Updated Jan 5, 2026 • ~9 min read
POV: Rory
His heartbeat stopped.
I felt it through the bond. The exact moment. The silence where rhythm should be. The absence where life had been.
“No,” I whispered. “No no no. Fen. FEN. Come back. Please come back.”
Silence. His chest still. Blood pooling beneath us. Staining the clearing. Staining me. Proof that immortals could die. That curses breaking could kill. That love wasn’t always enough.
“Rory,” Morgana said gently. “He’s—he’s gone. I’m sorry. He’s gone.”
“He can’t be gone. We just—we just started. We just bonded. Just broke the curse. He was supposed to live. We were supposed to have forever.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
I held him. Refused to let go. Like holding tight enough could bring him back. Could restart the heart that had beat for three hundred years and finally, finally stopped.
The bond—it was still there. Faint. Fraying. But there. An echo of what we’d been. Proof he’d existed. That we’d loved.
“He said the bond wouldn’t fully break,” I said. Voice breaking. “Said part of him would always be with me. Always protecting. Is that true? Or was he lying to make dying easier?”
“Fated mate bonds—they’re stronger than regular bonds. They persist. Echoes. Memories. Not the same as having him alive but—something. Proof he loved you. Proof it was real.”
It wasn’t enough. An echo wasn’t enough. A memory wasn’t enough. I wanted him. Alive. Warm. Holding me. Telling me we’d survive this. Build the sanctuary. Change the world.
But he was gone. Still. Cold. Growing colder by the second.
“We need to prepare him,” Morgana said. Gentle but practical. “For burial. For—for saying goodbye.”
“I’m not saying goodbye. I’m not burying him. I’m not accepting this.”
“Rory—”
“He waited three hundred years. Survived three hundred years of curse and isolation and pain. He doesn’t get to die three days after being freed. That’s not fair. That’s not right. That’s not—” I broke. Tears streaming. “That’s not how this was supposed to end.”
The twelve rogues gathered. Drawn by the battle. By the death. Standing witness to their protector’s passing. The wolf who’d given them sanctuary. Taught them survival. Defended them for centuries.
“He was our alpha,” one said. Older male. Scarred from decades of rejection. “Not officially. Not hierarchically. But in every way that mattered. He protected us. Made Darkwood safe. Gave us home when the pack exiled us. And now he’s—”
“He’s not dead,” I said. Fierce. Desperate. “He can’t be dead. There has to be a way. Magic. Ritual. Something. Morgana, you’re fae. There has to be fae magic that can—that can bring him back.”
“Death magic is forbidden. Too dangerous. Too likely to bring back something wrong. Something changed. Resurrection isn’t—it’s not possible. Not really. Not without sacrifice so great no one would pay it.”
“I’ll pay it. Whatever the cost. Whatever the sacrifice. I’ll pay it.”
“Rory—” She knelt beside me. “He wouldn’t want that. Wouldn’t want you destroying yourself trying to bring him back. His last words were ‘choose yourself.’ ‘Be free.’ He died free. After three hundred years of imprisonment. That meant something to him. Don’t dishonor that by—”
“By what? By loving him enough to fight death? By refusing to accept that curses breaking can kill? By wanting him alive more than I want to breathe?”
“By giving up who you are trying to get him back.”
I looked at Fen. At his still face. Peaceful. Younger than I’d ever seen him. The centuries of pain erased. Like death had given him the rest he’d never found in life.
He’d told me to choose myself. To be free. To build the sanctuary. To make his death mean something by living fiercely.
But how could I be free without him? How could I build anything when half my soul was lying dead in my arms?
“I need time,” I said. “To—to process. To figure out what happens now.”
The rogues built a shelter. Temporary. To protect Fen’s body from weather and scavengers while I decided what to do. How to honor him. How to say goodbye to someone I’d never wanted to let go.
Morgana stayed with me. Silent support. Letting me cry. Letting me rage. Letting me cycle through grief without judgment or advice.
“He watched me my whole life,” I said at some point. Voice raw from crying. “Twenty-six years. Waiting. Hoping I’d awaken. Hoping we’d bond. Hoping I’d free him. And I did. I freed him. And it killed him.”
“The curse killed him. Not you. The magic that kept him alive for three hundred years—when it broke, it took the immortality with it. That’s not your fault.”
“It feels like my fault. Like loving me killed him. Like bonding with me was a death sentence.”
“Loving you gave him three hundred years of hope. Of purpose. Of something to protect. And at the end, it gave him freedom. Choice. The ability to die instead of being forced to live forever. That’s—that’s a gift. Even if it doesn’t feel like one right now.”
I touched his face. Still warm. Not yet cold. Like he was sleeping. Like he might wake up any second and tell me this was all some terrible nightmare.
But he didn’t wake. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t come back.
“I should have saved him,” I whispered. “Should have been stronger. Faster. Should have killed Zora before she wounded him. Should have—”
“You did save him. By loving him. By choosing him. By breaking the curse that trapped him for three hundred years. He died free. Happy. Loved. After centuries of none of those things. That’s salvation. That’s everything he wanted.”
“I wanted more. I wanted forever. I wanted to build the sanctuary together. Watch him teach young wolves. See him happy. Free. Alive. I wanted—” My voice broke. “I wanted him.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
The bond echoed. Faint but there. Carrying something that felt like—comfort? Like Fen reaching across death to tell me it was okay. He was okay. I would be okay.
But I wasn’t okay. Wasn’t sure I’d ever be okay again.
“His last words,” I said. “He told me to choose myself. Be free. Build the sanctuary. Make his death mean something. How am I supposed to do that? How am I supposed to build anything when half of me died with him?”
“You start. One day at a time. One choice at a time. You wake up. You honor him. You protect the rogues he protected. You build the sanctuary he believed in. And slowly—over time—it gets bearable. Not better. Never better. But bearable.”
“I don’t want bearable. I want him back.”
“I know.”
We sat in silence. Me holding Fen’s body. Morgana holding me. The twelve rogues standing guard. Protecting even in death.
The sun set. Rose again. Set again. Time passing despite my grief. Despite my refusal to let go.
Eventually, I had to accept it. Had to prepare him for burial. Had to say goodbye.
The rogues helped. Built a proper burial platform. Gathered moon lilies and forest herbs. Made it beautiful. Worthy of the wolf who’d protected them for centuries.
I wrapped him in white cloth. Fae tradition Morgana taught me. Symbolic. Pure. A good death instead of a shameful one.
“Tomorrow,” I said. “We bury him tomorrow. In the heart of Darkwood. Where he lived. Where he waited. Where he found me. That’s—that’s fitting. That’s right.”
“He’d approve,” Morgana said. “Being part of the forest he protected. Returning to the land that gave him sanctuary.”
That night, I slept beside him. One last time. Pretending he was just sleeping. That we were just mates resting after battle. That morning would bring his smile and his warmth and his certainty that we’d survive anything.
But morning brought only cold reality. A dead mate. A fraying bond. And the impossible task of burying the person who’d made me whole.
“I love you,” I told him. Last words. Last goodbye. “I love you and I’ll honor you and I’ll build everything you believed in. But Fen—I’ll hate you a little too. For dying. For leaving. For breaking the curse that kept you alive. I’ll hate you and love you and miss you for the rest of my life. And I’ll never—never—forget what we had. What we were. What we could have been.”
The bond echoed. Faint. Like a whispered goodbye. Like approval. Like love transcending death.
And I cried. For him. For us. For the future we’d lost. For three hundred years of waiting ending in three days of happiness.
For the cruel justice of curses breaking. Of freedom meaning death. Of love being both salvation and tragedy.
I cried until there were no tears left. Until grief became numbness. Until I could function enough to prepare for burial.
Tomorrow, I’d bury my mate. My love. My partner who’d waited centuries and gotten days.
And then—then I’d honor his last words. Choose myself. Be free. Build the sanctuary.
Because Fen had died believing I could. Believing I was strong enough. Believing his death wouldn’t destroy me.
I’d prove him right. Even though it felt like dying.
I’d survive this. Build from it. Honor him through living fiercely.
But first, I’d grieve. Fully. Completely. Without reservation.
Because he’d earned that. Earned being mourned. Missed. Loved even in death.
My immortal rogue who’d finally found peace. At the worst possible time. In the worst possible way.
I loved him. I hated him. I’d miss him forever.
And tomorrow, I’d say goodbye.
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