King of the Woodlands

Chapter 12

Quirky, contrary, sour Lilibeth Faren knelt before him, holding a pair of shears in her hands. In the moonlight he could see the fear in her eyes. 

She was so graceful, like a girl underwater, moving like a dancer as she slid the blade carefully beneath a bandage on his hind leg. Her fingers closed around the cerise-painted handle, and the ruined bandage fell away.

Lilibeth picked up a strip of towel cloth—thick and soft, perfect for cushioning raw wounds. Her eyes were lost and frightened, like she was a girl standing in the heart of a burning village, with nowhere to go, no one to run to. Was that how she felt when he'd taken her father?

But he'd had no choice. His time was running out, and the grandfather clock counted down his remaining days on this wretched earth. Slowly, she looped the piece of fresh towel around his hind leg. He growled at the pain, and she shrank back, a stray lamb cornered by a herding dog. Her eyes were wary. Part of him didn't want to admit that it hurt, but she was right. You needed to be wary. When you're face-to-face with a monster, wary is how you survive.

"Go on," he said, fighting to keep the trembling from his voice. The shame crept up on him without warning. 

But she continued, casting her eyes downward. They said nothing, caught in silence. He could tell she was searching for something to say, but nothing left her lips.

She was afraid of him. The ugly truth was burned into his mind. He'd never meant to hurt her, this brave, bold, curious girl. He wanted to tell her that he hadn't meant for any of this to happen. But he couldn't.

When Lilibeth's ivory fingers, warm as an hearth fire, brushed against him, he recoiled. 

"Do you have a name?" she said, the barest quaver to her voice, her hands trembling as she realized her mistake. He wanted to beg for her forgiveness, tell her that he had no choice, that he'd undo all of this if he could. But if he opened himself up to her, gave her his heart, would she befriend him and treat his heart tenderly, or would she cast him away? He didn't know why he even cared. He hated himself for it.

"Why does it matter to you?" he replied. He had possessed a name once, but it didn't matter to everyone else. Why should it matter to her? Again, he felt that sick burst of shame. He didn't want it to be like this, he really didn't. But the thought of giving this girl the whole of his damaged heart, the fear it made him feel, made him angry. He had no room for vulnerability.

She tried speaking again. This time, he let her. "What was that clock saying? He spoke in riddles, like everyone else in this strange place."

Blackness crowded at the edges of his vision. "It doesn't matter," he said.

"Tell me. Please."

And he wanted to tell her everything, tell her about what he'd shredded to pieces inside himself the first time he'd taken a human slave. But he couldn't. The armor around his heart was too strong, too great. The Woodland King wasn't supposed to feel anything.

Lilibeth reached for another bandage, but he flinched away from her touch.

"Hold still," she said.

"It...hurts." His voice unwillingly came out as a growl. He expected her to shrink back again or maybe hurl an insult at him. But she didn't.

"If you stop squirming it won't hurt," she said crossly just as Birgit and Fionn the healer came in. He couldn't stand to look into their eyes. Lilibeth rose, her expression troubled, as if he might lash out at her any minute. And he couldn't blame her. 

"Come, Lilibeth," Birgit said, putting a milk-white hand on the girl's back. "His Majesty needs some rest."

She was gone, but she glanced back one last time, her dark mint eyes bright, brimming with silver from the moonlight. Or were they tears?