Chapter 171 Exactly Where I Was Always Supposed to Be

Chapter 171 Exactly Where I Was Always Supposed to Be
Cian
The flower crown hangs above the small table in our room.
Rae preserved it with her own hands, taking it apart piece by piece before time could ruin what the night had given us. The woven stems sit behind glass in a careful circle. Around them, she arranged the pressed flowers like tiny memories caught in place. White blossoms near the top. Bluebells curving down one side. Little gold flowers scattered through the green, their colour softened but not gone.
She worried, in the beginning, that it would lose too much of itself. That once the flowers were pressed and dried, it would no longer feel like the crown she placed on my head beneath lantern light.
I have never thought so.
Every time I look at it, I see her hands lifting toward me.
I hear her whispering that she chose me.
This morning, sunlight rests over the crown, the table, and the little bundles of dried herbs Rae has tied and hung from the wall. Mortal things she insists on growing the mortal way, though Hollow Hill itself would bloom at her feet if she wanted.
I find one of her hair ribbons on the floor beside the bed and bend to pick it up. The room is full of her now. 
I smile despite myself.
Then I go looking for her.
I do not need to ask anyone where she is.
There are mornings when I can feel her through the bond before I even open my eyes, bright and warm and faintly amused by something. There are mornings when I follow the sound of Menace committing crimes. There are mornings when I follow the smell of mint, because despite Rae’s stern warnings, the mint has escaped, and she is constantly trying to tame it.
Today, I follow the pull in my chest and the old path down through Hollow Hill.
The halls are awake around me. Children are playing and laughing all around. Dorian’s voice drifts from the council chamber, low, calm, and steady, no longer always sharpened by war. Hollow Hill has become loud in ways I once forgot courts could be. We are surrounded by life.
Outside, the lower garden waits in the morning sun.
Rae’s garden has grown wild in the way all things loved by Rae eventually do.
The rosemary by the path brushes my legs when I pass. Lavender spills over the old stones, thick with bees and pale purple flowers. Thyme has crept through everything, which Rae claims is proof that Nanna was right about stubborn plants deserving respect. Chamomile blooms in soft white clusters, open to the light. Sage grows silver-green near the bend in the path, and the mint, imprisoned in its pot, has somehow sent another rebellious little runner over the rim and into the soil below.
Beyond it, Rae is sitting on the low stone bench I had placed here after the third time I found her kneeling in the dirt while pretending her back did not hurt.
She is barefoot, of course.
Her dress is brown and loose, pulled over the swell of her belly, one hand resting there as if she is listening through her palm. Sunlight catches in her hair, turning loose strands bright around her face. There is soil on her wrist, a smudge of it near her cheek, and a small basket of cut lavender beside her.
Menace lies at her feet, belly-up in the sun, all three tails spread in ridiculous glory.
The sight of her stops me.
It still happens sometimes.
I will be walking, thinking, breathing as if I am any other male in any other court, and then I see Rae existing somewhere I once thought I would never be allowed to stand, and my whole body forgets what it was made for.
She is in the garden she made.
Her hand is on the child we made.
And our court is quiet around her.
“Are you going to stand there brooding at the mint all morning?” Rae asks without looking back.
I breathe out a laugh and continue down the path.
“I was deciding whether it requires a guard.”
“It does.” She glances toward the pot and narrows her eyes. “But no one takes me seriously.”
“I take you very seriously, a chroí.”
“You say that, but the mint is free.”
“Partially free.”
“That is how rebellions start.”
I sit beside her on the bench, and she looks at me from the corner of her eye.
“If you ask me whether I should be resting, I’m throwing sage at you.”
“I was going to ask if you have eaten.”
She only rolls her eyes, so I look down at Menace. “Has she eaten?”
Menace opens one eye, considers betrayal, then chirps.
Rae gasps. “Traitor.”
“He is concerned,” I say, placing one hand across her belly.
“He is hoping you reward him.”
“He may be both.”
I reach into my pocket and pull out a small honey cake wrapped in cloth.
I break the cake in half and offer her one piece first. She tries to look annoyed, but takes it anyway and hums happily when she eats.
The garden moves around us. Bees drift through lavender. The chamomile nods in the breeze. Somewhere beyond the lower slope, children shout near the main path, their voices bright and distant. Rae eats the honey cake slowly, one hand returning to her belly between bites.
Then she stills with her fingers spread, and I feel it through the bond an instant before she looks at me.
I cannot name the expression on her face. It is wonder, yes, but also mischief, and fear, and something so soft it makes my chest ache.
“Here,” she whispers, takes my wrist and places my palm against the curve of her belly, where our child kicks.
It is a small but firm movement beneath my hand, and my world narrows to that single impossible touch.
Rae watches me, her eyes bright.
“There,” she says softly. “Your terrifying little heir says good morning.”
I swallow around the tightness in my throat. “Terrifying?”
“With our bloodlines? Absolutely.”
The child moves again, beating softly against my hand, and Rae laughs under her breath.
The sound settles into the garden.
Into the roots.
And into me.
I lower myself from the bench until I am kneeling in the dirt before her. Rae’s smile fades into something tender as I bow my head and press my mouth gently to the place where our child rests beneath her heart.
Her fingers slide into my hair.
“I once thought Hollow Hill would only ever remember what it lost,” I say quietly.
I look at the garden around us. At the woman who brought life into the darkest places of my world and then chose to plant something simply because she wanted to watch it grow.
“But this is what grows here now,” I whisper.
Rae’s thumb brushes my temple.
I close my eyes beneath her touch, my hand still spread over our future, and for once, the road beneath my feet does not call me anywhere else.
I am exactly where I was always meant to be.