Blood of the Fae (Alvis & Xana)

[Alvis Alendran]

Etarlám smiled out at the rest of the Middle Court. It was time once again, so short a time as well, only a mere three of the human decades. The young Sidhe woman was in tears, and understandably so. She had made only one misstep, but it was enough to level her in the lowest regard of the overseer of the court, and by the decree of the Queen of Air and Darkness, she was to be banished. Etarlám watched as the woman was given the last of her treatments, a sliver of cold iron under her skin. She was bound, and gagged to prevent the scream from offending the ears of the Court. They simply could not understand why she would seek to offend them so! After all, she had known the risks of being a member of the court! This was one of them. Why she couldn't just accept the punishment and move on, he'd never know. But finally, the sliver was in her, the wound treated. She was now stripped of much of her power, left only with her mind, and her beauty to make her mark upon the realm of man. And it was his task to bring her to that realm.

The Ways were empty, as they should be. No one would admit to witnessing the banishment of a lower noble. The woman fixed Etarlám with a look, pleading. He only smiled.
“Is there no way that you could be swayed to not do this to me?” She begged.
“You are without power and standing in even the Middle Court. I was sent from the Highest Court, by the Queen of Air and Darkness herself. What could you possibly offer me that I could not gain better elsewhere?” He replied calmly. She burst into more tears as he half dragged her to the exit point that would land them in the forests within the realm of Man.

The forests lacked the feel of age and wonder that those within the Ways did, but even so, this Spirit Wood was as close as he'd found. He shoved the woman into the trees, and bade her to run, lest he take offence at her presence. She was still weeping as she fled. He smiled. She was running away from the kingdom that would take her as a bride, which would only expose her to more dangerous things. If she were to be found by any of the local bandit clans, she'd likely end up used, abused and raped. Whistling, he started to explore the area. Nothing wrong with taking his time getting home.

The unearthly whistling carried easily through the trees, and the party of Men that had hunkered down exchanged glances with their leader. He was a thickly built bull of a man, called Hargrim. Not native to this land, he was a sell sword who had a reputation for hunting down the Sidhe, and bringing them in. His family had been in service to the Crown off and on for four generations. It was their task to bring in the brides. Though this time the plan was different. Hargrim was busily stuffing his ears with cotton and wax, blocking out sounds. The way that whistling sounded told him a lot, and what it said was that this Sidhe was stronger than most. He gestured for his men to do likewise, and he did a check on his gear. Sword, dagger, net, rings and gauntlets. He was ready to go. Once everyone was set, they began the advance.

Etarlám could hear the sounds of approaching Men. With luck, he'd simply point them to the direction of the woman, and be on his way. They burst into his clearing, and before he could speak, he could feel the pulse of Cold Iron on them, and he half staggered away. A throwing ring arced at him, made to stun, not kill, and he threw up a hand, power flowing through him to repel the metal. It flew on, and crashed into his head, sending him stumbling. A burn on his forehead spoke of the metal. Cold Iron. The Bane. That which was most inimical to his kind. He glared at the oncoming men, one of them staggering back as though struck, another swaying on his feet, blood pouring from his tear ducts as he drew a knife and stabbed one of his companions. Hargrim cast his net, and punched the frenzied man, laying him out on the ground. Etarlám fell under the burning fibres of the net.

Hargrim approached the fallen Sidhe.
“Rank man! You dare to assault one such as I?” Etarlám roared. Even under the net, the voice sent most of his party stumbling away. Hargrim crouched beside him, and rolled up a sleeve, showing the Sidhe the tattoo that was there. Etarlám blanched.
“I am a member of the Cold Iron Warriors. I dare as I please with your kind. And you are coming back with us to the Kingdom.” Hargrim told him.
“You take brides! What use am I to you?”
“There is no prince this generation. The eldest daughter is taking the throne. And you are to be hers, after you are bound.” As he spoke the last, he withdrew five charms.
“No! I will not be bound by you! I swear this, release me, or know the full force of my wrath!”
“Bound, you shall have no wrath at all.” Hargrim began to chant, and moved the first charm to the Sidhe man.

His bonds hurt. And the plate over his mouth had prevented him from exhorting any to his aid. Etarlám was dragged through the streets of the capital in the dark of night, and his mind seethed with rage. Being brought into the palace, he was deposited on the floor of the throne room. The king and his wife looked down at the fallen form.
“Excellent work Hargrim! You shall be rewarded. Now, send for my daughter, she should meet her husband.” The king announced. Pulling himself to his knees, Etarlám glared at the human monarch.

 

[Xanaphia]

A Sidhe had been captured.

Moira Ní hAlluráin brooded on the fact, unable to concentrate on her book. The messenger had arrived just a few hours ago with the news. With the answers to their prayers. Her father seemed relieved by news, but she didn’t share his optimism.

It was the height of foolishness. As if something so simple could solve their dilemma. Espium and Ocrad hovered about like vultures, demanding she choose her husband. Demanding that she choose which would be her enemy. Choosing either one would have been perilous. Choosing neither would be disastrous. Oh sure, it maintained the delicate balance of power between the three countries in the lands of Eogan, but it also left Kelraina without an ally, surrounded by enemies.

It didn’t matter, there was but one path. Forward, always forward. If she looked back, she would be lost. If she showed the slightest hint of doubt, Kelraina would be swarmed with enemies. She didn’t choose a Sidhe to be her husband out of fear. Ocrad and Espium had to believe she choose a Sidhe to be her husband because neither were good enough, and neither were enough of a threat for her to care about the consequences.

“Your Highness?”

The words cut through the page she’d already reread three times now. Whatever it had said was lost as she closed the book. It had been a lousy distraction from the thoughts that swirled in her mind. She glanced up at the servant, eyes like honey demanding the news she already knew was coming. The woman brushed limp hair behind her ear and turned her gaze to the ground, “The king summons you, to meet your betrothed.”

Moira rose without words, standing a head above the servant, her tall, lithe figure a gift from the Sidhe. From her mother, an exile, claimed for her father’s bride just as her husband had been claimed for her. Silk whispered over skin as she moved through the halls, draped in a moss green gown with golden accents. The verdant colors favored her earthy complexion.

Her to be husband was on his knees before the court, bound under the fine weight of cold iron. Moira made her way to the front of him, to look into his eyes. He seemed to move seamlessly from beautiful to hideous as light and shadow cast upon his features, and the only constant was his hauntingly inhuman grace and the look of contempt in his eyes. Not quite the look she wanted to see in her betrothed.

“He is…suitable.” She decreed. Litotes of the highest order, but, much like the conflict between Kelraina Espium and Ocrad, the perception of strength was what mattered. “What is your name?”

 

[Alvis Alendran]

Etarlám knew very little but raw seething rage at teh judgement of the princess. The title held so little meaning to him that it was laughable. There were in fact Queens of the Courts, and there was in Fact the Queen of Air and Darkeness above them all, but there were no princesses among them. The Ladies of the various courts, the Winter Lady, who served as the second in power to the Queen, but princess? Never.

Suitable? She dared utter such a phrase to one such as he? Were he unbound, he would have unleashed the full force of his power and will upon her, but he had no such option. WHen she called for his name, Etarlám turned to Hargrim, raising a brow in question. The COld Iron Warrior sighed, adn produced a small key, moving to the back of Etarlám's head. A faint clicking sound came, and the plate of metal over his mouth came free.

He worked his jaw experimentally to work the stiffness out, horror brewing on his face adn in his mind that he could feel such a thing! His kind were buoyed by their power, and here, with it deied him he felt nearly...mortal. It was a sobering, terrifying thought that he might have been cast so low as to be on their own level, with naught but his wits and his mind at his disposal.

He blinked as that thought occurred to him, and then looked back to the princes. The closer he looked at her, the more traits he could pick out that spoke of her heritage. He knew well the traditions of this land, every generation the heir tot he throne would be wed to a Sidhe bride, an exile, and such had been for nearly as long as Etarlám had been conducting the exiles, making it a long time indeed. He supposed that made this nation long lasting in it's existence. His scrutiny of the princess stretched on for a moment, he let the silence, his lack of reply hang in the air, still looking at her. Among the courts she wouldm likely be seen as an attractive specimen, something to take note of.

Here in the mortal realm, she was likely the kind of beauty that wars might be fought over.

"My name, is..." He hesitated, knowing that such a thing could be harmful to him. He had not dealt with mortals in such a manner in so very long. "...Etarlám." he supplied. it was a name that he had used among humans, one they had themselves given him in ages past. It was a safe name, not one that carried any stored power in it's nature. But depending on how well this nation had kept it's tales, one might know him. He was in them after all, and more than once. He spared a glance to the queen, seeing if he still held any recall of her.

And he did.

Of course he did, he had been banishing exiles for countless generations. She ahd been no different than the last exile, though she at least had the good fortune to be taken by this nation, married off and made queen. He had a slow coming smile on his face when he turned back tot eh princess.

Escape. It was on his mind, and he had none of hte powers to make such a thing easy. He had never been in such a state before, so why not see where it led him? New experiences were a rarity to his kind, jaded as they were, and this provided him with just the sort of thing he had sought after. A challenge.

"And to whom do I speak?" he asked, his voice no longer packed with teh scorn adn disdain it had held, now taking on a calm, almost amused tone. The SIdhe were known to be mercurial, and for good reason.

 

[Xanaphia]

Moira’s icy composure didn’t melt as Etarlám turned his attention towards her, even if his voice carried a musical quality to it. Alluring, and dangerous, drawing her into a lull, to drop her guard. Where was the defiance, the struggle from just a little while ago?

She knew from living with a Sidhe mother, that the fair folk swung wildly from one emotional extreme to the other. Still, his sudden civility hadn’t fooled her. With his power sealed away, he was now dependent on her own good graces to regain them. It was nothing more than a ploy.

Still, he was to be husband. Even if his courtesy were insincere now, they might as well be cordial with one another. If her parent’s marriage were a sign, his resentment would fade in time, and he’d become her strongest supporter.

“Moira Ní hAlluráin.” She moved to offer her hand, before stopping short, remembering that he physically restrained, on top of being bound by cold iron charms that restricted his power. She turned towards Hargrim, and motioned with her head. “Please remove my betrothed’s bondage. It’s clear he understands the situation, and that his best option is to accept this outcome, instead of resisting.” Not that she believed the words for a second, but she was curious to see how little he thought of her. Let him reveal his plan to escape his captivity early, and she’d be better equipped to counter him. As Hargrim unlocked his shackles, she offered Etarlám a smile.

 

[Alvis Alendran]

He cocked his head slightly as the name. It had a fine ring to it, the feel of age within the syllables. The words were justa touch off to his ears, the accentation and pronounciation different than the last time he'd heard it from mortal lips, but that had been quite some time. It was only natural that language must change, just as the mortal people that spoke it did. He wondered if there were any that still spoke the pure tongue, the words the Sidhe had passed down to these people in time unremembered, except amongst the eldest of his own kind. He honestly doubted it, though the more he thought on it, the more sense it made that they might just, given the long line of unbroken Sidhe brides this land had enjoyed. Each of them would have spoken it, and likely passed it on to their children. Perhaps there were small comforts to be found here after all.

As she had approached him, he had been prepared ot voice some kind of coy comment about accepting her hand before she stopped short, instructing him to be released. The charms would sap his very being, keep them contained, so there was little risk of him performing any of the inhuman feats that his kind were known for, like being able to charge past the princess, taking her throat out with his hand while advancing to slay the king before anyone had so much as seen him start to move. That thought entertained him for a half second, an eternity in and of itself if he allowed it. But he had to focus now, keep his mind on target, which was harder to do with the charms.

Still, Hargrim moved to comply witht he orders. The shackles came free, and Etarlám stood.
"You are sure of this milady? He is unlike the others brought to this court, and may prove a danger to you." The mercenary cautioned. Etarlám smiled back at him.
"Come now. I am bound by charm and by their power i can work no evil beyond annoyance! No one among my people could remove such charms, so what risk would I pose to those who have...graciously invited me into their home and family?" His words did have a dry, sardonic side to them, choosing his phrasing to reflect that it would be perfectly natural to harbour some ill will, but also that there was little purpose to such, given the circumstances that he was presented with.

 

[Xanaphia]

Moira maintained composure, not missing the subtle threat in Etarlám’s words. So much trust was placed in those charms, holding back such frightening power. If Hargrim commented upon her betrothed power, it must be something fearsome. Still, there was no path but forward.

“I do hope you are more comfortable now. And speaking of comfort, you shall be provided the princes’ accommodations, as befitting your status. At least until we are wed, and share a room. We shall retire there to take our meal and discuss our future together,” she decided, not waiting for his opinion or input. Project strength, and authority will follow.

Still, leading him through the castle to his room was strangle intimate. She was hardly a blushing bride, fantasizing about the wedding bed with naïve romantic visions in her mind. Perhaps her betrothed was far more handsome than she would have hoped, but she wouldn’t also herself to swoon like some weak minded little prat. She was to be queen. Ruler of her people, not a mere broodmare for the next generation of heirs.

Of course, accounts she’d read in books detailed encounters with fae, especially those of an intimate nature. Described as devastatingly pleasurable, a curse in bliss that no mortal man could live up to. Not that she’d have anything to compare her husband’s touch to, not as she saved herself for marriage as was expected.

The room was exquisite by mortal standards. After all, It was used by visiting princes and dukes, second in the castle only to the king’s bedroom. A large bed dominated the space, with silken sheets and softened furs for blankets, atop a goose feather mattress on a mahogany frame. Matching mahogany furniture filled the room, with an ample desk and chair against one wall, and fine dining table with seating for four on the other side of the room.

“I do want you to be comfortable here. I understand this transition is difficult, but I would make it as easy on you as possible. Every Sidhe bride has found her place here eventually, and I don’t think it needs to be different just because you will be my groom. Now, what shall I have them send up to eat? Is there any mortal food you enjoy?”

 

[Alvis Alendran]

His bindings released, Etarlám rubbed his wrists, feeling hte faint sting of hte bindings on them still. he glared at the faint abrasions, willing htem to fade from his flesh as they would have back in his home. But here, charmed, such was not to happen. It was distressingly mortal to have to suffer this. He witheld comment at her statement of providing accomodation to his status. Perhaps a prince was seen as suitable a title for him here, but it was a pale shadow of his titles from his home realm. Emmisary and Herald of hte Queen of Air and Darkness, his authority was not as distinct and overt as the Queens of the Courts, but it carried hte implied threat and power of his patron, against whom there was simnply no resistance. A suitable accomodation might have been a spire of gleaming crystal that soared above the castle, dwarfing hte rest of the structure in it's grandeur, perhaps with sprawling gardens that flowed across the lower reaches of the sturcture, with choice creatures within to hunt at his leisure.

He also knew such was past the capabilities of mortal construction. Longing for it still felt proper, being unreasonable in his expectations had never proven overly detrimental to him in the past, he saw no reason to change such now.

As they walked, he tested the limits of his charms, seeing what poewr remained to him. He could feel it, a vast wellspring of magic that if he let loose could very well shatter the minds of most of hte people within the castle, enthralling, driving mad, unleashing all forms of animalistic urges. But that was hte purpose of the charms. He heaved with all his mental might on them, straining their power of containment, trying to summon anything to his aid, some semblance of power.

What he got was a silver butterfly that appeared, fluttered, and then vanished. He felt drained after it, but it told him an important thing. The charms were not perfect. Perhaps they once had been, but generations of use, and continued application to Exiled Sidhe rather tahn untouched ones left them capable of breaching. But even so, the brief illusion had had called meant he would be limited in his actions, and any persistent enchantments he tried to level would take away his ability to do even such minor workings. He had never seent he need to refine his art, use less power for more results, not when he had such a wellspring to draw on. Something else for him to learn.

The room was...interesting to him. He did have to admit that mortality had avantages. With such a headlong charging rush towards the grave and death, mortal man managed to cram a substantial amount of living into their short span. Craftsmen could never hope to acheive what the Sidhe were capable of with millenia to hone skills, but they did do incredible things given their invested years. Etarlám let out a slow sigh, once again pushing hte bounds of his charms as he reached out to touch the wooden fram of the bed. He let his eyes close, adn felt...everything contained within. Ancient age of the tree before it was felled, the majesty of the plant, teh casual indifference of the man who felled hte tree, the pain of an ancient life ending. The satisfaction of the saw mill that carved the corpse into planks and beams, the joy of the carpenter that acquired the wood, the pride of the person that created the work, seeing a sense of ageless beauty restored to the noble materials. He focused on that last person, his face splitting into a wicked grin. Clever mortals. Not the same person as the buyer, who purported to be the craftsman. The fine work of his shop had been the work of his daughter. Secrets were always worth collecting, even if for the novelty of them.

Letting his eyes open, and his breathing return to normal as he noted his...betrothed? Mistress? Warden? All of these and none of them fit in his mind.
"I have not suffered mortal fare in longer than your mind could fathom. Though..." He trailed off, thinking of what he could currently do, trace the experience of a thing. "...pheasant. I do believe I found such a thing to my current tastes." He finished the thought aloud. "Other than that, I bow to your superior experience in such matters." He knew that he should respond to her other statements, but it was hard to do so without sounding provocative.

"Your interest in my comfort is...amusing. Given circumstances are as they stand." He said with a cock of his head, looking just past her head, seeming to satre more at the wall as he mused. "Given that you wrap me body and soul in the Bane."

 

[Xanaphia]

“Pheasant?” Moira considered, before nodding, “That can be arranged.” She offered a smile, a sincere smile. But he looked past her. Through her.

"Your interest in my comfort is...amusing. Given circumstances are as they stand. Given that you wrap my body and soul in the Bane."

“Perhaps someday it won’t have to be this way,” she offered, looking away, not entirely sure how honest she was being. “Once you accept your fate and position beside me. You don’t have to like me. Just respect me.”

She left the room, intending to instruct the servants on the meal, and how they would interact with her betrothed, but had not expected to see her mother. Certainly, hadn’t expected to see dread in her eyes.

"You must release him.” The fear in her mother's eyes was new and disconcerting. She hadn't known that her mother was capable of such emotions before today.

Caught off guard, Moira could merely shake her head for several long moments. "I cannot. In choosing him, I have rejected both Ocrad and Espium. Neither would have me now, not as an equal. Only through conquest, and subjugation.”

“He is not an exile. He was consort to the queen of air and darkness.”

“Then he will know how to fulfill his duty towards me.”

Her mother’s grasp was like taloned on her wrist, reminding her just how much strength she still possessed, at this age and after so many years of being muted by her own charms. “He is too powerful to hold for long”

The charms will hold him for as long as I need. And perhaps I could learn to trust him in time. He would be a powerful ally if I could trust him. If I gave him a reason to be as invested in Kelrania as I am.”

“Release him tonight, and perhaps your fate won’t be so bad. His memory spans your library by sevenfold, and he will remember every last slight. He would collect offense and insult, harvest every affront and transform it into a lovely curse that will leave you praying for death that will not come.”

Moira swallowed. Long ignored instincts screamed for her to listen to her mother’s words and warnings, residual memory carried by the generations of diluted fae blood in her veins. Instead, she shook her head. “It is done. The charms will hold.” The charms will hold.

 

[Alvis Alendran]

Stubborn. Wise perhaps. Cautious at the least. Caution was alien to him as well, rarely needed in his line of work, save for when he stood beside his queen. Caution was perhaps the wrong word for his behaviour. He did not exhibit caution so much as a strange melding between unholy terror and perfect love for her. One could not love a winter hurricane, but if such was possible, it might be something like trying to love the Queen of Air and Darkness.

The subtle move, the looking away as she spoke, a tell perhaps. He had limited experience with this particular mortal, this betrothed of his, and he must not assume that all mortals were the same, not at this sclae of concern. The stakes were to high. Not a lie, such would likely stick at the back of his hearing, but neither the truth. A moment of examination, and in that second she seemed to almost shine to his eyes. Such was like the people of her bloodline, never lying, neither telling the whole truth.

His breath quickening, his eyes actually widening a moment, amost forgetting himself, almost feeling home. She was young, too young to truly match his experience, but mayhaps her family had groomed her with some skills that might make her a foe worth trying to match wits with? At least one that could prove amusing to his senses. He considered throwing an enchantment at her, knowing that his own people were more susceptable to their magics, it being tied to their blood, it might well take hold on her. But if it failed, it might tip his hand, and there might be...more permanent solutions available to them. Nothing he was prepared to risk. The moment passed, and he let it go.

As she walked from the room, he tracked her motions, knowing that despite her mortality, she still held enough grace to draw the eye of one such as him. Seh was not simply a princess, not simply something that might be used in a bargaining session between nations. She was a strategic asset, a weapon made flesh that wars could be fought over. Respect her she'd said. Mayhaps such woudl not be as onerous a task as he had thought.

Words from outside the room, heated ones, ones that brought to mind something worrisome, nearly panic inducing. No, not panic. Fear. Knowledge. He cleared his mind, straining his senses, summoning up what he could and pushing at his bonds. His hearing sharpened to nearly what he had been used to without the bonds, and there was still the faintest tinge of old, now rotted magics in the air. Sidhe magic. It was no surprise that something might linger, since within their home realms, magic was as common as air. Unconcious workings to amplify a voice, to remove any trace of the environmental noise from the speech, to make each word seem just a touch sweeter.

All things currently denied him.

He snapped into motion, the movement sudden, almost jerky in it's execution, but he was in motion towards the door. He knew who would be there, knew it by the words, by the rotted magic that would no longer find home in the ears and minds of mortals, magic that no longer came when called, the kind that simply was. He eased the door open, seeing what was present. He put on a look of surprise, letting his hearing fade away.

"Ah, Dáirine. My apologies, Your Highness Queen Dáirine. 'tis agreeable to see you once more, though you seem to be restraining my bethrothed!" He turned his golden, feline gaze onto the hand at her wrist. "Surely, while a mother's prerogative, such is not needed amongst such...civilized company. Are we not all currently bound by the same rules, the same fate?" He sounded oh so very calm, so very reasonable, as much as he could. He fought to restrain a grin, knowing it would undermine his intent, but it was a game now! A game to be played, and from what he overheard, there might even be more players yet to partake in the games. It could be glorious. And it could be terrible.

The two were not mutually exclusive.

 

[Xanaphia]

Moira bristled as her betrothed interceded upon the conversation she had with her mother. Knowledge was power, and for him to possess the knowledge that she was so desperate in her situation was for him to have power over her. Her mother had to know this, and still, she so carelessly spoke of such things where he might hear.

No, not carelessly. Purposely. Her mother planned this, knowing everything, knowing Etarlám were right there, knowing he could hear, and could gain an upper hand. She purposely put her own daughter in danger, so she would have to heed her advice. Her mother was shrewd, too shrewd to make senseless mistake, too experienced from a generation of living as an exile, and a lifetime among the fae, to make a simple miscalculation. She might try to force Moira’s hand, but she did underestimate her daughter’s determination.

More than that, however, Moira watched the interactions between her mother and her betrothed. At his comment, her mother released her grasp and smiled, a strange look that didn’t manage to hold back the fear she had just revealed to Moira. A nervous grin, showing too much bravado. “Bound by the same rules, perhaps, but the hardly the same fate. It is known that such things are hardly written in stone, but changing and flowing, like a stream or a mighty river.”

Suddenly it was a question of whether she could trust her own mother alone with Etarlám. She had no power over his charms, no more than over her own, but perhaps she believed she could gain his favor, somehow? To what end? “If you don’t mind, Mother, I was going to enjoy my first meal with my betrothed. I imagine we have much to discuss,” Moira said, her suggesting clear in her explanations. Dáirine glanced at her once more, another silent warning before smiling big and resting her hand on Moira’s shoulder’s.

“But of course, dear. Allow me to make all the arrangements for you. I think you will find my experience beneficial in this regard. After all, I am not so far removed from the courts that I have forgotten everything.” There was a warning couched in those words, underscoring the warning she’d already given Moira, unconcerned about the position it would put Kelrania in. Without a better idea, Moira nodded, and watched her mother leave.

Perhaps there was soemthign she could gain from this encounter, to make up for everything she’d already lost. With an embarrassed smile, she turned back to her betrothed. “I apologize for the way my mother barged in on us like this. Do you think fae parents are much different from human parents, in they way they care for their children?”

 

[Alvis Alendran]

Etarlám stayed quiet, lettign hte tiny drama play out before him. It was a fascinating thing to see, the blood ofht e Sidhe mingle with man to see what might come of it. He fought the urge to speak in the highest tongue of his people, the language reserved for court functions alone, the tongue that had been known to mesmerize with it's very sound, just to see if an Exile could still muster the memory to do it. But as he started to try adn say the words, they died on his tongue. Even the sounds apparently had their cost, required some affinitry for the magic of his people. Perhaps that was why mortals had never been abelt o master it, they lacked the very ability to make such a thing happen.

These poor blighted mortals. And the insult of being brought to their level rankled at his mind once more.

As Moira spoke to him once more as her mother departed, he kenw that his attention was fully required, though such was not so great a burden as it had been merely moments ago. Interest in her had kindled, an ember of curiosity, perhaps a sliver of respect that might burn within him. With proper action, she might kindle it into something mighty. Or she might kindle it into a raging inferno that might claim her life and sanity. Who knew?

"It is...difficult to say. Some of my kind find great joy and purpose in the caring for our children. Others care nothing for them, and cast them aside to fend for themselves, some even seek to exile them, threatened by a potnetial rival." Etarlám admit to her. "For humans, at least among royalty, children seem far more important to the well being of a kingdom, and thusly more well cared for. I assume." He clarified as they approached the table. On a flight of whimsy, and becasue there was that level of curiosity attributed to her, he pulled the chair away from the table, following what he assumed was still considered to be a polite gesture. Once he had completed the gesture, he moved to his own seat, not wishing to strain his so very limited powers by attempting anything on her just yet. More time. Always more time needed.

"Does your mother ever...speak of her time before her Exile? The events leading up to such?" He asked, honestly not sure how much might have been shared, how much Moira knew about the kind of life her mother had led before her forced departure.

 

[Xanaphia]

Moira nodded in contemplative silence as he spoke of children. It seemed he had an understanding of his role towards her. Which would he become? The father who loved and doting on his children? Or a distant figure who saw them as threats and rivals? The act he put on now, pulling out her chair

"Does your mother ever...speak of her time before her Exile? The events leading up to such?"

“No…” she admitted, suddenly feeling ashamed she never thought to ask. That her mother was an Exile was a foregone conclusion, the “how and the “why” never really all that important or pertinent. Now, though? A matter of the utmost importance. Especially since her mother suggested he wasn’t the same as her. Not an Exile, and that made him dangerous. “I supposed I imagined it would be difficult to discuss, and never broached the subject.”

Any further questions about her mother were interrupted by a knock at the door and followed by servants bringing in their food. Delicately seasoned pheasant, as he had asked, with toasted crackers and aged cheese. Finger foods, and wine. Moira didn’t want to be drunk, not as she was still sussing out her newly betrothed, but not drinking any wine would have out of the question. So, she poured herself half a glass, savoring each sip, and served herself dinner. Hunger had been a distant concern until the scent of food hit her nose, and now she was ravenous. She hadn’t eaten since getting the news about her betrothed and now it had caught up with her.

“We will likely be married by tomorrow evening, so this is likely our only chance to get to know each other before then,” She expected, managing to flash him a shy smile. Once more images of conceiving children and sharing a bed flash through her mind. “Is there anything you wish to know about your wife to be?” Brushing back her hair, she held his gaze, both to welcome his questions and to assert her dominance. A fae and a man, many would consider him her superior, but she refused to accept that notion. Right now she held power over him, and she was loathed to relinquish it.

 

[Alvis Alendran]

Etarlám nodded as she spoke, acknowledging what she was saying. it made sense in a way. The more mystique a Sidhe could maintain, the mroe a person might assume they might possess more strength or power than they truly did. Her mother had been a skilled player oof hte game in her time, but had made the mistake of reaching beyond her grasp. In Sidhe politics, timing mattered as much as intent, and her attempt to secure a larger power base had come right before the time of exile. Her fall had been inevitiable from there. He still maintained some fond memories of her though.

"Should you ever wish to know of her time within the courts, do let me know. She was not unknown to me during that time." He offered. It was a simple thing, but offering her knowledge was a useful option. It might weaken the Queen's position, and strength his own with no appreciable loss to him. And there were lessons in her mothers life that might prove useful. His mind turned to the words she offered about their impending marriage. He knew such a thing would have some level of change to him, or at least it would under normal circumstances. Oaths were a sacred and powerful thing to his people, something that wove itself into his very being, what mortals might call a soul, though he knew his kind possessed nothing of that ephermal stuff. But he was bound, his being suppressed. Would such an oath still have effect on him? He was curious now.

At the thought of knowing her...he noted her gaze, the implications in such a thing. He let his gaze linger on his own hand a moment. Herclosed his fingers slowly, one at a time, his hand to a fist, though neever moving his thumb. He opened it in the same speed and order, there being something unnatrual about the way he moved, the motions too smooth, too measured, a degree of inhumanity to it all. His head moved to meet her gaze after a moment, at first holding her eyes with a casual, almost laze expression to his gaze. He let the silence stretch a moment before he had another thought enter his mind. His gaze shifted, his posture, everythign about him moved from lazy, indulgent, affable to something altogether more aggressive. The feline split of his pupils shifted from something wide enough to almost look like a human with dilated pupils to something narrow, neatly slicing hte golden iris' in two. It was a measuring, almost predatory gaze, something that was hunting, seeking.

He was about to answer when there was the apearance of servants, bearing trays of food, one for each person. They were served quickly, and departed without a word, much to Etarlám's delight. Fewer mortals was an advantage to him these days. The pheasant looked reasonably fresh, his statement had likely takent he planned meal from some other noble withint he castle, and that though made him smile a little. His gaze hadn't left Moira's, but he shifted back to a more relaxed stance, lifting a fork, and plying off a sliver of meat from the bird. Letting out his breath, he pushed all of the power that he could muster into himself, adn took the bite.

The food itself was without consequence. What he sought was the sum of experience from hte bird. Pheasant was important. It was intelligent enough to undestand simple things. Like fear. The breadth of feelings washed over him, the peace adn contentment of it's life, finding food, nesting, living, the terror that came from onrushing hounds, flushing it from cover, flapping frantically, the terror of seeing large creatures nearby, Etarlám recognizing hte hunters from the feeling, the lance of burning pain as a bolt from a crossbow bolt, blunt tipped, but it crushed the ribs of hte bird. Death came next, ending hte sensations.

Etarlám opened his eyes, unaware that he had closed them. He smiled at Moira.
"I would know more of the mind of my...bride to be." He allowed, picking his words carefully. "The mind is a curious thing to me. Much of you I can tell by sight, but your intentions, what advantages you might seek...this is more curious. You carry a weight on your mind, such is shown in your posture, a weight more than my presence, or what we are to become. I can only infer that such has to do with your kingdom. And should you wish my involvement in affairs to be less than direct, so be it, I am certain I can find ways to while away time." His smile broadened. "But you should know that I am not adverse to lending some aid. I did not become COnsort to the Queen of Air and Darkenss by simple chance. I spent more than a thousand years maneuvering myself into such a role, and such was not my first venture. My experience could be a...resource to you. So then tell me, betrothed, what advantage will you seek in this union?" He asked her, leaning forward slightly as he spoke, cocking his head in curiosity. He drew in hiw power again, adn focused it into his hearing, enhancing it all he could. He could faintly hear the sound of her heartbeat. He woudl miss no nuance of her voice.

 

[Xanaphia]

Her betrothed was asking all the right questions, and it unnerved Moira. How quickly had he picked out her weakness, and she was no closer to knowing his, beyond the charms that kept him bound. Perhaps honesty was called for here.

“Both of the neighboring countries wanted to wed me, so they may strengthen their position. Of course, marrying one would enrage the other, and there was no guarantee that my people wouldn’t be the ones to pay the price. Right now, everything rests in a precarious balance, and any hope for peace rests in showing neither country preferential treatment.” Her voice was steady, betraying the worries that lay under the surface. Perception was reality, she told herself. Project strength, and you will be strong.

“I would hope that you will come to rule Kelraina beside me. The reason you are a good match for me is the same reason you are bound so tightly by the charms. You are an ancient, and powerful being, and until I can trust you, I cannot risk releasing your bondage.”

By then, dinner was done and exhaustion was kicking in. Still, there was so much to do to prepare for the wedding tomorrow, and even thoughts felt heavy. Moira stood, collecting their plates and silverware, taking a chance in caressing his fingers. Long and elegant, they spoke to wisdom and experience she couldn’t begin to understand. Her mother’s warning came back, and she this was her last opportunity to heed her counsel. Sighing, she pushed the fears away. Tomorrow, Etarlám would be her husband, and nothing could change that now.

“Until tomorrow, then,” she decided, offering him a smile, warmth. The charms would hold, and he was powerless before her will. The charms would hold, and hopefully, someday, they would no longer need to.

 

[Alvis Alendran]

"A delicate balance in which to walk. And I imagine that you would also be faced with further issues should you have chosen one of your neighbours, such as a more strit limiting on your own ability to govern. Leaving your home with no heir or way t continue short of surrender to your new husband. A poor end to a nation with as such history as you possess." He observed. He had the moment of intrigue. There were many levels to the situation here, and calling it a delicate balance was an understatement. The survival of the nation was balanced on a razors edge, and poor tidings were coming for them if there was not some way to placate the anger of their neighbours. His mind tried ot race for answers, solutions, offerings he could leave, but he found himself slower than he was used to.

The charms again. Restraining him in more ways than he could imagine. Without conscious effort, his mind ran slower than normal, perhaps as fast as an intelligent mortal, but not fast enough to do what he sought. He drew in his power, once more straining the bonds of the charms, pushing at them, trying to prepare a minor working for himself when she did something he hadn't anticipated.

She touched him.

Hand on his fingers, the very notion actually startled him. The power he'd been gathering fled out of him, the trickle touching her hand, setting her nerves atingle, a sensation faint pleasure seeping into her from it. Not what he had intended, but perhaps not such a poor result of his powers. He did no comment on the moment, letting it hang that perhaps his mere touch could deliver such a hing to her. He saw no reason to relieve her of such a notion, and being honest, it was no less than truth should he have command of even a fraction more of his power. And that left him an idea.

"If I may hae but a single moment more?" He asked standing up from his seat. "I offer you honesty now. The charms are loathsome to me in more ways than you can conceive, but I understand the caution you hold with them. A wedding is more than a simple ceremony for my kind, it binds our very natures. We can speak no falsehoods. Not even now, bound, can I do so to you. Once the wedding has placed it's onus upon me, consider, perhaps, as a wedding gift to your husband, the removal of a single charm? Allow me enough of my power to be...enough of myself that I might offer you proper aid in all things that you require." He summoned up his power once more, straining the charms even more than before, his mind knowing the way to this particular trick simply enough, letting him summon a more efficient pattern than normal. "I assure you it will be..." He let his fingers so very lightly brush her cheek, releasing the power into her. So close to her mind, it would be more intense as well because of such. A ripple of pleasure was all he sought for her, a single instant, nothing to linger. "...worth you while betrothed." He smiled as he finished the phrase.

 

[Xanaphia]

A single charm. All he asked was the removal of a single charm. Was it really so much, in the grand scheme of things? How can a marriage survive, if not built on a foundation of trust? How can she learn to trust him, if she never gives him a chance to act of his own accord? He wouldn’t be at full strength, just strong enough to keep up with her, to match her, and aide her in ruling the kingdom.

But it was hard to think of anything but the warmth of velvet fingers brushing her cheek. Hard to think of anything while his eyes gazed into hers. It was on the tip of her tongue to say yes, to accept his desire to help her as sincere. His kind cannot lie, not outright, after all.

“I... I will consider this,” Moira managed, surprising herself with her own willfulness. “Once you are bond to me through our vows, you will have earned more trust from me. If we can come together, and help one another, we will be stronger. Greater than the sum of our parts.”

That night she hardly slept, haunted by dreams of her betrothed and nightmares crafted from her mother’s warnings. There was no choice be to awaken early, with so much to be done before the ceremony, and she stuffed every spare moment with research, evaluating the pro and cons of his request, and how she could best –and most safely– honor it. Surprisingly, even away from his intoxicating presence, she wanted to accommodate him.

But the hours passed quickly, and just as the sun leered high above, she was lead to the ceremony. Specifically, to her father, who would relinquish her to Etarlam. Which struck her as strange, the more she considered it. In most cases, it made some sense for the father to give the bride away to her husband, as she was leaving one family to join another, but in this case, Etarlam was joining her family, not the other was around. But it was the tradition, and such things were difficult to break. Besides, as she understood, respecting the ritual as it had been practiced for generations would strengthen the power of the ceremony, and in turn the vows Etarlam would make to her.

Moira hid her nerves in a bright smile towards her father, offering her arm so he could lead her before their people and her betrothed. “Whenever you’re ready, Father.”

 

[Alvis Alendran]

He could say there was weakness in her, but she was mortal. Such was their lot in the world. It would be far more profound for him to admit that instead he saw strength in her. And it was there, the way she resisted. It wasn't fear, or at least not only fear, that made her make no promises about his charm, there was caution, there was stubborn determination. It was something that he could respect. He knew she was wavering. Then again, it was inevitable, she was bound to die, and he was not. He had the time to out wait her, to assume different tactics and approaches. But he still had to be careful. There were still ways that she could turn the tables on him. He had to assume that she was canny enough to be a threat. Always assume such.

When she took her leave of him, leaving him to his own devices, he considered sleeping. He had no need of it really, those not exiled never did. But they could, an those moments of oblivion could be treasured in their own way. Servants appeared to clear away the remnants of teh meal, vanishing. He held the gaze of one of the maids, willing power into the moment, grasping for something as simple as breathing most times. But now out of reach. She hesitated, seeming torn between remaining in the room alone with him, or fleeing out of a sense of risk that she would be alone with the betrothed to the princess. Her fear won out over her curiosity. She fled.

Etarlám sat on the edge of the bed, looking at the wall beside the door. A guard was stationed near the door, ensuring he didn't try to flee the premises. It was a fooling precaution. He couldn't flee, not with the charms in place. There was no way to safel unshackle his powers without the keys. And if the charms had been made well, and he was be forced to assume they were, then the key was likely charmed to be impossible to use save by mortal hands. Even theft of it from her would not avail him victory.

The guard changed through the night. When morning came, the first guard returned, looking into the room.

Etarlám still sat in the same rigid pose, still staring, as though he had not moved an inch all the night through.
"Sir?" The guard called. He started as Etarlám snapped his head around at the voice. The guard started at the suddenness of it. It was like being fixed by the gaze of a hunting falcon. Etarlám didn't speak, just stared. "It's...it's time sir. There is ceremonial clothing for you. If you will come with me?" Etarlám rose from the bed with an easy grace, effortless.
"Show me." The words were simple and without preamble. The guard did as he was required.

Etarlám was not pleased with his garb. Perhaps it would be fine fare for most, but to him, it felt drab and discomforting. It was impossible to match the weaving skills of those that had millennia to perfect their craft more so when such was done by thigns like piies were their very hands were nearly the size of the needles of the mortal world. He let his eyes close, drawing himself up. It would not do to present at anything less than his finest. When his eyes opened once more, he held himself with all the regal poise that he could muster, his shoulders squared, and his bearing very much reminding those present that they stood in the presence of something other than human. Something ancient, and wonderous to behold, and such was to be bound to their nation now.

The king had turned himself out as best he could. His health was not as robust as it had been in his youth, but long years of careful peace and time with a beautiful wife had ensured that he had maintained himself in a reasonable state. ANd now, his daughter carried on the tradition of the first born in the land. There was pride. Much pride for her. There had been many a murmuring that their kingdom was on the edge fo falling, simply for not having a suitable heir to carry on the line. But the king knew his daughter, knew her canny turn of mind. In her he could trust the future of his people. And with a husband that might bring far more power than ever seen in their line to bear. It was a good match. A good future. At her prompting, he took her arm, adn led her into the chapel.

The music soared, announcing hte arrival of hte bride. Etarlám took a glance to the entrance, and saw his coming bride. What he saw did not disappoint. he allowed himself a smile at the sight of her. There was something in her appearance that emphasized her lineage, her poise, he quiet strength that he had seen at times all ready. And she did it all without a spark of glamour or magic. There was something to this woman that he anticipated might be much more worthwhile than a simple mortal woman. He held her gaze as he approached, giving her no sense of weakness, but he did nothing to make it an open challenge.

The high priest of their kingdom stood to officiate.
"Who presents this woman to be married to this man?" The priest asked.
"I do." The king annoced, no attempt to hide the pride in his voice. The king stepped to the side, and the priest began the ceremony. It was filled with the usual statements of holiness, and the words made Etarlám's skin crawl. The concept of holy and his kind were not opposed per se, but they were not made of the same stuff. It had largely been acknowledged that his kind existed outside the plans and creation of Gods. He had been given a card, a simple thing, containing vows he was to read, a way of swearing himself. When the priest looked to him, Etarlám simply let the card fall.

"I vow you the first cut of my meat, the first sip of my wine,
from this day it shall only your name I cry out in the night
and into your eyes that I smile each morning;
I shall be a shield for you back as you are for mine,
no shall a grievous word be spoken about us,
for our marriage is sacred between us and no stranger shall hear my grievance.
Above and beyond this, I will cherish and honor you through this life and into the next."

The words flowed easily, pouring from him. There was something in them, a power that reverberated in the room. it wasn't magic, not the kind that had been his meat and drink all his life, but there was a kind of old, ancient power in it all, like his phrasing had been from a time before Kingdoms and Gods, as though his vows were from a point that such was sworn in stone circles, before ancient thigns mortals sought to forget. When he had finished, there was a moment of silence. Teh priest didn't try to correct him, and turned to Moira, knowing it was her turn for her own vows.