That the Night Come [Closed]

[Alecto]

She lived in storm and strife,
her soul had such desire
for what proud death may bring
that it could not endure
the common good of life,
but lived as 'twere a king
that packed his marriage day
with banneret and pennon,
trumpet and kettledrum,
and the outrageous cannon,
to bundle time away
that the night come.

Fury slept at last. In her sleep she dreamed of shadows breathing to life; the shapes of trees and rocks clawing their way off the surface of the earth and into the parched air, shrieking for blood, blood, blood. Her blades cut each one down, but as they fell their shapes evolved into faerie forms, gasping out final breaths. In frustration she cast her sword aside, turned her face to a sky painted red with death. Who is my enemy? She called to heaven, but woke with a start before an answer ever came.

Finding herself sitting bolt upright in bed, she cast her eyes around the room, attempting to piece together her environment with her memory. With her change in status had come a change in quarters, her temporary lodgings replaced with chambers more befitting a Denwyr of the Darkling Throng. This was the first night she had actually slept in her bedroom, with its high-canopied bed and ornate mahogany woodwork. It took a moment for her to accept that she had not been kidnapped (again) and smuggled into some unfamiliar place. She closed her eyes, releasing a stifled breath, and slid her legs out of the blankets. It was early yet, but not so early to justify a fight for further sleep.

The jade floor was smooth and cool beneath her feet as she padded from room to room, performing her morning ritual: a vigorous exercise regimen of martial arts and strength training, followed by a blistering hot bath and half an hour of much-needed meditation. If Alecto had ever in her life needed to clear her head, it was now...but she found herself quite unable to cast a series of images from her mind. The memory of Imbolc returned to her, particularly its surprise ending, and the Sluagh King’s tentative smile, superimposed on the back-lit image of him as he struck her with his sword. When she had first heard the hunter’s horn, her body had gone momentarily rigid in suspense, recognizing it immediately. She had watched Segwyn fight with mixed wariness and awe, astonished by his skill and resentful of how much it shamed her King’s. Frustrated that no peace came to her, she rose to her feet, resisting the urge to destroy every shred of furniture in her immediate vicinity. Destruction, she knew, was a temporary relief. She dressed half-heartedly in a simple robe of silver silk which lacked any ornament beyond its artful drape. Tea was set to boil, and the Sluagh amulet procured -- the latter set in the middle of her small dining table, where it shone in the light of so many lit candles, and the distant glow of a magicked hearth. Her eyes burned through it, attempting to extract its meaning from the dry remains, and yet it remained intact and fluid before her: still water, giving no hint as to its depth. She cursed. There was a knock at the door.

Visitors, it seemed, had a way of appearing exactly when she least wanted them. Fixing the door with an accusatory glare, she hesitated before stepping toward it, and again before opening it. The man standing there was an image from her dream, which she pondered at length before reacting at all. “Lord,” she said softly, nodding, almost as if she had been expecting him. She moved away from the door and back into the living room, leaving it ajar. “Tea?” Her voice was nonchalant, almost indifferent, but she felt decidedly less calm beneath the placid exterior. It was possible that she was vividly hallucinating, after all. And barring that possibility, it was disturbing that Segwyn had known just where to find her.

“What do you want?” she asked as she turned back to him. Her expression was guarded, her words imperceptibly cracked.

[Segwyn]

Segwyn stepped inside, albeit hesitantly, as it was a rare occasion that he was invited into any faerie’s chamber aside from the King’s. The nightflyer noticed her beauty almost immediately, the violet flesh of the sidhe pulsating with magic, alive with an alluring aura that Segwyn could not ignore. But the King had been in front of many sidhe before so he manages to keep his composure. He managed a weak smile, a sign of his modesty when in the presence of a fae of purer blood. He bowed while he smiled, addressing her in a way he would address the King or any of his advisors. Last time Segwyn had met with Alecto she had been a Segna, he had noticed her change in rank and knew that she was now a Denwyr. Segwyn thought this to be a wise choice; she seemed more suited for battle than for diplomatic matters.

”No thank you.” He said with a soft voice, a stark contrast to the ferocious voice he called out with in battle and very different from the tone he had used with Cel. In the room with Cel he had seemed much older, much more like a King. Now Segwyn seemed to be more reserved, it was almost as if he was at peace.

The garlanger was dressed as he usually was: dark breeches and boots suited for combat. He wore his two swords on his hips and had forgone a shirt. His flesh was golden, like a sidhe’s, but lacked the resonating magic that Alecto exuded. He was heavily muscled but he was not overly bulky, his body was sculpted to perfection in a way similar to a painting for a Greek God.

She turned to him, inquiring about his presence. Not responding immediately, Segwyn weighed his words carefully, his eyes betraying his contemplation. ”I came to explain things. Things I cannot tell my brother.”

[Alecto]

“Things,” she repeated, her hand drifting to the table. Fingers that appeared decidedly too delicate to be skilled with a sword tangled themselves in the vial’s length of chain, her tattoo withdrawing somewhat from her wrist reflexively. She raised the necklace in the air, studying it a moment before returning her unblinking gaze to Segwyn. “Such as this?” With her free hand she made a careless gesture toward the door, at which it creaked on its hinges and drifted shut -- one of the many practical applications for her magic. Her rooms were lit in every corner; candles burned where the hearth did not, and strategically placed mirrors reflected and amplified the flickering light. If there were any place that Segwyn could speak on matters that Cel should not hear, it was this one. But in spite of Alecto’s cavalier attitude toward his statement, she was stifling a number of misgivings. The Sidhe was aware that, on some level, hearing the King’s brother out was a kind of treason. But the promised explanation pertained to her, would scratch the curiosity that had itched relentlessly since their first meeting, and she could no more resist the temptation than call out the sun.

So, she would hear him.

Nodding toward the chair nearest him, she took a seat herself at the table, and returned the amulet to its surface. Her eyes burned with shifting flame, inquisitive and fierce. “I have many questions, but I would prefer to hear your story, first. Perhaps you will answer them without my having to ask,” she smiled, amused by some private thought, and poured a cup. As she sipped the tea, she studied him over its rim, from his perfect face to the coiled tentacles poised on his abdomen. He was a chimaera; it was difficult to reconcile his beauty with the horror of his deformities. She was not squeamish, and so regarded them without judgement, but she could not help but think of Andais, and her choice to take Segwyn’s father to her bed. It was an extreme move, to protect a court that was not hers.

[Segwyn]

”My story.” He said with an effete chuckle as he rubbed in head, shaking it while he pondered where to start. Segwyn’s tale was nothing simple no matter where he started so the King of the Sluagh was having a tough time figuring out where to begin without including information that was irrelevant. In addition to the story being a long one, Segwyn also was tired of reliving the details of the events that brought him here. Nevertheless, Alecto was owed an explanation and he was going to give her one.

He sat as she gestured to the chair but stayed closer to the edge of the seat so he had room for his wings. His tentacles were curled up into a tight nest that made his stomach appear completely flat. Despite the flatness there was no mistaking his one flaw, his one deformity that made him unattractive in the eyes of most sidhe. As a child he had always been aware of his tentacles, he had been made constantly aware of his deformity.

But his thoughts were quickly drowned out by his own voice. He wasn’t going to relay some long drawn out story, he would tell her the facts. ”The Drow threat is greater than ever. They possess much of the old magic your kind lost during the War of the Courts and more so during the Goblin Wars. Queen Annette and King Cel lack the foresight and the magic to deal with such a threat. The Drow have the capability to inflict final death upon faerie.”

He shifted leaned forward the moment he mentioned true death, something that was an unsettling topic amongst the immortal faerie. Some faerie faded into nothingness due to a lack of magic around them and others simply allowed themselves to wither away, but very few experienced a true death. ”I believe the Seelie Court to be doomed. But the Sluagh Kingdom and the Unseelie can still be saved. Thus, through magical means I have given the both kingdoms an heir. A child who will sit on both thrones.”

His eyes drifted to her stomach and then back to her eyes. The transition of the gaze was slow and he waited for her reaction. Segwyn did not expect her to react favorably but how unfavorably she would respond he couldn’t be sure.

[Alecto]

Alecto’s smile vanished as the Nightflyer’s eyes settled on her body, her expression turning cold, her muscles tightening into stony coils. By the time his gaze drifted up to meet hers, the faerie looking back at him was a stranger. She felt her vision shift out of focus as she processed what he had just said – memories flashing in sequence, from the strange ache when she had first reawakened to the illness she had felt the morning of her visit with the Queen, and the note on the amulet… “For the Heir.” A sudden wave of nausea shocked her out of her apparent coma, yet even as she stood, shoving her chair violently from the table and striding across the room, unsheathing her sword from its wall-mounted scabbard in an instant, her face remained frozen, her eyes far away. She stared at the blade, its recently honed and polished length reflecting her impassive look like a mirror. Making no move to turn back toward him, much less attack, she steadied herself with a hand on the mantel, her thumb roughly circling the jewel on the pommel of her sword.

“Magical means,” she sneered, her voice dripping venom. As soon as she said it, she felt her throat burn and constrict, the truly foreign sensation of despair catching her by surprise and bearing no name. Words fell from her lips without her intention, without thought: “We could have been…you could have had…yet instead you treat me as your fucking puppet?” She did turn then, eyes livid with hatred and pain. “And what do you expect; that I will supplicate to you as Mary did to God, Segwyn?” She spat the final phrase, deftly hacking a nearby end table in two with one fluid stroke. The fury wasn’t thinking. If she had been, her insinuation that the Garlanger had earned her admiration, perhaps even enough to provoke her desire, would have astonished her. She had never held such feelings for another in her life, and like the despair, they were beyond her comprehension. The arm that bore the blade went limp, the weapon’s tip touching the floor with a metallic ring. “What makes you think I won’t tear it from myself and destroy it,” she said softly, “go to Cel and allow him that pleasure, or present myself as the first sacrifice to the Drow?” Her mouth detected a sudden coppery flavor, from where she had unknowingly bit her lower lip. She wanted to do these things – surely he knew she would want them. But how could he also know that she would not, that she valued her court’s safety far above herself, and if what he said were true she would do whatever was necessary to protect it? Her eyes fell to floor, unable to look at him any longer – the first time they had ever lacked the strength. She laughed sadly, tapping the sword on the ground, and shook her head. “Is it even mine?” She asked, open to the possibility that these “magical means” had deposited in her loins a creature that was wholly parasitic and bore no relation to her.

[Segwyn]

The nightflyer didn’t move as she drew her blade, not for one moment did he believe she would wield it upon him. In addition, Segwyn knew that if he came to blows with Alecto it would be in his benefit to die at her hands. She would allow him to fall into a trance whereas the punishment he would endure from Cel for treason and attacking one of his court members would be much worse. In short, trust that the sidhe was not as rash as she appeared to be and fear of Cel’s wrath kept the Sluagh King seated. He simply looked up at her, his eyes troubled and his countenance marked with the same shame that he had felt when he apologized to her upon their first meeting.

He listened to her, expecting her to spit at his explanation but what she said surprised and confused him. Segwyn had been raised to believe that no faerie, even garlanger or nimbus, could ever see beauty in the Sluagh, even one such as Segwyn. Yet he sat here with a sidhe woman, a chosen Denwyr of the Unseelie who spoke words that echoed a contrary sentiment. His lips parted, unsure what to say, a slight gape.

But instead of speaking he merely listened. She continued on, confirming that she did indeed have some contempt for him and the child she now bore. He stood and took a step towards her, albeit a cautious one as she still wielded the blade. Her eyes fell to the floor and Segwyn extended two fingers to her chin, lifting her gaze to look upon him, as if lending her some temporary strength. It was a gesture that he was unsure how she would react to, but the only thing he could do. He was a King and he owed her an explanation, he would owe up to all of his decisions. If she chose to forsake him then he would live with that. He feared Cel’s sadism but not the Darkling King himself. Being at the mercy of the king would not be worse than her rejecting this child.

”Alecto…” He said softly, ”this child is indeed yours, just as it is mine. I do not believe you could do harm to your own child any more than I believe you could allow the possibility of a Drow attack to threaten the Unseelie.” His touch fell aware from her and his eyes lost the look of shame they had once held, now that look was replaced with zeal and a passion. His face was lit aflame with some thought. ”This child shall sit upon the high throne of Alanor not as a conqueror, but as a savior. The savior we shall teach him to be.”

[Alecto]

The Sluagh King’s touch was an electric shock -- as painful as it was gentle, in her compromised emotional state. Alecto looked at him with eyes that sparked panic and suffering, lacking the anger they held previously but somehow more unnerving, because of it. So it was hers then...theirs. She shuddered as he pulled his hand away, feeling chilled down to her bones. Goosebumps rose in ripples across her skin. The hand that gripped the sword hilt tightened, twitched. She was filled equally with the conflicting desires to run him through, or pull him closer. Had it not been said before that these two feelings were kindred, at their core?

“And what of Cel, Lord? Or have you forgotten that you have a brother who sits on the throne you speak of, and to whom I have pledged my loyalty?” Her voice was level, uninflected, but still contained a shade of desperation that sounded decidedly out of place in her smoky alto. “I should kill you,” she thought aloud, “It would be just, since you have killed me. The King will never let me live...or your heir.” She spoke of it as if it were his alone, for she had not chosen it, had not even chosen the pleasure that might have brought it into being by accident. Her jaw set and hardened, her expression betraying the battle she waged with herself, inside. It was not the child’s fault, she knew -- she should not speak of it with contempt. But it was still the product of complete violation, the kind that compromises the identity of the victim, making her choose between herself and her values. The law that ruled her commanded that the innocent be spared. The law that ruled her commanded that she abide by her oaths. She had been born to destroy injustice with a war-cry, to execute the criminal when he escaped more formal punishment. But who was the criminal, here? The most immediate crime was one against her, which made the decision all the more difficult, for her awareness of self-interest. And even then, her previous respect and admiration for Segwyn colored her desire to end him, brought hesitation to a hand that never stalled amidst a death-blow.

Alecto wanted to turn away from him, but couldn’t. She wanted to look away, at least, but was transfixed. “Tell me why I should believe you, that the Seelie court is doomed and that your child is the only answer for the Unseelie. Further, tell me what makes you think that the Sluagh and the Unseelie could live together in peace, when ruled by the product of rape. Or do you ask that I conceal that fact, and champion your people’s cause instead of mine?” Her composure broke suddenly, rage flooding back into her blood, into her marrow, and the glow of Sidhe magic seemed to snap like a wildfire around her. “Tell me, Segwyn, why I should do a fucking thing for you or believe a word you say, when you have used me in such a fundamentally unacceptable way. I might have fought for you willingly, your cause before seemed righteous enough. I am not the kind of Sidhe to put another race into subjugation, particularly one that proves its mettle in war. I might have chosen you over your brother, had I been given a choice. But you have robbed me of choice. If I honor my pledge to the King, he will kill the child, will kill you, will slaughter your people -- the end of the Sluagh, and perhaps of the Unseelie as well, if your word is worth anything. If I act the traitor, how can I be expected to make a savior of this child, when every atom in my body is programmed for revenge?” She had taken a step toward him, somewhere in this tirade -- her voice had lowered to a dangerous whisper. It was a poor move, from a warrior’s perspective; it would take some maneuvering to cut him, now. But that had never been her intention, she knew...she could not kill him, when she was not sure. The tattoo of the mamba shivered in agitation, obviously combatting the urge to take over her body and end the conversation with a fatal bite. Somehow she held this urge, too, at bay.

“I do not wish the life you had on a child of my flesh. I do not want to reject it, and continue the cycle of enmity between our people. Yet how can I do anything else?”

[Segwyn]

He could detect the contempt she held for him in her words but still looked at her assuredly, ”I am no fool, Alecto. I am a King. And I have taken the necessary precautions to assure you and the child are without suspicion.” He looked around the chamber, the bright lights and the mirrors strategically placed to reflect the light into even the darkest corners of Alecto’s room. This place was made to keep the King of Flesh and Darkness’s prying eyes out, Alecto would not go to Cel, she had made that decision when she afforded Segwyn with a place to speak freely. She had doomed herself when she did not give the vial of blood to Cel. In had been a leap of faith on Segwyn’s part, but he had trusted the nature of faerie. Yet he spoke of none of this, no words of her obvious treachery (even though Segwyn did not see it as such, he knew Cel would).

But Segwyn’s dialogue was first met with a flurry of questions that allowed him a glimpse of Alecto’s fears and questions. She was right to question his plan; it seemed farfetched and heavily flawed. A garlanger had never sat on a faerie throne, so who was Segwyn to decide what was best for the Unseelie? In addition, she was right, Segwyn was being an optimist in believing the Sluagh and the Unseelie could live together as one people. But once more he had to put his faith in the nature of the faerie, and that their survival was more important than maintaining the status quo. The child of Segwyn and Alecto would be a nimbus, a creature that could potentially come to power, the child could rule the Unseelie unimpeded…and once it was announced that the child was from Lugh’s line it would be accepted amongst the Sluagh as well.

She moved towards him and he did the same, their bodies so close to embracing one another’s that their argument could have been mistaken for a quarrel between lovers. Segwyn spoke again, his voice much more harsh now, as he responded to Alecto’s interrogation and her last bit of dialogue with some offense. ”Alecto, why should I have believed you would take me willingly? Why should I believe you would have taken a Sluagh as your lover when you stand here and question my upbringing. I was raised by a loving father and surrounded by loving people, just because the Sluagh do not possess the same beauty of the Sidhe does not mean they do not have the capacity to love and to parent. Look at me; do you believe me to be a product of some horrible life?” He grabbed the hand that held the vial of blood. ”The magic here is a pale comparison of what it used to be. With the right tools our child can restore the Unseelie and the Sluagh’s magic. And it is not just my people’s cause.” As the words left his mouth his tattoo, one previously hidden upon his leg moved along the side of his abdomen. A living goose tattooed upon his flesh, the sign of the Unseelie faerie marking the King of the Sluagh.

[Alecto]

Alecto’s eyes narrowed at his harsh response, disbelief coloring the rage that had taken up residence there. “I question nothing,” she growled, “and speak only of the derision you had to endure from your mother.” Spiteful laughter threatened in her chest, laughter at the irony that he should attribute her distrust to his race and not his actions, but she suppressed it as she suppressed the mamba, menacing on her arm. She did not need to look at him, as he commanded, in order to see what he was describing; the image of him had been burned into her mind from their first meeting. “It is a wonder you still believe I have contempt for your blood when any other faerie in your place, Sidhe or otherwise, would be bleeding on my blade, by now.” She said levelly, frustration evident in them, but sadness too. If he had any idea how long she’d lived and how few she’d given a second thought, perhaps he would change his tune. If he had known that her age, her ancientness, had made beauty and purity lose their novelty, maybe he would have treated the situation differently. For the Fury could understand one thing: Segwyn’s prejudices would not have allowed him to approach her as an equal. Even when he had entered this room he had been deferent; even now, as he spoke of Sidhe beauty and defended his people from invisible critics, he assumed her superiority. He would not have sought out a Sidhe to carry his heir if he did not hold their blood in esteem. Her face became troubled as she considered these things, saying nothing as he suddenly grasped her hand. She frowned deeply, pained by his touch, and for a moment her eyes drifted shut. His grip was fierce, but it was not his roughness that hurt her.

“Whose blood is it,” she murmured resignedly, her composure returning, “And what is it for?” She would not pledge her participation in his crusade just yet – would not even promise to protect the child from harm – but she would hear his plan at least, and judge his sanity upon it. There was a chance, however slim, that his purpose would redeem him. Her eyes reopened, their fires restrained as she appraised his face, his resentment. With her other hand she rested the sword carefully against the wall, balanced on its point and reflecting firelight in flashes. It was pointless to pretend she would kill him, now. And even if she changed her mind, the blades by his sides were more convenient. Thinking of this, her glance fell briefly to his hip, catching sight of the soaring goose drawn exquisitely across his skin. The urge to brush it with her fingertips passed through her unheeded, though her hand did spasm lightly at the thought. Segwyn was more Sidhe than Sluagh, in many ways – the mantel tattoo was proof enough of that. It was shocking to think that Andais would reject such a son, whatever the circumstances of his conception and birth.

“Tell me what you intend to do,” she requested, returning her gaze to his.

[Segwyn]

He felt a moment of embarrassment for believing she thought less of him because of his upbringing. She had made it very clear she did not hold the same derision toward him that other sidhe did. Segwyn hung his head, ”You are right, I’m sorry. But many sidhe believe the Sluagh to be nothing but monsters. That is the reason Annette refers to us at the Host; she believes the word ‘Sluagh’ to be too coarse sounding…to ugly for the Seelie.”

He was relieved when he heard reason return to her voice. It seemed she was finally giving some thought to his plan. Thought was all Segwyn needed to make Alecto fully aware of the good they would do the court. Even if she did not believe it now Segwyn could tell Alecto knew Cel was not the great leader some of his high court held him up to be. Segwyn had seen the way the Niceven had acted when he met with Cel, it was as if his brother believed that surrounding himself with people who called him great actually made him great. The Sluagh King knew there could be no good in a ruler who delighted in the pain of others, for it was only a matter of time before Cel’s sadistic ways leaked into his political agendas.

Despite the newfound levity of the situation Segwyn could not satisfy Alecto’s curiosity. He merely shook his head at her first question, ”It is for the child to discover on their own. We can teach the child some things but intuition is not one of them.” Though his first answer was very vague he could offer a slightly less vague answer to Alecto for her second inquiry, but he had a feeling she still might find herself unsatisfied. ”The vial can earn the favor of the darkling magic in a way no faerie has since Queen Samara.” He hoped he had offered Alecto adequate explanations for what the information she had sought, but at the same time he knew he couldn’t elaborate any more. He had to take some precautions, prying ears were all around and he trusted no sidhe, not even Alecto at the moment, with what he had discovered at the library.

But Segwyn’s eyes sparkled in the most well-intentioned look, his look was pleading for he truly believed this plan would be the Unseelie’s only chance at survival. ”Cel will be led to believe the child’s father is a man who goes by the name of Kobaalt. Even after the child is born Cel will have no way of knowing the child is not Kobaalt’s and thus raising it won’t be an issue. From there we will teach the child the skills necessary to be a ruler and with a little luck the child will one day sit upon the thrones of both our courts, my court because of blood right and the Unseelie because the magic will willingly bend to it.” Of course it would take a little more than that to see the child sit upon the Unseelie throne but that was the basic idea of Segwyn’s plan.

[Alecto]

She heard his excuse without comment, though her face did twist slightly at the mention of Annette. The idea that Segwyn would worry about her judgment was unsettling -- she had trouble understanding how anyone could concern themselves with what the Red Queen thought of them, much less a race of people that had no interaction with the Seelie. But she said none of this, restrained her look of disgust as quickly as she could, and set her mind to the Sluagh King’s further explanations. Her frown, however, only deepened as he spoke. Alecto did not appreciate the mystery in his words, and her expression betrayed as much. She stared up at him, stiffening, appalled by his vagueness and the impossibility of his plan.

“Kobaalt,” she repeated, incredulous, searching his face for affirmation. “Kobaalt is dead.” Her tone betrayed familiarity; she spoke the name fluently, as if she had had occasion to speak it often in the past. “Your solution, your plan, is to rely on a dead man’s paternity and luck? You take my life in your hands and are counting on ‘a little luck?’” The hand he grasped curled into a fist, her eyes flashed upon a face that grew immediately icy. “You keep saying “we,” Segwyn,” she whispered, challenging him, “But you essentially ask me to raise the child myself, among the Faerie, hoping for the best, his identity and purpose such a secret that not even I may know the details. You demand I place a great deal of trust in you, while you refuse to place your trust in me.” Alecto found herself repulsed by his plaintive look, preferring his defiance, requiring his strength. She did not need him to beg her for her involvement; he had already forced her into this deadly game. What she needed was to see a shade of herself, in him -- the part of her that was unshakable, aggressive and fierce. She needed him to show her he could stand before a Sidhe as an equal, as he had moments ago, when he lifted her face to look at him. Instead he gave her glossed-over tactics, hints and apologies.

She rocked back on her heels, intending to pull away, the attraction that had allowed him some sway over her beginning to fade. “My trust is not so easily reclaimed by one who has broken it,” she said flatly, finally coming to grips with how much she was being used. She was anonymous, in his little plot; her role chosen at random, a pint of Sidhe blood and an open womb the only requirements. It had been a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, and her accidental and unfamiliar feelings for him were mere casualties in the crossfire. Had she thought he would cauterize the wound with passion for her? Had she lost her mind? Disgust with herself began to overrun her previous sympathy. She had forgotten herself, but she was remembering now.

“Your lover, I might have been. But I will not be your pawn.”

[Segwyn]

Alecto was very intelligent as well as perceptive. Those two things were what led Segwyn to leave out any sort of explanation as to who Kobaalt was, he knew she would know. While many were ignorant of the past Segwyn knew Alecto would not be one of them and thus when she commented on the legendary faerie’s death he smirked. Her ignorance in the given situation was understandable but the way the sidhe now degraded his plan tempted him to rub that ignorance in her face. But the Sluagh King was of a much cooler head than the woman before him, and most any fae for that matter. He gave her the time she needed to complete her speech and before he responded her took a deep, exasperated breath, as if he was finally relieved that she had silenced herself.

He pointed in the ceiling, a gesture not to the roof that covered their head but the celestial body that hung in the sky hundreds a feet above them. ”You remember our past but you forget our rituals. The eclipse lends aid to those who possess the means of resurrecting the dead. And Kobaalt has risen for as long as the eclipse lasts.” Alecto might have been repulsed by his seemingly submissive actions. But in truth the strength Segwyn held was not akin to the fiery anger and pride the sidhe were used to, Segwyn had seen too much of it during his meetings with Cel and Andais. Rather, Segwyn’s strength was with his patience and he needed vast amounts to deal with the Unseelie monarchs.

Segwyn was about to continue when she interjected with the bit about her being his pawn. His patience had run thin. He sighed and ran his over his hair, clearly exasperated. ”No answer will satisfy you, Alecto. I will be this child’s father whether you care to believe it or not. But put your fucking sidhe pride aside for a moment.”[/b] He paused not wanting to let himself become angry but an annoyed tone crept into his voice, ”In saving the courts I give rise to a king that will sit on my throne, if this plan fails I will be removed from the throne and if it succeeds I will face the same fate. Yet you stand here and act as if you are the only one affected by my actions.”

He went to take a step as his wings unfolded and flapped, propelling him towards her with an increased speed that nearly jarred her back. They stood nose to nose and when he spoke his voice was hushed, coarse, a drop of his mother shining through, a bit of Cel in him ”Think of the blood that runs through my veins. I could make you my pawn, I could force you to be my lover, but yet I stand here and beg. You have but two choices, Alecto: raise this child or expose me to Cel.” As he spoke his voice sounded more like the gentler Sluagh King. If Cel had been standing in front of Alecto she would have but one choice, and that was to obey what the King wished. However, Segwyn had made it very clear that if she show to expose his plot then he would not stop her.[/color]

[Alecto]

“My Sidhe pride?” she hissed, but was too furious to interrupt further as he spoke, bemoaning the throne he would have to sacrifice and repeating, without explaining, that his actions would save their courts. Her jaw reset, her expression hardened into stone and ice. But in stepping back she only provoked him further, spitting fire and nonsense about choice. What choice did she have? The vindicator’s hands would not harm an innocent child, whatever the circumstances of its creation, and giving Cel another reason to hate the Sluagh accomplished nothing. Perhaps if she were not herself, it might have soothed her to see Segwyn tortured at his brother’s hands -- many women would have welcomed this bit of justice, in her place -- but Alecto was not such a woman.

She was, however, a creature of reflex, and as the Nightflyer descended upon her with unprecedented speed, her free hand clasped instinctually around his throat even as his last words filtered out. Her grip was strong, power there from blood and practice, but it was a brief show of strength; as soon as she realized her actions, her fingers relaxed and slid a few inches down, to rest in the hollow between his collarbones. Trembling, she drew a startled breath. His pulse drummed rhythmically against her palm. “You did force me, Segwyn.” she whispered, her own heart racing. She let the words hang a moment before continuing. “It is not my pride as a Sidhe, but my pride as a woman that is affronted. You think my anger is unjust, you believe me unreasonable, but how do you expect me to react when you have robbed me of something precious -- the right to create life with someone out of passion?” Her eyes searched his in that way she had, as if she would find the truth and drag it out by whatever means necessary. In her voice, in her face there was courage despite her situation, but the shiver that rippled through her skin spoke of something else. “Add to that the further insult that it was only my blood you saw, the rest of me as invisible to you as you seem to think the Sluagh are to Me. And then in ignorance I heard your audience with the king, oblivious I watched you fight, and judged you righteous!”

She laughed without mirth, a bitter sound that smacked of irony, not humor. “Righteous, and beautiful. Judgements that endure even now, staying my hand as you ask me, not to protect you and rear your child -- those are not choices -- but to accept a life of perfect solitude...to live a lie. Forgive me if I chafe, then, at your plan.” The anger slipped from her voice, the accusatory tone giving way to an explanatory one which, despite its wretchedness, contained no heat. It was no mystery what position she would be in if it were Cel before her, or many of the monarchs that had preceded him. Perhaps she should have been more grateful for the relative patience Segwyn was showing. But part of her wished he would merely throw her in chains, in trance, and silence the conflicting voices in her mind. To pretend there were options when there were none was a greater torture. To humiliate herself before the Sluagh’s King was salt in the wound.

[Segwyn]

Segwyn was surprised as her fingers snaked around his neck and constricted, choking him for only a brief moment. It seemed she forgot herself though and immediately regretted losing her composure as her fingers slid to his collarbone. He could feel the heat of her hand against his flesh and even though there was a frustrating tension between them, her touch was not unwelcome. She was correct in that she was chosen at random, for her blood, but in truth, what other choice did the Sluagh King have? Segwyn did not have the gift of clairvoyance; he couldn’t have known Alecto would come to hold any admiration for him. The idea that a sidhe of court rank would willingly bear the child of another king that was meant to usurp the throne was laughable. Even more laughable was the idea that any sidhe would sleep with a member of the Sluagh. How could Segwyn have predicted Alecto was the exception?

When Alecto fell silent Segwyn could do nothing to fill the deafening soundlessness that engulfed them. He could do nothing but look into her burning eyes, two orbs that were full of passion even as her angry disposition gave way to a calmer one. Eventually Segwyn did do something other than remain silent and stare. He exhaled and stepped away from her, turning his back in frustration, trying to find something to say to ease her mind. So far nothing had worked so he doubted anything would.

When he had turned back to her it was evident he had given up on making peace with her. If she could not come to grips with being a partner in his plot then he would simply use her as the pawn she claimed she would not be. ”Fine then. I have forced you. But the child will be born and you shall claim him as your own.” Emotion had left him and he addressed her as he addressed Cel, diplomatically. ”Together we shall raise him and when the time is right, he shall ascend to both thrones simultaneously.” With a short pause he nodded, assuring himself of his plot. ”While the Seelie will fall to the Drow, the Sluagh and the Unseelie shall best them in their unity. The Drow are too powerful to be defeated by any court alone and the Red Queen is too stubborn to align with any others.” He looked to Alecto, affording her one last chance to speak before he took his leave.

[Alecto]

There could be no peace. There were no soothing words to heal these wounds. The Sluagh King could not have known and had had no choice, the Fury could not cast aside her feelings of violation, her pain. Alecto understood these things, assumed that Segwyn did as well, yet how could either of them reconcile? There was nothing to be said. His ignorance and desperation were not worth apology; her anger and despair could not be helped. Slight fingers slid over his flesh as he turned, light as a lover’s caress, then dropped to her side. His back to her, she felt the marginal relief of no longer having to look him in the eye. She reached for her sword, and moved to return it to its sheath.

He was speaking as she walked, and she turned her head slightly to indicate she was listening as the blade scraped softly against the scabbard’s interior. She turned back toward him, placed the amulet on the table, stared down at it resignedly. Its shadow, in the warm firelight, was liquid red. Segwyn was still speaking, but what he said hardly mattered: he summarized, she was sure, and had nothing new to say. There was nothing to be said. Alecto made no sign of agreeing or disagreeing, her face having hardened into an impassive shell, cold radiating off of her in waves, consuming the warmth of the room. He was underestimating her -- had a history of underestimating her -- and had not considered what options still remained, but now was not the time to reveal such things to him. Her eyes glinted with something hidden. It could have been the flicker of a mother’s inward gaze, contemplating the miracle taking place within her, or she could have been considering a different kind of birth...the evolution of a plan. Whatever it was, she seemed to look through him, unseeing and indifferent. She opened the door as she had closed it, with a glance.

There was nothing to be said, and so she only nodded to him in a way of parting, respect and defiance there in equal parts. Whatever he might think, she would not be his pawn -- whatever power he believed he had, he could not comprehend the potential of her will to live. But there was reassurance, too: the child was hers, and she would rear him with love, prepare him as best she could. Segwyn had nothing to fear, in that regard, as he needn’t fear her confiding in Cel.

The rest, though, would reveal itself in time.


[end]