.”

Runa reached for her, brushing her thumbs across Cyril’s temples and slipping her fingers through Cyril’s hair to cradle her head. That pungent, minty, and medicinal scent flooded her nose.

“Close your eyes, and just focus on breathing. I’ll guide you through the rest.”

Cyril let her eyes fall shut, but she was not prepared for the immediate brush of something cold and otherworldly up her spine.

She tensed, making a soft noise, and the cold withdrew.

“I know it’s strange, but just relax and breathe.” Runa sounded distant, quiet.

Cyril took a slow breath, and the cold started to climb again.

From her tailbone to the base of her neck, it came in like a slow tide.

Waves of it lapped at her, ebbing and flowing as they built with persistence. That ethereal cold rose and rose until it crested and breached some invisible dam inside of her, flooding into her limbs with a heavy, pulling weight.

Then came the pain.

Sharp and sudden, pressure bloomed behind her eyes. It pulled a ragged, heavy breath from her and was gone just as quickly as it came.

“Show me your home, Cyril. Think about Helia.”

Runa sounded so far away, but thoughts of the grasslands came tumbling in.

Days spent cooling off in the creek behind the estate house when the summer sun hit its blistering peak. Climbing the apple trees for Sebille while she waited on the ground with a basket. The great hall, packed for a meal and rumbling with the raucous noise of rogues well into their ales.

Gods , she missed home.

“I know you do,” Runa said softly, and Cyril felt the shift in control. A quiet, soothing sort of darkness settled into her mind that she had no sway over, pushing out those longing memories of her home. “I’ll start with something familiar.”

Dion.

Much, much younger.

Sitting outside somewhere with Lars, with no trace of the fine lines that settled around his eyes in recent years, or that persistent crease between his brows.

His hair was longer and shaggier than she ever remembered seeing it too. He ran a hand through it and laughed at something Lars said. When he turned to look at her—at Runa—that’s when Cyril saw his scar. It had a pinkish tone to it, like it was still settling.

This was an exceedingly long time ago.

“Now, maybe a little less familiar…”

Cyril didn’t want to stop looking at Dion, at the youthful glint in his eyes she never knew existed, but the memory blew away like mist.

And then her father filled her vision.

He looked so much like Dion.

She knew that too, and had always told herself that from the vague, fleeting memories she had of him, but nothing compared to seeing them stand side by side. He was a couple of inches taller than Dion—and towered over Runa, looking up at him—and he was broader in the shoulders. But there was a softness to him too, that she hadn’t glimpsed even in a young Dion.

Her whole physical being ached with the want to reach out and touch him, feel what it was like to hug her father again. But Runa’s hands moved of their own accord, gesturing and flowing as she spoke muffled words to them.

Then, just as quickly as it came, the memory drifted from her mind.

“I think this is who you really want to see, and, if you are okay with it…” There was a hint of hesitation in Runa’s distant voice. “I would like to show it to someone else afterward too.”

A beige blanket spread over grass came in first. A mess of wavy, auburn hair settled into her vision next, belonging to a toddler who stood unsteadily between Runa’s legs on the blanket, gripping onto her fingers as she kept him upright.

Him , because Cyril knew instantly who that someone was.

She knew exactly where they were too. With the royal gardens in sight and the lake down off in the distance, they were on the terraced grass of the back lawn. Just like where Mikael had found her on the solstice.

Movement came into Runa’s periphery and it knocked all the air from Cyril’s lungs in one ragged breath.

Her mother.

There was no one else that could be.

She came from behind Runa and settled opposite her on the blanket, reaching her hands towards Mikael. The toddler prince made a shrill, joyful noise and stumbled across to her.

Cyril was captivated.

Her mother’s hair was short, falling just above the tops of her shoulders, but it was the same silky black as Cyril's, and there was no mistaking who she inherited her bone structure from. Even though everything about Malia’s face was just a touch sharper, more angular from her half-nymph blood, Cyril felt like she was looking in a mirror.

Now she understood why people always felt the need to tell her that.

Their only contrasts came from the vibrant blue, water-bearer eyes her mother held, and the unmistakable gentleness in her voice. Cyril was sure, even as she called to Dion and Hector, telling them to come watch Mikael walk, that this was a woman who couldn’t carry hatred or anger in her voice. A healer, through and through.

Just as Cyril’s father came to sit behind her mother, resting his chin on her shoulder and looking down at Mikael with wide, playful eyes, her chest started to ache.

Not from fondness, or longing, but from her heart thundering.

There was pressure too, building in her mind, but she ignored it.

She pushed past that budding discomfort, clinging on to her mother’s voice.

Her father’s laugh.

The bewildered expression on Dion’s face when Mikael staggered towards him.

They all looked so happy .

And then it was gone, the memory swept away by darkness and devastating silence.

“ No ,” Cyril’s voice came as a rasp, “No, Runa, please . Bring it back, I… please, Runa — ” She gritted her teeth, holding back the sob that crept up her throat.

She wanted to see every memory Runa had of them.

Every bit of laughter, every word they spoke, she wanted to hear it.

She wanted to see her mother again.

She wanted to see the happiness on Dion’s face again.

She wanted—

“Another time, Cyril,” Runa said, and that cold heaviness withdrew from her limbs, the tide retreating down her spine. “That is enough for now. Too much at once, and I can cause damage.”

Cyril’s eyes opened of their own volition as the last trace of cold skittered away. Runa looked at her, her own eyes glossy, with as sad of a smile as Cyril had ever seen. A twinge of guilt ran through her.

“Just sit for a bit, alright? You’re quite flush.” The queen’s hands skimmed down her face, her palms pressing against Cyril’s cheeks. “You might feel dizzy and a bit nauseous, but that will pass soon.”

Never mind dizzy, Cyril barely felt like she was in control of her own body. Her limbs refused to move, and blinking felt like it took an eternity. Distantly, she was aware of warmth radiating up through her chest, of her damp skin and the shirt stuck to her back.

She swallowed and nodded.

“You can…You can show—”

Her eyes drifted to the now empty spot on the sofa that Mikael had occupied.

She blinked.

“Right here.” Hands squeezed her shoulders, and she settled into herself a bit more. Mikael had moved right behind her, letting her lean back against him.

“You’re sure?” Runa asked, and Cyril nodded again.

She was sure for several reasons, one being that she couldn’t stomach that sad look in the queen’s eyes anymore.

Another was the emotions that seeped their way into her as she felt more tethered to herself. The strange, out-of-body happiness was being shoved cleanly out of the way by something dark clawing its way up from deep inside her.

Cyril needed to be alone.

She waited until Runa stopped watching her with wary eyes and tapped into Mikael's mind, to get up on uneasy feet and walk out onto the terrace. The cool evening breeze filled her lungs, and Cyril clamped a hand over her mouth and sobbed.

Well, Cyril certainly looked like her mother.

To an almost unnerving degree.

Mikael was sure his own mother had the best of intentions, but to show Cyril that, of all things… He didn’t feel good about it.

The room slid back into focus as Runa eased out of his mind, a lofty warmth seeping back into his limbs. Not as taxing on him as he was sure it was on Cyril, with how many countless times his mother had done it over the years, but it was still a sensation he didn’t enjoy.

He blinked, looking around and—

“She’s outside,” Runa said softly, all her attention turned to the patio doors.

His eyes found Cyril’s shadowed form standing out near the railing and, for fuck’s sake, he could hear her—quiet, heart-rending sobs.

Mikael went to stand, but his mother held out a hand.

“Go easy with her, Mika. If she’s anything like Dion, she won’t enjoy being coddled. She might need some time.”

Mikael was willing to test his luck.

He drained the last mouthful of his wine and walked out to the terrace.

“Cyril?”

She sucked in a shaky breath and stilled.

Mikael braved a few steps closer.

“I’d ask if you’re alright, but I think I know the answer already…”

“I’m fine,” Cyril mumbled.

Her sniffle and the way she wiped at her face with her sleeve said otherwise. Despite the overcast night sky dimming any moonlight, enough warm, orange glow flickered from the brazier to light up the glossiness in her eyes. She never pulled them from whatever she fixated on out in the gardens.

“No, you’re not.” Mikael brushed his hand on her back, and Cyril bristled.

Wrong move.

She took a step closer to the railing and away from him.

“It’s just hard, okay? We don’t—” Her voice wavered and fell quiet. “We don’t talk about her, or him, or them , and I…”

Whatever else she planned on saying, she abandoned in favor of blowing out a slow, shaky breath. Her knuckles were white as she gripped the polished stone cap of the railing like her life depended on it. Like that was all that kept whatever was cresting inside her together.

Mikael rested on his forearms beside her on the railing. He heard the patio doors pull shut behind them.

“You look just like her.”

It was all Mikael could think to say, because what other options did he have?

Sorry that apparently he got to meet her mother, and she never did?

Sorry that she likely never got to see that sort of easy, genuine happiness in her father's face? In Dion’s too?

Sorry that her family had been no better than massacred, torn apart at the seams?

He didn’t know what the fuck to say, or how to navigate anything with tact.

“I do.” The two words were quiet as Cyril nodded slowly. Then, she added, “I killed her. And I killed him too.”

“Cyril, you did not —” Mikael straightened up and stared at her, even though she still didn’t want to return the favor. “None of that is your fault.”

She huffed a laugh. And, gods , it was a pained noise.

“Isn’t it, though?” Cyril’s eyes finally drifted over and the vacancy in them was chilling. She shook her head and looked back out at the gardens, slowly saying, “My mother died because of me . She would still be here if it wasn’t for me . That means if it wasn’t for me , my fucking coward of a father would still be alive too, and Dion would be happy . So yes, Mikael, it is entirely my fault, every fucking bit of it.”

Mikael stilled.

Good gods. That was…

What a weight to carry.

His mother always preached about the hidden burdens people bore—the guilt and regrets, and the fears buried deep within them. The things that were never given the chance to see the light of day. The things that, despite often being misguided and muddied, and lost to years of self-sabotage, drove the very essence of their being.

He’d never witnessed a more prime example.

And Cyril’s logic, it was…flawed, entirely. As if she purposely came into this world to cause death and destruction. As if she had a choice about being brought into it. But that battle wasn’t worth the breath.

Something else she said, though, got to him.

“I respectfully disagree with you, Cyril, and…” This territory was uncharted and dangerous. “Your father was not a coward, I—”

“ Do. Not .” Cyril seethed through clenched teeth, her glare caustic.

“He wasn’t.” Mikael’s words were soft, but if there was something he would not back down on, it was this.

Mikael knew Cyril’s father had taken his own life—he’d spent the last few weeks regretting wielding that knowledge like a weapon at their first dinner—and that there were certain… stigmas associated with it, especially in Helia. His mother had explained as much. But that didn’t change the fact that Hector was a fae man who had lost not only his wife, but his bonded partner, and in such a tragic way. Mikael couldn’t even fathom his grief.

“He was! He was a fucking coward, and he…” Cyril drew her lips into a tight line, but they trembled mercilessly. One hells of a fucking internal battle was raging in there.

She slammed her fist off the railing capstone and stepped away, walking further down the edge of the terrace.

Mikael let her put plenty of space in between them before he asked, “And he…?”

“He left me all by myself!” Cyril bit out, jamming her finger into her chest. “He didn’t want me, and…” A soft, whimpering noise left her. “And Dion doesn’t want me, and nobody …”

Cyril cracked.

She buried her face in her hands, and her shoulders heaved with a sob.

Mikael took a few lengthy strides to her, but Cyril wanted no part in it. She backed away from him until she hit the end of the railing.

“Cyril…” he said softly.

“No.” The single word was half choked as she wiped at her face, her voice thick with tears. “ Please don’t, I—”

“Fucking hells, woman, just let me comfort you.”

Cyril swore and pushed at Mikael’s chest as he reached for her, but she didn’t stand a chance. He tugged her to him, and she lasted seconds before her body weight sagged against him. Her warm, damp face pressed into his chest. Another few seconds and the pained, rattling sobs started.

Cyril’s fight left her with alarming speed.

So Mikael wrapped his arms around her shoulders and held her close. This woman, that he knew next to nothing about, but there they were.

The next words she spoke made his chest ache.

“Nobody wants me.” They were ragged, half-sobbed things. “And I…I don’t know why.”

Mikael had no answer for her, despite the abundance of clarity she just gave him.

It was why she could be quiet and shy. Why she was reactive and abrasive. Why her confidence wavered and faltered. Hells, it was probably why she fucking drank. It was why Cyril was every fucking curious thing he’d wondered since the day he met her.

All the damn woman wanted was to be wanted, and Dion had done a piss-poor job of ever giving her that sort of love without conditions. That much was obvious and had been since the moment Mikael watched him lay into her in the hall all those weeks ago.

But Mikael understood more than most what that bitter sort of rejection felt like. He was intimately familiar with what it was like to always be second best, to toe that line between worthy and waste day in and out. He was closest to his mother for a reason.

At least he’d always had his freedom though—something he wasn’t sure Cyril ever had the luxury of experiencing.

“Let’s go sit inside. Your room?” Mikael smoothed his hand down her back, and a soft, shuddering breath broke through her quiet sobs, but Cyril nodded.

The evening air had taken on that cool, heavy quality it liked to when night settled in, and Mikael didn’t want to stand there anymore. Not when he couldn’t comfort her like he wanted to.

Mikael took her free hand as she wiped at her face, and he led her back inside. Back through the quiet and turned down sitting room, glasses and wine all cleared away, and down through the main hall of his parents’ suite. He’d have to thank his mother for that bit of privacy, even though he was sure she needed it too.

The walk back to Cyril’s room occurred without as much as a word or a glance from her. But as she sniffled and coughed, and wiped at her eyes, her hand squeezed his. That spoke enough for him.

He settled them both onto the sofa, keeping Cyril tucked close to his side. She sat still and quiet for a long while, her knees drawn up and attention turned entirely on the crackling hearth in front of them. He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to know what she was thinking, even though the temptation to ask gnawed at him.

When she finally shifted and looked up at him, there was no wicked sun-spun gold left in her eyes. There was only darkness and defeat there. And she held his gaze for a few long breaths before her eyes slipped shut and her head settled against his shoulder.

“I’m tired of being alone,” she whispered, and it was then that Mikael made a decision.

As much as he tried to believe whatever was budding up between them was just physical and fun—another conquest, as the guard so ineloquently put it—there was something else to it.

He didn’t understand the obligation he felt to Cyril, or where the fuck it came from. But for however long Cyril stayed in Reykr, be it days, weeks, or months more, Mikael would see to it that she felt wanted .

He would make sure that she didn’t feel alone.

Even if that meant it might be fucking painful for both of them when she inevitably was brought back to Helia. Because he knew Dion would drag her back, regardless of what she wanted.

And maybe it was cruel, with how much it might hurt, but at least she would go back knowing what it felt like for someone to want her around. And maybe, just maybe, she could find herself some happiness then. He would gladly deal with whatever repercussions came if it meant he could give her that.

Mikael rubbed her arm and said, “You’re not alone, Cyril. Not here.”