When all other lights go out {Morgon/Closed}

[Tadhg]

The light of the night eclipse bathed the edges of the field a bright silver and one would never see the man crouched among the underbrush unless they knew were to look. With his hood up and his rugged face hidden from sight, his tall, broad form seemed to be no more then a large boulder, dappled with metallic light. The extension of the long bow could be no more then a wayward branch tangled in the foliage.

It was unknown how many hours the hunter had spent in this cramped position, unnaturally still and silent. But to a soul as old as he, time was nothing more then a whim, monitored and counted by those afraid of running out. This was his woods. Every wafting breeze through the spruces were his breath. Every trickle of impatient stream, his blood. And even now as he waited, the floating steps of the approaching roe buck fell like the rhythmic pattern of his heartbeat. He had melted into a forest that would take some a lifetime to know. Which is how he knew this place was favored by the buck as a feeding ground. He'd been tracking it since yesterday, it's cloven tracks harder to see in the infinite dark then perhaps they once were. But Tad was more kin to a bird of prey then a faerie, instinct and predator's vision honed by millennia of practice. He'd had little trouble picking out the deer's every move. All he'd had to do was choose his position and put his everlasting patience into play.

Needless to say, he was less then pleased when clumsy, humanoid footfall came tromping loudly from the east. Before the deer had time to turn up it's ears to the sound, Tadhg's eyes were rolling in exasperation, his bow already lowing before the deer sprung up through the taller grasses and out of sight. He rolled his broad shoulders with a sigh, taking a moment to reorganize his arrows and pack while he waited for the unseen stranger to come into eyesight. He muttered something in the old Celtic language about the idiocy of the young generations, stretching his long-tensed muscles as he stood.

"Ye should tramp a wee bit louder, son,"he grumbled to the approaching form, gaging from the weight of the steps it to be a man. Or most likely a boy who barely possessed the ability to put one foot in front of the other. "I dinnae think they heard ye over in the Unseelie court."

[Morgon]

Morgon was a touch too curious for his own good.

On earth, he had been a compulsive student -- the attention he gave to every detail of a person was equally applied to the details of other phenomena, not the least of which being the natural sciences. Perhaps it was his faerie blood, or else some personal predisposition, but Morgon found himself fascinated by the laws of the universe and the way those laws were often (apparently) broken. And so, despite the harrowing experience he had at Imbolc, and the threat of Shades lurking just to kill him in the woods, the Nimbus could not resist a little adventure into the outskirts of the Seelie court, where he could view the lunar eclipse minus the light pollution of Annette’s pervasive sparklies. This seemed like a fine idea until he was actually out past that light’s reach, at which point he found himself immediately and hopelessly lost.

Morgon tread as carefully as he could -- which was not very, between his night-blindness, his unease, and his utter inexperience as a woodsman. Growing up in the modern world, there were not many places he could have isolated himself so completely from any possible help, or many people from whom he could have learned basic forest etiquette. Lacking Amara, whom he had left sleeping on her perch, and without any knowledge of Alanor’s stars to guide him, he stumbled into a clearing he had never seen, promptly spooking a stag that was grazing there. This was startling enough. But when a figure clad in shadows suddenly materialized from nowhere, Morgon’s partial trip recoiled into a complete backward fall.

“Holy Sh--” he began to shout as he fell, but was interrupted by the impact, and finished the expletive with “oof.” Certain that he was about to die, he scrambled briefly for something to brandish at his attacker, but was interrupted by a faerie’s voice: “Ye should tramp a wee bit louder, son...”

“Why the hell would you sneak up on someone like that?” Morgon spat, incredulous that this man had the gall to insult him on top of scaring out his daylights, but almost immediately corrected, “Oh.” The faerie was holding a bow. A deer had just rocketed from the immediate vicinity -- because of him. And just as suddenly as he had felt defensive, his anger turned to embarrassed regret. “That was yours, wasn’t it,” he said softly, rising carefully to his feet. “Uh...sorry.” He casually dropped the rock he had grabbed, and brushed some of the dirt and twigs off his jeans. To be frank, he was grateful not to be alone in the woods any longer; his plan to observe the current astronomical events had been clearly misguided. But he was not terribly pleased to run into a strange Sidhe, and make a fool out of himself in the process. Might as well finish the job, he thought with a sigh, feeling the need to explain his ignorance.

“I’m lost. Which is probably unacceptable from our kind, I know,” he began, immediately regretting saying “our kind” to a man of purer blood. It has come to his attention that such comparisons were a big no-no, around here. “I just wanted to look at the sky.”

New record for shitty.

[Tadhg]

Tadhg watches impassively as the startled nimbus falls on his arse, cocking one brow at the aggressive words tumbling acidly from his mouth. The young people are so unnecessarily passionate and the Scotsman doesn't dignify the boy's tantrum with a response. He only continues to watch him through calculating grey-green eyes which remained hidden behind the shadow of his hood. He has no issue with the boy lacking the pure blood of a full sidhe - he's much too old to care about such petty prejudices. It's more the issue of the boy's clumsiness. And overall general manner. Maybe his hair too.

His long bow is holstered in one smooth movement over a broad shoulder and he purses his lips in a slightly irritated fashion to subtly let the boy know he's a menace. "Aye. It was." He stares a bit more intently, more still then stone and trying his best to be intimidating for a minute longer. It's not in his nature to hold a grudge however and the boy's rather pitiful apology has him shaking his head and with a sigh, he shrugs the hood from his face and with it a wavy swatch of silver-shot hair. "It's no' a crime worth punishing you over. I'll find it later." he concedes at last.

He turns a critical eye on the much younger man, sizing him up with a lightly furrowed brow. This is one he hadn't seen yet, but was surprised he hadn't heard yet, considering the nimbus had all the grace and stealth of a pachyderm. The Queen had mentioned in their talks some of her court members that Tadhg should make a point of getting to know, and he's having trouble recalling anyone who fits this boy's description. "I dinnae know about that. I'm sure elephants who gallivant about Seelie lands in the middle of the night get lost all the time," the hunter counters with a tilt of his head. "Oh! No' an elephant, are you? You certainly make enough noise to fool a soul into mistaking you for one, that's the truth of it."

His annoyed expression softens a bit at the nimbus' final confession and he drops his shoulders to a more approachable stance. Tadhg inwardly chides himself for being such a softie as he speak again, the gravel all by gone from his deep voice. "Weel, I cannae fault you for that. Looking for a long minute like he's going to regret what he's about to say, Tadhg gives in to whatever internal battle is raging within him and jerks his chin to the left. "Yer goin' the wrong way if it's a clear spot you seek. The trees are too thick here and the shadows too deep. The best view is a mile this way. Come with me."

[Morgon]

The Sidhe’s mocking words were met with silence -- having regained his self control, Morgon’s lower eyelids merely lifted slightly, his brows knitting together in an expression that could have been either pain or embarrassment, his mouth tilting into a tight smile. He ran a hand through his hair, disheveling it further than the night had, already. In all reality, he deserved the tongue-lashing, and so endured it patiently, but many of Tadgh’s insults were misplaced. Inexperienced in the woods, he was, but naturally ungraceful he was not. Like so many other aspects of Morgon’s personality and skill set, this was one that had not been cultivated, though the raw material was there. The nimbus did not speak on this, however; he was largely unaware of his own potential, anyway, and Tadgh had a right to the upbraiding.

“I do sometimes masquerade as one,” he said instead, under his breath.

But just as quickly as the older man had jumped to chastise him, his tone changed to something substantially more sociable. Morgon glanced up at him from under his brow, one hand still clasped around the back of his neck, the other shoved carelessly into his pocket. He was grateful that Tadgh had found something about him that was not worth reprimanding, then shocked at his offer to guide him. “Really?” he asked, his surprise evident, but the Sidhe had already turned to walk in the direction he had indicated. Morgon hastily followed. In his eagerness he nearly tripped over a root, catching himself with a sharp inhalation, at which he reminded himself that swiftness was probably not his biggest concern, here. The remainder of his steps were more careful, and while they could not mimic the hunter’s silent strides, they were at least less pronounced than an Elephant’s.

They walked in silence, Tadgh practically melting into the forest itself and Morgon training every sense to him, trying to keep up without making a fool of himself. He was so focused on the task that he didn’t notice the woods begin to thin, the air to rarify slightly with the change in altitude. They slowed their pace, and his eyes drifted from the hazardous ground to the midnight sky. The outline of the moon gleamed harshly against a backdrop of black velvet, silvery light radiating out in smoky ribbons pierced by the occasional glitter of stars. His jaw dropped.

“Wow,” was all he managed, as he took a few awe-struck steps into the clearing. The sheer duration of the eclipse was interesting enough, but he had not expected the eerie beauty of the forest and sky, so alien in the silver light. His hands hung limp at his sides, an open-mouthed smile spreading where the taught smirk had formerly resided. “What do you think makes it last so long? I’ve never seen anything like it,” he asked in a hushed whisper, turning his head slightly over his shoulder without averting his gaze from above.

Sorry I moved him. Let me know if you want me to change anything

[Tadhg]

He doesn't really considered his pace swift until the staggered breathing of the younger man behind him sparks a minute twinge of guilt. Tadhg is used to traveling alone and unhindered, so leading another through his forests is not done with the best consideration for the follower's needs. A mile through dense underbrush and invisible paths is no more then a light promenade to a seasoned hunter and he frowns slightly as he shakes away any remaining regret and increases his pace again. The boy needs to start acting more like a member of his race anyway. And the best way to teach is by demonstration.

Always the Scot is scanning the perimeter from his peripheral vision, taking note of which shadows are oddly misshaped and where the nocturnal creatures lurk to watch their passing. The air, while tense as it has been since the attacks, smells as it should - damp and sleepy and tinted with the promise of frost. The clearing is empty and save a night owl's startled call, all is silence under the silver light. Though Tadhg has seen many moons and many eclipses, this one is particularly awing and he takes a moment to stare as Morgon does, perhaps a little less slack-jawed and with a more dignified stance. "Mmm," he agrees to the nimbus' dumbfounded expression.

He paces around in a small circle, searching the grasses for something with sharp eyes. Though the nights are blacker then usual, millennia of honed hunting skill makes his vision only slightly less sharp then usual. And in their current position, the land is alight in metallic silver, giving it the appearance of being shrouded in a fine snow. Tadhg eventually finds what he is seeking and perches with a sigh, much like a bird of prey, on an old log covered in moss. He casually watches Morgon from the corner of one eye, digging in the satchel on his left hip for something and removing a knife from the other in one smooth motion. "I dinnae know, but I would imagine it has somethin' to do with magic. Most of the strange things in the world do, lad. Whether it's intent is ill or no', that's the real question," he says, calmly taking the knife to the flesh of the apple he's just revealed. He splits the fruit down the middle and tossed half to the boy. "Here."

It is about this time that Cyane chooses to make a grand (rather unnecessarily so, in Tadhg's opinion) entrance by sweeping like a demon shadow from the tops of the nearest pines and screeching loudly enough for the eerie sound to ricochet around the clearing. She sweeps in from the direction of Morgon's back, coming dangerously close to cuffing the nimbus round the back of the head with one brown wing as she lands on her faerie's lower arm with grace. Tadhg gives her a reproachful look, one that warns her not to frighten strangers who are already potentially skittish. The massive eagle stares back, apparently refusing to show any sort of remorse and turns her head to fix Morgon with her shrewd yellow eyes. "Sorry, lad. She probably mistook your hair for a ferret in the dark," the Scotsman apologizes half-heartedly, unable to completely hide the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. He sets his mantel down on the log beside him and goes back to making short work of plucking every seed from the fruit in his hand, flicking them out one by one into the grasses.

"What are you doin' lollygagging about in the middle of the night anyhow? There's much more deadly things lurking in this forest then I, Seelie lands or no. Annette's a watchful queen, but even she cannae see everything. The bloody sky's not worth risking an attack and it's obvious you lack any sort of defensive skills. Unless yer very good at hiding them.'

[Morgon]

It was enough, to stand and stare – Morgon had come out tonight for that single purpose, and as his unexpected guide searched the clearing, the nimbus remained attentive of the scene. He, too, could smell and hear and feel the night woods beneath that spectral sky, though he did not have the experience to categorize these sensations as normal. To him, it was all new. He took a deep breath, savoring the taste and feel of air so fresh, it burned. To his left, he hears the huntsman take a seat – wood groaning faintly with strain – and to his right, the faint and distant flap of wings. He turns his head toward the speaker.

“I heard some servants saying that the dead sometimes walk beneath an Alanorian Eclipse,” his tone was factual, curiosity evident there along with a shade of disbelief, but lacking both judgment and surprise. He caught the apple one-handed. “Though whether that is good or bad, they didn’t say.” His weight shifted to one hip, the other leg slackening slightly as he bent toward the apple, digging for each seed and flicking them carelessly as he found them. The sound of approaching wings was familiar to him, and as Cyane swoops in he bends his head casually away from her path, the elbow nearest her lifting slightly in reflexive anticipation, surprise only appearing in his eyes when he looked up and saw that the bird was not his. A smile reappeared on his face, close-lipped and lopsided, as he cocked his head in interest. The eagle was much bigger than Amara, and would have likely frightened her; he was glad she had remained at court. The night was no place for an Osprey. “She’s beautiful,” he commented, after a chuckle in response to his jab. There was no shame in an unruly mane, if it appealed to a woman…and it often had. At the mention of it, his hand began to drift habitually toward his head, but stopped midway when he noticed the Sidhe’s assault on the apple.

It was a feeling akin to déjà vu, except a touch more unsettling by dint of its reflection of him. Was the hunter mocking him? But then he was speaking again, the action apparently unconscious and unremarked by his mantel. Morgon’s smile faded as he squinted at the man, reassuring himself that he was actually seeing what he thought. “Danger has a hard time keeping hold of me…Do you always do that?” he asked, practically interrupting his own absentminded response. In the dimness, he could not see the green of Tadgh’s eyes, or perhaps he would have added this, too, to the apparent list of commonalities. Instead he thought little of it, a short laugh escaping him as he turned the apple’s face toward the man, now torn in the center and devoid of seeds. He took a few strides forward, and sat beside him on the log, leaving a respectable distance between them. “Sorry. Anyway, I disagree about the sky. Safety isn’t worth hiding in a cloister.” He draped his ankle over the opposite knee, and took a bite of the apple. It was tart and sweet and reminded him of home…what he’d thought was home. His look grew far away. “Besides, whatever attacked Imbolc will come for the courts, next. I might as well learn what I can about this place, before I have to spend all my efforts protecting it.”

It was a troubling thought. Morgon fought a chill at the images that danced, unbidden, through his head; his beautiful Queen in combat, in danger, a repeat of the festival’s carnage unfolding around her. Annette had asked him to be her watcher – it was shameful, that he could offer her little more. With twenty-six years, he was barely a man, much less a warrior befitting this court. This Sidhe though…his fluid gaze travelled over the man as he chewed, studying his attire, his manner, his attitude. Tadgh obviously agreed with him if he was out here on a hunt, though he was clearly better equipped to defend himself from prowling shades. “You’re the one they’re singing of, aren’t you? Tadgh, is it?” he grinned, pleased to have discovered his companion’s identity without having to ask. “I’m Morgon.” He extended his hand.

[Tadhg]

Tadhg barks a laugh at the factual tone in the younger man's voice, amused that so immature a person in years could give their opinion so decidedly. Just another reminder of how the age gap between he and most of Alanor keeps from making easy relations. "Weel it cannae be good if things that are supposed to be dead refuse to stay that way, aye?" He wonders briefly though at the possibility of anything being truly dead in a place where immortals run rampant. What sort of magic would be needed to grave that which can't die? And would the monarchs have enough power to counter it?

He keeps his musings to himself so as not to worry the boy, who looks like he'd be the kind to start fretting over things beyond his control. "Do what?" he counters shortly, never looking up from his ministrations on his fruit. Morgon doesn't answer, so the hunter looks up and comes practically face to face with the now seedless other half of the apple, the crescent fingernail marks an exact mirror of the ones in his own half. His eyes widen a bit in surprise as they dart first to the boy's face and then back. He lifts his apple for inspection."For as long as there have been apples."

He finds himself wondering if the boy's shared quirk pertains only to apples or to the rest of the fruit group as well, as his own does. And then he's seeing Morgon, really seeing him for the first time. The silver light can not illuminate as much as Tadhg might wish, but it is clear enough to catch the familiar green of his irises. He's noticing something in the shape of the man's brow too that strikes a familiar chord. He's sure he's seen these things before and it troubles him that he can't quite place it. Tadhg never forgets, faces included.

"There are times to be cocky, lad, and there are times to be cautious," he says softly with a frown, watching the boy closely as he sits across the way, cocking one foot up in the same manner the Scotsman has his own. "Whatever attacked Imbolc might weel already be here. You should no' take these forests for granted. No matter how beautiful the sky may be this night." His words are quiet, but stern. He wishes to imprint some warning about the detrimental effects overconfidence can have in a man's life. He knows (gods, how he knows) what happens when a lad of Morgon's age let's his guard down and starts to trust too hard in his surroundings and the people that inhabit them. And he finds himself wishing to save the lad from the disappoint that comes from realizing the faith you bestowed is neither wanted nor reciprocated.

"This place does no' really need yer protecting, much as it pains me to burst yer bubble. I wager it has stood long before you came and will stand long after you leave. Annette has gained her reputation for a reason and is no fool, whether she acts on ev'ry rumored threat or no'. If the Seelie court is attacked, do yer duty. But dinnae ever spend yer last effort protecting anything but yerself." The apple suddenly tastes bitter in his mouth and he tosses the rest of it into the taller grasses off the left for some gleeful deer to stumble upon.

Tadhg has lived alone for the last 600 years. He cannot help but view attachments with suspicion, always taken much longer to make alliances then most. He thinks of Annette, his own concerns momentarily darkening his face, as Morgon's do his. The Red Queen has paid for her rank with blood and while he enjoys the woman, the Scotsman does not yet know how he feels about the crown she wears. He is not naive enough to believe she ever actually needs a harem of bodyguards - he would not want to be one who crossed swords with the likes of her. He has seen the bloodlust in her eyes and does not approve. But he has inadvertently pledged himself to this land just as much as Morgon and he knows should the need arise, he would fight for the Seelie lifestyle with the rest of them. But he will not ever bring himself to put anyone, even queen and country above his own well being, as romantic as the notion may be. He cannot.

"I try not to heed court gossip if I can help it," Tadhg answers with a reciprocating grin, taking the younger man's lower arm half way up in the old fashion of a handshake. "Though if what they say about The Watcher is true, ye may not be as useless as I'd originally had you pegged for." He tilts his chin to one side to let the younger man know he's teasing and can't resist pushing his buttons a bit more. They also make mention of how besotted the man is with The Red Queen. Fancy her, do ye lad?"

[Morgon]

Morgon countered Tadgh’s frown with a faint smile, listening to his lecture attentively. Did the older man find him cocky? He almost laughed, at that, though not necessarily out of disagreement; he had never thought of himself as arrogant, before. Lucky, certainly – that he had slipped out of danger’s grasp so many times in his life had been by grace of fortune, not some quality of his – patient, perhaps, and attentive to details, but overconfident? His bemused smirk endured as he considered it, coming to the conclusion that it would be easy to appear cocky while acting out of ignorance…that perhaps these two things were the same. “One tends to be delusional until he is disillusioned,” he commented quietly, perhaps too quietly to be heard. The hunter was speaking again almost immediately, and his far-away look garnered the boy’s unwavering attention. It occured to him that the two of them were on opposite ends of the spectrum of age: Tadgh had obviously seen and experienced a great deal, the fiercest of emotions and the most dramatic of circumstances, the kind of life a human could never have for want of time. Morgon, on the other hand, was barely more than a human, for now. He was twenty-six, not just in appearance but in being, and his sensibilities were still very much like a mortal’s. He had not lived long enough to tire of life, predict it or resent it. For him, it was still one grand experiment for which the outcome was unclear.

The man’s sudden disinterest in the apple was noted, but Morgon’s eyes never left his face as he spoke. His thoughts on duty were interesting, bearing little resemblance to the notion beaten into young men’s heads on Earth. To favor oneself over ones ideals seemed cowardly, at first blush, but he could see that Tadgh was no coward. And what if he was right? It was true that no act of his would change this land – no matter how hard he stamped his feet, he would never throw the world’s alignment, or push it from its course. He was a tiny spec in the universe, no more powerful than an insect on the grand scale of existence. But didn’t it build one’s character to fight for a cause? Didn’t that change things, on an individual level? His head tilted slightly as he listened, his gaze as intent and encompassing as it had been when he’d encountered the Queen. These ancient faeries were fascinating, in their various insights and views of the world. How different Tadgh’s was, from Annette’s.

His lopsided smile broadened as the Branwyn clasped his arm, surprise in it, then understanding. Old habits died hard – even harder, if one guarded them. He reciprocated Tadgh’s grip, feeling very manly and deciding he quite enjoyed this variety of greeting. There was a dignity to it, an intimacy that a handshake lacked; modern men were so prude and polite. And then he laughed – had he really been spoken of, in court? – and shook his head incredulously. “No, no…I assure you, I’m completely useless.” he corrected good-naturedly, then sighed a little wistfully at the mention of Annette, his glance moving briefly to his feet. “I have never met anyone like her,” he said truthfully, remembering the combined effects of her fragility and power, “but I don’t pretend to love her. Or maybe I do, but like a dog its master, and not a man his woman. She does not want that kind of love.” He looked back at Tadgh, smirking, his lower lids lifted in thought. “I don’t know if anyone with that much power is capable of it. She wanted to know that I would submit to her if asked – and I would – but wanting submission is different from wanting affection. It’s what monarchs want, not lovers. And besides, I have nothing to offer these faerie women. They are all bored of devotion, and I cannot bolster their status or best them at swords.” he laughed again, crossed his arms over his chest. “Worse, I have a bad habit of seeing them, of anticipating their thoughts, and I am discovering that Seelie girls find nothing so insulting as a mirror.” These observations he delivered without bitterness, no trace of complaint in his tone. He could live without romance – had lived without it, having never met a woman whose virtues outweighed her faults, and doubting that he would have the audacity to claim her, if he did – and the nuances of faerie culture were much more interesting to him than they were offensive.

“And what about you, Shadeslayer? Has a pretty huntress charmed you?” Brows raised in speculation, his smile turning mischievous. If Tadgh wanted to tease, he could play that game.

[Tadhg]

He flashes a grin at the boy, the gesture coming with more ease the longer the young man rambles. Inexperienced and unworldly as he is, Tadhg isn't completely convinced the boy is without merit of some kind. He has a sort of innocent callousness that is both irksome and charming, depending on the situation. But every word that comes from Morgon's mouth is a constant reminder of the age gap between them and the Scotsman can't help but wonder how much the two of them will ever really have in common with such a difference (or lack thereof) of past. Tadhg is defined by his past, an incarnation of it, a testament of it. Morgon is just the first pen tip to paper in the record of Tadhg's life. But he is willing to tolerate the boy's babbling ways for one reason or another without too much pain. Perhaps it is his own lopsided grin he sees in the other face. Perhaps it is the frank, if uneducated manner of Morgon's way of speaking. For whatever reason, he's finding the boy's company a refreshing chance from his customary solitude tonight.

Initially he nods, inclined to agree with each of his perceptions concerning Annette. But then he off hand remarks of positions of power wanting for love and Tadhg shrugs almost involuntary, giving his head a small shake and he too downcasts his gaze toward his shoes. "Weel, I don' know about that, lad," he corrects gently, his mind's eye turning to a water-stained memory of red hair and entwined fingers in lonely candlelight. Any trace of a smile slides from his face then, and he is back to the default brooding, thoughtful expression that adds a few more years to his face then it perhaps deserves. He is unwilling to say anything else on the subject, so he let's Morgon rant a bit about the vices of the opposite sex and the woes of trying to woo them.

"They're more trouble then they're worth. Especially if yer the one doing the hunting. Especially the dangerous ones like Annette. In my experience it's much better if yeh wait for them to make up their minds and decide to pursue you," he says with another shake of his head. "Much less work. Eventually one of them is bound to see you too. And then may the Gods help yeh, lad."

"Don' call me that," he chides immediately, perhaps a bit more harshly then he'd like, but it is important to quash any sort of honorary title, even between the two of them. Tadhg is a hunter by practice and nature. But he is not a slayer of anything if it can at all be helped. Such titles are for warriors and heroes and those who set stock in how many tongues wag of their accomplishments. Tadhg is none of these things. It is important that Morgon know this and put a stop to any false idolism before it begins. "It's just Tadhg to you," he quips, fiddling with the fastenings of his leather vambraces. He bristles even further at the nimbus' final remark, sitting up a bit straighter on the log and rolling his shoulders uncomfortably.

"And that's none of yer business," he says gruffly, the image of gold waves and cat eyes filling his vision. It isn't that he has an aversion to speaking of such things with the younger man. It's the fear of answering that question truthfully that has him clamming up.

[Morgon]

“Hm.” Morgon’s squint narrowed further at Tadgh’s prediction, his gaze very nearly turning inward, but still unable to quite accomplish that feat. The prospect of a woman seeing him as he saw them was vaguely terrifying, and for a moment he could not blame the faerie distaste for a looking glass. When he spoke again, his voice was almost solemn, though that perpetual hint of bemusement still colored his words. “I don’t know whether to look forward to that, or fear it.” He studied the remains of the apple in his hand, nothing but seedless core fibers, the stump of a stem. With a deft flick of his arm he sent it soaring, and admired its trajectory for a few moments in childlike silence, before posing his own queries. The hunter’s reaction, while harsh, was not entirely unexpected. Morgon’s smile reappeared at his defensive tone, his eyes sparkling with mischief as he turned to him. He suppressed the snort of laughter threatening in his chest. “But my fancies are yours to know?” he commented gently, without a trace of offense. He did chuckle then, slowly rising to his feet. “Suit yourself, Tadgh. You have more right to privacy than I – your lifestyle supports it better. And I have not lived long enough to have anything of importance to hide.”

A red-orange glow was spreading in the east. Morgon worried at a stone with his foot, slipping his hands into the pockets of his jeans as he was wont to do, and turned his gaze upon the eclipsed sunrise. Blood and silver began to compete for space, fluidly melting into one another; an unearthly alloy. A chorus of geese erupted in some distant place, followed by a seahawk’s screech. The nimbus frowned slightly at that music, searching the horizon for the tell-tale stroke of black silhouette, and finding it, his expression relaxed at once. “Amara, he noted softly as his mantel wheeled overhead, streamlined and agile. She turned as if to drop to his arm, then banked suddenly, spotting a shape at the clearing’s edge. Her wings folded as she dropped, her hooked beak forming the point of an arrow’s head. Morgon watched in disturbed silence as she overtook an animal and set to scuffling with it. He peered at their conflict, sensing that he should intervene. “Is that…a lemur?” he asked incredulously, breaking into a trot. “Where’d you take me, Madagascar? AMARA,” he was running now, anxious to mediate what seemed more a fight than an attempt at breakfast. The lemur broke free and turned suddenly, darting back into the trees. With a warcry, the Osprey gave chase. “Amara what are you doing?” Morgon demanded of her as he picked his way through the increasing foliage, slower now, but still inexplicably anxious. It was not like his mantel to viciously attack a land animal – her preference was overwhelmingly for fish.

“Something is wrong,” he called over his shoulder, not really expecting his guide to heed him.

[Tadhg]

Tadhg says nothing, sitting as still as stone as Morgon rises from their perch. He stares past the field in the direction of the coming red daylight, his stubbled face unreadable. He chooses not to respond to the younger man's submission to his want for privacy, a wash of relief sliding down to his stomach at not being forced to put Morgon in his place for prying too much. He is grateful the boy is intelligent to read a person well enough to take a hint and leave some things be. He is not ready yet to show such vulnerable faces to the nimbus and may not be ready in this life time.

The cry of an osprey draws both men's attention and Tadhg sits up straight, going more still if it's even possible. He tracks the fall of the hawk, a complete mirror of the way Cyane's yellow eyes see every feather flutter. Morgon is taking the hawker's stance, ready to receive her on his arm, but it's the bird's abrupt turn that has the Scotsman's eyes narrowing in unease. He recognizes the motion of a bird of prey on the defense - not with the intent to hunt, but to fight. A snarling patch of red fluff leaps from the tallest grasses and Tadhg's stomach drops. He knows that little beast. More importantly, he knows to whom it is bonded. "Alysia," he breathes simultaneously with Morgon's naming. He too rises to his feet, unable to tear his gaze from the battle starting to take place at the far edge of the field.

Morgon is tearing off after the two and Tadhg hisses, flinging out an arm to catch Cyane as she sweeps diligently up, her sharp gaze eagerly on the tangled mantels but her focus tuned to her fairy as she awaits his command. "Stop them from killing each other. Get the lemur out of the way if you can. Don' harm either one," he says tensely, helping her up into the air as she snaps open a wingspan as wide as he is tall with a screech. She's off, already a flash of dark bronze within a few mighty pulls through the morning breeze.

Tadhg's fingers involuntarily go to the dagger's hilt on his hip and with all the nimbleness of a stag, he takes off after Morgon, trying his damnedest to ignore the anxiety working a knot into his gut.


END.