The Crowned Captive

Morana panted, praying she was done vomiting into the bucket Cordan had hastily grabbed for her. He held her even now, with spittle running down her face, gently brushing her hair back. Every time she closed her eyes, she could feel the crunch of the blade piercing through bone, see the man’s contorted face of death, and smell the copper tang of blood and the acrid stench of burnt flesh. It had been mercy, a gift, to kill him rather than have Rowan use him as some sick sort of punching bag, but that had not been the true reason she had killed him. No, she had wanted his death, had yearned for it. She wanted to be the one to end him for all the pain he had inflicted upon her helpless guards. Yet as she closed her eyes, leaning back against Cordan in some form of respite, the images swam to the surface again, and she promptly returned her head to the bucket as Cordan held back her hair.

“It gets easier, Morana, I promise,” Cordan murmured as he rubbed her back. She spat the last of the bile from her mouth and sat back up, praying for a longer moment of respite from her waking nightmares.

“I don’t want it to get easier, Cordan. Death shouldn’t be easy,” she replied, trying to deep-breathe through the next wave of nausea. Thankfully, she was moderately successful.

“I know, I know. Never easy, just easier.”

“I need to collect myself for my lessons,” she forced out, wanting to change the subject. She was never going to get her point across to someone whose very livelihood was based on killing chosen people.

“He’s not coming, Mor. I heard him come to the door of the room, but he left again.”

Morana’s stomach chose that moment to heave again, and she was grateful for the momentary respite from conversation despite the taste of bile coating her mouth. The arrogant prick. She had been the epitome of professional to try and get him to ignore their apparent issues, at least until she could work out how to untangle the mess of their personal lives, and he had still run. Next time she cornered him on the training field, she would trounce him, she swore it to herself.

“What did I do wrong? What stupid custom did I break for him to react like that?”

“You did nothing, Morana, he is just an idiot. I know it is different with humans, that your first… experience is meant to be with someone you care for deeply despite the circumstances. In most fae customs, the occasion is meant to be sacred, watched over by the Gods. It usually happens around sixteen or seventeen with a close friend rather than a lover. It is nearly a coming-of-age ceremony, where the gods finally recognise you as grown through an intimate ceremony. I think that Rowan was just not expecting it and now he believes he has defiled such ceremony.”

“So he is ignoring me because he thinks he stole my innocence and he gets to act all sullen for it? I truly cannot fathom where he finds it,” she murmured to herself.

“Where he finds what?” Cordan asked as he pulled her head back against his chest.

“The audacity. My best guess is he finds it whilst he has his head so far up his own ass.”

Cordan laughed then, and Morana managed a weak smile. Those honey-gold eyes shone down at her with genuine affection then, and she forced herself to look away under the weight of their gaze. She refused to get lost in them and forget what she had just done.

“You know, I have not asked you yet today how you have done with your exercises.”

“I see you have your head in the same spot as Rowan,” Morana moaned, knowing her answer would not be satisfactory. Twice. All she had managed was two rounds.

“I am serious,” Cordan said, but laughter tainted his voice. “They can help to calm the mind. Unless you are utterly exhausted, we are heading to the training field now.”

Morana protested, but her words fell on deaf ears as Cordan hauled her to her feet, tucking her bucket of vomit under his arm. She shook her head, wavering on her feet slightly as they traipsed through the halls to the now-dark field. When Cordan was sure Morana was not going to empty her gut anymore, he handed the bucket off to some poor servant, changing his focus purely to Morana. As they exited the castle proper and walked out onto the field, her eyes cast to the forest once, before back to Cordan.

Morana pushed through three sets of exercises, Cordan performing them right alongside her with irritating ease, before they stood. Giving her some sympathetic slack, he allowed her to start trying to hit him, correcting her stance every time, telling her which muscles she should be using and which part of her hand should be landing the punch. Whilst she initially grew more and more frustrated, they fell into an easy pattern. Cordan was right as well. When her muscles turned to jelly and screamed for her to stop, her brain no longer hurt. It was not until they had reached her rooms once more that she realised her mind had stopped plaguing her with the images of Robyn’s death. Finally, with some hope for a full night’s sleep, Morana bathed and fell into bed.