Dragons and Princes - [COMPLETE]

8. Marquis

Marquis knelt again before the large Freyja cat, almost too tired to see the frey cat that was just before him. The deaths Morgana imparted to him had been visions of hoards of Fenrir she’d slaughtered in the black of night. His horror had driven her to shrug off her taste for blood, but it would not keep her from eating again. The Fenrir were growing distressed, as they didn’t know what manner of creature was slaughtering them in the black of night. Morgana the Black was a force of darkness, and she knew her color and used it well, camouflaging herself against the deep velvet of the night sky. She slew Fenrir and Freyja alike, unbiased. For now, she was sated, but how long would it last? He could not rest, for the horrors he had begun to dream. His nightmares had always plagued him, but now they were what drove Morgana’s hunger, what set her to flight. She tasted his abhorrence of slaughter and ate those who had fought each other for so many years the reason for the war had been forgotten– she ate them simply to be rid of the annoyance.

Faeana. He had to reach Faeana, that was his desperation as he knelt before Fae. Fae’s mourning eyes had nearly turned distant and silver the night Morgana had first captured the cat. Morgana’s black talons had injured and all but crushed the war cat to death. He’d removed Fae’s armor and had cleaned several of the war cat’s wounds while the giant creature was resting, willed to sleep by her loss of blood.

Marquis had never seen a war cat’s eyes turn from gold to silver, but he knew that silver, distanced eyes in the frey cats meant their other had died. From this, he’d gathered that Fae and her other, Faeana, were intricately connected– more so than he’d believed the Freyja and their war cats could be. He wondered if Fae’s eyes had turned almost silver because something had happened to the Freyja princess. If Faeana died, he would have no chance to fix what he’d done, no chance even to meet the woman who had lulled a dragon into sorrow. Eiran Dagur had sent a messenger with a refusal that included both of their signatures, but he was not giving up. Her father was king, meaning her decision would likely have been upon Eiran’s insistence. Even if that message had all but strangled his hope, he was determined to speak with her himself. There was a slim chance her reply through Arrand could be assumed once she had the crown.

The reason he still had any speck of hope was because of Fae’s lack of malevolence. He had seen war cats who’d been separated from an other who still lived. The war cats became vicious at the smell of Fenrir and their wolves, murderous, and would do anything to escape or kill. Fae had not attacked him once, even if she’d shown fear. It had to mean Faeana wanted to know who had Fae and why he hadn’t hurt the cat. The frey cat was his only means to reaching Faeana, the woman, he desperately prayed, who would be able to help him end this war before it was too late to stop Morgana’s revulsion.

Fae’s golden head was resting on her paws, and her breath hitched every so often, hinting at a bruised lung or a broken rib. Her large golden eyes followed him fearfully, and she quivered when he moved or spoke. Her ears were back, lying flat against her head, and her tail was fluffed. He knew better than to reach for the feline because he might lose his hand, and he rather liked his hands, so instead, their staring contest continued.

"Faeana," he whispered when Fae’s eyes glazed, burning bright and golden once more. The frey cat flinched. Her eyes were brighter than they had been for days, and he knew the princess had merged with the feline’s mind again, as she did every so often. She must have done it even in her sleep, for how often it occurred. The gold burned as though it was lit by sunlight, and it was eerie to him, but he drew on his strength again and sent the compulsion to the princess to walk. There was resistence, as usual, but he felt a deep slumber and a terrible exhaustion weakening and blurring her thoughts. The resistence faded altogether.

Finally, he could force her to leave the safety of the Den and have her brought to him by the men he sent into Freyja territory with his wolf Deáthan. Their wolves were with him so that he would know if they died in Freyja lands, and also because he could send commands across several miles in an instant. Marquis refused to rest again and risk unleashing Morgana until he had spoken with Faeana– and if she refused to cooperate once he had her in his possession, he would use her as leverage to get what he wanted, a surrender.