JuneFae continuation - Nino, Flavio, Alan

Glossary - the Fey court, official titles:

Suzerain - ‘my liege’, used when referring to a Fae higher in status.

Sovran - ‘my King/Queen/Monarch’ but also ‘Your Highness’. The formal title of the Fae who is ruling at the given moment.

Sherang - ‘person in authority’, here, ‘the General/Leader of the Sentries’. The Fey don’t have a proper military unit, since militia of all kinds are seen as ‘barbaric’, but the sentries are the closest to the military they have.

***

Alan: the newly abdicated Fey King, who after being enthroned twice refused to rule for the third time... because he was bored. A change of rulers in the Fey realm is a different affair than in the mortal world. The change is more frequent and it’s common for even as many as 10 different Fey to be enthroned in a  century (though it is unusual for a Fae to abdicate, since the position of a ruler, no matter how temporary, is rather sought and wanted). MC is a mercenary hired to assassinate Alan on 2 separate occasions. They didn’t succeed and by some strange twist of fate (called ‘Alan paying more than their previous boss’), they turned on their ex-employer. So, it’s ‘I tried to kill you but failed’ to friends to lovers.

***Alan***

In the absolute darkness of the hallway, where several beams of undying lights should have been lit but aren’t, the stench of copper hanging like a guillotine in the air that surrounds you seems more potent than it would be if your sense of sight wasn’t disrupted.

What you can’t see, however, you make up for with touch; the sleek tiled walls are wet and slippery with blood that clings to your gloves undoubtedly staining their material. The uneven edge of the frame protrudes through the smoothness, alerting you that you have found the door. When you feel for the knob, you find it unlocked.

The flash of worry that surges through you is surprising, but you don’t dwell on it. Just like you didn’t dwell on the two corpses you found earlier in the hall, bodies still warm but stiffening when you pushed one with the tip of your shoe.

There are three more bodies inside, in the antechamber. These are fresher, not yet rigid. Despite the viscera on display, the aroma of blooming trees overcomes the fetor of death. As you walk further, you notice three identical weapons scattered on the floor, blades clean and gleaming in the pale moonlight that is peeking through the row of intricate windows, one of which is devoid of the protective barrier serving as a glass substitute.

The control jewel is missing - the breach had to be inside work then.

Increasing your pace, but not yet running, you march into the main parlor, pushing the door open with your elbow. The room is marginally brighter than the previous one, bathed in the hues of midnight, though immensely larger, with thin lace draperies swaying on the breeze and richly woven curtains separating the chamber into smaller areas.

Once one of them shifts and you catch a glimpse of the silhouette standing by another open window, your steady grasp on the twin daggers you wield in both hands relaxes.

The gleam coming from the outside has nothing on the reflective shine of the heavy cape made of thousands of diamonds’ fragments interlaced into a thick impenetrable layer that cascades down the fae’s back. Every slight movement, like the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes, makes the flecks of iridescent light twirl and dance on every surface of the lodge.

Without irises, which dimmed as a result of poisoning he survived during his first enthronement, you can only guess that the soon-to-be-ex-king is looking at you - you weren’t exactly silent rushing inside. Privately, it still shocks you a bit, even after all these years, that he trusts you enough to show his weakness without the glamour on.

“Sovran.”

His expression doesn’t change, save for the slight drop of the covers of his lips. The flakes of pure gold stuck to the skin of his under eyes and cheeks compensate for the glow of the absent pupils. “I am fairly sure I already refused the {i}honor{i}.”

“It’s not finalized yet.” After all, he has been chosen barely yesterday, and there’s still the official ball to attend to, the resignation ball to follow, and, well, many more, all of them mandatory.

Huffing out a laugh, he doesn’t turn fully towards you until he feels you stand by his side. From this close and after giving your eyes a moment to get used to the darkness, you realize that his hands - that he’s now very graciously wiping on the burgundy tablecloth - are covered with red.

It’s not his blood; Fey don’t bleed red. His assassin had to be either human or adjacent, which isn’t far from surprising considering the laws against regicides and killing of other Fey besides.

Ordering a murder is... another matter entirely. You’d know, seeing as you were charged with the same task twice before your would-be target got annoyed enough to kill your employer outright, in the middle of the court, breaking all the taboos and getting pardoned. He was, after all, the Crown, and whatever the Crown says, goes.

Another puff of laughter, far lighter and sweeter than one might expect escapes the fae’s lips as he glances at one of the daggers you began absentmindedly twirl in your hand.

“What?”

His head tilts, and the mass of curls, that in the shadows appear almost black, spills over his shoulder along with the various hair ornaments made from green gold. “Nothing,” he smiles, a minute twitch before the neutral expression of half-scorn half-ennui returns. “I was just thinking.”

“Of?” You urge, being fully aware now, that he needs coaxing to continue his musings out loud.

“About fate.”

“Fate?”

With a languid rise of his head, he indicates the corpses lying on the doorsteps and the trails of red smeared where they fell. “Isn’t that how we met?”

“Well...” Not precisely, but you can appreciate the humor. “I didn’t die, for one.” Meaning: he didn’t get to kill you.

“Not for the lack of trying,” he responds, guessing your thoughts.

“Oh, please,” you scowl, putting your dagger away, right on the soiled tablecloth. The blunt tip hooks into the fabric, leaving a tear. Somehow you doubt that anyone will care. If anything, it will be an excuse to rearrange the decor. “Don’t flatter me. We both know that had you wanted you'd have finished me twice over. And,” you lift your hand to stop him from interrupting when you know he’s about to, “that on the first attempt. Not to mention the second one after you were crowned again.”

It’s true, and he would lie were he to deny it.

You’re skilled, yes, but when you signed the contract with your former employer you were young, naïve, and desperate. Most importantly though, you were a rookie. That he didn’t strike you down during the initial attempt was just sheer dumb luck. The second... Well. Now, with the centuries of experience and the marking of immortality debossed on your skin glamoured away by the fae’s favor, the story would have ended differently. You’d still be a goner, of course, but you should at least manage to graze him.

Not that you care about overseeing his demise. On the contrary, you’d much prefer him to stay alive.

The decades of playing cat and mouse between his first and second coronation and the little jobs you did for other high Fey in the time you waited for the next exchange of power somehow brought you closer.

He, to your constant puzzlement, though brought up as a member of the Court, had not only excessive martial training under his belt, but also a smuggling business on the side. Very unlike other Fey that you had the misfortune to meet and work for. Despite all that, your ‘mark’ was always more interested in huddling up in his bedroom and wasting his years away hunched over books sneaked from the mortal realm. He was different, and interesting, for a fae. And that interest stalled your hand enough to both keep your life and get to know him.

By the time he gutted your ex-boss in the full view of every Fey of importance, it was your dagger he’d been using, laced with poached poison which would ensure that there would be no physical body left to resurrect.

If not for that, there’s no doubt your paths would have crossed once more, on the occasion of his third, though refused, inauguration.

Just like fate, sure.

“Let us agree to disagree,” he says eventually, and you leave it at that.

***

Nino: the new - and reluctant - Sherang of the sentries (after the previous one went and eloped with a runaway human). More than actually supervising the underlings she’s supposed to train, she’s interested in fighting various creatures that can be found in the forest in both the Fey and Human realms. She’s not a fae who’s afraid of breaking the unwritten and unspoken rules. Hence she’s the go-to if somebody needs (to give someone) a beating. She’s also fickler than most Fey, so it’s common for her to turn others down. MC, (a former sentry who became a Middle Court’s member) on the other hand, tries to salvage all the influence in the Court that they can, and so they can’t act in the broad daylight. So, they find themself in need of Nino’s help. For the second time in a short time. With all the twists I’d say it’s the ‘friends to enemies to allies to friends to lovers’, if only because she ‘betrays’ or more like ‘lets MC see for themself how cruel her new life is’.

***Nino***

The outskirts of the Lower Court are not a place you thought you’d visit this soon after you had the good fortune of freeing yourself from it. The endless forest you wade through, more so, is an area a fae of your station shouldn’t be seen in. Especially if you’d like to keep said station. And especially if you intend to climb higher. Which you do; after all, you fought tooth and nail for it. Not physically, of course, but it’s the effort that counts.

The marshes - your abandoned birthplace - are deceptive, deadly, and wild. The terrain is encompassed by thick fog and brightened only by the poisonous flowers that emit a glittering vapor, not unlike a swarm of tiny fireflies.

Covering your nose with the hem of your sleeve, you make sure not to breathe in the gas. It wouldn’t do if you returned to the mansion with liquefied lungs. It would be hard to explain to your supervisor, not to mention, quite an unpleasant experience overall.

Paying close attention to the forest floor, you maintain a steady, if slow-ish pace. Here, every wrong step can end with a sunk-in or a broken neck considering the multitude of fallen logs, winding branches, and vines. The latter of which makes you stumble five times in a quarter of an hour since you entered the grounds.

You persist in your march; you’ve come here for a reason. The aforementioned reason - makes herself known when you trip once more, barely managing to stay upright with both hands pressed to the trunk of a thin river birch tree.

You find her like you often do - by chance. Resting on a log, her black skirt rucked up around her knees, bare feet submerged in a stream. In her hand is a sword, its tip so polished and sharp it gleams in the low light of the early morning. On her neck, a cord is wrapped twice, with a bottle of either blood or some kind of poison dangling at its end. How daring to flaunt it like this. Then again, her choice of jewelry, or the lack of it, was always... unusual, to say the least.

Red and black kohl is smeared all over the fae’s eyes, merging with the elaborate painting partially smudged off her cheek. Inwardly, you pity the servant that must have spent hours to make their master presentable, only for her to leave the Court at the earliest convenience to roll around in the mud and destroy all their hard work.

The fae doesn’t provide you with a greeting, nor a sarcastic comment, only letting out a snort at your expense. In her expression, though, you can note the mocking, ‘you, again?’ She seems to enjoy watching you squirm as you ready yourself to strike a bargain you’re not sure you’ll be able to pay off.

“Sherang.”

You begin, as it is proper, with an indication of her status, which despite her being a sentry is higher than yours will ever be. The title only makes her grimace. Then again, she might be just annoyed by you wasting her time that could be spent hunting or fighting.

When she doesn’t acknowledge you in any other way than cocking a thin pale brow, you continue, clearing your throat. “The last time we spoke you expressed a-” ‘Willingness’ is a wrong word. Even though she’s not a fae who extends empty platitudes, and thus you can trust the truthfulness of her subtle overture, you doubt she was actually all that eager to aid your plight. “You said you wouldn't be averse to... taking care of another of my... small problems if such a need would arise in the future.”

“And you came here to make sure I didn’t change my mind?” She asks, but the glint in her pale eyes tells you she knows why you sought her out. She just can’t resist playing with her meal.

“What would you wish for, as a reward?”

“Why do you think I’d wish for anything?” ‘From you’ remains unsaid, but you can read between the lines. It is a skill no fae would survive without in the Court long enough to reach adolescence.

Frowning, you bite your tongue to keep yourself from arguing. If there is a single fae that doesn’t need nor want anything, it would be her, who values bloodshed and violence above all; impossible to tempt with riches or favors. You can’t understand why she helped you once, not to mention why she would do it again, but she’s the only person you can turn to.

“What can I offer you, then?” You sigh, foregoing the traditional acrostics in favor of an honest question. “You’re aware I don’t have much.”

That last addition earns you a huff. You can’t decide if it’s more amused or sardonic, but it can’t be anything positive. For a second she looks as though she wants to inquire, ‘was it worth it?’ To discard everything you had and try to build a new future just for a chance to join the Court, to improve your standing.

In the end, she doesn’t say a thing. It’s not unusual and you’re glad for it; there’s no answer you could give her that wouldn’t be a lie. Either way, you’d be forced to fall silent.

“A favor for a favor, then,” she says after a while, pushing herself off the log, paying no mind to the hem of her dress being drenched in the stream. “Isn’t that how you like it?”

“Isn’t it how everyone likes it? A just exchange-”

Another snort interrupts you, and you observe her as she mouths your own words back at you as if to taste them on her tongue. She chews them, then throws them up. “I’ll call for you.”

“When?” You don’t want to beg, but you’re in a hurry. Not that anyone cares, of course.

“Soon.” She shrugs. And that’s that.

Between one blink and another, the fae disappears amidst the fog, leaving you alone in the deep, murky marches with a sense of foreboding and naught but a thin trail of hope, that unbeknownst to you, soon will be shattered.

***

Flavio: former high fae who fell in love with a witch who used his interest to get access to and then steal a priceless enchanted jewel from the Fey realm. Having lost his position in the Court as a result of the betrayal, humiliated and heartbroken Flavio was degraded to the lower court then shortly after expelled entirely and forced to work as a mercenary in the mortal realm. Even after his mother was crowned as the new Queen, Flavio refused to return. Meanwhile, a chance encounter brought Flavio and his runaway witch (who disappeared on him one day, but now wearing a different body as a disguise) back together. (Hint, they didn’t leave because they wanted to, but Flavio doesn’t know about it.) So, ex-lovers to enemies to friends back to lovers. MC is the witch (and witches have the power to shapeshift here).

***Flavio***

As you enter the dingy tavern, the first thing you smell is the absolutely gut-wrenching fetor of spirits and sweat, rivaling the one of the sewage outside. The lack of windows hinders the airflow, creating an atmosphere of stuffiness and giving the pygmy inn a near-claustrophobic feel.

The wooden, roughly-hewn walls threaten the patrons with their many splinters, making you tread the room as far from them as you can until you reach the crude archway with a slab of thick, moth-eaten fabric attached to the frame, trying - and failing - to perform in the stead of an actual door.

Pushing the material - stiff from the dirt and filth - aside and trying hard not to cringe at the state of the establishment, you step inside the dining area, equipped with worn-out tables and chairs. In the middle, right in front of you stands a pole to which various notes and announcements are pinned with nails, and most noticeably, a sole arrow. The wood is marred with slashes and cuts from the ground to the top.

When you scan the saloon to catch the sight of your new client, in the corner of the room, on the opposite side, you notice someone you would never expect to see, especially not in such a place, and you have to force your legs to move though your first instinct is to freeze in place.

Clad in simple clothes made not with silk but coarse low-quality linen, with his eyes turned towards a note held in his hands, stands a ghost from your past. A fae who could pass for a human if not for his mangled ears and abysmal eyes. Aside from the scars on the helix, there’s another one running down his forehead on the side of his brow, from an old badly-healed slash that he didn’t bother to glamour.

When you saw him last, his face was undamaged and his thick braid - now remarkably barren of any ornaments - had just begun to reach his shoulders. At present, it falls down to his lower back, bound by a string of burgundy cloth.

His head jerks up abruptly when he hears you approach, but he only glances at you with disinterest, promptly returning to his lecture. For a second the lack of emotion in his gaze surprises you before you remember that the face he’s looking at is that of a stranger. Despite his knowledge of your kind, you can’t expect him to discern you while you’re wearing a different body.

You’ve heard of his banishment - an affair as rare as it is unheard of - but you thought it hearsay. For Fey breaking the rules is like child's play; the consequences never dire, the laws lenient. Even if it wasn’t a rumor, he should have regained his position once the Crown changed hands. And yet, there he is. Bathed in the candlelight, he looks as young as he was when you left the Otherworld. Only his visage appears colder, without the easy mirth you grew to expect from him.

His presence doesn’t change your plan, but it makes it harder for you to remember and follow it. Still, you try to shake yourself off, searching for your client, but as you walk past the fae, his head whips back, brows drawn, shoulders tense.

“Sorry, do I know you?”

To hear him address you in such a mild manner is akin to a bucket of cold water being thrown over your body. You’ve never had him sound anything other than genial, never had him regard you with anything other than fondness.

Your lips part, but you make sure to shake your head without enunciating the ‘no’. Your voice is a part of you that cannot be changed, not as your shape can.

“Well, then.” There’s a flash of a smile, though not quite right, flickering and dimming as the fae turns away from you in clear dismissal. “All of you humans look the same. And I’ve seen so many.” Somehow, you don’t doubt it.

In a daze, you finally locate your client. In a daze, you finish your business and leave the bar. Once the door is closed behind you, you let out a breath that seemed to have been stuck somewhere between your lungs and your throat. Sadly, it’s pushed right back into its previous hiding spot, when a pair of familiar golden eyes peer at you from the nearby alley.

“Say, you didn't really think I wouldn't recognize you, right?” The fae stays a few paces from you, leaning on the cobblestone building, the very picture of indolence. “What? No, ‘hello’? It’s been ages, after all.”

The peculiar unhinged shine in his eye renders you speechless. His grin only grows, making you finally see the resemblance between him and his ‘wild’ brother.

“Did you miss me, dearest?” The fae doesn’t seem to mind your silence, more than eager to fill it on his own. “I myself missed you very much.”

“What do you want?” It’s not exactly what you intended to say... it just... happened. Your mind is a mess. Your head is pounding, your heart more so.

“Awww, always so distrustful.” Placing an open hand on his chest, he winces. It’s mock-playful, and that playfulness sends a chill down your spine. “Well, fine.” The smile vanishes as he shifts away from the building, pausing at the edge of the open sewage canal. The stench has to be worse for him than it is for you, but he doesn’t even grimace. “I think, if nothing else, you owe me an explanation.”

Fey are fickle - it's a well-known fact. What isn’t common knowledge is the tenacity, that in rare cases is everlasting. Once the Fey want something, they will get it, one way or another. Be it assets, secrets, favors. But you are bespelled - for you to say the truth is to die. And you have a task to finish before you can allow yourself to perish.

“I owe you nothing.”

“Oh, but I do.” Not giving you a chance to retaliate, with his free hand he pulls out a corroded key from the flaps of his jacket.

To an onlooker, it would be a cheap, useless trinket. For you, it’s a puzzle piece needed to break your curse, a stepping stone on the road to your freedom that the fae dangles in front of you like a carrot on a stick.

He notes the change in your expression, his own brightening in satisfaction. “I owe you everything.”

And then like in a bad dream, he throws the key up, and doesn’t catch it.

***