Clipped

Chapter 20.

The moon was a sliver of bone against the velvet throat of the night. Sleep had become a fickle friend to Rhiannon; whenever she closed her eyes, she saw the oily face of Gorgon’s messenger, a reminder that the world below still had hooks buried in her skin.

​Restless, she wrapped herself in her charcoal cloak and stepped out onto the layered stone terrace that overlooked the valley. The air was sharp enough to sting, but the static in her head was different tonight. It wasn't the white noise of fear; it was a rhythmic, expectant pulse, fueled by the magic she had pulled from the forest floor.

​She reached into the pocket of her tunic and withdrew the small rowan whistle Fenris had bought for her.

​In the moonlight, the wood looked silvered. Rhiannon hesitated, then brought it to her lips. She didn't know a tune- the songs of her childhood had been hollowed out by a decade of screams and silence, so she simply closed her eyes and blew a single, steady breath.

​The sound that emerged wasn't a whistle. It was a low, resonant vibration that seemed to ripple through the very atoms of the mountain.

​Rhiannon felt the spark in her chest flare. It traveled down her arm, hot and eager, pouring into the wood. She felt the ancient memory of the rowan tree- the way it reached for the sun, the way its berries tasted of tart survival. She knelt, pressing her free hand against a patch of frozen, stubborn earth between the flagstones.

​Grow, she thought, not as a command, but as a prayer.

​A tiny, brilliant point of green light broke the surface of the frost. It climbed, spiraling with a frantic, beautiful energy. A stem emerged, followed by a pair of delicate, serrated leaves. And then, with a soft pop that sounded like a heartbeat, a single white flower bloomed. It was a rowan blossom, five-petaled and fragile, radiating a faint, ethereal glow that defied the winter.

​Rhiannon’s breath hitched. She pulled her hand back, her fingers trembling. It was the first thing she had made that wasn't for survival. It wasn't a barrier or a shield; it was just... life.

​"I haven't seen anything that beautiful in a hundred years."

​The voice was a low rumble, blending perfectly with the mountain wind. Rhiannon didn't jump. She knew the scent of cedar and fresh rain before she even turned.

​Fenris was standing in the shadows of the archway, his arms crossed over his broad chest. He wasn't wearing his Alpha mask tonight. His features were soft, his blue-gold eyes fixed on the tiny, glowing flower at her feet.

​"It’s small," Rhiannon whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "And it will probably freeze by morning."

​"It doesn't matter," Fenris said, stepping closer. He knelt on the stone opposite her, the sheer size of him making the little flower look even more miraculous. "It’s a defiance. The mountain says no, and you said yes."

​He looked at the flower for a long time, the glow reflecting in the depths of his eyes. "In all my time... through all the wars and the seasons... I’ve seen forests burn and cities rise. But I’ve never seen a soul reach through iron and come back with a bloom."

​Rhiannon looked at him, the whistle still clutched in her hand. The intimacy of the moment felt like a thread being pulled tight between them.

​"Fenris," she said softly, "in your hundred or so years... did you ever meet another fairy? Before me?"

​Fenris looked up from the flower, his gaze steady. "No. I’ve seen the shimmering borders of the Whispering Woods from a distance, and I’ve heard the stories the elders tell to scare the pups. But your people are shadows, Rhiannon. They don't leave their groves, and they certainly don't speak to wolves."

​Rhiannon looked down at her scarred palms. "I don't know much about them either. I remember the smell of the rain on the leaves. I remember a song my mother's sang, but I can't hear the melody anymore. It’s like... someone tore the pages out of a book before I could finish reading it."

​She let out a ragged sigh. "The trauma... it didn't just take my wings. It took my history. I feel like a phantom trying to remember what it was like to be solid."

​Fenris reached out. He didn't touch her, but he hovered his hand near hers, offering his warmth like a hearth. "You aren't a phantom, Rhiannon. You are the rowan. You were cut back to the root, and you were buried in the dark, but you're still here."

​He looked back at the small, glowing blossom. "You don't need the book to know who you are. You just told the earth your name, and it answered."

​For a heartbeat, the silence between them was perfect. The Alpha and the clipped Fairy, sitting in the freezing dark over a single petal of light.

​"Teach me," Fenris said, his voice a mere vibration.

​"Teach you what?"

​"The song," he said. "Even if you only remember one note. I want to hear it."

​Rhiannon looked at the whistle, then at the man who had seen a century of blood and still found wonder in a weed. She brought the wood to her lips again, and this time, she didn't just breathe. She remembered the way the wind sounded in the Silent Glen, and she blew a note that sounded like coming home.