Manifest (Ch. 2)

Chapter 2 of the Novel I'm writing for Booktok. They recently voted for a dual point of view, the female main character's name/ physical attributes, and an enemies to lovers to enemies arch! Find Chapter 1 in my previous post.

CHAPTER 2

Greyson

I find her at the foot of a towering Mirthwood tree. Foolish girl. She’s curled into its woody embrace, legs wrapped loosely in feathery roots. The Mirthwood would simply have to pinch, and Caera could be crushed to death. For some odd reason it doesn’t. I honestly don’t know how these witches survived this long. Caera is the most reckless person I know. She is everything a ruler should not be: rash, impulsive, stubborn, and brimming with searing, volatile anger. She’s sloppy with it. And this is who my father thinks will heal the realms? It’s all hogwash.

She looks terribly young when her brow isn’t wrinkled in the special scowl reserved just for me. I can almost take it as a compliment. Almost. I would if I hadn’t seen her smile the one time. If I hadn’t seen the way it transformed her face into a revelation, into the face of a Lunar Witch from legends, so beautiful it was pain, so alluring, I’d nearly dropped my sword and bowed at her feet. Instead, I remembered. I remembered the other lovely face I’d glimpsed when I was barely into my eighth year– the witch who had cut my mother’s heart out and stuffed it into her satchel before turning her to dust, unaware of the eyes that watched. Yet another insult, that Caera has to look like Artemis, though I suppose she can’t help that they are family. Unfortunately, the more I get to know Caera, the more I see that she is her own kind of monster.

The Mirthwood tree reaches questing roots for her hair, entwining its deep magenta brown with her own, ready to tug her awake, to alert her of my presence. I flip my sword free and silently slap the roots away with the tip. I need another moment to ground myself before she wakes. This hour we’re forced to spend together each morning is pure torture. I’ve never met someone so stubborn, so wretched. You’d not know she is a princess, if you hadn’t been told. She behaves a lot more like the band of Fae Ravingers I met once–all female, all utterly feral. They were ruthless, like her. A small part of me admires her. The larger part loathes her.

I’ve spent every moment of my life being trained in propriety, in the ways a ruler ought to behave, in tradition. She spits on it. All witches spit on it, actually. And something about her causes me to behave with the ill manners of an intemperate youth. I can’t seem to help myself. She gets under my skin, and the little line that forms between her brows when I say something particularly vile, has words flying from my lips I know much better than to utter. She flusters easily, and the sight of it fills me with sick glee. Her attempts to kill me have been laughable at best, though, in fairness to her, she doesn’t fully understand who she’s up against. The same could be said for me, I suppose. I often wonder why she keeps her power on such a tight leash. Surely that would be the quickest means to her ends. Perhaps it frightens her. It should. I can sense it even now, pulsing beneath her skin, mighty and boundless, restless, but somehow subdued. It’s a testament to her control, that she can keep it in check when not fully conscious. It must have taken years of training to achieve that level of restraint. It seems uncharacteristic to Caera, to exercise control, but what do I really know about her? She’s a puzzle.

I nearly jump out of my skin when Caera croaks, “Ya know, that’s creepy as hell.”

I smooth my expression into passivity, “What is?”

“You standing there, leering over me while I sleep,” her hand drifts toward her boot, to the dagger I have no doubt is stashed there, “You come to finish the job?” She taps the side of her neck, where blood from the cut I gave her crusts rusty brown on lightly tanned skin.

“A bit of a hypocrite, aren’t we? You forget, Caera,” I spit her name like a slur and revel when she flinches, just the merest bit, “I am not the one trying to commit murder here.” The truth is, I’d like nothing more than to end her right here– to end this ridiculous notion of my father’s. I don’t want to marry this… creature. But father says the seer’s visions were clear. Only with this woman at our side can we heal our lands. And she has to come somewhat willingly. Gods know it’d be easier if I could just kidnap her and be done with it. I was the idiot who suggested using a witch-boon to secure her. When word had spread about her challenge, I’d leapt on the opportunity, knowing I could defeat her in a duel, thinking I’d just compel her into helping with the boon. It was Father’s idea to tie us together in… unholy matrimony. He’d been smug when he made the demand, “Greyson, my boy, I’ve always promised you a princess. So, a princess you shall have. Make the witch your wife. Secure an alliance for me, son. It may well end the war.” I disagree, but one does not argue with my father. I must simply do as I am bid. More than that, I have no choice, but to comply. Father is not like me. He does not let himself be swayed by a heart that remains stubbornly soft, no matter how much I try to quell it. No, Father is not ruled by emotion, but knife-sharp logic and relentless determination. I wish it were so for me. I will make it so, even if I hate every moment of it. Even if it forces me to get into bed with my greatest enemy, I will make it so. I will steal this witch's affection, if it’s the last thing I do, and then, I will crush it into dust. I will wither her the same way her aunt withered my mother. I must simply bide my time.

With all of this in mind, I extend a hand in peace offering, “Come on, little dove, I’m not going to kill you today– and you aren’t going to kill me, either. Let’s talk about why you continue to fail to do so.”

She slaps my hand away and snarls, “Don’t speak for me,” before leaping to her feet, agile as a cat, “And stop calling me that.”

I smirk, but ignore her request, steering the conversation back to the matter at hand, “So, are you ready to give it up?”

“What?” She groans, limping slightly as feeling returns to her legs and she stalks away.

I catch her in two strides. I know that irks her, too– that I dwarf her in height. I often make her jog a little to keep up. Today, I match her gait. It’s time to move past this pettiness, if for no other reason than the fact that I have to report to father this afternoon.

“Are you ready to give up trying to execute me?”

She stops and turns to me, swiping tendrils of long hair behind an ear and tapping her chin thoughtfully, “Yeah… I don’t think so.” She turns on her heel and continues to the sparring ring. I follow doggedly behind.

A half-hour later, I’ve pinned Caera in the dirt more than a handful of times. She has yet to land a blow. She fights like a rabid squirrel, relentlessly flinging herself at me in a string of vicious attacks, using teeth and nails and shrieking all the while. It’s almost funny. It’s been six months, and her anger with me hasn’t cooled in the slightest. She flies at me, sapphire eyes flashing with that mysterious power she refuses to wield. I step to the side and kick out my heel, catching her in the shins, sending her sprawling into the dust. She flips onto her back and glares up at me where I stand over her, hands braced on my hips. I lift a hand and read the time by the slant of the sun, “By my count, we’ve got another… fifteen minutes of this? Are you going to keep acting like a child, or are we going to spar?” She sucks in a breath, ready to hurl a glob of spit up at me. She’s done it before and I quickly clamp my hand down on her mouth. She sputters and claws at my wrist, digging sharp nails in until she draws blood. I hiss at the gouging sensation, but don’t let go. “Caera. This has got to stop. Stop fighting me and fight me already. I know you can. Let me train you.” I’m surprised to find I mean the words. I watched her cut down a slew of warriors all those months ago. She moved like quicksilver then, all calculation, none of the rage. As much as I enjoy pummeling the witch every day, I itch for a proper opponent, and with the slightest bit of effort, Caera could be that. Instead she hides behind her hatred. She wastes it, when it could be used for so much more. I move my hand from her mouth murmuring, “Let go of the rage.”

As I go to pull away, her nails bite impossibly deeper into my skin. She smiles, but it is not the thing of beauty she unwittingly revealed once before–no– this is a grin of pure malice.

“Oh, my sweet fiance,” she purrs, slicing my wrist with her claws until blood drips down in a steady rhythm onto her hair, “I will never forget what you took from me.” She twists her nail, carving the soft flesh just above my palm. I bite my tongue to stifle a wince. The blood flows now, coating her forehead, painting her face into a vision of a queen of some macabre masquerade. I should stop her. I should step away, or incapacitate her, or…something. I should do anything but let her continue to rip into me. But I don’t. I stand there, transfixed in fiery blue eyes she keeps locked on me, barely breathing. They say blue fire burns the hottest. I believe them. Caera could burn the world with a gaze.

I see the decision in her eyes a breath before she acts, too late for me to stop her. She strikes, pulling my arm down to the dirt, trapping the elbow at a painful angle while swinging her knee up to slam into my nose with a sickening pop. She continues in another smooth motion, tucking her legs until she’s curled smaller than seems reasonably possible. Her feet impact my stomach and then I’m airborne. I hit the dirt with a dull thud, any breath left in my lungs leaves in a ragged gasp. And then I’m laughing. I wheeze, trying to suck down enough air to fuel the hysteria. “Bra–vo,” I gasp as Caera moves to stand over me, brow quirked in annoyance at my outburst. She grins that malicious grin once more, and then she raises her boot, pressing the toe of it over my mouth, just as I’d covered her mouth with my palm. It’s a vulgar gesture, but everything about her is.

She leans closer, voice lowering to a whisper, “I will keep my rage.” She presses her boot harder into my jaw. I let her. “You assumed you had the right to claim me,” she laughs bitterly, “Did you think I’d just give you my heart? You thought you’d show me your pretty eyes and I’d throw myself at your feet, thrilled by the opportunity to wed one such as you?” That is what I’d thought, actually. It had always worked before. I will the thought not to show in my eyes. Too late, she's seen it. She chokes on the absurdity of it before continuing, “You assumed you had the right to claim me, so I will assume I have the right to do the same.” She removes her foot from my face and crouches in the dirt, bringing her lips to my ear, as I’d done to her the night before. The hair rises on my arms, sensing what she’ll say before the words slither in. “I claim you, Greyson. I claim your heart.” A thrill spears through me at the words. This is an unexpected development. I still hate her guts, but at least I’ll have something to report to father. Before I can celebrate, though, Caera hisses once more, “I claim your heart. I will cut it out… and I will eat it.” I feel as though I will retch. Visions of the witch carving my mother’s heart pummel me in relentless flashes of too bright color behind my eyelids. A low, choking sound involuntarily emits from my throat. Caera leans back on her heels and punctuates her sick sentiment by dragging her tongue across the tip of her finger, still coated in my blood. Her eyes flare wide, as if she’s shocked by the flavor, but before she can continue with her sordid speech, a voice like rumbling thunder booms across the ring.

“Caera!” Kath bellows her name in reprimand before lowering his voice into his customary buttery tones, “Come. Join me for lessons.” Kath extends a palm and Caera rises, wiping my blood onto her filthy pants before placing her hand in his. They fade into the shadowed arch to the palace courtyards and I lie on the ground, panting. I will myself not to vomit as I slowly put the images of my mother’s death back into their proper box in the back of my mind. But Caera’s words echo, I claim your heart. I will cut it out– and I will eat it. My cut wrist throbs in beat with the words, flaring pain ruthlessly sears through my veins and lodges somewhere in the vicinity of my heart. I lift my hand to examine the vile wound. A jagged letter C is carved into the underside of my wrist. C for Caera. C for her claim on me, my life, my heart. I shiver, ignoring the crowd that gathered, piecing myself back together. Her words ring on repeat, and for the first time in a long time, I am afraid.

~

I’m still in the dirt when a familiar cadence of steps approaches, followed by a wry chuckle, “I never thought I’d live to see the day that the noble heir of–” I kick Con in the shin so hard he cuts off abruptly, cursing low and filthy. When I look up at him, he’s clutching the offended limb and hopping rather dramatically on one leg. He settles and offers me a begrudging hand up.

I swing to my feet, draw Con close with a slap on the back and whisper, “You forget yourself, Con. We have an audience.” I flick my gaze to the handful of witches, warlocks, and human-hybrid soldiers standing at the edge of the training ring, still attempting–and failing miserably– to stifle their laughter at my rather embarrassing defeat. Con follows my gaze and his cheeks stain scarlet. He ducks his head and falls into step beside me as I make a hasty exit, careful to fix each snickering fool with a glare that promises retribution.

“Forgive me, your high–” Con starts, but I cut him off with a sharp elbow to the ribs.

I can’t help it when my eyes roll skyward as I grit out, “Falcon, for the love of the gods, shut up before you get us both killed.” He clamps his mouth shut and has the decency to look abashed. Why they sent Con, of all people, here is beyond me. He has no grace for this kind of subterfuge. Still, I’m glad to have him. I love Con like a brother, more than that, maybe, because we chose one another. We’ve been best friends since my ninth summer, when his family visited our estate for Sun festival and Con crashed into my life like a drunken idiot in a room made of glass. To be fair– he had been. He’d been gulping down generous glasses of wine under the table while the adults droned nonsense for long hours over a meal of countless courses. I’d been ready to fall head first into oblivion on my plate of lightly toasted peapods, when Con had burst from beneath the tablecloth, vomited in the shrubbery lining the balcony on which we sat, and then turned and hopped upon the table, kicking goblets and crystal and slurring a bawdy tune he most definitely didn’t learn in the private music tutoring befitting a child of his status. I’d burst out laughing despite myself, and in a rare show since my mother’s untimely demise, I’d seen a smile twitching on my father’s lips. At the sight of that quiver of a grin, I’d decided then and there that I’d make this blessed boy my friend– for surely he had immeasurable power, if he could make my father smile. Falcon’s mother had nearly keeled over from embarrassment, but her husband had laid a hand on hers, and they’d both looked to my father, whose shoulders shook from barely restrained laughter. And then, we were all laughing, chanting Con’s unwholesome ballad along with him, until his father had caught sense and hauled him off the table and chucked him into the fountain. He’d been extracted from the water moments later and given a proper tongue lashing before being sent to bed without so much as a poultice of posey to treat the wicked hangover that was already brewing.

I eye my friend, now a man grown, though his face still holds a quality of the mischief that is boyhood, despite the sharp cut of his jaw. I hope it always will. There is a small constellation of scars along his right temple, the results of a disastrous encounter with lichen lice on our first foray into the Bramblewood when we were twelve, and a smattering of freckles dust his golden cheeks under a mop of sun-kissed brown curls. Con is tall, though not so tall as I, and lean, covered in ropey muscles and more scars from our many adventures– and our less favorable encounters within the legions. One look at my friend and it is clear he is a warrior, but he still wears every emotion on his face as if he’s written it in ink upon his brow. Now he is gnawing his lip, and he’d slipped up in his speech, twice. Something is amiss.

When we’re out of earshot of the others, I grip his forearm and turn him to face me, “Alright, out with it– what’s going on with you? You’re not one to use my titles… unless…”

He meets my eyes with a dispassionate silver stare, “It’s not really a what…but a who, my dear friend.” Now it’s Con’s turn to slap me on the back and stride off into the forest, “You coming?” he calls over a shoulder.

I jog after him, “I thought the meeting was at dusk.”

Con laughs cynically, “It's not gonna change your report, is it? The witch won't hate you any less in a couple of hours, Grey.” He fixes me with a knowing look. I groan, but I know he’s right. A few hours won’t make any difference when it comes to Caera. I’m not sure a few centuries would be enough time to make a difference with Caera. If only I could make father understand that. I tear my fingers through my hair and helplessly attempt to wipe the dust from my sleeves. It’s no use.

“Lead the way, Counselor.” I sigh, gesturing to the tangle of trees. Con chuckles at my use of his title, but ducks his head and leads on. Dread curls in my gut with every step. Time for a visit with dear old Dad.