‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

▬▬▬▬▬

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎𝐀 𝐂𝐑𝐀𝐒𝐇 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐑𝐔𝐏𝐓𝐒 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐋𝐄𝐄𝐏. Elowen springs from the sheets, scanning the room for the culprit of the sound. It's hardly morning hour, the sun just kissing the rim of the horizon, casting looming shadows over the bedroom's furniture. The minimal light halos the silhouette of a winged man tearing with claws through dressers and cabinets, slinging possessions to the side.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Morrow?" she drawls, her voice tired.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎He's stark naked right now. Every muscle in his blight-stricken body pulls at him like a puppet on a string, hunching him so he appears incredibly unhinged. He heaves with every breath he takes, wrathful growls rasping from his lungs. His charcoal hair remains wild, pulled and pried at in every direction. Most of his form remains hidden behind his shadowed wings.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎He ignores her and continues to dismantle his room.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Morrow?" Something isn't right with him. The past few days he's been tripping and falling over his own feet, but now, he moves across the room with ease. "Come back to bed. It's too early to be up like this."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎His attention snaps over to her, and it's then, her world crumbles to ash. He no longer runs on energy, but pure adrenaline fueled by the forbidden disease. Morrow's once meadowed hues become consumed in blight-sludge, transforming them into a deep nightmarish black. Although his face still remains tanned, black veins like tendrils reach for his vision and skull.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎He warned her that this would come. The blight doesn't just kill. That would be too simple. Before death, the blight will alter him into someone she doesn't recognize, a monster she won't ever want to know. She just hopes that perhaps this same version of Morrow understands the woman before him.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Where is it?" he hisses in a voice that sounds far from his own. It's harsh, raspy, cut from the edges of his lowest tones.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"I don't know what you mean."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Where is it?" he grits, taking a step towards her as wolfish claws extend.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Her heart pounds against her ribs as she skimpers off the bedsheets. Morrow only circles her. "You're starting to frighten me."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"WHERE IS IT?"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎He leaps towards her, an animalistic pounce to weigh her under his grip, but she manages to escape his claws as she dashes behind his grand piano. Those blackened blight eyes follow her as if she were a weak little bird, and perhaps, she always was. A disapproving growl slices through the silence.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Morrow," she gasps, keeping her eyes on him. "It's me. It's Elowen. Let me help y—"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎He targets her again, leaping atop the grand. Keys smash beneath his claws, a song of broken chords that opposites the song he played for her. He loves his instruments and his piano, his mother's grand, and yet, the blight doesn't give a damn for what Morrow holds in his heart. The disease is only meant to destroy him, to obliterate everything he once had and give him nothing in return. With one look at him, she knows the Morrow she's entwined to isn't the same as the one that prowls before her.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Where is it?" he growls once more.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Elowen stumbles across the room, cornering herself against one of his dismantled dressers. Her white knuckles dig into the polished wood, not knowing if she should scream for help or run from the room. The moment she leaves, she knows Morrow will follow, infecting the rest of the province with the blight. She needs to keep him here. Yet, this isn't Morrow. This version of him is ready to plunge those claws into her flesh and make her bleed.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎She gulps. "What are you searching for?"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎His tongue slithers form his lips, scathing over his fine lips and unleashing those sharp pincer canines. "I know you have it. I've been looking for it."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"For what?"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"The key," he answers.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎With every step towards her, she internally writes her death wish, but she puts her trust in knowing that somewhere, deep inside that blight-infected heart of his, he would never bring her harm.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"I don't know what that is," she breathes, slipping away from the dressers and pressing against the wall. "But I'll help you find it."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"The key to ancient's magic," he clarifies, cocking his head to the side. "You have it, don't you? I need it."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"I don't have ancient's magic—"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"You have it!" he spits, making another leap. She ducks and rolls away, just faring from his claws by margins. He knocks into the dresser, drawers careening out of the cubbies and crashing onto the hardwood floors.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"I don't have any magic! We've tried to get it out, remember?" she helplessly meets his wild eyes as she dodges him from the floor, finding nothing of the old Morrow left. "Morrow, just please come back to bed—"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎He reaches for her ankles, attempting to snatch them as he crawls towards her. She pulls her leg in so he only grabs air.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎His shadowed wings extend large, a devil meant to create chaos. "Give me it."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Elowen shakes her head. "This isn't you."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Give me it."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Morrow, please."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"I need it, little sparrow."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎She's gotten so used to him calling her sparrow, a name that always rolled from his lips religiously as if it were meant to be worshipped. Now, it sounds like a taunt. The nickname in his forbidden tone causes her to flinch, giving him a second to act.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎He snatches her ankles, pulling her bare body across the floorboards towards him. A sly smirk spreads across his fine lips, his blight-sludged irises a portal of darkness she doesn't ever want to enter. She tousles within his grasp as his nails dig into her waist deep enough to draw blood. She kicks. She wrestles. She jostles.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Just a little bit of magic," he purrs. "Just a drop."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"No!"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Sparrow."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎She screams.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎The sound curdles against the ceilings, off the opened windows and drifting through the Tabrien valleys and woods. This isn't Morrow. It's not.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎She keeps screaming, crossing her fingers that someone can save her as the wolf she swore she never feared holds her captive in his sharp clutch. He crawls above her on all fours, settling his palm upon her throat with a grip meant to collpase her air, one meant to silence her.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Someone should hear her from down the corridor. She knows the were keep their tabs on their alpha, and she knows no one will truly ever give them full privacy. Someone is always watching, always listening.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎She opens her eyes, hoping to see her mate inside of him. "Morrow, please."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎He hesitates, the blight within his eyes vanishing for seconds as a meadow green reappears. It's enough to make his grip upon her throat loosen as his features twist in confusion. Her bond to him swells with warmth at the recognition of fear in her eyes.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Elowen?"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Her name hardly breathes from his lips when a needle injects deep into his bicep. A bitter growl rumbles from his throat, a fight he's bound to lose. In seconds, his body falls limp and collapses on top of her, weighted under cursed wings. Those same meadowed hues she fell in love with close shut, an image that whelms her heart with sorrow.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Elowen looks beyond Morrow's body towards the man kneeling beside them both. Thorn. He heard her plea for help.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎The ancient man shakes his head, muttering curses as he returns back up to his feet and finds Elowen's robe on the floor. She'd fallen asleep bare the night before—both of them had—and she wasn't expecting the morning's episode.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Get dressed," he orders, tossing the garment to her.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Thorn picks up Morrow in his burly arms and manages to settle him back in the bed, quickly throwing a sheet over his blight-mangled naked torso. Meanwhile, Elowen ties the robe around her waist and runs to Morrow's side.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Tears stain her cheeks. "It wasn't supposed to happen this fast."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Well, kid, you can't control the blight," Thorn mutters.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"I was supposed to have another day!" The tears come in ugly sobs, cascading down her flushed cheeks. "He told me seven days, and it's only been six! He's my mate. Just one more day. One more..."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Listen," Thorn takes a hold of her shoulders, spinning her around to meet his weathered grey eyes. To her, they look like afternoon clouds, the type that you wish would vanish so the sun could shine. Alas, she's destined for gloom. "You knew time with him was limited, and so did he. You just saw how he went batshit and tried to kill you, didn't you? It has to be like this."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"He didn't..." He couldn't.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"The blight makes enemies of us all, and he didn't want to become one to you. He's not dead yet. He's just... asleep."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Asleep isn't awake like she wants, but allowing him to wake up will disorient him and cause the blight to take control. There's so much logic embedded into Thorn's words. This was the plan all along, wasn't it? Now, there's no turning back. Morrow will live his final days without the blight taking the reins of his sanity.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎And what can Elowen do about it?

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Nothing.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Nothing at all.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎She clenches her fists. There must be something in her will to pull her mate from this pit of despair. This can't be how Morrow's life ends. She's given him all she can: happiness, solace, a second half for him to love, but it's all not enough to cure him. The cure lies in another province, one forbidden to enter.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Or so she thought.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Afterall, she's an ancient. She can march straight into Pailon and fight for a cure, even if no one in this world views her as capable. She can bring back the light that's been extinguished from the flame and chase away the demon who caused this. Rhimme. That's what Thorn had told her.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎She spins around, only to be pulled back to reality by Thorn. "Deep breaths," he tells her. "You're unsettled."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Heat rises in her blood. "He's dying. We can't just stand here and—"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"We can. And we are going to do just that for a minute."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"He's my mate!"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Wow! I'm not aware of that. Please do enlighten me."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Sweat builts on her fingertips, the condensation causing her nails to slip against her skin. "This can't be how he dies! Not yet. I've already lost everyone else that I've loved, and I'm not about to lose him too!" The words she chooses seem childish, but it's the truth, isn't it? She wipes away the tears that dampen her rosed cheeks. "Just please let me try and save him. I can go to Pailon and do whatever it takes to reignite that stupid flame. I'll—"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Thorn crooks a brow, briskly cutting her short. "Do I need to remind you about your pack? Morrow trusts you to guide them, and that's what you'll do."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"The pack is nothing without Morrow. He's their alpha."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"And you're their luna now. Lead them."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎She understood that mating with Morrow would lead to this moment, with her governing a province with zero expertise. Yet, she'd dived too far into the pitfalls of his embrace and heat that she discarded the bureaucracy of the title. This is her province now. The were are her brethren, even if none of her blood ascended from Tabrien.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎But the all-consuming doubts creep in on her that she can't do this alone. She longs for Morrow to share the namesake with her.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Tears sting the rims of her eyes as she closes them tight. Her mind replays Morrow's visions of them, of their child, of a reality that once seemed so tangible but now is a fever dream.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎When Elowen reopens them, she can hardly meet Thorn's stern gaze. "But I love him."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Thorn sighs, crossing his burly arms across his chest. By now, the morning light highlights the wrinkles embedded on the corners of his eyes, crevasses that speak of a vast age. This man isn't the type of guy who deals with this kind of thing, considering he would never lift a finger to help a stranger unless it benefited him.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Love is a cruel bastard," Thorn admits in a gravelled tone. "It's meant to hurt like this."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"How would you know?" she sneers. "You don't give a damn about anyone."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Easy, there," he grumbles. "I didn't come in here to pick a fight with you. I'm just here to remind you that it may be his end, but it's not yours."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎He gestures for her to take a seat on the bed. She rests herself on the edges, close enough to Morrow to give him a good ole scratch behind his ear. Even induced in a deep coma, even when the blight annihilates his brain and heart, he growls in glee at the stroke of her fingers.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"It doesn't do you any good to wallow in your fucking misery. Trust me. I know how this feels."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"You do?"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"It was a long time ago, years before the fall of Reovell," Thorn mutters, his tone lost in his past tales. "I had just relocated to Dreamweaver's Bluff because of... circumstances. The fae royals are a bunch of piss-drinking idiots that got word of my ancient magic, so I had to get the hell out of there. Ollie helped me relocate at the time, but we had to keep our communication between each other sparse, his visits sparser. I'd already gotten my death wish written if I was caught. He didn't need his for assisting me."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Is Oleander an ancient to?"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Ollie? No, but he's pretty damn smart for a fae advisor. He figured me out within an hour." Thorn chuckles, stroking a hand through a tuff of his greying reddish beard. "But enough about the fae royals. That's not the point of this story."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Thorn tips his head towards the sunrise, enamoured by the golden light. "She was a wyng like you. Strong. Determined. She got tangled in a windstorm and fell into the fae woodlands just a few acres beyond my home. The blight hadn't decimated the forests yet so that wasn't a worry, but her head took quite the beating and her wing got brutally damaged. Usually I don't give a crap about this sort of thing, but I brought her in anyway. Figured she'd be out by dawn. The thing is, this woman didn't leave when she came to her senses. She stayed. She couldn't fly away back to Reovell and insisted she'd be gone by the end of the week. Fine by me. I wish I wasn't such a fucking dimwit, but I am, and I fell in love with her in a matter of days."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Elowen quips her lips into a tepid smirk. "I find that impossible to believe."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"I always said I wasn't one for love, but when it happens so fast like that, I didn't want to stop it," his grey eyes find her gaze, almost sparkling like a silver jewel. "She wanted to stay with me, and goddamnit, I wanted her to. She was willing to give up her life in Reovell without thinking a second about the consequences, but we live in a kingdom filled with corruption, and I couldn't take her down with me. They'd kill her if she knew about my ancient blood, so she went back."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"And did you see her again?"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"No, but she sent me a letter months later. I carry it with me as a way to keep her close."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Thorn reaches into his pocket, unfolding the parchment so not to cause a wrinkle or a tear. The handwriting scrawled across the page causes his grey eyes to widen. How could someone so independent and stubborn be capable of love, even if his version only lasted a fraction of days?

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Thorn hands the letter to her. "Read it."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"But this belongs to you. It's personal, isn't it?"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Yes, but just read it."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Elowen studies the handwriting on the page, the elegant scrawling of pen and ink. It's clear this woman belonged to the wyng courts, evidence of someone studious.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎My Thorn,

You told me never to reach you unless it was a last resort, but there hasn't been a day you haven't breached my thoughts. I always think about that final night within the forest of elms, the enchanted fireflies dancing through wildflowers. You told me then you'd never be tamed or settled down, because whatever secrets you carry, they'll leave us haunted.

But there's something you should know about that final night. We both thought it'd be the last, and I thought you'd be nothing but a romantic tale. But it wasn't the end, Thorn. Maybe it's the gods playing tricks on us, maybe it's a fluke in time, but here I am writing to you with a newborn babe curled against my chest.

She's got your hair, your fae ears, your silver eyes. She's got my nose, my wings, my smile. Our little girl will grow up to be beautiful, won't she?

I named her Elowen after the elms, and everytime I see her, I think of how strong she'll become like her father. She reminds me of you, but mostly, she is a part of you.

This shouldn't be possible, but she's our miracle. She defies everything I know about this world.

Our Elowen.

I'd love for you to meet her. She is yours, and I can't keep her a secret from you forever. We'll be in Reovell, waiting for your arrival if you ever get this letter.

Sincerely,

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Solara," Elowen breathes, staring down at the handwriting before her. Amidst the swirls and scrawls of each letter, a newfound familiarity creeps in. She's seen this penmanship before—the way the E and L in Elowen flow and overlap against each other, the way she writes so poetically yet to the point.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Solara Neverclove was the name of Elowen's late mother. It's a name that shouldn't be written on Thorn's letter.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎She's the bride of a story she's heard hundreds of times before, and it's only now she realises the similarities.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Which means Thorn...

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Elowen drops the letter, storming over to the balcony for fresh air. There's no possible way that Thorn could be her true father. He just isn't. If only he knew for all these years that she existed without her magic, that she'd dreamed of reuniting with him as a child so her mother wouldn't have to be alone...

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Only if...

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Elowen," Thorn calls out, following her to the balcony. "I'm only telling you this because it'll help you understand who you are."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Understand what?" she hisses. "How long have you known that I was her daughter? That I'm your flesh and blood?"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"You look just like Solara."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"You could've told me this back in Dreamweaver's Bluff, but instead you waited until my mate was sedated and dying!" she shakes her head. There's no way this man is her father, even if he possesses a letter signed by her mother. "Why now of all times?"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"The were believe in the concept of mates," he states, "and I don't believe they're wrong. Everyone has a soulmate, and mine happened to be Solara, your mother. Don't ask me how it's possible that we created you, because even I know the wyng can only reproduce with other wyng unless magic tampers."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"You're an ancient with ancient magic. What did you do?"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎He gulps. "I'm not certain, but this is a sign that the impossible can happen. Just because Morrow is contaminated with blight, it doesn't meant that his legacy ends here. Yes, love hurts like a motherfucking knife, but it also prevails."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"I'm not having his child," Elowen stammers, her mind a fluster of confusion, fury, and loss. "I drank the nightbloom. How do you expect his legacy to live on?"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"I'm not asking you to have his babies. I'm not Cordea," he grumbles. "Morrow lives through you. Through his friends. Through the were. Now you tell me what Morrow would do at a time like this. Would he sit here and do nothing, or would he think about his next steps?"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Elowen glances back through the balcony doors to the were-wyng fast asleep under a thin sheet. She hates to admit that there's a hint of sense laced within his words, but her mind suddenly spins around in cyclones. Morrow's dying—yes, and she gave him all she could—but if she is intended to be luna, she must grapple her mind around protecting the pack.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎For Morrow.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎She pushes past the ancient man. "You're not my father."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Look, I get it. I wasn't there for you when you were a child, and I'm not expecting you to change your opinions of me. What I can do is continue to train you so you can harness your ancient magic. You'll need it in order to protect Tabrien since you're not a were."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Elowen winces. "I have none. We've tried."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"You do, and it's connected to that hound, remember?" Thorn tilts his head, a slight smirk on his mischievous lips. "If you love him enough, we'll be able to get it out of you. I guarantee it."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Is that how ancient magic works? Through love?"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"No, but I know it will unlock yours," he winks as he says this. "Only because it's the same as mine."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎She takes another look at her were-wyng. No good will come out of locking herself within the room, losing herself in dreams that don't exist. Morrow entrusts her with his pack, something he never would've done months prior. He always said that the pack comes first. It's his duty, his wish.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Her first step is to rid Tabrien of the terrans and get back Ronyn. That's what Morrow would want her to do instead of weep.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎She dreads asking Thorn for help, especially now that he knows her full name and identity. "So when do we start the training?"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Later," Thorn says, "but first, we need to fill you in on what's been going on, and we don't have much time."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Is everything alright?"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Er, not exactly," he leaves the balcony and marches towards the exit. "Clean up and I'll meet you in the courtyard. Then we'll talk."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

▬▬▬▬▬

i finished the update! i know you guys aren't going to like me for showing such an ugly side of morrow, but the blight isn't something that's pretty. 

and thorn? i always had thorn written as elowen's father, believe it or not. Iiwas on the fence of having him tell or her or just drop subtle obvious hints and let the reader figure that out, but i think thorn as a father figure is needed for what's ahead.

thanks for reading! expect lots of action ahead!

ivy <3