The Crowned Captive
Return of the Damned

After chasing Morana down, nearly killing her to stop her, and then un-nearly-killing her, Rowan had gotten angry. As soon as the woman rested against his chest, thankfully unable to move, the panic and concern had worn off and seething fury filled his veins again. He had barely managed to control it, wanting so badly to unleash the tirade that brewed inside him upon her. It wouldn’t help, not really, given she could do nothing but blink at him, but it begged to be out in the world regardless.

He wasn’t angry at her, not really. Any sane person in her position would have made a move to run, to face the consequences from him rather than the king. He was angry at himself, for dismissing the king’s words finally, chalking it up to family grudges. He was angry at himself for letting his guard down because she was pretty and amusing and too innocent to try and manipulate him into trusting her. He was angry at himself because she had run off whilst his pants had been around his ankles, finally relieving his bowels. He knew, with every ounce of his being, that one of the king’s spies would have seen it and would be whispering in his ear right now. When he got her back, he would never hear the end of it.

Honestly, it was a smart move on her part, but the hurt bit further into him than he cared to admit. He had grown endeared towards her, genuinely enjoying her company, and she had fled like he was still her ever-cruel captor, even after he told her what would happen to him if she didn’t arrive before the king. Worry gnawed at him for how the king would take her escape attempt - would he see her as a threat now? How much more likely would he be to kill her? Consequences be damned, Rowan was more than willing to plead for her life at this point. She was so young still, had so much of the world to see, and ending such a unique soul so soon would be a waste.

As they rode, with no way of talking to her, Rowan’s embarrassment festered. The lecture he would get from the king would be one to top them all. The fact he hadn’t tied her up before he walked away, or simply dragged her along with him would get him into all sorts of trouble, especially after his warning. She had been such an easy target too, so pitifully untrained, and had come a hairsbreadth from escaping. She had been so close to being out of range when that second arrow hit her, hence why his aim was so far off. He could have missed her entirely, allowing her to fall off later and her horse to gallop away, taking the trail with him. Or he could have pierced something even more vital. She had come so close to death as it was.

Rowan hadn’t stopped once to check on her or to make sure she still clung to consciousness. He knew if he stopped and catalogued the rest of her injuries, he would not stop himself from healing them and he was already nearly to the point of being spent. The gash on her leg from the underbrush was deep, and he smelt the copper tang of blood still, but he had to remind himself she would not bleed out from it. Her sprained wrist would heal later too. All he had to do was ensure she still breathed, that all of her life-threatening injuries were patched up, and get her back.

More fae flitted between the trees now, watching their arrival at the capitol. A few more guards than usual had been positioned between the trees on his path. The king either thought Morana was far more important than he had said, or the Rebellion had eyes on her too. Probably both, Rowan thought, with the number of hounds that had been sent after them. He nodded occasionally to the guards he was more familiar with, and ignored those he was not. All the while he had his ears fixed on Morana, tallying her every breath and moan. He knew the paralytic should be wearing off soon, but she showed no signs of movement except for the occasional groan when the horse jolted her. He worried about how much blood she had lost, and just how little magic she had in her veins to spur along healing.

Finally, the gates of the elven city loomed above him, jutting out over the tree canopy. He sent a silent thanks to the gods before dismounting and finally looking at Morana. An ugly purple bruise extended over the entire right side of her chest, and darkening purple welts extended over both of her arms. The gash on her other thigh was relatively shallow thanks to her riding leathers, but still oozed when he shifted her. Her blouse was completely and utterly ruined, covered in blood and ripped front and back. Her eyes were closed, lost in unconsciousness, and she was so damned pale. Still, she breathed. He thanked the gods for that small miracle

With a sigh, he jerked his head at one of the guards to retrieve his horse and started for the castle. The stars in the night sky seemed to wink down at him as he carried Morana through the roads as silently as possible. Few were out now, mainly bleary-eyed beggars who watched his passing without emotion, knowing they would get nothing from him tonight. Thankfully, nobody of importance came out to watch him carry the king’s prisoner away.

The gates to the inner courtyard of the castle were open to him as he came. Most likely, the word of the guards or the King’s spies flittering ahead of him. Nobody bothered him as he passed through the courtyard and walked up the steps to the main foyer of the castle. But there, at the back of the hall, stood the king before the throne.

The King was one of the few elves he knew that had begun to age past his prime. Having seen well over a millennium of life, the king had not yet had grey hairs grow in amongst his inky mane but had the etchings of wrinkles at his eyes and mouth. The stern man glared down at him, towering above nearly all the elves he knew. Despite his age and occupation, his body had not softened, and neither had his face. Nearly black beady eyes glared down to where he placed the woman and kneeled.

“I have been told that you had some issues on the last leg of your journey,” the king said by way of greeting, scenting the woman who lay before him. The tang of blood soaked her usual floral aroma.

“Unfortunately, your Majesty. I dropped my guard and she attempted to flee. It was a mistake not repeated,” Rowan replied, eyes still on the ground.

“Rise, Rowan. I expected this one to be somewhat troublesome, but the fact she arrived here alive is enough. We will talk over the rest later.”

Rowan nodded, tight-lipped, and thanked the king, finally standing with Morana unconscious at his feet. He did not like the idea of talking the rest over later, but he knew there would be consequences. The fact he hadn’t been shoved into irons or taken straight to a whipping post was something, at least.

“Did she give you much information?”

“She did not, your Majesty, but not from deception as far as I could tell. It was the truth when she told me she is the daughter of a witch, though her scent and senses are that of a full-blooded elf. It was the truth when she told me her mother died when she was young, killed by whom I suspect were village men. I suspect the woman was either not her mother by blood, or lied about her identity.”

“The former is true if my suspicions are correct.” The king raised his eyes from the woman laying before him, and instead levelled them on Rowan again. “It is unfortunate she had to be wounded so. It will not happen again whilst she is in my care, understood? Treat her as if she is of my blood. Have our best healers see to her, then meet me in my chambers. Give her no chances - she is to be chained or escorted by multiple guards at all times.” The king’s lip curled up as he looked at the woman once more.

“Your Majesty? Is she to be taken to the dungeons?”

“Yes, I think that would be fitting. Give her the nicest cell, but have all staff who serve her thoroughly checked before they enter. Choose your most trusted man, and give only him and yourself the ability to open the room.”

Rowan nodded, utterly confused at whom the king believed Morana to be, but excused himself and scooped her up once more. She moaned against his chest as he did so, eyes fluttering. He pushed down the pang of guilt that rose within him. He would not show the king how much he cared for her, not yet. He beelined for the guards at the doors.

“Fetch me Cordan and the best healers you can replace at the moment, and meet me in the royal cell,” Rowan ordered the guard. “And fetch me something modest for her to rest in. She will attempt to skin us all if she wakes up in some lacy nightgown.”