Chamomile and Shadow

For three days, the Immortal King of the Shadow Fae battled the blight in a tiny room that smelled of baking bread and dried herbs.

When Alaric finally woke, the pain was no longer a blinding white noise in his skull. It was a dull, manageable ache. He opened his eyes, expecting the vast, drafty, cavernous stone ceilings of the Onyx Keep.

Instead, he saw a ceiling of exposed wooden beams hung with bundles of drying sage. The room was aggressively, offensively cheerful. The walls were painted a soft buttercream yellow. A fire crackled merrily in a small brick hearth. And the bed he was lying in was so soft it felt as though it was trying to swallow him. He was buried beneath a mountain of heavy, knitted quilts.

He tried to sit up, a groan escaping his lips.

"Ah, you're awake. Don't move."

Alaric snapped his head toward the door. The mortal woman from his delirious memories stood there. She was carrying a wooden tray holding a steaming ceramic bowl and a mug. She wore a floral apron over a heavy wool dress, her wild brown hair escaping its messy bun.

"Where am I?" Alaric demanded. His voice was rough, unused to speaking in anything other than commands. He tried to summon his shadow magic, the dark tendrils that usually answered his every thought, but nothing happened. Panic, an unfamiliar and vile emotion, flared in his chest.

"You're in my back parlor," Hazel said, walking over and setting the tray on the nightstand. "And your magic is dormant because the poultice I used contains iron-root. It stops the blight, but it temporarily suppresses your Fae abilities. So, please don't try to shadow-step through my walls. You'll just give yourself a concussion."

Alaric stared at her. "You are ordering me?"

"I am advising my patient," Hazel corrected, offering him a bright, entirely unabashed smile. She fluffed a pillow and wedged it behind his broad back. As her hands brushed his bare shoulders, Alaric flinched violently.

He was not used to being touched. In the Onyx Keep, he was a sovereign of death and shadow. To touch the King was to invite execution. The last time someone had touched him with gentleness, centuries had passed. The warmth of her small hands felt like a brand against his freezing skin.

Hazel noticed the flinch. Her smile softened, her eyes filling with an empathy that made Alaric deeply uncomfortable. "Sorry. Cold hands?"

"Your hands are entirely too warm," Alaric grumbled, pulling the ridiculous floral quilt up to his chest. "How long have I been here?"

"Three days. The assassins who hit you used a concentrated dose. If you hadn't kicked my door down when you did, you'd be a permanent, agonizing statue right now." She picked up the ceramic bowl and a silver spoon. "Chicken and wild rice soup. Open up."

Alaric looked at the spoon hovering near his face. He felt a profound, absurd sense of indignation. "I am the King of the Shadow Realm. I do not require a mortal to feed me."

"You lost a pint of black blood on my good rug, Your Majesty. You can barely lift your head," Hazel said practically. She didn't look away. Her brown eyes were stubborn. "You can eat the soup, or I can dump it on your head. But you need the broth to rebuild your strength. Your choice."

For a long, tense moment, the immortal sovereign glared at the mortal herbalist. She did not wither. She did not cower. She just held the spoon steady.

Slowly, feeling utterly ridiculous, Alaric opened his mouth.

The soup was... extraordinary. It was rich, hot, and tasted of rosemary and deep, profound comfort. As he swallowed, a warmth bloomed in his chest that had nothing to do with the temperature of the broth.

For the next hour, Alaric allowed himself to be fed. Hazel kept up a steady stream of inconsequential chatter—talking about Mrs. Higgins’ arthritis, the difficulty of growing ghost-orchids in the mortal realm, and her ongoing battle with a particularly stubborn leak in the roof.

It was mundane. It was chaotic. It was the antithesis of the silent, oppressive halls of the Onyx Keep.

And as Alaric drank the chamomile tea she forced upon him, leaning back against the incredibly soft pillows, the exhaustion of centuries seemed to catch up with him all at once. For the first time in a thousand years, the Shadow King closed his eyes and felt something entirely alien: safe.