The Lonely Ones

Chapter Fifteen: Five Questions

When the Grim Woods rest, there's trouble brewing. Fierce growls and rustling bushes are pleasant signs compared to unnatural stillness, because when fae hide, it means there is one more fearsome nearby. A presence inhibits the wicked will of the woods for many days. A chill spreads across the forest floor. Flowers wither and die. Ponds frost over, forcing kelpies to breach the surface.

Artemis hides to observe the change. Kelpies shape themselves depending on their desires. This one climbs out of the pond; the head of a white horse, green moss in its mane, and the body of a slimy serpent. Then the beasts' limbs twist and collapse. Golden eyes roll into the back of it's skull that snaps forward, shrinking until a mortal's head sits atop muscled shoulders. Bit by bit the kelpie morphs into a girl. She stumbles on wavering legs into the forest, seeking warmth from the unusual chill.

When the kelpie's silhouette vanishes, Artemis approaches the sleeping water. His reflection peers back at him atop the thin ice. Even during the vicious winter storms, the Grim Woods never saw so much as a frost. An eternal summer graced the forest, but not now.

Adjusting his quiver, Artemis leaves to inspect the white tree, now nothing more than rotting bark atop dead grass. A pity to lose the beauty and the serenity. He sits, leaning against a pine, far from the tree and the cave beneath on the verge of collapsing.

Why do I come every day? Do I expect him to visit? Artemis wonders, never replying to his own thoughts. He picks and twirls blades of grass between his fingers. The forest says nothing, not even whispers a breeze, and yet, it's freezing cold beneath the high sun.

Artemis' gut screams, and he listens. Standing, bow drawn, he revolves on his heel.

The tip of his arrow grazes the skin between Wren's eyes. The prince grins, devilishly charming and impishly menacing. Donning the same clothes from his time in the coffin, the prince stands before Artemis, awake and in reach. Like Ima, Wren's allure is beyond compare, striking and ethereal. The world is almost an affront in his presence. Hair twinkling like starlight swoops over perfectly sharpened cheeks and eyes of a winter storm. Even his eyelashes shimmer like snowflakes.

"You're shorter than I expected," Wren says gleefully, as if an arrow isn't threatening to embed itself into his skull.

"You're hardly taller than me," Artemis replies, prepared to shoot if he must, although he fears it will do little good.

Wren chuckles, a peculiar sound for it isn't entirely truthful or fake. When Wren's quiet gaze takes Artemis in, he shivers. The prince observes as if to memorize, slow and methodical. Sweat forms on Artemis' palms. The bow shakes. Wren's eyes catch his, refusing to surrender him from a trance the prince didn't even have to cast. His mere presence is spell enough.

"Are you frightened?" Wren asks.

"Yes," Artemis replies.

Wren circles slowly. Artemis' arrow follows, steadying.

"And yet here you are, waiting for the one you fear." Even Wren's voice is perfection itself, suited to one of frost.

"I have questions."

"And I have answers, but giving them freely is no fun." Wren pauses. Frost covers the grass beneath his boots. Eyes alight, he adds, "What will you give in return?"

"I know better than to make a deal with fae."

"But you already have."

Wren moves swiftly. Artemis doesn't have time to shoot. Bow and arrow are knocked from his hands with a flick of the prince's wrist. They drop to the frosting forest floor. Wren looms over him. One hand grips Artemis' wrist. The other flips open the eyepatch to uncover his closed eyelid. A shred of gold light flickers from within like a dull flame.