Interrupted Silence [Annette...potentially others]

[Morgon]

The sun wheeled into evening and night. In the woods where Morgon walked, making his way steadily to the Shining Court (the place would have to glow without him, being of questionable blood), the silence was marred by a sudden rush of frantic flight, high above in the growing darkness. Amara’s wings shot open defensively from where she perched on Morgon’s shoulder, covering her bonded’s head as she lowered her own to his chin. This was very nearly as startling as the initial disturbance; the Nimbus staggered, regained his balance, scowled. His eyes searched the twilit canopy for a sign of the offending flock.

There was nothing to be seen.

The pair continued their trek: male in vague agitation, female on high alert. She was nearly useless without the aid of daylight, her wide, far-seeing eyes blinded in these shadows. Morgon whispered to her, in compassion and annoyance. “We are nearly to the gates.”

And they were. Ahead, the odd greenery and twinkling lights shone, welcoming, promising their comfort and their safety. The osprey stared ahead, fixated. Morgon walked. As they entered the court, a group of garlanger -- presumably servants -- were dragging the sagging body of a white ram, slain and drained as if in sacrifice to gods. Morgon noticed the drying trail of its blood, then, as he followed their motion past him and into the night. His nose wrinkled.

When he turned away from that glimpse of death, the court opened in every direction -- he was in an antechamber of some kind, it seemed, with steps and halls leading away, severally. Morgon let his footsteps lead him, of the mind that no direction was better than any other. But after a flight of stairs, a curving hallway, he found himself in a vast room lined in trees and, in its center, the graceful curvature of the throne.

Morgon swallowed. He had not intended to barge into the Palace uninvited. Taking a few steps back into the doorway, his eyes drifted curiously over what looked like an empty place, before he turned to go.

[Queen Annette]

”Leaving so soon?” The voice echoed throughout the throne room, and it was unmistakable whose voice it had been, very few dared to speak so loudly when in the presence of the throne. The voice was feminine, high pitched but powerful, and full of weight. The queen emerged from the room alongside the left of the throne. She was beautiful, but not dressed to bedazzle as she normally was. The queen wore a silk nighty, lustrous crimson trimmed in black lace. She padded, slowly across the cold grass floor in her bare feet, walking on her tip toes until she found the marble pathway that led to the throne.

No one was around aside from them, and thus she forsook all courtly manners and made her way towards him. He was a nimbus, a handsome one but not unearthly in his beauty. He was big, strength in his build and was nearly two of the rather lanky Annette. ”Queen Annette, Fae of Reticent Fury.” She said as a sort of introduction, all the while examining him. He looked awfully human, but that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.

She stopped moving, two or three feet away from the man. It was late for the queen, and though tired she was, the events of the day kept her charged with thoughts that filled her mind. She had no illusion that sleep would come to her on this night.

[Morgon]

The nimbus froze at the sound of this disembodied voice, emerging apparently from the throne itself, or else the magic in the room. His body directed almost to the door, Morgon turned his head hesitantly, green eyes searching the dimly lit expanse of grass and trees. Amidst this stillness, the speaker was hard to miss. Amara bristled on his shoulder, her feathers standing on end as if from a sudden chill, or fear. He reached up a hand to smooth them, feeling himself otherwise transfixed by the approaching figure. Her scanty attire was one thing -- there were many women that had thrown themselves at Morgon in the human world, wearing as much -- but beneath the slip of silk and lace, the Sidhe’s body, a miracle of nature, demanded his gaze. Morgon may have been a misanthrope, but he was also a kind of scientist; he saw things most never noticed. He saw the smooth arc of her hip moving into thigh, the grace in her instep, the hollow of her clavicle. Her’s was the kind of flesh created for worship, and even in his distaste for man- and faerie-kind, the nimbus was not immune. He could do nothing but watch her close the distance between them, listen as she spoke again.

“I...” Morgon swallowed, blinking. “Morgon. Seeker. I wish I had some title or honor to offer you in return, but I am...” was he still speaking? Her face was like porcelain, her eyes like budding flowers. “Young. And probably useless.” He peered at her, fascinated by her beauty, troubled by her face. She seemed preoccupied by something, and Morgon was rarely wrong in such observations. His expression turned contemplative as he studied her for what was perhaps an excessive length of time, then broke into a smile, almost shy. “I apologize if I have disturbed your sleep.”

Surely, more decorum was required here. Surely his enthralled stare was untoward. But Morgon felt that she could see into him, as he saw people -- that perhaps she understood.

[Queen Annette]

”I have not slept for ages, Morgon.” Annette said with a faraway look in her eyes. Though it might not have been true the queen had not slept in ages, she had not slept in sometime. Nothing had been wrong, nor was anything out of the ordinary (save for the Unseelie faerie coming to her court) but still Annette felt a strange apprehension. Something heavy hung in the air for the Seelie monarch, the wind in her court did not blow quite the same way and the winter didn’t smell of the same wet earth. The sound of geese had also been unnerving, and despite otherwise stating, Annette had noticed the creatures, the Sluagh, taking to the skies at night. Alanor had not felt this way in ages, and she couldn’t tell why it felt this way now.

She swept her hair behind her ear, tucking the scarlet locks away. The queen looked fragile, it was a rare thing. The contours of her bones were nearly visible through her flesh, her collar bones taut against her skin and her wrists thread thin. At his admission of being useless, she chuckled, the resonating sound odd coming from the thin woman. She smiled, that aura of strength returning with the gleam to her rose instilled gaze. ”How do you know? I know many who would find a use for you.” She said playfully as she began to circle him, the tip of her finger between her teeth as she moved like a hawk.

”I can tell by your words you did not expect to run into me. Most seek audience with the Red Queen actively.”

[Morgon]

Morgon watched the Queen as she spoke, drinking her in. He had a way of looking at a person that seemed to surround and suspend – a human woman had once commented that she felt as if she were floating in his glance. It was a watery feeling, she said; an ocean current, or a lake with no bottom. He had laughed at her, for many had mistaken his concentration for arousal, but he would not have laughed at Annette. With his eyes he did what his body yearned for: enfolded her supple limbs as one would carry a foal, provided himself as a garment to warm her slender bones, supported her in an embrace that offered peace and rest. It was an odd feeling, born perhaps of his acute awareness of her rare vulnerability, his instinct that this was a side of the Sorceress rarely seen, his appreciation of her perfection, his reaction to her blood. She was like the osprey, really – built for strength, and speed, and flight. She was music.

“I know very little,” he breathed as she circled him, his eyes drifting closed. Amara followed the woman with her wide-eyed raptor’s stare. “about my uses or the customs of this place. But if I had sought you, would I have really found you, as I find you now?”

Morgon’s smile was playful, in the way a child’s can be playful when his real feelings run deep with gravity and wonder. He was referring not only to the Queen’s state of undress, but to her easy manner and their relative isolation, as well. Only a fool would suppose the queen was so forthcoming and relaxed from dawn till dusk, when pressing court matters undoubtedly demanded her attention. Her body seemed fragile, perhaps, but her voice resonated with authority and power. Morgon doubted he would recognize her in the morning.

“Maybe my Queen would have preferred I had not stumbled here…”

[Queen Annette]

Supple but luscious lip curled into a tiny grin at Morgon’s observation. The man had a keen sense, an eye for detail that she had not seen in many faerie before him. Though many would have thought Morgon’s words simply referred to the fact that she was standing before him, clad in her peignoir, something unfit to be seen in by Seelie royalty, he was not. He spoke of the wariness that shown in her eyes, the voice that even though it echoed with power still seemed to grasp at the right thing to say, as if it were on edge. Yet the queen was more tranquil than ever. Morgon had taken note of that, and the queen was impressed, even if only slightly. Many faerie had entered her chambers only to become enamored by her beauty or her power, or fearful of both things. This man was a spectator, a good one at that.

”You are quite the watcher.” She said, allowing the fact that she was impressed seep into her word’s tone. She stopped circling him, and instead leaned against the banquet table that at one point had been covered in food, draped with colorful tulle, and adorned with ornate centerpieces. Now, the oaken table was barren, and she ran her hand across the smooth wooden surface. Annette lifted her hand, studying the dust that had settled on the table. It was flecked with glitter; dust always contained glitter in her court.

His assumption caused her to turn her gaze on him. She was frank, ”No, watcher, it is quite the opposite. Your presence uplifts me.” She adjusted her positioning, lifting herself up so she no longer leaned on the table, but now sat upon it. She leaned forward, her hands on her arms folded across her knees. ”So watcher, have you observed the creatures that fly across our skies at night? Or the aves that wail in the night?” She asked, broaching the topic that was most pressing to her.

[Morgon]

”Thank you,” he murmured in response to both her compliments, and took a few steps further into the room. For a moment he allowed his eyes to wander over their surroundings, temporarily severing their unrelenting examination of the woman beside him. It was a spectacular place, made more mesmerizing by her presence in it, and the fact that all this beauty responded to her commands. The bird, sensing her opportunity, took to the air and found a roost in the high-arched canopy. Morgon watched her go, marveling as usual at the effortlessness of flight. He moved toward the table.

“And the ram that sacrificed himself on your altar?” he answered, leaning his left hip on the table beside her, his arms crossed over his chest. “Yes. Is that what troubles you?” Her position on the table elevated her, but folded at the waist she seemed smaller than before. She looked very fair next to his sun-burnished tan, her skin and hair stark in comparison to his neutral coloring. Morgon was aware that he probably shouldn’t ask her questions like this – it was her place to inquire, and his to reply. Their moment of candor made him bolder, though, and he trusted that if he overstepped himself, she would tell him so without anger. It was a dangerous assumption, from one who knew so little about this Queen and her quiet rage.

“What can I do, to ease your concern?” The question continued the trend. But perhaps his skills as a watcher could be helpful to her, or perhaps she required his words. He offered himself freely.

[Queen Annette]

She nodded curtly, ”Yes, and the ram. Not the work of the creatures that fly across our skies. At least, I do not believe.” She looked up to study his gaze, their eyes meeting and not disconnecting through the bout of conversation. She listened to Morgon, noted his eagerness, his frankness and the inquiries that she made her unsure about his intent. The queen had been probed for answers by many fae before this one, and often the way they intended to use the information was less than helpful. The Queen was reserved to not answer any question the nimbus asked, less she was sure that he meant to help (or was simply curious). She had learned long ago that information could be just as powerful as any magic.

She bypassed his question, opting to not explain why she was troubled. Or for that matter, why she was not troubled but confused, but she did move on to respond to his next words. The queen admired Morgon’s boldness, he was certainly not shy, this nimbus. ”There is not much that can ease the tension of a woman’s body aside from a lover’s caress, Morgon.” She chuckled, a full-fledged smile carving into her face. ”And it seems you have no interest in such things.”

Annette was by no means a lustful woman, but she had her needs. Though the few guards that remained by her side satisfied her when she need it, they were old lovers. She had taken them to her bed hundreds of times, perhaps thousands; she had grown tired of their tricks and their bodies. It didn’t help that she was somewhat shallow and not easily satisfied; the queen was a fickle creature.

”What you can do for me is watch, my dear watcher. For the festival of the Imbolc will bring the two courts together for a rare occasion, and there is undoubtedly treachery to be afoot.”

[Morgon]

Morgon laughed softly at the Queen’s response to his offer, unruffled despite its brazenness and candor. It had been a loaded question -- he rarely asked a question that wasn’t -- and her answer, like the one to his suggestion that he had intruded, was telling. He suspected that his looks, while perhaps not displeasing to her, were not the extreme of beauty necessary to pique her desire, but she was inviting him to correct her, to insist that in her case he certainly did have interest in such things. It would not be a lie to humor her; part of him did. But to say that he had been gazing upon her out of lust would have been insincere. He appreciated her beauty very much, but that did not immediately translate into burning physical need. She was correct to assume his interest in romance was not at the forefront of his mind.

But how interesting, that she teased him so...

“Your wish is my command,” he smiled, deliberately vague. It would be; he had no intent of making empty promises to the Seelie monarch. To some it might have appeared sycophantic, but to Morgon it seemed he had two choices, when faerie of such power were involved: volunteer and gain their respect and trust, or wait to be ordered and reduce oneself to a slave. If the Red Queen wanted him to be a watcher, he could offer or she could demand. If she wanted his body, he could render it up or she could take it. Royalty, he knew, did not take kindly to being denied. He took a few steps from the table, facing her, and offered a little bow.

“Shall I leave you to your rest, my Queen?”

[Queen Annette]

Though Annette knew the Watcher’s interest in physical love was not what governed his emotions, it satisfied her to know she could have him if she wished. Annette was not so much like the Unseelie monarch that she would take partners unwillingly, but very few would refuse the Seelie queen. Her beauty, her power were alluring alone but combined they would make even the most powerful sidhe warrior beg to be touched, caressed. Morgon was a nimbus, and though he seemed aloof, she doubted he was immune to her brand of charm. Few were.

When he stepped back and bowed, offering her respite from his presence, she contemplated it. It was late and she had much to do, even if sleep did not come to her, rest would rejuvenate her more than conversation. For now, she would excuse Morgon, but she would not promise that his body would not be of use to her at some point. For her court to be power she must populate it with sidhe, and she brought many nimbus to power, through battle and other things. Morgon didn’t seem like a fighter.

She sat up from the table and took a step toward him. She laid a kiss on his cheek, unlike most women she didn’t have to stand on her toes to kiss him. ”Yes, my watcher, but I expect to see you at the Imbolc Festival.”

With that she moved towards her chambers, walking backwards as it was never like her to turn her back on anyone.