The Bone Houses

by Emily Lloyd-Jones

There was a man called Gwydion of the house of Dôn. He had some talent for magic and mischief—and he loved both. When his brother yearned for a maiden the king favored, Gwydion began a war between the north and south kingdoms so that his brother had time enough to seize her. And that was the least of his crimes.

Hywel was one of Colbren’s old blood, whose family had dwelt there since the beginning. He knew of the wild magics, of the lush beauty and dangers of the mountains. And he knew that such creatures did not speak the language of mercy. So he did not beg. Nor did he raise an arm to defend himself when the bone house brought the sword down across his throat.

Fucking hell

But it was not the dead man he couldn’t look away from—it was Aderyn. The expression on her face was terrible:

Oh it’s the dad :(

“That was,” she said, and the words seemed to catch in her throat. She swallowed. “That was our uncle.”

Oh phew

The wood creaked and protested—and the sound helped to block out the noise of weapons hitting flesh.

NOT THE GOAT 😭😭😭😭😭

“He don’t speak now,” he said. “One of the wordless.”

I knew ittttt what do they live with the bone houses ? fucking freaks haha

“Your husband,” said Catrin. “He—he is the one who is dying, isn’t he? I saw how he moves, as if his whole back pains him. I saw the willow bark he chews. You came here so as not to be parted from him.”

oh my god ???

“To tell people is to invite pity,” he said, a bit wearily, “or worse, advice.” “Advice?” “Herbs to try,” he said. “Stretches. Leeches, one time. People cannot simply let me be. They have to find a way to fix me.”

If I have to endure one more person telling me that I’m ‘so strong’ simply for living…”

PRREAAAAACCCCHHHH

“I grew up thinking monsters could be slain.” “Ah,” he said. “And I grew up thinking people were the monsters.”

Monsters were unrestrained, unbound, and beautiful in their destruction. They could be slain but they would never be truly defeated. And perhaps, even back then, Ryn thought that if she could love the monsters—then she could love those monstrous parts of herself.

The bone house touched a lock of her hair. He was gentle, so soft she barely felt the contact. His hand shook and then she felt the whisper of bone against her cheek, down her chin. The touch was cold and dry, but she held still.

😭😭😭😭😭

Half of a wooden love spoon.

😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

The anticipation of the loss hurts nearly as much as the loss itself. You find yourself trying to hold on to every detail, because you’ll never have them again.”

Ellis considered simply throwing himself off that ledge.

Mood

It was the woman from the tale—the woman who’d tried to save her child, the boy who’d been murdered by a thief.

…is he the boy ???

“It was you.” Ryn said the words first. “The child who died. It had to have been you. The stories got it wrong—the child was brought back before the cauldron broke.”

Ryn looked up. Ellis was alive.

Oh thank god

THIS WAS HOW the bone houses were defeated. With a whispered name.

WHEN THE STORY of the bone houses was told, it would go something like this:

I’m obsessed that I read these stories backwards

Or, perhaps it went something like this: A goat ended the curse. It got tired of its humans being distracted by hordes of dead soldiers, so it went into the mountains and ate the cauldron.

lol