City of Floods: The Fall of the Crow King by D M Callahan

Author:D M Callahan
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub

VII.

Morgan hurried through the hall.

He had to get down to the docks—he had to see him. He had to make sure James was alive, was there, was finally home. Please, please… please may he have come home. There were crowds that were leaving Tempest’s Reach to make their way down to the docks as well to welcome back the brave soldiers who had fought for the freedom of Sommerset—those who had pushed Itharylhelm back to their cold mountains and caverns of ice. He was aware that, by appearances, it may have seemed odd for the king to be rushing along with them, but he did not care. The war was over, and James would be home, and that was all that mattered. Propriety be damned.

The entrance hall was crowded as he made his way through, only just stopping himself from shoving people out of his way because he needed to get there, to see, to—

Morgan stumbled just short of the door and stopped dead in his tracks. There, in the entrance hall, a duffle bag over one shoulder and his sword over the other, was James Winchester, illuminated by the dreary light that spilled in through the open doors.

To the Hells with appearances.

Morgan ran and crashed into James and threw his arm around the larger man. He would have toppled them both over if not for the knight’s sturdy body keeping them upright. Every other emotion that he might have felt was replaced by a joy so great it threatened to strangle him; radiant tears welled in his eyes as he buried his face into those hideously ragged clothes—they smelled absolutely horrid, like blood and sweat and dirt—but he did not care because it was real. Tangible. James stood there, putting his hands gently on Morgan’s shoulders.

“Hey, little crow,” James said.

Damn if he cared who saw.

Morgan had to lift himself up on his toes, but he took James’ face in his hands and pressed his lips to his. Home. My sun, my love. He is home, he is safe, he is here, he—

It took longer than it perhaps should have for Morgan to realize a startling—and truly horrifying—thing: James was not kissing him back. Firm hands pushed him away by the hips and he blinked, searching James’ unusually meek features.

“What is wrong?” Morgan asked, failing to hold in his nervous laugh, unable to keep his hands from busying themselves with getting tangled into James’ shirt.

“Uh,” James hesitated, taking Morgan’s small wrists and pulling the king’s hands from his top. James had often laughed about how Morgan was like a cat that got its claws all caught up in whatever it touched. “This ain’t really how I… fuck. This ain’t how I wanted this to go.”

“What are you talking about?”

There it was. The cutting fringe of anxiety, the old pathetic shaking that used to afflict his voice as a child, when he had been scared of his father’s wrath or unnerved by the whispers of the villagers who stared at him too long.

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