—meet the characters

—Chapter 1 

—Chapter 2 

—Chapter 3

(WARNING: FOR FULL EFFECT READ RAZZAROO’S 336 HOURS. FOUND HERE: http://archiveofourown.org/works/3783337/chapters/8414899)

It was an important day. Kieran knew this. He toyed with the clasp of his coat, watching the smoky barrier that separated the Land of the Dead from that of the Living shift and shimmer in the dim grey of morning. The Land of the Living (for that it was Kieran knew it to be, though he wasn’t sure how) rested silently on the other side. Still asleep, even on a day such as today.  An important day. Even if, for the life of him, Kieran couldn’t remember why it was. He was having that problem a lot lately. It grew worse as the years went by.  He used to remember loves, features, names (“A ghrá geal,” He had whispered into blonde curls. A bhuanchara.” He had gasped when long hands all too accustomed to leading trailed down to press against his waist.). He used to know who he was waiting for. Someone. Someones? Kieran shook his head. But now there was just… fog. Fog, and shadows, and blank spaces in his heart that had once been full.  He used to know. He used to remember a great number of things. But it had been too long. 

Suddenly, Cú came bounding up behind him, white fur flecked with mud and tongue lolling out. Jolted out of his revelry, Kieran bent down to run a hand over his hound’s red ears.

“I should have been expecting to find you here, Huntsman.” Arawn spoke softly and when Kieran turned to face him, he saw that his three eyes were devoid of judgement. It didn’t stop Kieran from shrinking away ever so slightly. He had asked last year to go to the land beyond his grasp, just as he had the year before, and the year before that. And Arawn had refused him, time and time again. “Enjoy this world, Kieran of the Wild Hunt; those you left behind will join you soon enough.” He had said the last time, his three eyes peering down sadly as Kieran turned and stumbled away, heart sick for reasons he didn’t understand.

There was a pack on the faery’s shoulder and he wore a wool cloak of gray. This was new. This hadn’t been the case those years before. Kieran took a steadying breath, even though he didn’t necessarily need it. “Please, Arawn,” He felt himself blurting out before he could even think to stop. Shadows of memories crowded against the edges of his mind, just out of his grasp (Blonde hair, sharp smiles, calloused fingers, gentle hands, blue and black, gold and teal eyes). Those flashes made his lips tingle and his palms sweat. He forgot how to think of anything else and his tongue tumbled over the next words, “I-I—” 

The Watcher of the Dead gazed down at him, his three eyes neutral yet thoughtful underneath his black, feathery bangs. After a moment of tense silence, he sighed, “Very well, Kieran ap Crom,” Kieran took a staggering step forward, a vibrant joy alighting itself in his chest, unlike anything he had felt while wandering the land for so many years. Arawn continued to stare down at him, his gaze softening ever so slightly as he took in the grin that was slowly overtaking the other’s features, “You may accompany me, however, you must promise me one simple thing.” 

“Anything,” Kieran choked out, his heart thudding against his chest in the same rhythm of a horse’s pounding hooves. Cú rushed forward to nip at his heels, feeding off of his master’s excitement, “Anything at all.” 

Arawn pulled his cloak tighter around his torso as if warding off a chill, “When I say that it is time to leave, you will follow me with no resistance. You do not belong to that world any longer. No matter what you see. No matter whom you meet.” 

“Of course,” Kieran whispered, without hesitating, without even really thinking. Arawn’s gaze turned critical and something akin to annoyance sparked in Kieran’s heart, “I said anything.” 

“I know what you said, Huntsman.” Arawn’s voice was reassuring yet hard, akin to steel wrapped in silk. All at once, Kieran remembered a flash of his father’s cool expression, his four eyes simultaneously exasperated and apathetic (he was one of the few people Kieran had been happy forgetting). Feeling all too similar to that small boy who had been so lost in that Unseelie Court, Kieran looked down at his feet, chastised. Upon realizing that Kieran was going to offer no more head-strong commentary, Arawn turned away, looking back to the border. “Well then,” He sighed, feeling more tired than perhaps he should, “Let us go.” 

The Land of the Living was vibrant, and seemed to tremble and breathe beneath Kieran’s feet. The colors were brilliant and the noises rang against Kieran’s ears like the memories of laughter. It all seemed so familiar. Kieran wanted to run. He wanted to fly. For a moment, he thought of transforming. Of feeling the wild winds as it caught beneath his wings and flowed through his fur. But then he remembered to stay next to Arawn. He contented himself with the feel of the grass beneath his toes and the bright sun beating against his face and arms. 

"This way," Arawn muttered, leading them down a cobblestone road, "be mindful of your step!" He called over his shoulder. Trying to do as he was told, Kieran shifted his gaze down to the ground. Even with the warning, he could not stop himself from dreaming. After all, that was all that he had done for so long. There was the smell of flowers in the air and Kieran remembered a time when he laid in grasses far longer than the ones bended against the soles of his feet, listening to the gleaming emerald crickets that sang with a force strong enough to have their song to not be blown away by the wind. He remembered a silver disk attached to a silver chain. It had been important. He had worn it around his neck every day. It was something that made him whole. He had given it away with a kiss and a touch, to a being of summer. Blonde hair, gold eye, soft skin that marked so easily.

“A ghrá geal,” He had whispered so many times. Bright love. But there was no face to connect to the endearment. No name trying to jump from his tongue. Kieran remembered the panic that he had felt when he first realized he was forgetting the other (others? Him, her, they, whom?). Now, he just felt empty. 

“Kieran of the Hunt?” Kieran jumped at the call of his name. Arawn was looking at him with an expression of mostly obscured sadness. It took only one glance to tell that the immortal watcher understood. There was no pity in his gaze, and that was one of the few things that kept Kieran from letting the tears that were gathering in his eyes overwhelm him. It took him a moment to try to collect himself, and he was almost surprised that Arawn remained silent while he did so. It was only when he took another step forward that the elder fae placed a hand on his shoulder, “Come, we must go. We are already late as it is.” Kieran nodded as Cú rubbed against his legs, letting out a distressed whine. 

The castle was achingly nostalgic, and Kieran found his heart longing for it. He rested a hand weathered gray stone of one of the bridge’s archways and breathed in the cool, damp air of morning.  His fingers trailed along the rock and then moved to brush the clasp of his cloak as he walked ever so slightly behind Arawn. His heart hammered in his throat. Cú trailed by his master’s side. However, his nose was in the air and there was a gleam of something that Kieran had forgotten the name of in his eyes. Excitement? Hope? Joy? (It was clear to Kieran that Cú loved him, as any dog loves the first human who gives it affection. But they had been together for so long that they had almost become an extension of one another. They felt the same emotions. They never left the other, and thus never had a chance to feel the joy that would come at the other’s return. There was only the content quiet of constant company.) 

With little warning, Cú let out a howl and then charged forward across the bridge. Kieran spared one look at Arawn, who gave only a raised eyebrow in response, and then took off after his hound. 

The wood of the bridge pounded against the heels of Kieran’s feet and abruptly shifted to hard stone as it gave way to the entryway of the castle. Shades of color and shadows that could have been people swirled past Kieran’s gaze as he followed the blur of white that had been his constant companion in life, and had become his shadow in death. “Cú!” There was a responding bark as the hound tore into an ornately decorated door that Kieran still occasionally dreamed of. Kieran’s heart beat against his ribcage as he nearly slipped on the cobblestone making the turn. The faint buzz of courtiers (No, not courtiers, no one was noble here. Noble blood did not matter in Annwn. They were hunters. Only hunters.) rang in Kieran’s ears. He caught a glimpse of a snowy-haired scowling woman, accompanied by a similarly colored laughing man, bickering with a man with long, flowering vines trailing down his back. He saw hounds as white as Cú come bounding after him, only to be called back by their bright owner’s sharp whistle. 

The hall that Cú had raced into was spacious, with hearths interspaced between the grand windows that were decorated with holly branches. Resting against the wall farthest from the opened double doors, on top of a raised platform of stone resided a throne of interlocking branches and antlers. 

Kieran had sat on that throne before. His past laughter rang in his ears and he could nearly feel the ghosting touch of a pair of lips wandering up his neck. Black and blue eye had looked at him on that throne as he chuckled and let surprisingly gentle hands caress him. A tall man, with shorn brown hair that was rough against the tips of fingers and rasped against his skin. He had a smile tinged with a wildness that Kieran knew he would never be able to conquer (that he never wanted to) peering down at him. That man had been a gale composed of night winds that smelled faintly of holly. Kieran had always been happy to lose himself in him. 

The being sitting on that throne, however was not a man of the wild nights nor holly-berries. He was a youth made of sunlight. Of bright summer skies. His blonde hair framed his features and cut away at some of the sharpness that they may have otherwise held. A crown of blunted blackthorn branches rested upon his brow and he was garbed in a vestment of white and gold. He was beautiful. Beautiful in the same way a breath of air was beautiful to a drowning man. In the same way the first rays of spring are gorgeous to a desolate farmer at the end of winter.  Kieran had known him once. He had held him once. He loved him.

What was his name? 

Cú has bounded up only stopped when he could thrust his head into the young man's lap. Soft whimpers of excitement could be heard as the hound butted his head against those hands that had skillfully held a bow and cut Kieran's hair that dark night so long ago. 

What was his name? 

The man of starlight laughed and scratched at one of Cú's ears before his hand stopped short. 

Something with a 'M'. Something after one of the Kings of old. 

Mismatched eyes of teal and gold met Kieran’s own and Kieran felt the world drop out from beneath his feet. He could get lost in that gaze. He could make a home in them, too. 

It started with an “M”. It started with an “M”. 

Staggering into a standing position and all but throwing himself down the steps of the throne, the other man’s golden iris shined. His face was pale and his expression openly shocked. “Kieran?” The name was choked out, clunky as it fell from trembling lips. Pale hands reached out for Kieran and they, too, were shaking.  “Kieran—”

‘M’…’M’… ‘M’… he knew it. He used to, he used to—ah, yes, that was it…

Shock had morphed into despair and worry. Dark emotions clouded that bright and youthful face. Kieran swallowed, stepping forward. “March,” The name caressed his tongue and slipped into his brain. It felt so right. Emboldened, he reached up, brushing past Mark’s fingers, which were hovering just inches away from Kieran’s skin. Mark’s cheeks were warm against Kieran’s palms and Kieran felt himself start to grin, “Oh my March, you look so beautiful.”

The moment that those words were whispered, Mark seemed to break down. His kiss was tear-stained and gentled by hesitation. The moment his hands found Kieran's arms his grip turned tight. It was as if he thought Kieran were a shade who would mutter a jumbled sentence of prophecy or insight and then disappear into nothing. Kieran understood his fear. The scar of the knife wounds n between his shoulder-blades ached.

“And here I was hoping to find him before you did.” Arawn’s voice rang out, rebounding against the arched roof of the throne room. Kieran pulled away from Mark, arching his neck to look back at the former King of Annwn. He felt Mark freeze, his muscles tightening as if readying to spring. Silently and almost subtly, Mark pulled Kieran close and moved to tuck him against his side, using his few extra inches to his advantage. His gaze had turned hard but Arawn only granted him a look that was almost akin to amusement. “I shall not take him from you, Mark ap Andrew. Not yet.” 

“You mean… he can stay?” There was something so desperately hopeful in Mark’s voice that it made Kieran want to bury himself even deeper against him. Cover him with his own body and hide him from the harsher nature of the world. He used to do that when he was alive, he remembered suddenly. He had the scars to prove each of the close calls. Each time when Mark would scream his name and, and—someone— rushed to his side to protect his fallen form. 

“You have him for the day, until it is time for us to return to our side of Annwn.”

“But, but—” Mark took a faltering step forward, his eyes locked to the entrance to the hall, as if pleading for someone to walk through them. To come back.

“The day, Mark Blackthorn.” Arawn’s voice was steady and unyielding. There was a moment of tense silence, then Arawn’s posture softened, “Go, enjoy the time that you are given. I will watch over the kingdom as I once did.” 

For a moment, it seemed as though Mark would argue. Kieran remembered the stubborn glint in his eyes all too well. “March,” He whispered, “My March, look at me.” Teal and gold irises locked on to silver and onyx. Kieran couldn’t stop himself from reaching his hand out to trace his thumb lightly down sharp cheekbones, caressing the warm skin. Mark shuddered under his touch, his eyes drawing closed. Kieran smiled, “To think I forgot this,” He murmured to himself, brushing over the hills of Mark’s cupids-bow. Leaning forward, he pressed their foreheads together. He felt every breath and shudder that ran through Mark's frame. 

"Forgot?" Mark asked, and his voice was hoarse. "What do you mean--"

Kieran kissed the tip of Mark's nose, effectively silencing him. "’Tis not important." Finally pulling himself away, he took note of the stunned silence of the hall. Arawn was watching them with a slight smile. A host of hunters had appeared at the entryway and were watching with stunned expressions. Some looked too familiar for it to be a coincidence. Kieran felt his face heat. Looking back at Mark, he cleared his throat. "But perhaps we could move somewhere less populated?"

Mark nodded almost immediately and proceeded to almost drag a laughing Kieran behind him down the hallways that he had both been so acquainted with long ago.

Mark’s touch was gentle as he trailed his fingers up Kieran’s bare arms. The bed hadn’t changed at all. Nothing in the room had, except the bronze mirror that Kieran had always used in the morning, which was covered with a cream colored sheet. It was like stepping back into a memory.  Kieran sighed, feeling his head roll back to rest against one of the pillows as Mark trailed his lips down from Kieran’s mouth to his neck. "You are quieter." The whisper was kissed into Kieran's skin. Mark's voice was tinged with something close to sadness. Kieran surprised them both by letting out a soft laugh. 

"The Land of the Dead has a habit of changing people." His grin lessened into a smile, "Time does that to people. Take a look at yourself." He brushed his right index finger against the circlet of branches that rested atop Mark's head. "This is new. These clothes are new. Regal garments on a regal princeling. Though I suppose it is Prince-Consort now, is it not?" 

That got a chuckle, "I think I was more comfortable in my cloak and hunting tunic." 

"Hm, you looked good in them too.” Kieran purred, switching their positions with ease so that he was kneeling astride the blonde, "But these? These make you look like the kings of old. Powerful," he bent down to nip at Mark's exposed collarbone, "commanding," His right hand trailed the length of Mark's spine, "passionate..." His left crawled up to trace small circles against the warm, cloth covered skin of Mark's inner thigh. 

As if on cue, Mark's pupils dilated and his breath hitched. A blush crawled up his neck, "Kieran--"

Immediately Kieran pulled away slightly, playfulness gleaming in his eyes, "But alas, if we start without him, he shall be very put out." 

Mark groaned, "And to think I forgot just how much of a tease you could be. Gwyn—” Kieran stopped short, his lips hovering just below Mark’s chin. (Gwyn. His name was Gwyn. He was a wild laugh that fell from commanding lips as the Hunt plunged down from the sky to race across the rippling waters of Lake Lyn. He was the shadow of a God who mortals had feared. Who had helped King Arthur of the Britons and guided the dead to their final graves…)

“--Wouldn't mind..." As if to accentuate his point, Mark thrust his hips up, pressing them against Kieran's. Jolted out of his daydream, Kieran responded by biting into the meat of Mark's neck and rewarded with a hissed yelp. 

"Waiting will do you some good." He muttered before swiping his tongue across the mark he had just created. Gwyn, Gwyn, Mark, Gwyn, Mark. His mind didn’t know which to focus on. Kieran shook his head and started talking, "Now," Mark let out a soft groan as Kieran nibbled at the red area, enlarging and darkening it, "tell me about the wedding. There must have been one, if you are wearing our Gwyn’s colors and are ruling his kingdom. I will be very put out otherwise."

"While you are doing--ahh--that?" 

"I'll stop. Please?" Kieran asked, pulling away to rest his chin on the skin above Mark's heart. Almost immediately, Mark’s fingers came up to toy with his hair.

“I-It, he promised me after you… after you died. He got iron poisoning and—”

“How did he get iron—”

“He’s better now.” Mark said, kissing at the worry lines that were already forming on Kieran’s brow. “The wedding was fairly quiet, for Gwyn’s standards, at least—”

“That is a travesty; you deserve to have well-wishers from every one of the kingdoms—”

“My family and their friends were there, as was the Hunt. I don’t care about anyone else, Kieran.” Mark chuckled.

“Every single one of the kingdoms—”

“The only person that I wanted to be there who wasn’t was you.” Mark’s voice was soft and his fingers trailed up and down Kieran’s ribs. So Kieran tried not to take it for the accusation it seemed like. But then Mark opened his mouth, “You should have been there with us, dressed in white and gold. I wish you had been there.” There was a thickness to Mark’s voice as he whispered those words and Kieran felt his throat grow tight.

“I would have given the world to just see you two.” He whispered, even though he knew Mark already knew that. Even though he knew Mark wasn’t blaming him. He still felt guilty.

Mark shook his head, “It’s not your fault, Kieran. If anyone is to blame, it’s Mab, but she’s long dead.”

“I haven’t seen her, nor her brother for that matter.” Kieran replied.

“And that is for the best.” Mark said, pulling Kieran up to reconnect their lips. Kieran had forgotten just how much he liked the touch and slide of Mark’s lips. Just as Kieran’s eyelids were sliding shut, Mark pulled away. “Next time,” He whispered, his eyes bright, “Next time you come, we will do it right.”

“March?” Kieran asked, confused as to what his lover was thinking.

Mark, however, just started smiling, “A spring wedding with blooming flowers and courtiers from every kingdom in the realms. With you standing beside us, for all to see.”

“A three person arrangement? My, Faerie has done a number on you.” Kieran found himself grinning as Mark rolled them over to lie side by side. He didn’t know if Arawn would agree to let him come back. He didn’t know if such a thing was even possible. But the thought warmed him. It made him giddy. “I would look wretched in gold or white.”

“Some other color, then.”

“March…”

“That’s not a ‘no’.”

“I would do anything for you.” Kieran whispered, scooting closer to press himself against the blonde. He wanted to bury himself in the other’s arms and never leave. When Mark let out an impatient hum at the indirect answer, Kieran responded with a laugh. “Fine, fine, I want it, yes, the answer would be yes, you fool. The answer was, is, and always would be ‘yes’.”

Mark’s kiss was soft and encompassing. If Kieran could make a home in Mark’s eyes, then he could return to that home every their lips touched. He sighed through his nose and tilted his head.

Then the door slammed open. Kieran jerked away, nearly falling off the bed. Arawn strode into the room, his face grave. Mark’s gaze turned stormy and his mouth opened until he noticed who Arawn was supporting with both hands.

Gwyn ap Nudd was bent at the waist. What little skin of his face that Kieran could see was pale beneath his war-paint. His eyes were closed. But those features weren’t what drew Kieran’s gaze or made Mark tense beneath Kieran’s grip. What did was the dark blood that was covering nearly half his chest and dripped onto the floor every few seconds. The entire room was silent and still for only a moment, then all hell broke loose.

Mark all but flew off the bed, his bare feet hitting the stone tile in an all-out run as rushed to Gwyn’s side. Kieran followed right behind him, the world seeming to shake more and more off its axis with every breath that he took.

“Gwyn? Gwyn?!” Mark’s voice was panicked as he took the King of Annwn from Arawn’s hands. Almost immediately his hands were stained with red.

It was perhaps the urgency in Mark’s tone that made Gwyn shudder to consciousness, “Gwythyr did not mean to cut so deep.” He whispered, his voice hoarse as he forced his head up ever so slightly to meet Mark’s eyes (which only caused a new wave of blood to pool out of the gash to his chest) only to drop it back down not a moment after. After that, not even Mark’s calls could rouse him. The dripping of blood onto the floor resounded in Kieran’s head, each sound overlapping the other creating a cacophony of noise that jolted through his haze of emotions. The third drip against the wooden floors was enough. His mind was reeling.

“March, March,” Gold and blue eyes darted toward him as Mark was pressing down on the wound and Arawn had risen to find bandages, “Call on someone! One of the hunters! Tell them to get his brother—th-the healer. He has helped before!” Kieran wasn’t sure how he knew that. But he didn’t care.

Mark looked up at Kieran, as if he had almost forgotten that he was there, “Kieran?” He whispered, and his voice was ragged.

“Now!” Kieran’s mind scrambled to catch up with what he was saying as he rushed out of the room. Throwing open the doors that connected the throne room to the bedchambers, his eyes flew across the small crowd of worried huntsmen who had already begun to gather. His mind searched for a name while his eyes searched for a face. They settled on the lone woman in the group, her pale eyes sharply worried but her mouth set firmly as she braved a step forward.

Remember the name. Remember the name. Remember. Remember. Remember.

“S-Steren,” She blinked at him, her mouth parting open as her form gave a tremor at his voice.

“Kieran,” She responded, and there were a million questions and thoughts and emotions in that whisper of his name that he didn’t have time to answer.

“Get Edren.”

“Gonn.” She nodded, and with a turn of her heels took off. Without her, Kieran felt lost in the sea of faces. After a moment of hesitation, of silence, he turned and ran back down the hallway.

During the time that Kieran had been gone to get someone to call upon him, Mark and Arawn had moved Gwyn to the bed and Mark had begun to bandage as best he could. His hands were shaking and left stark smudges of crimson trailing against the white grain cloth. Those fingerprints engraved themselves into the back Kieran’s mind, as did the weak groans of pain that Gwyn let out every time a bandage stretched across the gash. He moved to hover beside Mark, bringing him supplies and staring over his shoulder. He thought about using what little healing magic he knew, tried to remember the incantations for the spells, nut his mind kept drawing blanks half way through. He dug his fingernails into the palms of his hands, taking a strange enjoyment in the sharpness of the pain while Cú whimpered pitifully at his feet. His hound licked at his knuckles. Kieran could do nothing. He could only watch the door like a hawk.

Not an hour later, Edren came in a swirl of northern winds and stringent commands, the whispers of healing spells (ones that had been so easily forgotten by Kieran’s mind) mixed with vehement curses already being uttered as he entered the room.

The moon was high in the sky by the time that Edren deemed Gwyn stable and stated that it was safe enough for him to leave. It was clear that he was hesitant to do so, however, as he threw glances up at Mark, then to looked at Kieran, as if trying to decipher where he had seen him before. Even so, he exited the room with one last nod towards Mark and a rub at his eyes after providing him with a detailed list of instructions.

For a while after that, the room was silent, with only Gwyn’s heavy breathing filling the air. Mark had settled on the bed beside his lover, curling into him, both desperate for his touch and terrified of causing him more harm. Kieran sat beside him, watching on as his eyes drifted closed. Leaning over, he pressed a kiss to Mark’s eyes. “Rest, my Mark. You still have need of sleep.”

“But--” Mark muttered, one of his hands come up to wrap around Kieran’s arm weakly. Kieran smiled. Brushing back blonde bangs, he looked at the darkly circled eyes that had always been so lively and bright. “Please…” Mark whispered, though the words teetered off into a yawn.

“Sleep.” Kieran whispered, pressing the other into the pillows, “Sleep and dream, my sweet prince of summer. I am here.” That statement alone was enough to make Mark settle.

“Remember,” He whispered as he curled his feet up against Kieran’s knee, as he had done so long ago.

Kieran nodded, “A spring arrangement, for all to see.” He agreed, kissing Mark one last time. Even as Mark slipped away into the world of dreams, he kept his grip on Kieran’s arm. It was as if he didn’t trust Kieran to keep his promise. Kieran let out a soft chuckle. Mark had always been too intelligent for his own good. It was one of the many reasons why Kieran loved him so.

It was only once Mark’s conscious had faded away that Arawn approached them, and Kieran couldn’t help but feel an almost overwhelming wave of gratitude overtake him for that.

“It is time, Kieran.” He whispered, his voice soft and resigned. Kieran just blinked up at him, before looking back down at the slumbering lovers that were coiled around each other. That were brushing against him. He had sent countless nights beside them. There hadn’t been enough. Kieran’s gaze settled on Gwyn.

“I can wake him for you.” Arawn said, and his voice was soft. Kieran looked up. Swallowing, he looked back down at Gwyn, who lay prone against the pillows of his bed. Back when he had lived and breathed on this land of the living, he had protected both Gwyn and Mark with everything he had. Every part of him had been gladly given in order to spare them pain. (It hadn’t been enough. He had heard Mark scream for him as the blade entered his back the first time. He had felt Gwyn’s trembling hands trying vainly to stanch the blood flow. It hadn’t been enough.)  Now Kieran just wanted to hear Gwyn’s voice one more time.

He spared a moment to glance over at Mark, asleep and peaceful, tangled underneath the covers.

Carefully, with mechanical but precise movements, he extracted himself from the blonde’s hold, watching silently as Mark’s hands reached out against the mattress, as if searching for something. Mark’s brow furrowed, but he did not wake. Silently, as quiet as the ghost he was, he slipped around to the other side of the bed, and knelt down beside the man who had once been his lover and leader and king. Who had once made him smile and feel safe.

A look up to Arawn was all that was needed. The push and pull of magic hummed in Kieran’s ears and wrapped around his chest. He shuddered, and then looked down at where Gwyn was stirring.  

Eyes squinted open, still bright with pain and hazed by drugs.  Even so, they softened as they tried to focus upon him. Eyelashes fluttered shut and then open again as lips parted open into a smile. Strong and calloused fingers came up to trail shakily against Kieran’s jaw. Kieran couldn’t stop himself from pressing a kiss into the start of Gwyn’s wrist. He relished in the fluttering of the pulse that he found there, weak as it was. He was gifted with a small smile.

“I cannot go with you yet.” Gwyn whispered, his voice raspy and his eyes sleep-misted as he brushed one of his thumbs across Kieran’s cheek. “’Tis cruel of me to keep you waiting. But Mark still has need of me yet. One day, my Kieran, but not this day.”

Kieran’s grip on Gwyn’s hand tightened, and he felt his lips twist up into a smile. His vision blurred over and wet, overwhelming heat stung at the backs of his eyelids. “Of course, my Gwyn.” He murmured, “Rest and be well.” Careful and hesitant, he bent at the waist to press a kiss to Gwyn’s brow. “I love you both.” He whispered hoarsely. By the time that he pulled away, Gwyn’s eyes were shut and his breath had evened out into the rhythmic cadence of sleep.