A Court of Blood and Feathers

9

Branwenn

The chilly night air furls its hands through my feathers, running a cold finger along the length of my wing, causing me to shiver. The warm, bright lights of the small Illyrian village below me make their way into focus as I descend from the cloud cover. Yells and other chaotic sounds reach my ears as I land. I assume which are coming from the tavern that I am heading to. 

Frozen grass crunches under my worn leather boots as I make my way over to the large wooden establishment. Clutching the warm layered sweater closer to my body with my wings, I step onto the creaky porch, the lantern hanging from a post above the doorway illuminated the sign.

The Spiked Falcon.

Wonderful. I knock open the door and a roar of greeting meets my ears. Illyrian fae are sprawled out along tables and the bar, drinking and dancing with no worries in sight. The charisma of the place seems to almost soak into my skin, radiating from all sides of the room.

 Walking in completely, a large group surrounding the bar grows quiet and turns to watch me. My face burns slightly but ceases as I see Ianto look up and wave me over grinning. His bright red hair still pinned back atop his head from the bone clip I had gifted him earlier. 

"So, you actually decided to join us, Branwenn?" Ianto gets up from his stool and strides over, his face in a lazy grin. Most likely from the early on the intake of whatever he had been drinking before I had come in.

"Decided it was for the best," I grumble, raising an eyebrow at him as he leans onto my shoulder with his arm.

"And who's was that to decide?" grumbled one of the group mates, whom I recognized as one of our fellow soldiers-in-training. 

I am about to open my mouth to fire back a smart comment back before another soldier stood up.

"No need for that," he calls, giving the first a sultry smile. "Branwenn is always welcome as long as she can hold her own and hand your ass to you." A loud rawr of approval startles me as the males raise their glasses to this.

The disgruntled male who had been shot down grumbles, embarrassed, and downs his tankard. Watching the quietly, I slide onto an empty barstool in the middle of the group. Delwyn, the goofy soldier who had defended me, clasps my shoulder and yells at the barkeep to slide one down. Seconds later a mug of something strong rests in my hands. Who would have known? That I could be accepted as easy as Delwyn yelling at the rambunctious crowd. It wasn't just his words, but what Ianto had told me earlier today. I was respected.

***

The night trickles on as one glass of ale enters my hands after another. I make alliances, as was suggested while struggling to maintain my balance. 

"Geez, what a lightweight," Delwyn chuckles, poking me as we walk back to Camp. I let out an un-Branwenn like giggle, quickly covering my mouth to muffle it. Ianto raises his eyebrow at me from my other side. 

"Not my fault," I grumble, "never been out drink'en before," my words slur slightly like the world around me, seeming to slow down before speeding back up. The two males chuckle and shake their heads in disbelief. We walk for a few more minutes of silence.

"So!" I burst, causing the two to jump like skittish cats. "Do you think I made any potential alliances?"

"I think so," Ianto replies, rolling his neck out.

"I'd say you could make more than just friends," Delwyn nudges me with his elbow, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

In response, I give both a nasty looking sneer which sends the two howling. 

We reach the entrance of the War Camp and are about to part our separate ways to sleeping quarters when a loud bark sounds.

"Wren! No! Come back!" A curt, distinctly male, yell follows the loud barking.

Seconds later a mass of yellow fur and muscle slams into me. Faster than I can register, I am looking up into the eyes of a ginormous hound. Thick, shaggy, golden hair hangs around his face, almost like a lion. A lopping tongue hangs out as he pants happily, slobbering on the warm sweater I had bought with my own money.

"Get off of her, Wren, now," the disgruntled voice of the male from before sounds. The dog, if I should even call it that, whimpers before backing off of me, allowing me to breathe once more. Gasping for air, Ianto and Del haul me up to an upright, standing, position as I wheeze.

Trusting Ianto just this once, I lean into his side to support myself as I survey the newcomer with the attack dog. Hair not un-similar from Del's and his own dog's glistens over his shoulder in a formal braid. Pale purple eyes stare bashfully at us three as the dog, Wren, retreats back to his master. The male stands almost the same height as my two companions, a thinner face, and frame, but holds himself with grace. Clearly high fae with no other markings visible. 

"Do I get to know the identity of my attacker?" I get out between my still stifled breathing.

The male, having to not be too much younger than I, not quite at full maturity, blushes. I turn my face as stone like as possible at this level of drunkenness, watching him squirm and look away.

"Well, this would be Wren. You've already met." The giant Irish-looking-wolf hound pants and thumps his tail on the hard ground. Sitting, the dog's head almost reaches my shoulders.

"And you," Del gestures to the male.

"I would be Teagan."

We all freeze. Knowing this name. Immediately our backs stiffen and we drop into short bows.

"Nice going, Del," Ianto growls.

"It's not my fault the heir of the territory sent his dog after Branwenn," Del whisper backs.

A short snarl from me and they both shut up.

"My apologies, your highness, for my colleagues and I's bad manners. Please have forgiveness us for our ruggedness and manner of informality." The ramble falls from my lips faster than I can stop it. My training at the Dawn Palace ripping its way to the surface of my etiquette to the royalty of the Night Court. The prince of the Night Court, son of High Lord and Lady Rhysand and Feyre stands before us.

Crown Prince Teagan.

An awkward silence hangs in the air. The three of us hold our bows, not daring to look up and meet his eyes.

"Please, stop bowing." He swallows as we straighten up.

"And never do that." My eyebrows shoot up in shock. "Teagan will do. And unfortunately, I've been forced to come train here along with the rest of the Illyrian army."

With this a pair of ashen Illyrian wings appear from the shadows, materializing on his back.