“How to fix what?”

  “I’m human!” Tir shouted back. Cedric, never having seen Tirian as anything other than a calmly competent patient older brother, stopped talking out of shock. “I’m human—well, mostly—and I don’t know how to fix this, I’m too clumsy and I trip over nothing and my head aches half the time and that’s not even counting the being dead part and I’m not good enough anymore!”

  “What,” Cedric said weakly, confronted with this onslaught.

  “I’m not good enough for him.” Tir slumped against the door. Dropped his head back against oak, with a thud. Hair got in his left eye; he batted it away impatiently. “I never was, I knew that, but at least I had magic. I could help him. A proper companion. Now I’m useless.”

  “Hang on,” Cedric said, “I’m still working on the first part. You’re human now.”

  “More or less. Yes.”

  “And…you…think that makes you not good enough for him.”

  “Not like—not only because of—never mind.”

  “He loves you,” Cedric declared, “and you’re wrong. Human you, fairy you, whatever. Still wrong.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “I was there when he thought you were dead. I found him when he thought you were dead. He said he loves you.”

  “He feels guilty because I died. It’s a romantic cliché.”

  “Seriously,” Cedric said, addressing the ceiling, “this is like talking to a waterfall. It doesn’t listen and it just keeps making sounds. Have you seen him lately?”

  “I am not a waterfall,” Tir snapped. “I’m human. Minus a teaspoon.”

  “I don’t want to know what you’re doing with the teaspoons. He’s absolutely pining.” Cedric sighed, not unsympathetic, and leaned a shoulder against the wall next to Tir’s already claimed door. “He misses you. Talk to him.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You can’t even talk to him?”

  “I love him. I would die for him.”

  “You did.”

  “I always knew as much.” Tir swatted a compassionate hand away from a touch. “The soothsayers told me. You’ll love a human prince, and you’ll die for him, and that will bring your kingdoms closer together—” And then he looked surprised. No: not surprised. Truly, profoundly, shocked.

  Cedric said, “What’s wrong?”

  “I said—I wasn’t thinking, and I said—but it didn’t…” Tir touched his temple, a skim of fingers over a non-existent punishment. “Now I completely don’t understand. I thought—I wasn’t done, but…if I’m allowed to say…”

  “You’re allowed to tell us,” Cedric echoed, catching up. “Are you?”

  “I…don’t know. I really don’t…is it only because I died? Because this body is…new?” Tir looked at his hand, turned it over, examined flesh and bone and thin fingers as if never having known them before. “Maybe the bindings don’t work any longer…but if it’s only that, I still shouldn’t say, in case I make it turn out wrong…”

  “I’m confused again.”

  “They told me. That I’d die for him—for the prince I fell in love with. And that would bring us closer. As I said. I assume that last part’s why Oliver has magic now.” Tir stopped to breathe. Curled fingertips in. In distress. “I knew I had to die. I never expected to come back. I don’t know what to do next.”

  Cedric held up both hands. “Way too metaphysical for me. Way. But I will say this. You need to tell Oliver everything you just told me.”

  “Oliver is the last person who can ever know,” Tir retorted. “Oliver deserves a proper future. A real human True Love. The life he was meant to have, without me. Without my interference.”

  “He saw you in the Pool! On his Quest!”

  “Because I shouldn’t’ve come! I was in the way. I made it go wrong. I don’t know.” With a frustrated absentminded rumpling of hands through hair: “My prophecy said nothing with regard to whether he’d love me back. Nothing. He deserves to try again.”

  Cedric stared at him. “You think it didn’t work?”

  “I know it didn’t.” Tir turned away, gazed at cavorting naked lovers in the tapestry over Cedric’s bed. “He’s never—it’s not me. It’s never been me. And it shouldn’t have been me. He should’ve seen the person he’ll give his heart to. I know none of your Heirs have ever married a fairy. I understand as much. It’s just that—I can’t even help him, I can’t do enough to protect him, I’m not what I was and I’m not enough—”

  “Tir,” Cedric interrupted, with a force he might’ve picked up from voice-projection lessons with the acting-troupe. “Tir, listen. What if he does love you?”

  Tir refused to look up, despite Cedric’s hand finally successfully landing on his arm. “Don’t be absurd.”

  Oliver’s sight—doubled, veiled, overlain—flickered and rippled. Lifted, dwindling.

  That was all right, that was enough—he’d heard it, he’d heard enough, he knew how Tir felt, he knew—

  He did not know how he’d deserved this. But he couldn’t doubt it.

  He stayed in place for one more second, simply breathing, propped up on his wall, taking it in. The wall gave him a supportive shoulder.

  Tir, he thought. Tir—

  They could have this. They could be given this: joy, here, after everything.

  He wanted to grab it with both hands and never let go. He wanted to paint a masterwork. He wanted to buy Tir a dozen terrible novels. He wanted to sing about love at the top of his lungs.

  He dove down the stairs. Reckless abandon.

  He hammered at Cedric’s door. His brother opened it, not instantly, doubtless giving Tir time to get out of the way.

  “Tir?” Oliver started happily.

  The object of his question stepped out from behind his brother, wary.

  “You think I don’t,” he announced. “But I do!” He did. He did. Overflowing with the rightness of it.

  They both blinked at him. “Love you,” Ollie explained, desperately. Clarification. Right. Useful. “I love you, Tir.”

  Tir’s mouth opened. His eyes were light and dark, rain and slate, wide and framed by the braid of his hair, the strands escaping around his face. “How much of that did you hear?”

  “Um. Most? I know you think you’re not good enough for me, but you are, of course you are, I have to tell you, because you can’t think that—”

  Those silk-storm eyes held emotion like winter thunderheads. Tir said, and the tone of his voice was one that Oliver had never heard from him before, like the tearing-apart of a wedding-suit or a star or the world, “Then you’re saying it out of gratitude or pity, and I won’t thank you for either,” and disappeared.

  Literally. Gone. Astonished air rushed in to fill the void.

  “Well,” Cedric considered, eyebrows up, “that’s one way to end a conversation.”

  “You idiot,” Oliver breathed, unsure whether he meant his brother or Tir or himself, “no, no, oh no, he can’t—he’s hurt, he’s barely alive, he doesn’t have any magic left, this could—he might be—”

  Color drained from Cedric’s face.

  Oliver whispered, “We have to find him,” while his heart shattered inside his chest.

  Chapter 10: Happy Endings

  Cedric summoned searchers; they fanned out across the castle. Oliver, hoping, frantic, shut both eyes and stood in place right where Tir had fled, right there in Cedric’s room, and tried.

  His extra senses woke up. They murmured hope like rainsong: the library, books, papery sweetness. Part intuition, part magic, part simply knowing Tir. Oliver ran up those flights of stairs and flung open doors and hurtled himself into book-lined space.

  He tripped over a chair. He stumbled. He spun in place, gaze raking across the room. There—

  He flung himself over to that crumpled heap of slim muscles and shadow hair. On the floor by the history shelf, the stories of the past.

  If Tir had tried to land in a chair he’d not made it. If he’d tried to be unnoticed in a corner that might’ve been true.

  He fell limp and heavy into Ollie’s arms. His face was whiter than the pages of priceless manuscripts around them.

  He wasn’t breathing.

  “No,” Oliver said, “no, that’s not—Tir, no, you can’t, you are not going to die on me again—” and gathered up every ounce of his own strength and shouted into the void. Magical, and conscious of it, and fierce with love and need and certainty: Tir!

  Who gasped in a shocked lungful of air. His eyes snapped open. “What—that was so loud—Oliver—”

  “You are an idiot,” Ollie said, “you’re hurt, why would you—please never—I love you, will you stay and actually listen to me this time, I love you,” and kissed him.

  Tir, frozen by surprise, did not move to kiss back. And then the surprise melted into amazement and desire, and his lips parted, and he was kissing Oliver in turn; he tasted like shared tears and wild berries and cold skin that warmed up under Ollie’s love, and he kept saying words, yes and yes and I’ve always and Oliver’s name into the kiss.

  Ollie cradled him there on the library floor and kissed him and told him again how reckless that was, using energy he didn’t have to run away when Ollie was right there; Tir’s cheeks were wet when Oliver dared to touch his face with one big clumsy hand. This time neither of them flinched as every last wall tumbled down. As the universe got reborn in tremulous delight.

  “I’m sorry,” Tir whispered, tilting his head into Oliver’s hand. Ollie almost couldn’t believe that they’d never done this, he’d never touched Tir like this before; it felt so natural, those cool clear eyes honest and sweet as candied rose-petals, wholly and heart-poundingly given over to Oliver’s touch and care. “I love you.”

  “You were scared,” Ollie whispered back. “I know. Me too. Me too, this whole time, I just never knew—am I hurting you, me, magic, this—”

  “You aren’t hurting me.” Tir kissed his palm. “You don’t. Or not much. Warmth. It’s like—feeling sunlight, your magic. Down in my bones. Home.”

  “I thought—”

  “I know. I’m sorry I scared you. There’s so much I don’t know. I didn’t mean—”

  “I know,” Oliver echoed, lifting his chin with a finger, leaning down for another kiss. “I heard.”

  They held each other, this time.

  Steps boomed in the hallway, on the staircase. The world clamoring in, coming to find them. They’d have a moment more in their private literary oasis; only a moment, and they’d need to reassure the rest of the family.

  But for the next moment, this moment, this space was theirs. And the future could be theirs. Together.

  “Tir,” Oliver said, head tipped to rest against that darker one, Tir’s hair silken on his skin, thinking that he could do this always, that he’d never tire of doing this, “how’re you feeling?”

  “Tired,” Tir sighed, breath warm against Ollie’s throat. “A bit worse than usual. But only a bit. I didn’t know I could still do that.”

  “I didn’t know you could do that.”

  “I tried so hard not to use it…to save it. For saving you. I didn’t know what might be asked. How…” Tir hesitated. “How much it might take.”

  All of you, Ollie thought but didn’t say. All of you. But you came back, you came back.

  He kissed Tir again, tenderly, there on the library floor by the histories.

  “It’s not too bad,” Tir murmured, understanding. “I don’t think I did any more impressive damage.”

  “We’ll get Fadi to look at you. And if you’re hurt, if you’re not well…it’s my turn to take care of you.” He stopped, met Tir’s eyes. “I do mean that. Everything you’ve done, for me…it’s about time I did that for you. More than time. I’m fifteen years behind. I know I am. But I had a question, if you’re up to it.”

  “Not all fifteen years,” Tir corrected. “I didn’t know it was you at first. A human prince, they said, the soothsayers. A human prince—they did say prince, not princess, so that helped narrow it down a bit—of this kingdom.”

  “So…you might’ve been here for Cedric?” He failed to picture that. Especially now. “No.”

  “I knew I’d fall in love with one of you, and die to save that one…even when I thought I knew, I had to make sure. Not a passing childhood daydream, not a single summer. But of course it was you. I waited, and it never went away, just got stronger. Always you. Never Cedric.”

  Ollie snorted reflexively, but his heart’d gotten trapped by an earlier phrase. “You knew all along. You—you knew you were going to die—for me—how did you live with—”

  “With that.” Tirian’s smile turned up and filled the library: tattered but luminous. “With knowing it would be to save you. And before you ask, I’d’ve chosen to in any case. I did choose to.”

  “Oh…you…oh, Tir—”

  “Of course before that I spent a lot of time being terrified that any random day might be the day, and hoping it would come so I’d get it over with, and then just being glad to have one more day with you, year after year.”

  “Year after year…” He cleared his throat. Stunned by the depths of devotion. Standing quietly at his side all this time. He’d never guessed. Now he knew. “About that. I did say I had a question.”

  “By all means,” Tir said, closer to his sarcastic affectionate self than Oliver had seen in weeks, smiling. He loved that smile. Always had. He knew that now.

  “I love you,” he said. “I can’t say always, not like you can, except I sort of can, I just didn’t know. But when I thought about my future you were in it. And I did know before you—before I lost you. When we left. Before we left, even. I started to think—the only thing I knew I wanted was you. And then, um, acid sand, and—and your hands, and I thought—I didn’t want to finish the Quest. I wanted to hold your hands in mine again. So, um, if that helps, I was starting to figure it out, I’m not completely oblivious.”

  Tir was laughing through tears, through emotion transcending enervation.

  “Tirian,” Oliver said, Oliver asked him, “will you please marry me, because I’m a disaster without you and because you make me smile and you make me stronger, and I love you—and you know you’re my prince, you’re my destined True Love, the magic water said so—and also I really like kissing you in the library?”

  Tir, laughing even more, got out, “Yes, Oliver, of course yes, you’re my disaster—” and they were kissing again when the library doors opened and the world changed.

  That change wasn’t just hearts and admissions. Ollie thought it must be, thought the golden haze in the air and the faint blowing of trumpets and the taste of sugared violets were only his delirious senses; but Tir was sitting up more and looking around too and then Cedric and Queen Eleuthenia burst in and Cedric spluttered, “Is that an earthquake—”

  Tir breathed astonished words, not human, the low cadence he’d once used on Oliver’s sword, the language of magic and desire. The language of enchantment. “It’s Fairy.”

  Five Home Guard belatedly rushed in to take up stalwart but baffled protective positions around the royal family. Nothing to be fought off had immediately materialized, but the sense of quaking, of seismic shifts, built and built, stronger and stronger—

  Ollie held onto Tir. Whatever else might be happening, he could do that, and he did. Faint halos of otherworldly colors appeared; book spines streaked and swirled and iridesced. The rug beneath them grew impossibly soft, puddling outward to the corners of the room. Glass rattled as windowpanes billowed with rainbow-and-gold light.

  “Oliver—” Tir’s eyes were huge, thrilled, full of sudden rainbow-washed insight. “It’s us, it’s the end of my prophecy, I thought that meant you but I was wrong—”

  “What?”

  The world lurched one last time and steadied. Books became books instead of kaleidoscopes. The rug lay back down and returned to being only a rug. Windows ceased streaming gold.

  But the gilded sweetness lingered. The brightness stayed, etching wild patterns into ceilings, twining new vines into old tapestries, turning stone stairs to swirled marble and lapis lazuli. It hung in the air like favorite scents, like fresh-baked bread and crisp green grass and spiced ale, like clouds of roses and cardamom and poppy and saffron and cinnamon; like the tightness of Tir’s fingers around his and everything that Ollie’d ever loved, rolled up into a glowing everlasting day—

  And an alarmed castle maid with hiked-up skirts dashed through the library door and panted, “Majesty—Highnesses—in the courtyard, there’re horses and dancers and ribbons and flowers and fairies and a Queen—”

  “My mother,” Tir said, laughter warring with disbelief; and Oliver looked at him, really looked, and he was stronger, more alert, brighter-cheeked, drinking in magic with every breath. Not healed, not completely; but sitting up on his own, and breathing easily, and glowing with newfound recognition. “I think you all guessed about the royalty part, but, well, I hope you don’t mind that the Prince you’re marrying is sort of a Fairy Prince—”

  “Do I look like I mind? Come here and I can show you how much I don’t mind—”

  “I love kissing you in the library.—but anyway I was wrong, I thought, oh, Ollie, I thought it just meant you’d have magic and I’d’ve sacrificed myself and the realms would grow closer over that, start to talk at last, perhaps, but—but you asked me to marry you—”

  “What did your prophecy actually say?”

  “That I’d fall in love with a human prince of the kingdom over the border, and I’d die to save him, and that would bind our realms more closely together—” Tir moved to get up; Ollie helped, offering support. “Oliver, I think we—”

  “Tir,” Cedric asked pathetically, directed at the person who had marginally more answers than the rest of them, “what’s going on?”

  Ellie got up as well; even brushing momentary fright and library-floor dust-bunnies and magic motes from the velvet of her dress, she was a monarch and a mother to her kingdom and her family. “I expect we should go down and greet Oliver’s future mother-in-law. Tir, please tell me how I’m supposed to address a Fairy Queen.”