There is a war and then a draft, Dickon cannot escape it. When news reaches Mary, he doesn't see hide nor hair of her until the night before he's called to training. She arrives like a thief in the night, looking as wild as any animal he's ever kept with only a thin shawl falling off her shoulders to keep her warm, but still her hands burn his as she clutches him.

"You must come home," she murmurs and there's none of the spoiled little empress she'd been as a child, not that he ever knew her to be such. They both know that he is not to be commanded, but still, she has run across the moor in the dark new moon night and he doesn't think even he could resist her. Her voice burns like his father's cheap whiskey and he smiles as he presses a kiss to her knuckles.

"Aye. Tell me once more and I don't think even the angels could stop me coming back."

Her eyes are wide as she leans forward. "Then come home to me," she says once and her lips burn like whiskey too, sealing the promise, like a fool swearing himself to a fae princess.

He will come back now; she's laid her spell and he'll crawl back if he has too.