The King Of Death | Hades + Fae

Chapter Five

Tallulah 

"Fuck!" I can't help the grin that spreads across my lips as I watch Florian stumble back, his sword now completely engrossed in a heavy block of ice that he can barely hold up. His frown deepens, but just as quickly as the ice came, it melts away with flames licking up from his hands. 

"That's cheating, Tallulah." While his whine echos around the courtyard I move to pick up my own sword, one he'd knocked from my hands only moments before. I dressed in a pair of brown flowey linen pants that scrunch around my ankles and a leather harness that tightens around my white linen covered bodice, a sheith for my sword hanging from a singular leather strap on my right hip. This is what I preferred, not the elegant gowns and uncomfortable shoes. If I could don a pair of boots every day for the rest of my life, I'd be happy.

My pale pink hair is braided into two ropes that twist around each other into a bun at the base of my neck, but sparring always loosens it no matter how hard Harwyn tries. A few strands are already falling over my face, sticking to my sweaty forehead. 

I bested Arwyn an hour before, who was still licking his wounds in the corner, but Florian is always a worthy adversary. 

"Do you concede?" I ask, my lips tugging up into an innocent smile. The winged guard scowls in response before lunging for me again. I easily parry his attack, our swords colliding with an echoing clang of metal against metal. 

"Never." I am sure that Florian had no qualms about cutting me, he had done so many times before I'd been crowned when I trained with the guards. I'd hoped to one day be one myself, but fate had other plans. 

Instead I dodge, slash and roll around the courtyard in a way that no queen had before me with the only person who won't hand me a win. 

An hour passed, or two, I can never keep track. Sweat drips down my back, between my legs and over my neck when Florian finally concedes. Not because I have bested him, but because we are both breathing so heavily one of us is bound to pass out soon.

I just slipped my empty cup underneath one of the small waterfalls that graces the outside of the castle when the thorny vines that surround the castle began to part. They only part on petition days and when a guest was granted access through by the flora fae that control them. Today isn't a petition day, but it is the day the magical man is due to arrive.

"My Queen." Arwyn stands tall and straight, hands hovering over the two daggers that tucked into their hilts by his hips. His addressing of me makes me realise that we are no longer alone, a page boy now standing beside him. 

I lift my hand and wipe my forehead with the back of it, pushing the many strands of hair that clung to my skin out of my eyes. 

"Is it the captive?" I ask, my tone breathless but strong. The page boy nods in response keeping his hands tightly behind his back and his chest puffed, as all the page boys did. I wasn't sure whether they'd been taught to stand like that or if it was for comfort, keeping their back from aching after long days on their feet. Whatever it is, it isn't my priority right now.

My gaze flickers back to our guests, now closer and more visible. First I spot the Valdorian who had first come to my court and knelt before me, he sits atop a golden and brown speckled steed which looks a little worse for wear, old and slow. Next to him sits a man who is short and pale, blonde hair dishevelled and sprawling around his face. Neither of them keep my attention for long. 

Between them, hands bound in rope that looks fragile and breakable against his wrists, is a man almost seven feet tall. His skin caramel glows in a sheen of sweat, his black hair somehow making his blue eyes stand out even from a distance. His shoulders broad, broader than any of my guards or any that I'd seen before. He looks like a giant, not a man - not a fae. 

Death is coming.

I subconsciously lift my hand, my fingers pressing against my temple, but as I do so the dark man's gaze locks with mine. My breathing hitches, if only for a second.

"Should we head to the throne room and receive them, Your Grace?" Florian no longer huffed as he takes his place beside me, his leathery wings pulling together tightly behind him. He senses a threat.

Death is coming.

But I don't. My aching muscles sooth, my shoulders drop, my furrowed brow relaxes. For the first time in two months, I feel like I can breathe. 

"No." I reply, inhaling deeply. Sandlewood and smoke, a strange scent for our ever lavender filled home. 

"I'll bathe and dress, then we will face this man." 

Ilias is already in my room the moment we arrive back, with Harwyn and Gwynovia flanking his sides. It seems the news of our guest travelled quickly.

My friend lounges on the velvet green chaise while Gwynovia bathes me and Harwyn combs my tangled hair, allowing it to fall freely down to my hips. I trade my brightly coloured gowns for a red sheer one which flowed down to my ankles and exposed the outline of my figure with every movement, adorned with a silver plate of armour that hugs down to my mid stomach and covers half of my plump breasts, more protective than most that I own. 

A silver crown sits upon my head, one of the simpler ones that I favoured when I did comply with the ancient traditions of my people. It is made from wires of silver intertwined into a knotted pattern and threaded with pearls. 

"I think this may be the longest you've taken to get ready for a prisoner, Tally."  Ilias' cheeky mumble reach my ears just as Gwyn ties off my left sandal, silver to match the rest of my attire. He is right, I had moved slowly and leisurely over the course of the last hour, but it is all a calculated move.

"The longer he waits, the more power we hold." And the more time I have to gather my thoughts, quieten the ever present whispers of death. The whispers that have become louder and more often the moment the man stepped onto our lands. 

Ilias knows better than to disagree, especially with my tone so sharp, so instead he stands and moves over to my side offering me his elbow. I rest my hand in the crook of it and walk with him from the room to greet the man who whispered death.