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sparkindarknessI wasn't going to go down this route, it was heading a completely different way. A much nicer way. Yes, yes it was.
Then this hit me last night. I don't know where it's going. Sitharensor and Ilatheril do, I think... and they're not entirely happy.
I also have a sneaking suspicion that at some point down the line I am going to commit the closest thing to blasphemy my beliefs allow. All good then?
“I’m impressed.” Ilatheril said, guiding his burden carefully through the door.
Sir Hrolf nodded, manoeuvring his bulk to block any view should anyone be passing.
“I mean, the acceptance speech. The honours. All the dignitaries.”
Amos squeezed past into the apartments, wringing his hands in worry, but firmly keeping his mouth shut after Sir Hrolf’s growled injunction for silence.
“And I didn’t sense any magic at all!”
“No magic... my Lord.” Amos squeaked slightly. Never had the Troll called an Unseelie lord before. “Though you are in a better position to judge that than I.”
“Then...?”
“Training, my Lord. Years of training.”
“I’m still impressed. I mean he fainted once the head honchos finished and still managed to get through all that formality without anyone noticing. He gave a whole half hour speech while technically unconscious. He’s good.”
Hrolf suppressed a disapproving glance. Instincts towards his lords husband were conflicting with instincts honed on centuries of battlefields against the Unseelie. It was building up into an internal domestic incident the humans could only dream of. “His lordship does not faint.”
“Well, true. Sidhe don’t faint. We can’t do that freaky unconscious thing - sleep and stuff.”
“Sidhe can fall in battle, be rendered unconscious from their wounds. My Lord.” Ilatheril gave the huge Troll a wary look, but even the best politician would have trouble reading that stony face.
“Whatever. He’s in info-shock then. Whatever, he’s out of it .”
“My lord, may I strongly suggest we refrain from speaking so openly. There are many who are not above scrying on his Lordship’s bed chamber.” Ilatheril started, caught between feeling like an idiot for not thinking sooner, and anger for being corrected by a Troll. Guilt won out over both and he hurried to guide the near inert Sitharensor through the bedroom.
Sitharensor moved when prompted, and was apparently capable of reflexive actions. Ilatheril had to laugh that reflexive actions for a Seelie seemed to include political speeches and pointless etiquette. It wouldn’t be permanent... he hoped anyway. Gods, what did he know about it anyway? He was no doctor. It looked like info override, sidhe were never good at taking in too much info at once. It always takes a few minutes to take in anything major... this was just it on a grand scale. Right?
He could ask the Troll, but the Unseelie couldn't quite force himself to. He was a Sidhe, wasn’t he supposed to know this stuff? Besides, the Troll would probably tell him, oh so bloody politely, to shut up again. Besides, he was feeling a bit overloaded himself. They were supposed to hunt down the people who did this? How...?
Sir Hrolf stepped back carefully as the stillness overtook the Unseelie. He had seen the Sidhe enter trances a thousand times over the centuries. All life seemed to stop, all of that perfect, wondrous magic sucked within, leaving nothing but an achingly beautiful statue. A statue with great powers roiling just beneath the surface. He didn’t pretend to understand, some said the sidhe communed with the Aesir in such times. Some said the sidhe were the Aesir and during such times they returned to lands beyond normal ken to seek answers. Others said that no place was truly barred from Sidhe eyes, and during these trances their souls left their bodies to quest across the world, seeing all, knowing all, to find what answers they wish. More than one plot had fallen apart for fear that the Sidhe could be watching, invisible and bodiless, from any corner. The Sidhe gave no clues if any or all were correct. And no-one ever dared ask. Hrolf shuddered, an almost imperceptible tremor. The lords of the fae were great and terrible masters to serve.
Hours seemed to pass. Hrolf stood, a stone sentinel against the advancing night. Amos fidgeted around the room, throwing himself into frenzied bout of unnecessary housework. Anything to avoid the staring, unseeing eyes of the quiet gods.
The moon had passed its zenith when the gods finally stirred. Light returned to their eyes and determination settled onto their brow. Amos stepped back into Hrolf’s shadow, vainly seeking to escape the gaze of beings whose eyes seemed able to pierce any barrier, even unto the very soul of those they beheld.
Ilatheril spoke first, his violet eyes throwing light that was eaten by the maw of his shadowed hair. “No sane Unseelie Sidhe would have done this. Few of us have any illusions about what we have lost, and the last war is too fresh in too many memories. Besides, to steal such an artefact would be an act that borders on sacrilege. Still, I can think of two or three whose sanity might be so far gone for them to attempt this.”
Sitharensor shook his head slowly. His sunlit hair bringing noon’s light even to the night shrouded room. “I feel heavy with cruel knowledge, and see pitfalls to eat us all opening up in front of us. Yet I cannot face them now, and if we do not face this current crisis, then resolving them may not even be an issue.” He sighed heavily, using the movement to almost physically cast these future burdens aside. “We need to know more. We must seek council.”
Amos twittered to life “who could council the sidhe!?”
Ilatheril laughed, just a little bitter. “Many, my friend, many. The Sluagh, the Shades, the Hags. All, and more, hold secrets.”
Sitharensor nodded. “Aye, the Norns, the Furies, the Centaurs... the Three.” Sir Hrolf bit back an oath.... Amos nearly choked. Even Ilatheril looked stunned. The Three...
Then this hit me last night. I don't know where it's going. Sitharensor and Ilatheril do, I think... and they're not entirely happy.
I also have a sneaking suspicion that at some point down the line I am going to commit the closest thing to blasphemy my beliefs allow. All good then?
“I’m impressed.” Ilatheril said, guiding his burden carefully through the door.
Sir Hrolf nodded, manoeuvring his bulk to block any view should anyone be passing.
“I mean, the acceptance speech. The honours. All the dignitaries.”
Amos squeezed past into the apartments, wringing his hands in worry, but firmly keeping his mouth shut after Sir Hrolf’s growled injunction for silence.
“And I didn’t sense any magic at all!”
“No magic... my Lord.” Amos squeaked slightly. Never had the Troll called an Unseelie lord before. “Though you are in a better position to judge that than I.”
“Then...?”
“Training, my Lord. Years of training.”
“I’m still impressed. I mean he fainted once the head honchos finished and still managed to get through all that formality without anyone noticing. He gave a whole half hour speech while technically unconscious. He’s good.”
Hrolf suppressed a disapproving glance. Instincts towards his lords husband were conflicting with instincts honed on centuries of battlefields against the Unseelie. It was building up into an internal domestic incident the humans could only dream of. “His lordship does not faint.”
“Well, true. Sidhe don’t faint. We can’t do that freaky unconscious thing - sleep and stuff.”
“Sidhe can fall in battle, be rendered unconscious from their wounds. My Lord.” Ilatheril gave the huge Troll a wary look, but even the best politician would have trouble reading that stony face.
“Whatever. He’s in info-shock then. Whatever, he’s out of it .”
“My lord, may I strongly suggest we refrain from speaking so openly. There are many who are not above scrying on his Lordship’s bed chamber.” Ilatheril started, caught between feeling like an idiot for not thinking sooner, and anger for being corrected by a Troll. Guilt won out over both and he hurried to guide the near inert Sitharensor through the bedroom.
Sitharensor moved when prompted, and was apparently capable of reflexive actions. Ilatheril had to laugh that reflexive actions for a Seelie seemed to include political speeches and pointless etiquette. It wouldn’t be permanent... he hoped anyway. Gods, what did he know about it anyway? He was no doctor. It looked like info override, sidhe were never good at taking in too much info at once. It always takes a few minutes to take in anything major... this was just it on a grand scale. Right?
He could ask the Troll, but the Unseelie couldn't quite force himself to. He was a Sidhe, wasn’t he supposed to know this stuff? Besides, the Troll would probably tell him, oh so bloody politely, to shut up again. Besides, he was feeling a bit overloaded himself. They were supposed to hunt down the people who did this? How...?
Sir Hrolf stepped back carefully as the stillness overtook the Unseelie. He had seen the Sidhe enter trances a thousand times over the centuries. All life seemed to stop, all of that perfect, wondrous magic sucked within, leaving nothing but an achingly beautiful statue. A statue with great powers roiling just beneath the surface. He didn’t pretend to understand, some said the sidhe communed with the Aesir in such times. Some said the sidhe were the Aesir and during such times they returned to lands beyond normal ken to seek answers. Others said that no place was truly barred from Sidhe eyes, and during these trances their souls left their bodies to quest across the world, seeing all, knowing all, to find what answers they wish. More than one plot had fallen apart for fear that the Sidhe could be watching, invisible and bodiless, from any corner. The Sidhe gave no clues if any or all were correct. And no-one ever dared ask. Hrolf shuddered, an almost imperceptible tremor. The lords of the fae were great and terrible masters to serve.
Hours seemed to pass. Hrolf stood, a stone sentinel against the advancing night. Amos fidgeted around the room, throwing himself into frenzied bout of unnecessary housework. Anything to avoid the staring, unseeing eyes of the quiet gods.
The moon had passed its zenith when the gods finally stirred. Light returned to their eyes and determination settled onto their brow. Amos stepped back into Hrolf’s shadow, vainly seeking to escape the gaze of beings whose eyes seemed able to pierce any barrier, even unto the very soul of those they beheld.
Ilatheril spoke first, his violet eyes throwing light that was eaten by the maw of his shadowed hair. “No sane Unseelie Sidhe would have done this. Few of us have any illusions about what we have lost, and the last war is too fresh in too many memories. Besides, to steal such an artefact would be an act that borders on sacrilege. Still, I can think of two or three whose sanity might be so far gone for them to attempt this.”
Sitharensor shook his head slowly. His sunlit hair bringing noon’s light even to the night shrouded room. “I feel heavy with cruel knowledge, and see pitfalls to eat us all opening up in front of us. Yet I cannot face them now, and if we do not face this current crisis, then resolving them may not even be an issue.” He sighed heavily, using the movement to almost physically cast these future burdens aside. “We need to know more. We must seek council.”
Amos twittered to life “who could council the sidhe!?”
Ilatheril laughed, just a little bitter. “Many, my friend, many. The Sluagh, the Shades, the Hags. All, and more, hold secrets.”
Sitharensor nodded. “Aye, the Norns, the Furies, the Centaurs... the Three.” Sir Hrolf bit back an oath.... Amos nearly choked. Even Ilatheril looked stunned. The Three...