Imago Ch26: Crossing the River

<- previous



"...Astraea?"

L stands unsteadily, weaving on her feet, ignoring the confused murmur of onlookers. She pulls open the door with numb hands. The wall of roots has been replaced by a quiet hotel lobby. There’s no shrieking nymphs, just a handful of figures in suits. No Astraea, only a bemused look from the concierge. 

“You were right here.”  She says breathlessly.  

A bulky figure pushes past her, a black robe over his arm, but she barely sees him.  She’s barely seeing anything. That blinding static is threatening to wash it all away, but the weight of this moment is too much to keep silent.

“You could have come with me. It would have been fine.” L shudders, weaving on her feet. The world blurs, her eyes stinging. “I-it would have been alright.” 

She convulses, slamming her fist against the doorframe hard enough to shake dust free. “You didn’t have to stay!”

“OI!”  A sharp voice snaps. It’s a goblin, dragging a heavy backpack up the steps behind her. “Yer blocking the way - “ 

She rounds on him, wings flaring, teeth bared. The goblin drops the bag, giving her a nasty grin.   “Going to make something of it? Or you want to just keep making a ruckus?”  

What she wants is to scream, or slice this asshole to ribbons, or throw her body against the door until one of them shatters.   

Instead she spins and runs, bursting through the knot of curious onlookers. The cobblestones of the corridor blur under her feet. She vaults over steps, beats her wings and takes to the air.   Cuts through turns without seeing, and carves a path back to the only place she can think to go.



Madeline wipes the sweat from her brow, setting her broom aside as she admires the newly-cleaned threshold. It's hard work, being a brownie. People assume that cleaning comes naturally, like a compulsion. That brownies are happiest in the midst of a huge mess. 

It’s a belief more popular among the mess-makers. 

At the same time, she’s thankful that she isn’t one of those poor souls bound to an empty estate. Spirits forbid. She'd probably go... well... mad, with only herself for company. Her heart isn’t with the building, but with those inside it. The saucer of cream is just an excuse. Not that she’d ever tell them that, of course.  But still… 

…she cares for these mess-makers.  
Trouble and all. 

She reaches out to close the door, at the very same instant something hurdles out of the nearest alley, crashing into her in a flurry of wings. They tumble end over end into the building, skidding along the freshly polished floor. Madeline blindly grabs for her broom. 

"Salt and iron! The fuck is - "  

She pauses, the tangle of wings and white garments in front of her resolving into a shuddering, sobbing nymph, trying to pull herself up.

“L?“

"Wh-where's…Ian?” L asks, her antennae twitching this way and that as she orients herself.  “Is he h-here?"

“He’s down there, with Trystan.”  Madeline sets the broom against the wall with exaggerated care. “Darkness, L, what ‘appened? Are you hurt?”

L doesn’t answer.  She pulls herself up to the railing and looks around, peering through the mist. The floor around the bar is completely covered in cats, and for one frantic moment, that’s all she can see - but there he is behind the bar, all concentration and focus as he holds a glass steady for the distillery. He barely seems real. 

She’s over the edge in a heartbeat.

"Ian!" 

L  glides to the floor below, scattering cats and chairs, narrowly missing the corner of a sturdy table. She stops a few paces away.  

"... L?”

Ian does a double take, almost dropping his glass.

“Bloody hell, mate, izzit really you!?" He vaults the counter, laughing, a thrill of relief in his voice. "You're BACK? You only just left!  Did you find your - "

Ian trails, frowning.  “- mate? What is it?” 

L stares at him.  She feels so far away.  She doesn’t realise she's moving until she crashes into his chest.

"You're safe.” Her voice cracks. He's warm against her cheek. Solid and real. “You're okay!" 

He scoops her up, holds her tight. L's wings sweep up like a blanket, knocking glasses from the counter, sheltering them both. 

"I'm safe. I'm okay."  Ian says.

"I was so worried." She whispers.  "You're sure?" She looks up, touching the side of his face, his neck, everywhere she can reach. He nods and kisses her on her forehead.  

"You can give me a full inspection if you’re worried."  

"W-we almost didn’t make it back."  She says in a horse whisper.  “Th-they… didn’t want to let me go.  Astraea, she - “ She jolts, pulling away.  “ - we have to go back!  Ian, there’s no time we, I just left her there and - “

“L, slow down.”   

“I can’t! There’s NO time! It - “

“The faster you slow down and explain, the sooner we can get moving, yeah?”  L looks up, wipes her eyes and nods.  “There you go.  Now, from the start.  What happened?”

What happened.

Ian shifts, bringing them both down on one of the booth benches. She leans against him, struggling to keep her voice steady. 

Slow down.

Explain.

"Th-their leader.” She forces out.  “The dryad king. It was him. He...forced Lyra out. W-wanted everyone to think she just left.  Wanted Astraea to - “

Too much. 

“The - the dryads who thought like Astraea, who - might care about nymphs, he w-wanted them gone, wanted them discredited. And it all came out. Right in front of everyone. And they all just - they - “ 

Killing light, flaring past her in great golden torrents. Ozone in her antennae. Slashing arms and screaming nymphs.

“War.”  She says in a harsh gasp.

Ian pulls her close, a hand on her hair, letting what she’s saying wash over him and sink in. He blows out a slow breath. 

"Been a busy three days."

L looks at him, confused, before it hits her. He wouldn’t know. 

“N-no, it…time works differently there.” 

“How different?” Ian gives her a concerned look. “

“I think it was…about a month? I-it’s hard to be exact - ” 

She’s surprised to see the look of relief on his face, but of course he’d have jumped to the worst case. Years. Decades. Only a month… not so long.

“And you got out.” He presses. 

“Yes, we - “ 

She stops.

No.  

Not ‘we’ at all. Ian catches the look on her face.

“L?” His hand trails around her own, holding her gently.  “What happened to Astraea?”  

The sound of rushing aether. A heartbeat so close she can feel it. Warm hands on her shoulders. Breath against her cheek. Final words falling away,

away, 

away.

"I have to go back."  

L lurches away unsteadily, holding herself upright on his arm. “Ian, I have to go back right now - “ 

“She’s alive, then.”

“I don’t know.” L’s voice cracks again. “I-I hope so, but I can’t just - I can’t leave her, Ian. I can’t leave her there for them!” 

“Shh. Don’t fret. We’ll get her back.” Ian raises his voice, calling back to the bar.  “Trystan, are you hearing this?”

“Voices do carry. ” Trystan slides out from the back room, his carapace of bottles rattling. He turns off the distillery, noting the nearly-overflowing bottle with a rueful wink. “Welcome back, L. Sorry to see you in such a state.”

She self -consciously gets to her feet, trying to arrange herself. Trystan drums his fingers on the bar, attracting the attention of a pair of tabby kittens.  “So you’re looking for a way back to the Wilds.”

“Yes.”  

“Someone opened the door for your return, but closed the door behind you.”

“...yes.” L's wings flutter soundlessly, stirring the fog around their ankles. In the minutes that have passed here, how long has it been in Xylia?  "Astraea pushed me through."  

“Why?”  Ian asks, putting an encouraging hand on her shoulder.  “Why would she stay behind?”

“She said... this was how she could make things right.”  L shudders. There's a tiny pain at the center of her chest, like a bright, glowing ember embedded in her ribs.  “I couldn’t get her to understand how I felt…”

Ian’s hand tenses, drawing back involuntarily. A pang of guilt shoots through her. “Ian, I - “ 

“The only way to Xylia is to find a being capable of opening the doorway there.” Trystan interrupts. “A dryad, for instance. Without that, th only option is to find a gate that’s been left open, or a fairy circle - ”

L perks up, thinking of the memory from the reliquary. Trystan catches the look on her face and shakes his head, allowing one of the kittens to playfully grab for his fingers.   

“ - but they're hard to find, and unpredictable. You could spend a lifetime looking for one, only to be deposited a thousand leagues from your Grove.”

“So we get someone to knock on the door for us. Ever see a dryad down here that wasn’t Astraea?” Ian asks. “An exile, or - “

The second kitten makes a rush for the glass, but he lifts the little creature out of the way, gently setting it at the other end of the bar. “Not in the past few decades. And I can’t think of anyone else capable of it, not here.”

Ian leans closer, watching the kitten scamper back to where it was.  “...what about her?”  He says, pointing to the kitten.

There’s a rustle of motion around the room. Trystan stiffens, and L’s skin prickles. Every single cat has turned to watch, staring like the little group is something breakable they’d like to push from a ledge. A soft scraping sound draws her attention. The Siamese she’s grown to fear is sitting bolt upright on a shelf, idly tracing a gouge through the polished wood with a single claw.

"How very presumptive." The King’s eyes glitter. “I suppose you believe We are also capable of growing into a ten-meter-tall tree?”

“No. No, he’s right, isn’t he?” L breathes. For one wild moment, all she wants to do is kiss him. “It’s your door. What sort of cat would want a door they can’t open?” 

The King’s tail twitches, and she yawns. L tries not to flinch at the sight of all those teeth. "Fine. Yes. Congratulations. You may have a biscuit.”

Ian starts to stand, grinning excitedly. He’s halted by a chorus of piping voices, the King voicing her displeasure through half a dozen mouths.

“But why would We?” 

“B-because - ”  L stammers, holding up a finger as she tries to figure out her argument as she goes. “ - you don’t want them coming here to f-find me!”  

The King narrows her eyes. “Xylia has done little more than mutter at itself for thousands of years, and a month with you and they’ve begun to kill each other. We are not surprised.” 

L winces. "F-fair- " 

"We favour the dryadist faction to secure victory. Four chances in five.”  The King tilts her head back, considering. The fur along her back rises, then falls again. “With this in mind, and assuming that you’ll face immediate execution, We are more than happy to return you to the Wilds- "

"Thank you, your Majesty!" 

The King wrinkles her nose, clearly unsure how to respond. She settles for furiously washing her paw. Ian stands up, pulling L close. 

“I’m going with her. Non-negotiable.”  L looks up at him, surprise on her face. He grins back.   "There's no way I'm letting you face this alone, yeah?"

She nods slowly, lacing her fingers in his.

"Half-thought-out, shoddy, doomed from the start..."  Neith's voice echoes through the room. She shifts a hard candy from cheek to cheek as she approaches. “Lolly’s back and making plans, then?” 

"That’s right." L’s antennae twitch. "Coming?"

Neith bites down on the candy. It crunches audibly, and her eyes glow lemon yellow. "I've been dying to find out what aether tastes like when it’s fresh."

“Your Majesty- ”  L asks, a little quaver of hopeful desperation in her voice. The King growls, her tail lashing.

“Yes, alright, you may all go to die. At once! Let Us be done with this miserable business!” 

Cats disperse, winding quietly among the chairs. The King hops down lightly, landing on her feet. "We shall meet you at the gate. Do not keep Us waiting."

And with that, she’s gone, her tail bobbing off just above the layer of mist. Ian breathes out, watching her leave. His hand tightens around L’s. 

"When we get there... doesn’t sound like we'll be finding ourselves on the winning side, does it?" 

L smiles queasily.  “You may need to grab that tire iron."

“Back in a moment.” He hurries off toward the attic. Neith groans. 

“And I’ll fetch my own stash, I suppose. See you at the gate.” 

Madeline bumps against L’s shoulder as Neith departs. The brownie’s holding a satchel close against her chest. She shoves it brusquely into L’s arms before she can ask what’s in it.

“Thought ye could use a change.” 

L pulls back the flap, looking inside. It’s the boots and hoodie she first wore when she came to the Glade. Nestled between them is one of Selkie’s forest green dresses. L swallows around a sudden lump in her throat.

“S-sorry, Mads. I promised you I would help with the wake - “

“Stuff it! I’m still holding ye to it. Don’t think you’re getting off the hook so easy, nymph.” She gives her a playful shove. L laughs and nods, looking down at the dress. She smiles wistfully.

“Mads, what… what do you think Selkie would have thought about all this? If she were - ”

“Oh, she’s still here.”  Madeline grins, a little sadness in her eyes. “Couldn’t turn down a show, that one. Even if she’s eating popcorn in the gallery instead of standing in the spotlight.” 

L laughs again, closing the bag. "If...if anything happens… I - "  

Mads punches her in the arm. L squeaks.

"Ow! What was that for?”

"Reminding you all the favours you owe me.”  Madeline puffs up.  “So you better come back, I’m not getting left holding the bag on all your mess!"

She hesitates, fidgeting with the edge of her apron.

"... promise?"

"I promise.” L  says, pulling her into a quick hug. “I live here, don’t I?”

Madeline wriggles free, and gives her another shove. “Yeah. With the rest of us.” 

Heavy boots thump on the ladder. Ian’s hurrying down to them, a bag slung over his shoulder. 

“Good to go, mate?” Ian calls. L nods, holding the bag against her chest as Trystan eases out from behind the bar. 

“I’ll see them off this time.” He says, putting a hand on Madeline’s shoulder. “I have a parting gift for before they go.”

Madeline watches them go. Through the mist, up the stairs, and across the threshold. She knows she could follow them that far, to the end of where the magic will allow her. And after that…

Can’t stop the mess-makers, can I?

If you’re out there, Selkie…
What would you have told her?

“What’s the bloody racket?” Hedrick calls gruffly, sticking his head out from behind the stage curtain. Three of his arms are balancing a mountain of ledgers, if only just. “Can barely get the adding-up done with the noise - “ 

“L’s back.” Madeline says nonchalantly. The ledgers come crashing down, just like she knew they would. 

“The moff’s WHAT -  “

She kneels and starts to collect them into her lap.  Instinctually.  Methodically.  One sheet at a time.  “Yep. Back and gone again.”

“WHAT?”

She grins cheekily.  “Just missed her.”

And somewhere deeper in the Glade, she swears she can hear Selkie’s laugh.

"Are we ready?" L asks, looking up at the darkened door. 

The King has cleared the area, maintaining the perimeter of cats at a distance. Once again, she’s had to push back a knot of onlookers - a few curiously indistinct figures in cloaks, a pair of stray pixies, and Trystan, still watching anxiously. Maybe he’s the only one who really knows what they’re walking into. L tightens her grip around a bronze knife Ian snatched from the bar. On her left, Neith has her oversized jacket stuffed to bursting with candy. And at her right, Ian’s clutching his tire iron, checking the box of salt tucked into his bag for good measure.  

Ridiculous weapons for a war against dryads. But then again, she isn’t going there to fight a war. All she wants is to find Astraea, bring her back, and survive.

"Fairyland won't know what hit it." Ian says, giving the tire iron an experimental swing.

"Just remember, some of the dryads are on our side."  L swallows, remembering Octavia clawing through the dome of branches.  "And some of the nymphs aren't. So stick close.” 

"You’ve both got more nerve than I thought."  Neith grins down at her.  “Or fewer brains.”

“Probably the latter.”  L adds, her nerves crawling. She turns to the perimeter of cats.  “We’re ready when you are, your Majesty."

The ring of cats stirs, and the King pads out of the mass, pointedly looking away from her. It’s so like the attitude of an offended but perfectly ordinary cat that L has to remind herself not to smile.

"Erm..." L curtsies, her wings fluttering uncomfortably. "I know it got tangled, but thank you for letting us into your Market."

“If We could take it back, We would.” The King mutters at the nearest wall. She makes a face that could almost be mistaken for a smile. “But We did find you…surprising, at the very least. Perhaps you’ll surprise the dryads again. Should you not, We hope you will find it gratifying to know We will do our best to retrieve your skull for Our collection. Now, all of you, stand back. It has been some time since We last did this."

L, Ian and Neith all back away. The cats expand outwards, eyes gleaming, herding the watching crowd. 

The King’s shadow flickers, twitches and swells, as if attached to something much larger. She reaches up, passing a paw over the door, and four great claw-marks rend the air. Aether spills from the tear, filling the portal like water. Her eyes flare with power as she hisses crackling syllables in a language that twists to fit her mouth. 

L shudders, watching runes blaze into life around the arch, one by one.  She tenses, ready to fly as soon as they’re through.

"Last chance, everyone..."

Ian tightens his grip around the tire iron.  "Wouldn’t dream of it."

The portal stills to amber glass, and the King turns away, power releasing with an audible snap. She smiles again, baring a collection of teeth sharp as frost.   

"The way is open. Go now, before We change - "

SHCK

The King freezes. 

Twisting her neck, she gazes at the knife embedded in her side. A shiver runs through her spine, and her shadow spasms. Her pupils swell, something dark and clotted in her eyes struggling for release. As one, the circle of cats shrieks. Ian claps his hands to his ears. L drops to her knees. 

Something large rushes past her, takes the knife by the handle, and twists.

The King of the Market’s mouth drops open. Her cats scatter in a dozen different directions, no sign of the intelligence that had controlled them remaining.  The shadow flares in her eyes, clawing past her fangs in a wavering cloud…and then dwindles away, drawn back within her form. With a soft sigh, she collapses in on herself, crumbling into dust and a mirror.

Slowly Trystan rises, smiling distantly, and sheathes his knife. 

"Trystan?"  L's voice sounds small in her own ears. Something far away and not quite real. She can’t have seen this right. Something else has to be happening. It doesn't make sense.  "W-what - "

"I am sure you have many questions. And I have many answers.” Trystan bends down to pluck a small silver mirror from the King’s remains, lifting it and brushing away the ash.  “But unfortunately, all I have time for is this.” 

He reaches up to his wrist, twitching aside a pair of bottles attached to a slender chain bracelet, and gives the ornament a sharp yank. The links shatter, bouncing to the cobbles in a metallic spray. A hot, dry wind picks up, whipping at their faces. Trystan’s coat of bottles shudders and flakes away, evaporating into nothingness. His features fade. Shift. A powerfully-built man with silver hair and a neatly trimmed beard steps forward, smiling, spreading his arms wide in greeting.

L's breath catches. She's seen his face before. Twisting in pain, pressing a hand over his slashed throat.

"Bookkeeper."

Something snaps inside her.  She leaps, knife arcing through the air.

"Be still, Lloyd Morgan."  Her body seizes, and L crashes to the ground with a cry. Bookkeeper clicks his tongue. “Oh, dear. Perhaps you shouldn’t have been so eager to sell your name?“ 

Something blurs past her, trailing lemon-yellow light. Neith’s fist crashes out in a wild haymaker. He dodges to the right and raises his arm, deflecting the blow.

"Lloyd Morgan, please occupy your friend." 

Neith cackles.  "I'm sorry, just what do you think lolly's going to - "

"Neith look out!" L shouts, already springing into the air. She's moving haphazardly, but with the same force she had before as she swings the knife at Neith’s throat. The leannan sidhe dodges back and forth, twitching as she tries to hold herself back from a counterblow. She growls, braces - 

And L crashes into her, tackling her to the ground, the knife scraping against cobbles. The Bookkeeper smiles in satisfaction. His eyes shift, and he steps back, neatly avoiding Ian’s overhand swing with the tire iron. 

"RELEASE HER!” He roars, lashing out for another swing. The Bookkeeper leans aside. 

"I'm not here to fight. We’re friends, aren’t we? Why don’t we all just calm down? Take a moment to think.” 

He lifts the mirror. The surface is solid black, save for a pair of furious feline eyes. Ian freezes mid-swing, the tire iron tumbling from nerveless fingers. He chokes, struggling to move, unable to look away from the glass. Humming softly, the Bookkeeper shoves him to the ground, planting a boot on his wrist. He leans forward, hard enough to force a garbled cry of pain from Ian.  

“Don’t make me break it.” He says, shifting the mirror to point at Neith. She freezes, her hand caught halfway to the knife. L grabs for it, her hand twitching as she raises the blade, her eyes wide with horror. The Bookkeeper waits for a heartbeat, and then clears his throat. 

"No need. Please come here, Lloyd Morgan."   

L jerks upright, pulled by an invisible string running through her spine. She stumbles toward him,  leaving Neith to wheeze behind her.  

"What are you?" She rasps. “Why are you doing this?”

The Bookkeeper regards her, then offers a pleasant smile.  "Once upon a time, I was called Alastor O'Reilly. Please understand, there’s no need for all this unpleasantness." He leans forward again, and Ian gasps, his hand spasming. “I’m not here to hurt any of you.”

"Then what - "

“Only to take my leave, nothing more.” Alastor points to the open portal. L catches her breath in horror.

“You… you could have come with us! You didn’t have to kill the King!”

“You don’t think so? Alas, there truly is no time to explain. Only to leave you with your gift.”

She spits, fighting to move her feet.  “Let me go!”

“I will unmake that which you did not choose, and dissolve that which binds you." Alastor caresses her cheek, tipping her head back by her chin. He stands up, the light from the portal gleaming off of the silver in his hair. "Lloyd Morgan, I name you to the world. Return to what you should have been and end this unnatural union.” 

Cold rushes across her skin. Darkness presses in on her, a whisper of grasses hissing on the wind, tickling at her knees.  She looks down at the back of her hand. Spiderweb lines trace through her flesh, trickling up her forearm like empty veins. 

They surge. 
Split.

L screams.

Newly exposed flesh bursts through from underneath. Thousands of tiny hairs, bristling and quivering as they start to dry in the pitch-black air.  She falls to the ground, writhing and shrieking, her bones distending with every movement. Too many and too long. Her flesh can’t hold them.   Her shrieks grow louder and louder until - 

- something bursts from her.   
The wind fades.
The light dies.

Lloyd Morgan lies on the cobbles at Alastor's feet, wingless and crumpled in the torn dress and jacket. And next to him, her hand in his, is a pale, naked bundle.

Wings stir.

Lyra lifts her head, keening in the back of her throat, wobbling drunkenly as she raises her talons. Alastor watches her. 

"Oh, how I've missed you, Lyra.” He says, a wistful look in his eyes. “I will not forget my promise."

“Wait - “ Lyra rasps

He walks to the open portal, tracing a reverent finger over its surface, watching it ripple with violent energy.  

“All lives come to an end, eventually. Thank you for being such a significant part of mine.” He looks to each of them, landing lastly on Lyra.  “Farewell, my friends.” 

Alastor turns and passes through. The gate blinks out, its light draining away and dwindling into the stones.

Silence.

A wave of pressure pulses through the room. A tremor runs through the floor. Dust trickles down from the ceiling. In the distance, someone screams.  Neith groans, pulling herself to her feet as Ian pulls his arm against his chest. 

"What..." Lloyd lifts his head, his face twisting as he tries to take it in. His voice is rougher, deeper. "What did..."

"...he..." Lyra rasps, like smooth pebbles scraping together, her hands pressing against the ground to push herself upright.

They turn.  Lock eyes.

A strangled sound escapes from Lloyd's throat. 

"No time, lolly."  Neith grabs Lyra bodily around the waist and throws her over her shoulder, ignoring the nymph’s feeble hisses and swats. "Fetch the other one, Ian, we have to GO!"

Ian pulls himself to his feet, staggering. The world’s starting to tilt, sloshing like water in a bowl.  

"W-what about Madeline! Hedrick! Try-" Lloyd bites the name off, shakes his head. "We can't just leave them!"

Something whispers up from the depths of the caverns, a sound like wind moving in reverse. Panicked shapes rush toward them, shopkeepers and vendors, fleeing the darkening shadows for the light of the hotel.

"This was the King’s realm! It’s all coming apart without her!" Neith yells, slamming her other shoulder into the door. It bangs open, revealing a perfectly ordinary lobby on the other side. The cloud of pixies darts overhead. "You want to be trapped with them? MOVE, Ian!"

"... what have we done..."  Ian whispers, lifting Lloyd into his arms and joining the rush for the exit. 

Lloyd knows he shouldn't look back, but he can’t stop. The cavern is collapsing in on itself, folding away into sheets of darkness, like a curtain coming down over the entire Market. The wind whips around them as they flee. It's made of voices. Horrified shouts dwindling down to whispers. Lloyd thinks he can recognise some of them. Cadogan's bellow. Madeline's scream.

He's almost grateful when the sound is drowned out by Lyra's heartbroken shriek.

They cross over just in time, along with the dozen or so others lucky enough to be close to the door, emerging in a sudden rush that startles the few guests lingering in the lobby. The screaming stops, cut off as abruptly as the stroke of a knife. The doorway shimmers, and in another burst of pressure it solidifies. 

Where the stairs to the Market had been is now a blank concrete wall. 

Ian sets Lloyd down slowly, moving in a daze. It’s all too much, all at once. Neith releases down her own scrambling burden, and Lloyd shrugs out of the oversized hoodie, handing it to the nymph.  

“What do we do now?” He asks, his voice numb. The crowd in the lobby shifts. He can see his own thoughts reflected in their faces. The shock, the disbelief. A wizened little goblin prods at the wall, as if he could just open it with a touch. 

Someone gasps. The crowd parts, turning.

A woman stands in the entrance of the Spectral Suites, her mouth working soundlessly. She stares at the bedraggled group in robes, the uniformed púca behind the desk, the wizened little redcap reading a tabloid in an armchair and the ordinary-looking businessman who’d been bartering with a pair of trolls.

She screams. 

Up and down the streets, people turn and look, pointing, shouting, staring in confusion. Panic breaks out across the lobby as the inhabitants realise what’s happening. Fae dash in all directions, and the concierge whisks himself into the rooms behind his desk.  

"They can see the Suites!" Lloyd breathes, staring through the iron-latticed windows. Something grips his arm, and he starts.  It’s Lyra, half-crouched, her talon tapping nervously at him.

"We need to go.”

"Go? Where?"

The nymph fixes him with a furious, tear-streaked stare.  

"Home."



Helios’ robes hang in singed tatters. He can feel the vicious bruising forming across his chest, and the deep slash along his arm. Thisbe keeps trying to bandage it, but he shoos her away without looking. He wants to bask in this moment, to luxuriate in it. His triumphal march. With this, who would dare deny him anything?

The broad avenue to the portal is scarred from aetherblasts and debris, bodies among the rubble, but otherwise empty. The great bulk of the portal guardian kneels in deactivated surrender. Xylia has either locked itself behind its doors, or is already a part of… the event. 

Yes. An event. Something new. Something exciting. Perhaps he should thank the creature for her part in this. In the appropriate setting, of course.

“Lord Helios…” Thisbe’s voice flutters, as they approach the darkened portal. The delightfully sharp form of Attendant Octavia stands guard to meet them. Alone, regrettably. Well. It had been a faint hope, and disappointment is hardly the end of the game.

“No little visitors at our gates, then?” Helios asks. Octavia’s head jerks up, her talons folding and bowing at his approach.   

“No, Lord Helios. I do not believe she will return. Even to reclaim…” 

“Our disgraceful sister?” Helios lets the laugh bubble out of him. This is a much better game than stealing her nymph, or her…human, or whatever the creature is. And to think he’d been so upset! “Don’t underestimate her, Attendant. She’s crept around far too long to simply come charging back in. We’ll need to keep a careful watch for quite some time.”

“Of course, Lord Helios.” Octavia’s head twitches, the way it does when she’s considering a morsel of thought. “And…the Lady Astraea?” 

“Under guard, with the rest of the traitors.” Helios shrugs. “Or, the survivors, at any rate. Don’t think Elder Brother has forgotten who delivered her to him. I’m sure he’ll find some special way to reward you - “ 

Something cracks, and the portal arch flares to life, runes vibrating around the edge. Octavia turns, and Helios brightens.

“Well, well. Here’s the little mouse after all.” He takes a step forward, his heart racing at the thought. The dryad lifts his hand and points at the crackling gate. 

“...Lord Helios…” Thisbe smiles, her voice trembling. “S-surely you won’t - Lord Evander will wish to see her secured, perhaps you shouldn’t - “

“Dear, sweet, soft-hearted Thisbe. Don’t worry, I’m not going to kill her.” Helios purrs, and now he can feel the aether singing through him, warming his arms, demanding release. “How can I ask Evander to gift her to me if she’s dead?” 

Light plays along his fingertips.

“I’m just going to pluck her wings.“ 

The surface ripples. 

Something comes through. 

It’s swift and sharp. It plunges into Octavia’s chest, turning like a key in a lock, and she simply dissolves into dust. But Helios can’t focus on that. All he sees is the darkened glass before him, the oval mirror and the shadows billowing within. Something’s holding it, a bulky, graceful shape, but that’s not important either. Just the mirror. And his traitorous muscles, refusing to move. 

There’s noise behind him, a shriek, a flare of wings and something cold passing through the air, and then a thud that tells him Thisbe’s joined Octavia. Helios twitches, struggling, his breath rasping in his throat. The shadow in the mirror bulges and swirls with fury. 

The figure behind it stops before him, bending down to retrieve something. Its hand moves, dragging the freezing flat of a blade over Helios’ cheek. It speaks, its voice a rich, smooth sing-song recitation.

“‘Up the airy mountain, down the rushy glen, we daren’t go a-hunting…’ ”

Helios feels the knife pierce his heart, but is unable to shriek.  Can only remain in horrified unmoving silence as the chill of iron spreads through his chest, and then -

“ ‘...for fear of little men.’ ” 

The blade turns, and Helios with all his strength and plans and triumph, blows away as ash.  Leaving only a shade buried beneath a smooth, glossy surface of the mirror clattering to the ground.

Alastor carefully steps over the mirrors, avoiding dirtying himself with the remnants, humming his jaunty tune as he walks steadily toward the Great Tree.


continue reading ->

Well. For all of you wondering what Alastor’s been up to…the answer is ‘mixing drinks and giving advice’. 

We’ve been sitting on that reveal for so. So. Long. 

I suppose it’s the point in the story where we get to say that every other chapter or so, but we both intend to take full advantage. Hopefully that puts some of what he’s had to say in a whole new light..! 

Speaking of ‘whole new light’, check back on February 21st to see what Lloyd and Lyra make of what’s been done to them. Thank you so much for following us all this way, and we’re so excited to share everything in store ahead! 

-Hark