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Mistrals Kiss :: Гамильтон Лорел
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“Darkness is right,” Fyfe said. “I can feel it like a growing weight inside me. You can change us into what she wants us to be” — he pointed at me — “or you can give us back what we have lost.”
Sholto then asked something that made me think even better of him than I already did. “What would you have of me, Uncles, what would you have me do?”
They glanced first at him, then at each other, then carefully down at the ground again. “We want to be what we once were. We want to hunt as we once did. Give us back what has been lost, Sholto.” Ivar held out his hand toward his king.
“Do not remake us in the sidhe bitch’s image,” Agnes yelled from the shore. It was a mistake.
Sholto yelled back at her, “I am king here. I rule here. I thought you loved me once. But I know now that you only raised me to take the throne because you wished to sit upon it. You cannot rule, but you thought you could rule through me. You and your sisters thought to make me your puppet.” He stood and screamed at her. “I am no one’s puppet. I am King Sholto of the Sluagh, I am the Lord of That Which Passes Between, Lord of Shadows. Long have I been lonely among my own people. Long have I wanted some to look as I do.” He slammed a hand into his chest. It made a thick, meaty sound. “Now you tell me I have the power to do just that. You have envied the sidhe their smooth skin, their beauty that turns my head. So have what you envy.”
A wail came from Agnes, but it was too dark to see what was happening on the shore. She screamed, a horrible sound — a sound of loss, and pain, as if whatever was happening to her hurt.
I heard Sholto say, softly, “Agnes.” The sound in that one word let me know that he wasn’t so terribly certain of what he wanted, or what he had done.
What had he done?
His uncles abased themselves, faces pressed to the herbs. “Please, King Sholto, we beg you, do not remake us into sidhe. Do not make us only lesser versions of the Unseelie. We are sluagh, and that is a proud thing. Would you strip us of all that we have kept over the years?”
“No,” Sholto said, and there was no anger in his voice now. The screams from the shore had taken away his anger. He understood now how dangerous he was in this moment. “I want the sluagh to be powerful again. I want us to be a force to be reckoned with, negotiated with. I want us to be a fearsome thing.”
I spoke before I could think: “Not just fearsome, surely.
“Darkness is right,” Fyfe said. “I can feel it like a growing weight inside me. You can change us into what she wants us to be” — he pointed at me — “or you can give us back what we have lost.”
Sholto then asked something that made me think even better of him than I already did. “What would you have of me, Uncles, what would you have me do?”
They glanced first at him, then at each other, then carefully down at the ground again. “We want to be what we once were. We want to hunt as we once did. Give us back what has been lost, Sholto.” Ivar held out his hand toward his king.
“Do not remake us in the sidhe bitch’s image,” Agnes yelled from the shore. It was a mistake.
Sholto yelled back at her, “I am king here. I rule here. I thought you loved me once. But I know now that you only raised me to take the throne because you wished to sit upon it. You cannot rule, but you thought you could rule through me. You and your sisters thought to make me your puppet.” He stood and screamed at her. “I am no one’s puppet. I am King Sholto of the Sluagh, I am the Lord of That Which Passes Between, Lord of Shadows. Long have I been lonely among my own people. Long have I wanted some to look as I do.” He slammed a hand into his chest. It made a thick, meaty sound. “Now you tell me I have the power to do just that. You have envied the sidhe their smooth skin, their beauty that turns my head. So have what you envy.”
A wail came from Agnes, but it was too dark to see what was happening on the shore. She screamed, a horrible sound — a sound of loss, and pain, as if whatever was happening to her hurt.
I heard Sholto say, softly, “Agnes.” The sound in that one word let me know that he wasn’t so terribly certain of what he wanted, or what he had done.
What had he done?
His uncles abased themselves, faces pressed to the herbs. “Please, King Sholto, we beg you, do not remake us into sidhe. Do not make us only lesser versions of the Unseelie. We are sluagh, and that is a proud thing. Would you strip us of all that we have kept over the years?”
“No,” Sholto said, and there was no anger in his voice now. The screams from the shore had taken away his anger. He understood now how dangerous he was in this moment. “I want the sluagh to be powerful again. I want us to be a force to be reckoned with, negotiated with. I want us to be a fearsome thing.”
I spoke before I could think: “Not just fearsome, surely.