[ Had he been too cocky? The situation would certainly seem to indicate that, but he's not sure. He goes over it again and again, pacing the length of the beautiful room he's been locked in. A table made from petrified wood, plates from what he would sorely guess to be polished bone, jewels decorating the runner like fruit at a harvest feast. The floors are hunks of solid granite, and the huge window is inlaid with actual silver, if he were to guess.
Faerie resplendence, all of it. And all of it meaningless. Either taken from human craftsman -- if not made by the enslaved ones -- or created in its likeness. The fae were as bad as his father, copying, stealing, chasing empty dreams of power and perfection, casting away whatever they'd coveted the week before.
He knew that. And he'd known the artifact he was after -- a glyph stone said to capture souls and twist them into monsters at the beck and call of the holder -- was one they shouldn't have cared much for. Yes it was the stuff of legends, but they had other ways. He'd only wanted it so his father could not get it. And, well, for the admittedly crown on top of having successfully stolen from the fae.
Something was wrong though. They'd known he was coming, known that a whiff of his mother's old antiques, the sound of her laugh--
Had they known, or was it just their cruel magic? But if she was here--if she wasn't dead--
He stomps his foot on the ground, fists curled, refusing to disrupt anything, and gods help him, refusing to even consider eating any of the food on the table. The less he disturbed, the more likely he could talk his way out of this.
Even if the glyph in question was still clutched in his hand. ]
[ What the pirate had failed to account for - what all thieves swallowed up by this Court failed to account for - was that the hallowed halls of this particular Court were old. Older than the Court itself, some said, although the legends and whispers of What might have lived here before the Fae settled into the hollow hill were conflicted and uncertain, but all agreed they must have been mighty in their magics indeed.
So mighty that their magics lingered to this day, infused in the very walls, the floors, in every inch of the Court’s heart. Indeed, the halls themselves would change at a whim, sometimes helpfully, sometimes with frustrating obstinance. It wasn’t alive, not like one would think, but there was something otherworldly and knowledgable about the place. Outsiders and visitors often found it alarming, but this particular Court had dwelt here for so long that the hollow hill considered them under its protection now, so protect them it did.
And when one of mortal blood crept across its threshold with nefarious purpose, it had opened a path of little resistance, never letting the human realize he was being herded, guided, until the trap was sprung and he was safely contained until he could be dealt with.
Which was why the Prince had been roused from his slumber by the shiver of magic as he felt his connection with the Hill spring to life, wards activating, a voiceless whisper at the edge of his awareness summoning him to act. The hour is late, but he’s dressed in fine fabrics of black and crimson, a gleaming obsidian crown nestled atop his head. There is no weapons visible on his person, currently, but he doubts he’ll have need of them as he waves away a few of his alarmed court and motions his guards to stand back, whether they like it or not.
The locks on the doors slide open with a soft click and the doors swing open for him without his even having to touch them. They swing closed again behind him, locking once more as he strides into the large room, his golden gaze easily finding the culprit his hall had contained for him. ]
You, [ is all he sys in greeting as he strides closer in approach, one eyebrow arched as he takes in his unwelcome guest. ] are a very foolish mortal, to wander into a Hollow Hill uninvited.
[ Well, this was not a particularly welcome development.
He's too good a pirate to show his discomfort, but his eyes take in the crown and the sharp, lovely features set off by fabrics rich even for a fae. A prince, most likely. Why were they insufferable in every species?
For all the danger he knows he's in, he folds his arms, leaning against a carefully chosen stretch of plain wall. ]
Not invited most places, I'm afraid. Sometimes I forget what's polite. I do beg your apologies.
[ It's not like to work, but always best to start with the low hanging fruit. Gives him a chance to size up the other too. ]
I've disturbed nothing, and would gladly forget this place if you show me out. Learned my lesson, a good sport, all that. I've no wish to cause you any trouble.
[ The Prince, for his part, casually strolls to the massive throne-like chair at one end of the table and slouches into it almost lazily. One leg thrown up over the arm, he sits in it sideways, the picture of careless indolence as he reaches for an apple from a nearby bowl and munches into it heartily.
All the while keeping his golden gaze locked on the mortal, of course. For a long moment, he doesn’t speak, just munches away on a bite of fruit.
But then he arches an eyebrow, a smirk twisting its way crookedly across his lips as he gestures impatiently at the mortal. ]
Well? I’m waiting. I am quite certain that’s not how one begs in the human realms either. You’re not doing much to convince me of your remorse here.
[ He has the self-restraint, at least, to not tsk at the arrogant, languid casualty of the prince. All the same, always. It isn't enough to wield power, never. Have to show it off, have to show how they are above its rules.
Boring, really.
And he isn't going to be told what to do. Not even by the likes of some being that could ostensibly end him. Wouldn't be the first time he faced those odds. ]
Your halls are full of countless treasures. I disturbed nothing of value, damaged nothing, hurt no one. Why waste your time with me? Surely a prince of the court has better things to do.
Indeed, your little misadventure has roused me from a sound sleep, which I am quite annoyed over. However, I suppose you’re lucky you got caught in my Court, since annoying a Fae ruler typically isn’t a killable offense around here.
[ A pause, as he takes another bite of apple, still studying the human curiously. ]
Although I’ve been known to make exceptions to my own rules. Especially when the perpetrator is lying to my face. [ Now he’s the one to click his tongue chidingly. ] You did not prepare yourself very well for this folly of yours at all, did you? I assumed it common knowledge among your kind that we don’t suffer lies and untruths.
[ They may twist and contort the truth until they convince you the sky is green and snow is hot, but they will never outright lie. And they also have a sixth sense for when someone’s word is false. It tastes bitter on his tongue and he makes a face as he sets aside his apple, appetite ruined for the moment.
[ Ah yes, he'd disturbed the noble's sleep. How terrible. He was as arrogant as the boys Balthier remembered from school all those years ago, when he'd kept quiet that he was there on favors and scholarship while they spoke poorly of the common people. No matter his mother was a commoner and worth ten of them.
Not that it reaches his face. She's private. That life was private. Had been so long he would struggle to share it even if he wanted to. Which he pointedly didn't. He wonders if it's the magic of this place, stirring it up. Finding his vulnerabilities. A good defense, all told. ]
If you wanted to kill me, you wouldn't be here in person, and I'd already be dead.
[ If the Prince wants to eat an apple while he threatens the pirate, then Balthier will examine his nails while he bats it back. That was the thing, with these types. He was safer being interesting than being rattled.
He gives no indication he's listening intently, rolling the information around. ]
Ah, so that one is true. Fascinating. But I didn't lie. I took nothing you place any real value on, or it would have been harder to reach. I was truthful that I damaged nothing and hurt no one, so either your spell isn't working, or I've somehow lied without realizing it.
[ If he'd hurt anyone, it had been himself, but if that was how the spell worked, it wasn't much use. One for twisting the truth, though, he wonders how honest the Prince is being. There must be some other interest here, to show up personally.
He knows he ought to be more concerned. Fae have magicks and tempers humes and even Viera don't. But -- he has his own sixth sense, for those who would do anything to get their way. It's a terror he faced much too young and much too long. Those warning bells aren't going off, which means he has a decent chance of talking his way out of this. And anything better than death, he can figure out how to have changed.
Fran, however, is absolutely never going to let him out of her sight again. He was supposed to be lounging in some hot spring while she visited her sister. ]
Ahh, but Fae are as jealous of their treasures as any dragon.
[ The Prince sets his apple aside and pushes himself to his feet once more. Still casually nonchalant, he strolls towards the pirate where he leans against the wall, trying to look innocent - or indolent, either way. He presses a hand to the wall beside the human’s head while his other catches the man by the jaw, tipping his head back. Forcing him to meet his gaze. That slow, lazy smile is still very much in view.
The Fae didn’t seem overly bothered by this intrusion, despite his words. Or perhaps there was something more that interested him. Still, he gripped the man’s chin, holding him in place, even as he lets his gaze drop to where he knew an object of his possession was currently clutched. It sang to him, as did all things that belonged in this realm. ]
It is not for you to judge what I might value or what I might not.
[ That, he suspected, was true. Just like his father. He’d suspected, for a long time, that his father may be one of him. His earnest apologies to the Fae. His father was worse.
The Prince’s hand comes to the wall beside him, and he jerks against the hand on his chin, lip curling to a snarl before he can smooth it. This didn’t matter. It was just a game. Harmless. But he loathed it, from every corner of his being, having any of his choice stripped.
He doesn’t want to give in, doesn’t want to lose. It’s what makes him such a good pirate. But Fran has warned him a thousand times that treasure is not always worth the cost, and she’s right. Even as his fingers twitch and he wants nothing more than to spit in this Fae’s eye.
But if he can’t get it out, then his father can’t, and so isn’t this mission still worthwhile?
He sighs through his nose, holding up his hand, palm open. ]
There are feral, ruthless humes trying to crack this magic. If it falls into their hands, I worry what they will do with it. Probably safest with you.
[ Smooth flattery, a charming smile. But his eyes are cold, a warning in them. It’s safe here, but there are others like it. ]
If they succeed, they could bind any living creature to their will. Even you. Fine if you don’t want to find a counter spell, though.
[ The war in the Southern lands has been over for almost a year now and Dimitri has spent all of it with his council of lords setting things to rights within Faerghus. Some of it Sylvain is grateful for, sees the promise his King is trying to enact, the change that will likely take a generation to finally alter the course of this kingdom.
There’s nothing he can do to speed that change, unfortunately, for human minds aren’t so easily persuaded. But there is something he can do, at last. The title of Marquess being transferred to him when Dimitri offered his father a role at Court. Had offered it for him, because he well knows his King’s feelings on Matthias Gautier. But this, at last, would effectively tie the man’s hands up elsewhere and would give Sylvain to enact a dream he’s barely whispered of since he and the Faerghus Four were children together, hoping for an impossible world.
His white gelding gives a nervous snort beneath him as he carefully picks his footing on the narrow mountain pass, the range that separates the lands of Gautier from the much wilder north. The lands of the Fae Courts. It’s been years since he’s been across this border - the last time had been as a young teen, riding at his father’s side as his squire and heir. And he’d hated every minute of it.
Now, though, he was wearing white, the color of peace known between their peoples - even his horse had been chosen for this purpose, because he wanted them to see him coming, see his message before he had to open his mouth. Would need them to see it, otherwise he suspected he’d be welcomed with arrows and spears and far deadlier magic than any south of the mountain could wield. The only flare of color on him was the vibrant red of his hair - something that so distinctly marked him as one of the bloodline of Gautier that they would know precisely who he was.
Since the other marker of his heritage, the Lance of Ruin, was something he’d left safely tucked in the vaults at Garreg Mach, hopefully to never again see the light of day, if he had anything to say about it. Which was the entire reason he was riding across enemy lines into a hostile territory that would hate him on principle. He had to convince them of his sincerity if the war for this border was ever to cease.
He could feel the faint tingle of magic across his skin as his mount crosses the invisible line that makes up the border between their lands. He’s felt this before, but he doesn’t know what magic they have set up here. Wards, perhaps? Alarms? Either way, he keeps his posture calm and relaxed as he nudges his horse’s sides and urges him deeper into the wild of the fae lands, eyes scanning the horizon. ]
[ They see him coming for days, if not weeks. It is one defense they have, that time moves differently on this side of the veil, and also that their people can take shapes better equipped to survey the mountains. That the pass is difficult for mortals is the only reason this border has not been driven back, but the Fae -- solitary, low, and high alike -- uneasily worry it is only a matter of time.
That is why the High Courts reside much deeper into wild country, behind wards and rivers and forests and Lower Courts. They are expendable. That is the way of things, the natural order of the weak protecting the powerful.
She'd hated it her entire life. Bemoaned it and sobbed herself sick when, years ago, the humans had encroached on the small town she'd lived in, and the High Fae had sent no one to help. She'd watched her father die, cut in two by the humans, a man with famous red hair, his son at his hip. She'd only made it out because they'd thought her injury fatal. Her teacher had found her, moved her to the Low Court.
But her safety had come with a price. Her freedom of movement was gone, and with it her innocence. Before the attacks, she had often been a voice of peace, the one who wanted to help the humans who wandered of course, treat them differently than the ones who came to attack. But after years trying to heal from her injuries and trying to integrate into a dangerous, mottled Court she had hardly understood, she'd seen the fae who came back, desecrated by humans, or had their daughters and babies stolen to be slaves or brides or battle tokens. She'd seen wings ripped from backs, claws stolen from feet, blood and misery, and her heart had hardened. They were wicked, all of them, and the High Fae may not give a damn about the Low Court, but she did; they were her people, and she would not lose them again.
She has no status, no family title, but in the Low Court, reputation is a power itself. She climbs quickly, at first unbeknownst to her, and then it seems another mantle she does not know how to shirk. There are border issues, and she is consulted. Eventually, the High Court takes notice, appoints her a Knight. She is stuck here forever, now.
At least she has a forever. A home.
But when the reports come in of the white rider with red hair, her knuckles go white. She knows the family. She knows, from the age, the boy it likely is. He'd watched. He'd watched her father be run through, watched them salt her town, throw iron against innocent, quiet Fae. And she knew, whatever lie he was here under, he would just come back with more of them, to take her new home, to never stop until they conquered everything. Her blood has not run this hot in years, and even if this were not her duty, she would take this one.
Let him come, she orders. No obstructions. Let him come straight to me, and we will break him, and he will take the tale back to his people, and we will frighten them from ever fighting us again.
So Sylvain meets no resistance, even after the veil. It is oddly quiet, as no mortal animals live here. No matter how he turns, the path will lead to her, to a sturdy cottage at the foot of a snowy mountain, with a ceiling like the milky way and a hearth that burns so long as she draws air, and he will not know the whole Low Court watches from their seat in the mountain just behind, or that she is no longer a nameless Solitary Fae, but the High Knight of the Lower Court. ]
You've come a long way [ she greets him as he enters, smile warm as a barkeep's as she tends to rich stew on the stove. The Low Fae have limited magicks, but together, they can be fearsome; her cleverness and her strength have always set her apart from the others, but she cannot succeed without them. This cabin is their joint creation, and she has charmed objects at the ready. If things go sour, she has a guard ready to intervene. She doesn't think they will.
She is beautiful, even for a Fae, and that makes men careless and pliable. ]
[ The wilderness beyond the mountain is much changed from what Sylvain remembers as a boy. Wilder, even, overgrown and hauntingly empty. Although he can feel the weight of eyes on him as he treks deeper and deeper into enemy territory. But whoever his hidden watchers are, they never reveal themselves to him. But neither do they stop his progress, so he’ll take that as a win, he guesses?
He sees the smoke rising from the distance around midday, a thin stream of it rising up to the grey sky overhead. It gives him a direction and he sets his mount towards it, hoping that whoever he finds is friendly, or at the very least, willing to give him directions to one of the Courts. There are no maps of the Fae territories in the human lands, no landscapes to use as signposts here. He’d used the mountains when he could and had to hope his path would lead him somewhere useful.
The cottage, when he finds it, is solitary but welcoming. Dismounting, he hesitates at her door, one hand braced on the solid frame as his gaze scans the interior, takes in the single solitary figure within. A tantalizing scent rises from her large pot on the stove and his stomach growls in response. It’s hard to say how long he’s traveled - he knows time can move differently in these lands, but he has no frame of reference to track it.
Her voice is warm and melodic and his gaze is drawn back to her. Polite, he offers her a respectful bow - human tradition, for he knows none of her own. ]
I’m sorry to intrude, my lady. Might I trouble you for directions to the nearest Court?
[ There’s no recognition in him for her, of course - the faces from all those years ago had all blurred together and both of them were much changed now. There was age now written in the lines of his face, the curve of his friendly smile, the warm amber of his gaze. A boy no longer, he was a man who had already seen far too much war and death in his young years, but unlike the visage of the lord who had led his forces into these lands years ago, Sylvain’s features were not cold and arrogant, confident in his power and ever cunning and clever in pursuit of more. There was something far softer and gentler in his look. Thoughtful, almost, as he considered her before speaking, and then politely awaiting her answer. ]
[ Curse her soft heart. It still bleeds at times, and for a moment she takes in that bow, that deferential tone, that softer, tireder face and wonders - could this one be different?
And if she is wrong, it is not her own safety she risks. It is the entirety of her court. Her inner council, those who took her in when she arrived, the few she shares her heart with, have spent many a late night on this. The sacrifice of the few, no matter how fraught, is worth it to save the many. Especially when the few are the enemy, who have no clean hands.
Her face remains even, her smile inviting, and she turns to him, aware what angle to cast her figure at so that the snowy folds of her dress flatters her. It is not a skill she particularly values, but one she's learned has purpose over the years. ]
You've traveled so far, all alone. You must be exhausted. Won't you sit and eat with me, and rest before you continue on?
[ It was another easy trick, one she had once uneasily pointed out would work as well on Fae as human, but she'd long since learned not to voice such concern. Everyone -- if tired, especially -- wished to see themselves some special chosen entity. They did not question a stranger treating them like a god, like a child, like a lost beloved. It had always sickened her. Why would someone want a partner, temporary or not, who only wished to serve, who had no self, but it was the way of things. Worse with humans.
But it will make her job easier. She needs to ensnare him here. Despite what humans thing, none but the Court High Fae have strong magicks. If things go well, by morning she will have a surer hold, but it is never wise to only use one defense. And so, the soup -- which will have no effect on her -- has two spells entwined, one to keep him, for a time, from crossing the veil, should he escape, and the other to loosen his appetites and defenses. Not so much he should be alerted to foul play, especially with the depraved myths of fae taking any human they find to their bed, but enough that he will find himself more desirous of her, and more open to her guiding. ]
Then I will show you to the nearest Court. [ Not a lie. Never a lie. That is one thing the humans know of them that proves true, though truth and honesty are pliable things. ]
[ He hesitates, because the reason that had brought him across the border in the first place is not one he wants to delay any longer than he has to.
But at the same time, while humans know scant little of the Fae's customs, it was well known that you scorn a Fae's hospitality at your own risk. It was a high insult to turn down such an offering, freely given. Or so he'd always been taught. It's not something he really wants to test, at the moment.
So despite his misgivings, despite the way he glances over his shoulder, as if reluctant to waylay his journey, he does eventually nod. And cross the threshold into her cottage. ]
It is kind of you to offer such hospitality to a weary stranger. You have my gratitude. [ He doesn't ask her name, or give his, since he remembers something vaguely about Fae rarely giving their true ones anyway, and since he doesn't know the customs, he just... skips it entirely unless she initiates it otherwise.
He does reach up to unclasp the silver broach in the shape of a lion's head at his shoulder, however - not the Crest of Gautier, oddly enough, but of Faerghus's royal house, to the south. His cloak loosened, he shrugs it from his shoulders as he steps inside.
She's beautiful, even for a Fae, but he doesn't let his gaze linger too long. Far too familiar with how that can be used as a weapon and also not wanting to show her disrespect - was it? or would that be considered an insult? he really wished there was more known, understanding shared between their peoples. Maybe it was something he could learn and work towards in the future.
But he does gesture at her large cauldron of stew, still simmering on the stove. ]
Is there anything I can lend a hand with, my lady? Since you have already been so generous in your offerings?
[ Typical. Waylaid from whatever journey he was on by a pretty face and an easy offer. It makes it easier to remember that he deserves this. She inclines her head, turning to reach for bowls.
His question stays her hand for a flicker of a moment. It is nothing though. Words are easy. The Fae know that more than anyone. ]
I insist. Please, sit.
[ She brings the steaming bowls, setting one before him and one before herself. The table is not opulent like the High Fae would insist, but it is still more than she had in her youth: good, thick wood, well cared for, thick textiles beneath the settings, and stoneware made sturdy and beautiful by good craftsman. She smiles across at him as she pours wine in two crystal goblets. The same spells are laced in this, but nothing more.
She lifts hers, tucking her chin down a little extra so her wide eyes will have the best effect. She hates that she knows how to do this. ]
To unexpected company. It's been a long time since I've had a visitor.
[ And then she drinks, and begins on her meal, to make a show that it is safe. Some of it is her own cooking, and that will only serve to make him feel hale and strong, ease the hurts of travel. It is something she cannot help when she works, but she did not have the others do it, because she wants him strong before she breaks him. ]
[ He sinks down where he’s bid, because he wasn’t about to argue with her in her own home. Even if he looks a little uncomfortable to leave her to do the work. But he settles politely at her table, thanks her when she places a bowl steaming with delicious food in front of him, offering her a grateful smile.
At her toast - he thinks that’s what it is? - he lifts his glass to her. And if he waits until she samples each first herself, well… he is in enemy territory, technically, and he knows many Fae have no love for humans - and with good cause in his mind. It was why he was here, after all. ]
I had noted the road here was quiet and empty of any villages or homesteads. Are most of the Courts farther inland?
[ Lifting the goblet to his lips, he takes a deep swallow, wetting his parched throat with the sweet liquid before reaching for the silverware set beside his bowl, to share the meal with her. After a bite or two, he makes a soft sound of appreciation at the rich flavor, offering her a crooked smile over his bowl. ]
And this is delicious, my lady, thank you. It’s been quite some time since I had a home-cooked meal as hearty as this.
[ Her smile is real, even if she hates that it is. Fae are not forthcoming with their compliments, a cultural tendency she's always resented. She knows he could be lying, or simple noble flattery, but she does pride herself in the things she makes, and it hits an ache in her.
One best kept private, and so she only nods, focusing on his other response. Straight to business, and either a delicate or stupid. ]
They are indeed. [ Most. Not a lie. ] The numbers near the border have dwindled after so many human attacks. [ Also not a lie, and she watches his face evenly as she says it, her own face serene. He is eating and drinking, so she does not want to make him uncomfortable. Not yet. But even she can't always control her impulses, despite years of discipline and practice. A weakness in her. ]
I expect one as finely clothed as yourself rarely eats food made in a small home. I should be honored, for such a noble guest. [ Again she watches his face, her own even and pleasant.
It will be harder to tell when the spells take hold, given she doesn't know his personality or propensity to flirt. But there are signs. Eye dilation, flushed cheeks, heavier breath, the way he may look. For now she just smiles, taking her own wine and soup, and reminding herself of the pain that she cannot share with her father, or have her own home in the place of her birth with friends and neighbors. They are all gone. ]
[ Sylvain struggled against the magical bindings pinning his arms behind his back, even though he knows its pointless. There’s no ropes, no chains, no manacles to struggle against, just some invisible, unbreakable force. The guard on his left gives his arm a sharp jerk in reprimand, unbalancing him, but he manages to find his feet before he goes all the way down. That just has his lips curling back in a silent, defiant snarl. The guard ignores him, unimpressed.
The reason being, of course, that a moment later he is led through a massive archway and out into a great feasting hall, the domed ceiling overhead a mixture of greenery and branches and beautifully ornate stained glass, all gleaming bright. And almost blinding after days - weeks? - in the darkness of the cells below. He blinks, squinting against the light as he staggers again, disoriented.
The sound of voices, of music and laughter, fill the air, and he can feel the heavy weight of many eyes resting on him as he’s all but dragged to the center of the room and forced down on his knees before the high dais, next to another prisoner, a man bound just like he is.
He doesn’t spare him a glance, because he’s not sure what they have planned for either of them. Instead, he just glares up at the high court assembled at the table raised above them, at the Fae watching with mocking smiles and cruel laughter.
Whatever’s in store for their ‘punishment’, it’s likely not to be anything good. ]
[ Giving the enemy reaction was paramount to giving them further leverage. Basch was a very old hand at presenting as submissive as possible, and it's no different here, bearing his binds as neutrally as he can. Even that is a mistake, as they grow tighter, cutting into his flesh and contorting the set of his shoulders until his flinches and grimaces.
It's not surprise that that's the moment a guard -- or two? it's hard to tell, with so much touch, and a grip that feels like the bite of tree bark -- forces him to his feet. The beauty of the place is near lost on him as his eyes search for architectural hints of exits, weak points. Instead, his gaze finds men and women he knows, rigid and watching from an enormous audience. His gaze snaps to where they're being led. A dais. A stage.
He does his best to swallow a cry as he's forced down, knees and shins aching. There's someone else beside him. Torture. Show of power. He knows what the Fae are like. Will they be made champions, to fight each other til one is left over days and weeks? Or perhaps objects of a hunt?
He considers in a detached, tactical way, even as there is a faint sickness in his stomach. It will do him no good to let his emotions get the better of him, cause him to freeze.
Ah, the two great commanders who would topple our reign a drawling voice says, laughter on its edge. It distinctly reminds him of the baying of dire wolves on the plains, as does the way his body tenses in the presence of predators.
Look at your better when they speak to you, filthy mortal another voice sneers with all the warmth a tree split by lightning.
Basch's head snaps up of its own accord, hitting too high and popping. His nostrils flare, his eyes widening almost imperceptibly as he tries to put his head down again. He cannot. There is laughter in all their eyes, languid bodies reclined in hard seats, their persons decorated with gemstones and bones. Beside one, one of his men -- a lad, really, hardly more than a boy -- sits kneeling, mouth pressed shut but pain in his face, holding a tray above him like he is an end table. ]
Let him be [ Basch says, eyes the only indication of who he's looking at. ] I will carry his punishment.
[ There is a tittering of laughter like ice crashing against itself. His stomach clenches, even if his face stays calm. Even he is not immune to the visceral fear of deadly creatures. He is already a goner, though; spare the boy at least.
So in all of this, he still has not processed who it is that kneels beside him. ]
[ There’s a quiet sigh under his breath as Sylvain closes his eyes when the general beside him tries to play the martyr and spare someone - one of his men, he’s assuming - the torment they’re likely all in for.
A useless attempt, he’s certain. Never expose who will make you the most vulnerable. It will always be used against you. It’s why he keeps his eyes off the crowds, off their surroundings, lifting his head to focus solely on the royals ahead of them. There’s a defiant glare in his eye, because he knows how courtly games like this work, even if this is the first time he’s ever faced a court of Fae.
Keep them focused on him, give them someone who seems as if he’ll be good sport, and they’ll likely leave the others alone.
The powerful love to try and break those who never learn to know their place.
His look is noted, and there’s another wave of tittered laughter among them. This one is at least clever enough to know when to hold his tongue. But you were not addressed, mortal. We’ve given you no permission to look, especially when your eyes cast such daggers our way.
Thorned fingers fist in his hair, jabbing into his scalp, dragging a hiss of pain from his lips as he’s forced down, down, until his face is pressed into the dirt and the laughter rises up louder, the whispering wind in the branches, the howling of wolves at the moon, the croaking of insects. None of it sounds natural to his ears, but he grits his teeth and bears it.
How low the mighty have fallen. How pitiful now the righteous invaders, the trespassers on our holy grounds. You should have heeded our warnings, mortals, and bent the knee from the start. Surrendered to us and our demands, and mayhaps you could have spared yourselves this display. But you did not bow, so now we will make you bow. Make you serve, as you were always meant to. The lowliest of the low, brought to heel by your new gods. ]
[ Foolish, to show defiance to a foe who has already won. They will take great joy in breaking any who dare to stand rigid. It is why he offers subservience in exchange for his man. He is the greater prize. Let them focus on him.
He still cannot turn to look, but he hears the clatter, the scrape of a body and the hiss of pain, and then the laughter. He does not acknowledge his heart sinking. If they are searching for places to hurt, then their fate is sealed. Their next best strategy is to hope their captors grow bored with them as soon as possible.
No such luck today. A moment later those thorned hands force his face down as well, so that he is as low in the dirt as the other. If it was heel they wanted, a servant, he would volunteer a hundred lifetimes if he could save the others. But he does not know yet. He needs to wait, to observe, to bargain, get as many out as he can.
That zero may be the outcome is a thought he cannot dwell on.
Low as you are, mortals, you have not proven your right to such civilized luxury as garments.
The thorns scrape his skin, and he hears the way cloth and buckle strain and pop, fabric shredding as skin is caught in the fray. There's more laughter, murmurs as the crowd anticipates what he cannot.
See, even your skin shows how weak and damaged you are. If you cannot even take care of that, how can we trust you to make decisions for yourselves?
The panic claws at the far edges of his mind. He's heard the tales; they all have. Powerful Fae magic that can shape a man's will. Not coercion, because they find themselves wanting whatever it is the Fae order. Will he be made to flagellate himself? Fight his squadron? Grapple with this man until one of them breaks?
All you humans do is fuck and fight for dominance, so, that is how you shall entertain us, in your basest, truest form.
Gooseflesh crawls up his skin, his stomach going cold.
On all fours, soldiers.
That sickening feeling again, his limbs moving without his telling them to. He only tries gently to raise up onto his knees -- nothing. But he can turn, and he disentangles from the pile of shorn clothing, finally looking at who is beside him.
He is not surprised to see the younger general, but it is still a blow, his form equally naked, still full of wounds from battle, crawling on hands and knees with a snarl still on his face. ]
[ The snarl, for what its worth, is not directed at Basch, but the situation in general. The movement of his own body without permission, like a puppet being dragged along by his strings. There are red welts and scrapes on his pale skin where the thorns had caught, raked, as the last of his clothing was ripped away, now lying in shredded blue scraps on the floor and nothing more.
He crawls, the stone under his palms and knees rough and scraping, but there's no hesitation in his movements. No matter how he struggles to free his will from however they've chained it. Jaw clenched, he's carried along as a passenger inside his own skin as titters and laughter and whispered speculation rise up from the watching crowd. Out of the corner of his eyes, he even thinks he sees pouches changing hands, as if their watchers are already making wagers on the outcome.
But he doesn't have time to even process that because he's crawled close enough to the other general to be within reach now and one of the Fae on the dais rises to his feet, a fist raised in the air and a cruel smirk on his lips.
A true wager, then.
Let us see this vaunted strength of will you mortals boast to possess. If you can shake free of the hold of our magic, you can walk free of this court, taking you and yours with you. But if you cannot, if you cannot rise above these base urges that drive you deeper than any thought or choice, they will rule you instead.
What will it be, mortals? What will prove stronger, the defiance of your minds or the base nature that marks you no better than the beasts we believe you to be? Struggle, then, and show us which is the greater.
It's a command as much as the others, even if it comes clothed in what some would see as an opportunity. Sylvain doubts it, however. The Fae would not risk that which they are not willing to lose. But that doesn't mean he can keep from obeying, even as he feels himself lunging for the other man, intent on grappling him to the ground. ]
[ Break free and be let go. The Fae have to honor their deals. It is one of the few true lines when dealing with them.
That hope is what he encases his mind around, weaving it into a beacon and a shield. If there is hope, then there is not reason to despair. He has survived hopeless odds, torture, imprisonment -- this will be no different.
But the order is out, and his body is turning, and struggle as he might, he does not know this magic or how to bend his will around it. What's more, the other man is at him, and Basch's training as much as the magic take hold. They are of a size, no advantage there, and perhaps that is another reason they were chosen. But Sylvain is younger and more virile, Basch more experienced but more prone to his aches, and so there is no perfect parallel.
That, and in the end, Basch is not savage. He takes the attack, resisting, absorbing the blows and hoping to tire the other. He moves his neck, meaning to headbutt and dislodge the other's balance, but instead his teeth lock on flesh, digging hard, nails grasping against skin where he would have only held. He lets out a muffled sound of indignation, but it is all the resistance he can muster. ]
[ There are calls and jeers and laughter from the assembled Fae as the two humans collide, struggling as much internally as their bodies do externally. For all the good it does them, because the instinct to resist, to defend, to struggle, is ingrained deeply in the both of them. Coming without need for thought, or their own command. So much is pure reaction that the magic can latch hold to far faster than their minds could ever catch up.
So they struggle - not against the magic but against one another, bodies crashing into one another as hands grapple and weight shifts, knees digging into the stone to brace.
He hisses out a soft curse as he feels those teeth sink into his shoulder, leaving behind yet one more visible mark on his already-scarred flesh. The pain is sharp, but not enough to clear his head. If anything, it sends him deeper into the maddening need to pin the other man beneath him.
Look at them tear at each other like mindless beasts. the Fae above them calls to his fellows, his words a mocking taunt. Ever such violent displays of dominance, and for what? It only proves how much they crave this. Delight in the revelry of it, like the beasts they are.
Sylvain had mostly tuned the voice out, too focused on trying to struggle his way free. But the Fae's words still hold the magic to shape and change in and of themselves, and he gives a strangled sound as he feels heat suddenly rush through him, dizzying and disorienting, his skin seeming to tingle and buzz with awareness. Against his thigh, against Basch's hip as he struggles to pin the man's lower body in place, he feels his cock begin to stir with unwanted interest. ]
[ Basch is much more shaken by the bite than Sylvain is, his balance slipping and with it, Sylvain gains the upper hand. Struggling with both, he does not hear the Fae's latest words.
And so he is even more overwhelmed when a familiar but utterly out of place heat rolls over him, his eyes going wide. Here? Now? None of the men he is with know of these tastes, at least not to his knowledge--
He draws in sharply, mind suddenly aware of how strong Sylvain's hands are, how entwined their thighs, how nice it would be, to be overpowered.
Or perhaps to overpower the other in another way, drop his head between his legs and make him sing.
A strangled noise comes out his throat, half protest, half lust, and his own cock stirs enough to throb against Sylvain's leg.
More laughs, more jeers, some applause. It's so far away...
You see? To fight or to fuck, both if they can. They've lost any sense that they've an audience.
Basch has indeed, and where his hands hold Sylvain's onslaught back, he widens his arms now, causing the other man's chest to come close to his, and takes one of his nipples in his mouth, tongue lathing over it before he sucks, hard, seeking a sound of victory even as the crowd erupts. Again his cock stirs, and a hazy fantasy of bouncing the other man upon it, or, better yet, rutting against him both on all fours, brews in his mind. ]
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slytherynn2024-01-19 08:53 pm
Pirates do not belong at Court
Faerie resplendence, all of it. And all of it meaningless. Either taken from human craftsman -- if not made by the enslaved ones -- or created in its likeness. The fae were as bad as his father, copying, stealing, chasing empty dreams of power and perfection, casting away whatever they'd coveted the week before.
He knew that. And he'd known the artifact he was after -- a glyph stone said to capture souls and twist them into monsters at the beck and call of the holder -- was one they shouldn't have cared much for. Yes it was the stuff of legends, but they had other ways. He'd only wanted it so his father could not get it. And, well, for the admittedly crown on top of having successfully stolen from the fae.
Something was wrong though. They'd known he was coming, known that a whiff of his mother's old antiques, the sound of her laugh--
Had they known, or was it just their cruel magic? But if she was here--if she wasn't dead--
He stomps his foot on the ground, fists curled, refusing to disrupt anything, and gods help him, refusing to even consider eating any of the food on the table. The less he disturbed, the more likely he could talk his way out of this.
Even if the glyph in question was still clutched in his hand. ]
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So mighty that their magics lingered to this day, infused in the very walls, the floors, in every inch of the Court’s heart. Indeed, the halls themselves would change at a whim, sometimes helpfully, sometimes with frustrating obstinance. It wasn’t alive, not like one would think, but there was something otherworldly and knowledgable about the place. Outsiders and visitors often found it alarming, but this particular Court had dwelt here for so long that the hollow hill considered them under its protection now, so protect them it did.
And when one of mortal blood crept across its threshold with nefarious purpose, it had opened a path of little resistance, never letting the human realize he was being herded, guided, until the trap was sprung and he was safely contained until he could be dealt with.
Which was why the Prince had been roused from his slumber by the shiver of magic as he felt his connection with the Hill spring to life, wards activating, a voiceless whisper at the edge of his awareness summoning him to act. The hour is late, but he’s dressed in fine fabrics of black and crimson, a gleaming obsidian crown nestled atop his head. There is no weapons visible on his person, currently, but he doubts he’ll have need of them as he waves away a few of his alarmed court and motions his guards to stand back, whether they like it or not.
The locks on the doors slide open with a soft click and the doors swing open for him without his even having to touch them. They swing closed again behind him, locking once more as he strides into the large room, his golden gaze easily finding the culprit his hall had contained for him. ]
You, [ is all he sys in greeting as he strides closer in approach, one eyebrow arched as he takes in his unwelcome guest. ] are a very foolish mortal, to wander into a Hollow Hill uninvited.
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He's too good a pirate to show his discomfort, but his eyes take in the crown and the sharp, lovely features set off by fabrics rich even for a fae. A prince, most likely. Why were they insufferable in every species?
For all the danger he knows he's in, he folds his arms, leaning against a carefully chosen stretch of plain wall. ]
Not invited most places, I'm afraid. Sometimes I forget what's polite. I do beg your apologies.
[ It's not like to work, but always best to start with the low hanging fruit. Gives him a chance to size up the other too. ]
I've disturbed nothing, and would gladly forget this place if you show me out. Learned my lesson, a good sport, all that. I've no wish to cause you any trouble.
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All the while keeping his golden gaze locked on the mortal, of course. For a long moment, he doesn’t speak, just munches away on a bite of fruit.
But then he arches an eyebrow, a smirk twisting its way crookedly across his lips as he gestures impatiently at the mortal. ]
Well? I’m waiting. I am quite certain that’s not how one begs in the human realms either. You’re not doing much to convince me of your remorse here.
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Boring, really.
And he isn't going to be told what to do. Not even by the likes of some being that could ostensibly end him. Wouldn't be the first time he faced those odds. ]
Your halls are full of countless treasures. I disturbed nothing of value, damaged nothing, hurt no one. Why waste your time with me? Surely a prince of the court has better things to do.
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[ A pause, as he takes another bite of apple, still studying the human curiously. ]
Although I’ve been known to make exceptions to my own rules. Especially when the perpetrator is lying to my face. [ Now he’s the one to click his tongue chidingly. ] You did not prepare yourself very well for this folly of yours at all, did you? I assumed it common knowledge among your kind that we don’t suffer lies and untruths.
[ They may twist and contort the truth until they convince you the sky is green and snow is hot, but they will never outright lie. And they also have a sixth sense for when someone’s word is false. It tastes bitter on his tongue and he makes a face as he sets aside his apple, appetite ruined for the moment.
Maybe he really should rethink that rule… ]
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Not that it reaches his face. She's private. That life was private. Had been so long he would struggle to share it even if he wanted to. Which he pointedly didn't. He wonders if it's the magic of this place, stirring it up. Finding his vulnerabilities. A good defense, all told. ]
If you wanted to kill me, you wouldn't be here in person, and I'd already be dead.
[ If the Prince wants to eat an apple while he threatens the pirate, then Balthier will examine his nails while he bats it back. That was the thing, with these types. He was safer being interesting than being rattled.
He gives no indication he's listening intently, rolling the information around. ]
Ah, so that one is true. Fascinating. But I didn't lie. I took nothing you place any real value on, or it would have been harder to reach. I was truthful that I damaged nothing and hurt no one, so either your spell isn't working, or I've somehow lied without realizing it.
[ If he'd hurt anyone, it had been himself, but if that was how the spell worked, it wasn't much use. One for twisting the truth, though, he wonders how honest the Prince is being. There must be some other interest here, to show up personally.
He knows he ought to be more concerned. Fae have magicks and tempers humes and even Viera don't. But -- he has his own sixth sense, for those who would do anything to get their way. It's a terror he faced much too young and much too long. Those warning bells aren't going off, which means he has a decent chance of talking his way out of this. And anything better than death, he can figure out how to have changed.
Fran, however, is absolutely never going to let him out of her sight again. He was supposed to be lounging in some hot spring while she visited her sister. ]
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[ The Prince sets his apple aside and pushes himself to his feet once more. Still casually nonchalant, he strolls towards the pirate where he leans against the wall, trying to look innocent - or indolent, either way. He presses a hand to the wall beside the human’s head while his other catches the man by the jaw, tipping his head back. Forcing him to meet his gaze. That slow, lazy smile is still very much in view.
The Fae didn’t seem overly bothered by this intrusion, despite his words. Or perhaps there was something more that interested him. Still, he gripped the man’s chin, holding him in place, even as he lets his gaze drop to where he knew an object of his possession was currently clutched. It sang to him, as did all things that belonged in this realm. ]
It is not for you to judge what I might value or what I might not.
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The Prince’s hand comes to the wall beside him, and he jerks against the hand on his chin, lip curling to a snarl before he can smooth it. This didn’t matter. It was just a game. Harmless. But he loathed it, from every corner of his being, having any of his choice stripped.
He doesn’t want to give in, doesn’t want to lose. It’s what makes him such a good pirate. But Fran has warned him a thousand times that treasure is not always worth the cost, and she’s right. Even as his fingers twitch and he wants nothing more than to spit in this Fae’s eye.
But if he can’t get it out, then his father can’t, and so isn’t this mission still worthwhile?
He sighs through his nose, holding up his hand, palm open. ]
There are feral, ruthless humes trying to crack this magic. If it falls into their hands, I worry what they will do with it. Probably safest with you.
[ Smooth flattery, a charming smile. But his eyes are cold, a warning in them. It’s safe here, but there are others like it. ]
If they succeed, they could bind any living creature to their will. Even you. Fine if you don’t want to find a counter spell, though.
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Breeching the Border
There’s nothing he can do to speed that change, unfortunately, for human minds aren’t so easily persuaded. But there is something he can do, at last. The title of Marquess being transferred to him when Dimitri offered his father a role at Court. Had offered it for him, because he well knows his King’s feelings on Matthias Gautier. But this, at last, would effectively tie the man’s hands up elsewhere and would give Sylvain to enact a dream he’s barely whispered of since he and the Faerghus Four were children together, hoping for an impossible world.
His white gelding gives a nervous snort beneath him as he carefully picks his footing on the narrow mountain pass, the range that separates the lands of Gautier from the much wilder north. The lands of the Fae Courts. It’s been years since he’s been across this border - the last time had been as a young teen, riding at his father’s side as his squire and heir. And he’d hated every minute of it.
Now, though, he was wearing white, the color of peace known between their peoples - even his horse had been chosen for this purpose, because he wanted them to see him coming, see his message before he had to open his mouth. Would need them to see it, otherwise he suspected he’d be welcomed with arrows and spears and far deadlier magic than any south of the mountain could wield. The only flare of color on him was the vibrant red of his hair - something that so distinctly marked him as one of the bloodline of Gautier that they would know precisely who he was.
Since the other marker of his heritage, the Lance of Ruin, was something he’d left safely tucked in the vaults at Garreg Mach, hopefully to never again see the light of day, if he had anything to say about it. Which was the entire reason he was riding across enemy lines into a hostile territory that would hate him on principle. He had to convince them of his sincerity if the war for this border was ever to cease.
He could feel the faint tingle of magic across his skin as his mount crosses the invisible line that makes up the border between their lands. He’s felt this before, but he doesn’t know what magic they have set up here. Wards, perhaps? Alarms? Either way, he keeps his posture calm and relaxed as he nudges his horse’s sides and urges him deeper into the wild of the fae lands, eyes scanning the horizon. ]
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That is why the High Courts reside much deeper into wild country, behind wards and rivers and forests and Lower Courts. They are expendable. That is the way of things, the natural order of the weak protecting the powerful.
She'd hated it her entire life. Bemoaned it and sobbed herself sick when, years ago, the humans had encroached on the small town she'd lived in, and the High Fae had sent no one to help. She'd watched her father die, cut in two by the humans, a man with famous red hair, his son at his hip. She'd only made it out because they'd thought her injury fatal. Her teacher had found her, moved her to the Low Court.
But her safety had come with a price. Her freedom of movement was gone, and with it her innocence. Before the attacks, she had often been a voice of peace, the one who wanted to help the humans who wandered of course, treat them differently than the ones who came to attack. But after years trying to heal from her injuries and trying to integrate into a dangerous, mottled Court she had hardly understood, she'd seen the fae who came back, desecrated by humans, or had their daughters and babies stolen to be slaves or brides or battle tokens. She'd seen wings ripped from backs, claws stolen from feet, blood and misery, and her heart had hardened. They were wicked, all of them, and the High Fae may not give a damn about the Low Court, but she did; they were her people, and she would not lose them again.
She has no status, no family title, but in the Low Court, reputation is a power itself. She climbs quickly, at first unbeknownst to her, and then it seems another mantle she does not know how to shirk. There are border issues, and she is consulted. Eventually, the High Court takes notice, appoints her a Knight. She is stuck here forever, now.
At least she has a forever. A home.
But when the reports come in of the white rider with red hair, her knuckles go white. She knows the family. She knows, from the age, the boy it likely is. He'd watched. He'd watched her father be run through, watched them salt her town, throw iron against innocent, quiet Fae. And she knew, whatever lie he was here under, he would just come back with more of them, to take her new home, to never stop until they conquered everything. Her blood has not run this hot in years, and even if this were not her duty, she would take this one.
Let him come, she orders. No obstructions. Let him come straight to me, and we will break him, and he will take the tale back to his people, and we will frighten them from ever fighting us again.
So Sylvain meets no resistance, even after the veil. It is oddly quiet, as no mortal animals live here. No matter how he turns, the path will lead to her, to a sturdy cottage at the foot of a snowy mountain, with a ceiling like the milky way and a hearth that burns so long as she draws air, and he will not know the whole Low Court watches from their seat in the mountain just behind, or that she is no longer a nameless Solitary Fae, but the High Knight of the Lower Court. ]
You've come a long way [ she greets him as he enters, smile warm as a barkeep's as she tends to rich stew on the stove. The Low Fae have limited magicks, but together, they can be fearsome; her cleverness and her strength have always set her apart from the others, but she cannot succeed without them. This cabin is their joint creation, and she has charmed objects at the ready. If things go sour, she has a guard ready to intervene. She doesn't think they will.
She is beautiful, even for a Fae, and that makes men careless and pliable. ]
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He sees the smoke rising from the distance around midday, a thin stream of it rising up to the grey sky overhead. It gives him a direction and he sets his mount towards it, hoping that whoever he finds is friendly, or at the very least, willing to give him directions to one of the Courts. There are no maps of the Fae territories in the human lands, no landscapes to use as signposts here. He’d used the mountains when he could and had to hope his path would lead him somewhere useful.
The cottage, when he finds it, is solitary but welcoming. Dismounting, he hesitates at her door, one hand braced on the solid frame as his gaze scans the interior, takes in the single solitary figure within. A tantalizing scent rises from her large pot on the stove and his stomach growls in response. It’s hard to say how long he’s traveled - he knows time can move differently in these lands, but he has no frame of reference to track it.
Her voice is warm and melodic and his gaze is drawn back to her. Polite, he offers her a respectful bow - human tradition, for he knows none of her own. ]
I’m sorry to intrude, my lady. Might I trouble you for directions to the nearest Court?
[ There’s no recognition in him for her, of course - the faces from all those years ago had all blurred together and both of them were much changed now. There was age now written in the lines of his face, the curve of his friendly smile, the warm amber of his gaze. A boy no longer, he was a man who had already seen far too much war and death in his young years, but unlike the visage of the lord who had led his forces into these lands years ago, Sylvain’s features were not cold and arrogant, confident in his power and ever cunning and clever in pursuit of more. There was something far softer and gentler in his look. Thoughtful, almost, as he considered her before speaking, and then politely awaiting her answer. ]
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And if she is wrong, it is not her own safety she risks. It is the entirety of her court. Her inner council, those who took her in when she arrived, the few she shares her heart with, have spent many a late night on this. The sacrifice of the few, no matter how fraught, is worth it to save the many. Especially when the few are the enemy, who have no clean hands.
Her face remains even, her smile inviting, and she turns to him, aware what angle to cast her figure at so that the snowy folds of her dress flatters her. It is not a skill she particularly values, but one she's learned has purpose over the years. ]
You've traveled so far, all alone. You must be exhausted. Won't you sit and eat with me, and rest before you continue on?
[ It was another easy trick, one she had once uneasily pointed out would work as well on Fae as human, but she'd long since learned not to voice such concern. Everyone -- if tired, especially -- wished to see themselves some special chosen entity. They did not question a stranger treating them like a god, like a child, like a lost beloved. It had always sickened her. Why would someone want a partner, temporary or not, who only wished to serve, who had no self, but it was the way of things. Worse with humans.
But it will make her job easier. She needs to ensnare him here. Despite what humans thing, none but the Court High Fae have strong magicks. If things go well, by morning she will have a surer hold, but it is never wise to only use one defense. And so, the soup -- which will have no effect on her -- has two spells entwined, one to keep him, for a time, from crossing the veil, should he escape, and the other to loosen his appetites and defenses. Not so much he should be alerted to foul play, especially with the depraved myths of fae taking any human they find to their bed, but enough that he will find himself more desirous of her, and more open to her guiding. ]
Then I will show you to the nearest Court. [ Not a lie. Never a lie. That is one thing the humans know of them that proves true, though truth and honesty are pliable things. ]
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But at the same time, while humans know scant little of the Fae's customs, it was well known that you scorn a Fae's hospitality at your own risk. It was a high insult to turn down such an offering, freely given. Or so he'd always been taught. It's not something he really wants to test, at the moment.
So despite his misgivings, despite the way he glances over his shoulder, as if reluctant to waylay his journey, he does eventually nod. And cross the threshold into her cottage. ]
It is kind of you to offer such hospitality to a weary stranger. You have my gratitude. [ He doesn't ask her name, or give his, since he remembers something vaguely about Fae rarely giving their true ones anyway, and since he doesn't know the customs, he just... skips it entirely unless she initiates it otherwise.
He does reach up to unclasp the silver broach in the shape of a lion's head at his shoulder, however - not the Crest of Gautier, oddly enough, but of Faerghus's royal house, to the south. His cloak loosened, he shrugs it from his shoulders as he steps inside.
She's beautiful, even for a Fae, but he doesn't let his gaze linger too long. Far too familiar with how that can be used as a weapon and also not wanting to show her disrespect - was it? or would that be considered an insult? he really wished there was more known, understanding shared between their peoples. Maybe it was something he could learn and work towards in the future.
But he does gesture at her large cauldron of stew, still simmering on the stove. ]
Is there anything I can lend a hand with, my lady? Since you have already been so generous in your offerings?
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His question stays her hand for a flicker of a moment. It is nothing though. Words are easy. The Fae know that more than anyone. ]
I insist. Please, sit.
[ She brings the steaming bowls, setting one before him and one before herself. The table is not opulent like the High Fae would insist, but it is still more than she had in her youth: good, thick wood, well cared for, thick textiles beneath the settings, and stoneware made sturdy and beautiful by good craftsman. She smiles across at him as she pours wine in two crystal goblets. The same spells are laced in this, but nothing more.
She lifts hers, tucking her chin down a little extra so her wide eyes will have the best effect. She hates that she knows how to do this. ]
To unexpected company. It's been a long time since I've had a visitor.
[ And then she drinks, and begins on her meal, to make a show that it is safe. Some of it is her own cooking, and that will only serve to make him feel hale and strong, ease the hurts of travel. It is something she cannot help when she works, but she did not have the others do it, because she wants him strong before she breaks him. ]
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At her toast - he thinks that’s what it is? - he lifts his glass to her. And if he waits until she samples each first herself, well… he is in enemy territory, technically, and he knows many Fae have no love for humans - and with good cause in his mind. It was why he was here, after all. ]
I had noted the road here was quiet and empty of any villages or homesteads. Are most of the Courts farther inland?
[ Lifting the goblet to his lips, he takes a deep swallow, wetting his parched throat with the sweet liquid before reaching for the silverware set beside his bowl, to share the meal with her. After a bite or two, he makes a soft sound of appreciation at the rich flavor, offering her a crooked smile over his bowl. ]
And this is delicious, my lady, thank you. It’s been quite some time since I had a home-cooked meal as hearty as this.
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One best kept private, and so she only nods, focusing on his other response. Straight to business, and either a delicate or stupid. ]
They are indeed. [ Most. Not a lie. ] The numbers near the border have dwindled after so many human attacks. [ Also not a lie, and she watches his face evenly as she says it, her own face serene. He is eating and drinking, so she does not want to make him uncomfortable. Not yet. But even she can't always control her impulses, despite years of discipline and practice. A weakness in her. ]
I expect one as finely clothed as yourself rarely eats food made in a small home. I should be honored, for such a noble guest. [ Again she watches his face, her own even and pleasant.
It will be harder to tell when the spells take hold, given she doesn't know his personality or propensity to flirt. But there are signs. Eye dilation, flushed cheeks, heavier breath, the way he may look. For now she just smiles, taking her own wine and soup, and reminding herself of the pain that she cannot share with her father, or have her own home in the place of her birth with friends and neighbors. They are all gone. ]
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i apparently...closed this one and didn't post it ....
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For Your Entertainment
The reason being, of course, that a moment later he is led through a massive archway and out into a great feasting hall, the domed ceiling overhead a mixture of greenery and branches and beautifully ornate stained glass, all gleaming bright. And almost blinding after days - weeks? - in the darkness of the cells below. He blinks, squinting against the light as he staggers again, disoriented.
The sound of voices, of music and laughter, fill the air, and he can feel the heavy weight of many eyes resting on him as he’s all but dragged to the center of the room and forced down on his knees before the high dais, next to another prisoner, a man bound just like he is.
He doesn’t spare him a glance, because he’s not sure what they have planned for either of them. Instead, he just glares up at the high court assembled at the table raised above them, at the Fae watching with mocking smiles and cruel laughter.
Whatever’s in store for their ‘punishment’, it’s likely not to be anything good. ]
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It's not surprise that that's the moment a guard -- or two? it's hard to tell, with so much touch, and a grip that feels like the bite of tree bark -- forces him to his feet. The beauty of the place is near lost on him as his eyes search for architectural hints of exits, weak points. Instead, his gaze finds men and women he knows, rigid and watching from an enormous audience. His gaze snaps to where they're being led. A dais. A stage.
He does his best to swallow a cry as he's forced down, knees and shins aching. There's someone else beside him. Torture. Show of power. He knows what the Fae are like. Will they be made champions, to fight each other til one is left over days and weeks? Or perhaps objects of a hunt?
He considers in a detached, tactical way, even as there is a faint sickness in his stomach. It will do him no good to let his emotions get the better of him, cause him to freeze.
Ah, the two great commanders who would topple our reign a drawling voice says, laughter on its edge. It distinctly reminds him of the baying of dire wolves on the plains, as does the way his body tenses in the presence of predators.
Look at your better when they speak to you, filthy mortal another voice sneers with all the warmth a tree split by lightning.
Basch's head snaps up of its own accord, hitting too high and popping. His nostrils flare, his eyes widening almost imperceptibly as he tries to put his head down again. He cannot. There is laughter in all their eyes, languid bodies reclined in hard seats, their persons decorated with gemstones and bones. Beside one, one of his men -- a lad, really, hardly more than a boy -- sits kneeling, mouth pressed shut but pain in his face, holding a tray above him like he is an end table. ]
Let him be [ Basch says, eyes the only indication of who he's looking at. ] I will carry his punishment.
[ There is a tittering of laughter like ice crashing against itself. His stomach clenches, even if his face stays calm. Even he is not immune to the visceral fear of deadly creatures. He is already a goner, though; spare the boy at least.
So in all of this, he still has not processed who it is that kneels beside him. ]
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A useless attempt, he’s certain. Never expose who will make you the most vulnerable. It will always be used against you. It’s why he keeps his eyes off the crowds, off their surroundings, lifting his head to focus solely on the royals ahead of them. There’s a defiant glare in his eye, because he knows how courtly games like this work, even if this is the first time he’s ever faced a court of Fae.
Keep them focused on him, give them someone who seems as if he’ll be good sport, and they’ll likely leave the others alone.
The powerful love to try and break those who never learn to know their place.
His look is noted, and there’s another wave of tittered laughter among them. This one is at least clever enough to know when to hold his tongue. But you were not addressed, mortal. We’ve given you no permission to look, especially when your eyes cast such daggers our way.
Thorned fingers fist in his hair, jabbing into his scalp, dragging a hiss of pain from his lips as he’s forced down, down, until his face is pressed into the dirt and the laughter rises up louder, the whispering wind in the branches, the howling of wolves at the moon, the croaking of insects. None of it sounds natural to his ears, but he grits his teeth and bears it.
How low the mighty have fallen. How pitiful now the righteous invaders, the trespassers on our holy grounds. You should have heeded our warnings, mortals, and bent the knee from the start. Surrendered to us and our demands, and mayhaps you could have spared yourselves this display. But you did not bow, so now we will make you bow. Make you serve, as you were always meant to. The lowliest of the low, brought to heel by your new gods. ]
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He still cannot turn to look, but he hears the clatter, the scrape of a body and the hiss of pain, and then the laughter. He does not acknowledge his heart sinking. If they are searching for places to hurt, then their fate is sealed. Their next best strategy is to hope their captors grow bored with them as soon as possible.
No such luck today. A moment later those thorned hands force his face down as well, so that he is as low in the dirt as the other. If it was heel they wanted, a servant, he would volunteer a hundred lifetimes if he could save the others. But he does not know yet. He needs to wait, to observe, to bargain, get as many out as he can.
That zero may be the outcome is a thought he cannot dwell on.
Low as you are, mortals, you have not proven your right to such civilized luxury as garments.
The thorns scrape his skin, and he hears the way cloth and buckle strain and pop, fabric shredding as skin is caught in the fray. There's more laughter, murmurs as the crowd anticipates what he cannot.
See, even your skin shows how weak and damaged you are. If you cannot even take care of that, how can we trust you to make decisions for yourselves?
The panic claws at the far edges of his mind. He's heard the tales; they all have. Powerful Fae magic that can shape a man's will. Not coercion, because they find themselves wanting whatever it is the Fae order. Will he be made to flagellate himself? Fight his squadron? Grapple with this man until one of them breaks?
All you humans do is fuck and fight for dominance, so, that is how you shall entertain us, in your basest, truest form.
Gooseflesh crawls up his skin, his stomach going cold.
On all fours, soldiers.
That sickening feeling again, his limbs moving without his telling them to. He only tries gently to raise up onto his knees -- nothing. But he can turn, and he disentangles from the pile of shorn clothing, finally looking at who is beside him.
He is not surprised to see the younger general, but it is still a blow, his form equally naked, still full of wounds from battle, crawling on hands and knees with a snarl still on his face. ]
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He crawls, the stone under his palms and knees rough and scraping, but there's no hesitation in his movements. No matter how he struggles to free his will from however they've chained it. Jaw clenched, he's carried along as a passenger inside his own skin as titters and laughter and whispered speculation rise up from the watching crowd. Out of the corner of his eyes, he even thinks he sees pouches changing hands, as if their watchers are already making wagers on the outcome.
But he doesn't have time to even process that because he's crawled close enough to the other general to be within reach now and one of the Fae on the dais rises to his feet, a fist raised in the air and a cruel smirk on his lips.
A true wager, then.
Let us see this vaunted strength of will you mortals boast to possess. If you can shake free of the hold of our magic, you can walk free of this court, taking you and yours with you. But if you cannot, if you cannot rise above these base urges that drive you deeper than any thought or choice, they will rule you instead.
What will it be, mortals? What will prove stronger, the defiance of your minds or the base nature that marks you no better than the beasts we believe you to be? Struggle, then, and show us which is the greater.
It's a command as much as the others, even if it comes clothed in what some would see as an opportunity. Sylvain doubts it, however. The Fae would not risk that which they are not willing to lose. But that doesn't mean he can keep from obeying, even as he feels himself lunging for the other man, intent on grappling him to the ground. ]
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That hope is what he encases his mind around, weaving it into a beacon and a shield. If there is hope, then there is not reason to despair. He has survived hopeless odds, torture, imprisonment -- this will be no different.
But the order is out, and his body is turning, and struggle as he might, he does not know this magic or how to bend his will around it. What's more, the other man is at him, and Basch's training as much as the magic take hold. They are of a size, no advantage there, and perhaps that is another reason they were chosen. But Sylvain is younger and more virile, Basch more experienced but more prone to his aches, and so there is no perfect parallel.
That, and in the end, Basch is not savage. He takes the attack, resisting, absorbing the blows and hoping to tire the other. He moves his neck, meaning to headbutt and dislodge the other's balance, but instead his teeth lock on flesh, digging hard, nails grasping against skin where he would have only held. He lets out a muffled sound of indignation, but it is all the resistance he can muster. ]
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So they struggle - not against the magic but against one another, bodies crashing into one another as hands grapple and weight shifts, knees digging into the stone to brace.
He hisses out a soft curse as he feels those teeth sink into his shoulder, leaving behind yet one more visible mark on his already-scarred flesh. The pain is sharp, but not enough to clear his head. If anything, it sends him deeper into the maddening need to pin the other man beneath him.
Look at them tear at each other like mindless beasts. the Fae above them calls to his fellows, his words a mocking taunt. Ever such violent displays of dominance, and for what? It only proves how much they crave this. Delight in the revelry of it, like the beasts they are.
Sylvain had mostly tuned the voice out, too focused on trying to struggle his way free. But the Fae's words still hold the magic to shape and change in and of themselves, and he gives a strangled sound as he feels heat suddenly rush through him, dizzying and disorienting, his skin seeming to tingle and buzz with awareness. Against his thigh, against Basch's hip as he struggles to pin the man's lower body in place, he feels his cock begin to stir with unwanted interest. ]
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And so he is even more overwhelmed when a familiar but utterly out of place heat rolls over him, his eyes going wide. Here? Now? None of the men he is with know of these tastes, at least not to his knowledge--
He draws in sharply, mind suddenly aware of how strong Sylvain's hands are, how entwined their thighs, how nice it would be, to be overpowered.
Or perhaps to overpower the other in another way, drop his head between his legs and make him sing.
A strangled noise comes out his throat, half protest, half lust, and his own cock stirs enough to throb against Sylvain's leg.
More laughs, more jeers, some applause. It's so far away...
You see? To fight or to fuck, both if they can. They've lost any sense that they've an audience.
Basch has indeed, and where his hands hold Sylvain's onslaught back, he widens his arms now, causing the other man's chest to come close to his, and takes one of his nipples in his mouth, tongue lathing over it before he sucks, hard, seeking a sound of victory even as the crowd erupts. Again his cock stirs, and a hazy fantasy of bouncing the other man upon it, or, better yet, rutting against him both on all fours, brews in his mind. ]
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