(no subject)
Haaaaai, WhiteCat desu~! *chirp* After a bit of discussion with clone, I figure, we really should put SOME kind of content up, just to get this thing off to a good start. *niko* This part would come from Herbage (the Coldfire AU), though you wouldn't know that just yet. XD
Mwahahaha. I feel good. ^_^v
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There were candles lit everywhere in the crowded study, expensive beeswax and cheap tallow all burning fitfully, set in metal rings around a piled desk. Their light was reflected like the glow of a halo off a golden head, bent low over an open, heavy volume. The dusty scratch of a quill pen on weathered parchment was the loudest sound: the rest of the castle had long since gone to sleep. Even the guardsmen on the turrets dozed fitfully on their long watches.
It was almost midsummer, and the night outside was thick with the weight of impending rain - which would probably not break for a longmonth yet - and dark. Creatures of the true night, demonlings seeded by human thoughts and birthed by the fae, were wandering free, unchecked by light of any moon. A few scrabbled nervously close to the heavy stone walls of the castle, then skittered away, unwilling just yet to dare the circles of red-orange torchlight.
But they would eventually lose their fear of the light, as time went on and they grew stronger with the meat of human fears. Someday, too uncomfortably soon, they would grow confidant enough to storm actual manmade strongholds. And scattered as they were, humanity's tiny pockets of civilization struggling desperately to continue their existence, the demons would win all too easily. Erna still reacted to their presence like a virus, forming creatures, like antibodies, to rid itself of their foreign presence.
But the fae *could* be tamed, as Casca's sacrifice had shown. In the three centuries since the Earth colonists had landed on this strange, wild planet, people had slowly learned to see that strange, malleable force as well as, in growing numbers, tap into its power. Magic, some called it, with awe and hope on their tired faces, which could possibly return the stars to them. Dangerous and wild, so that even those with the inborn talent had difficulties using it properly, but still *magic* nonetheless.
A frown briefly pressed pale lips together. Three centuries, and that was as far as mankind had come: a handful of sorcerers that could, at most, tap the barest dregs of the sheer *volume* of power that was theoretically available. And if it could not be used, then perhaps it could at least be neutralized, so that no random child lost in nightmares could be responsible for the deaths of twelve strong, battle-trained men.
"One tilted candle, and the entire room could go up in a blaze of smoke. What would your father say if you died therein?"
Silver eyes flashed upwards briefly, reflecting a multitude of candleflames, then dropped back down to the paper. "He would say good riddance, if he were sober enough to understand what happened." A disdainful snort. "Or, he'd regret the fact that he's lost an opportunity with me. If I'm dead, I can't be married off to some pampered rich toadie who can bring him more money to waste on the gambling tables."
A sigh; the tall man standing in the doorway raked a handful of gray-salted dark hair from his eyes. He was middle-aged, but long years of stress had aged him prematurely; there were deep-set lines in his tanned, leathery face, reminders of a life belied by the fine, expensive cut of his clothing. "You needn't be so cynical."
"And why not? If it's the truth, why pretend otherwise?" There was a decisive downward strike with the quill pen, almost ripping the parchment with its force. "Would he notice me at all, but for my potential value? Were things just slightly different, perhaps I would be valued for my Sight - but as the situation stands, it's just another burden that he doesn't want to deal with." A dusty page turned, with slow reverent care for its yellowed, crumbling edges.
The watcher frowned. "Your father is a lord," he said, "and you have eight older brothers that he has to be concerned for as well. With all the property disputes that have been plaguing your homeland recently, and the added turmoil after the last succession, he's--"
"He's a bitter idiot." One pale hand rose briefly to brush away falling strands of gold. "What his fists cannot beat down for him, he believes, he can cower into obedience with his drawn blade. That I take after his late wife so strongly, that I can see and understand things that his sons cannot, only makes him angrier. I've lived with him for eighteen years, Uncle; I've been his target enough times to remember. Perhaps Mother needed you to pretend for her, but I know better than that. I've seen all the things she couldn't."
He sighed, dark eyes troubled as the pen dipped back into the shallow stone inkwell, moving gracefully across the curled, rough paper. A new line of notes, done meticulously as always, and somehow the silken, trailing sleeve remained clear of the damp ink. "Aye, your mother needed the pretense, God rest her soul. You see more clearly than she ever did - and sometimes, I wonder if perhaps you're the more unfortunate one."
The blonde head rose slowly, and the pen stilled on parchment. Silver eyes narrowed dangerously at his retreating back.
"Perhaps I am, Uncle. But that doesn't change the things I see."