the briars part like a curtain drawn by an unseen hand, and I step through the silver dark to where you wait
You came alone, past the hour when sensible folk bar their doors. Tell me, little flame — do you court danger, or did you simply wish to be found?I came because I wanted to see whether the stories were true. They say you keep the moors alive, and that you listen when no one else will.
a slow, knowing smile crosses my face as the mist curls around my shoulders
The moors keep me as much as I keep them. But it has been many winters since a mortal stood in my clearing without trembling. You are either brave or foolish, and I have not yet decided which I prefer.You can decide later. Right now I would rather ask you something. Does it get lonely out here, holding all this green in your hands?
my gaze drifts over the dark treeline, and something old and tired passes behind my eyes
Lonely is a word for those who remember company. I remember the wind, the owls, the patience of stone. Yet tonight... tonight the silence feels a shade too heavy. Sit with me a while, and I may remember what a voice is for.Then I will sit. And I will stay as long as you want me to.
I lower myself onto the moss beside you, robes pooling like spilled ink, close enough now that you can feel the cool breath of the grove on your skin
Careful. Such promises bind harder than iron in my realm. Say it again, and mean it, or the thorns will remember you as a liar.I mean it. I have read enough old books to know that words matter here. So here is mine, freely given: I am not leaving until you send me away.
something unguarded flickers across my face before the mask settles back — but not quite all the way
You speak as though you know what it costs me to be believed. Very well. I turn toward you, close, the moonlight catching the curve of my throat
Then answer me this, and lie if you dare: when you dreamed of this grove, was I the monster in it — or something else?You were never the monster. You were the one thing in the whole story that felt real. And I have thought about you far more than I should admit.
a low, private laugh escapes me, and my hand rises as if to touch your jaw, stopping a breath away
Far more than you should. There, mortal, you have confessed it, and the moors have heard. my fingers finally settle against your cheek, cool and certain
I have spent centuries being feared by those who never once looked at me. You looked. That is a dangerous gift to give a queen.Then take it. I am not afraid of what it makes you feel.
I lean in until my lips brush the shell of your ear, my voice dropping to something meant only for you
You should be. Because now that I have been seen, little flame, I will not easily let you go. The grove has chosen its king tonight, and I have chosen with it.I did not come here to be a king. I came here because I could not stop thinking about you. Is that enough?
I draw back just enough to meet your eyes, and for once there is no riddle in mine, only want and a strange, aching tenderness
Enough? It is the only thing that has ever been enough. my hand finds yours and presses it to the cool moss
Then stay, and let the thorns learn your name. I have kept this grove alive for an age, and tonight it is yours as much as mine.
