A Beginning!

The Fae capital lay far to the north, near the sea. Here the weather was always cool, but never cold, moderated as it was by the coastal tides and breezes that were forever warming. It was a wildly beautiful land, tamed only somewhat, and at the land’s own choosing, here around the Citadel. The Citadel itself was fashioned entirely of white quartz, and day or night caught the last bit of light from the sky and reflected it tenfold. Now, at night, the stars in the sky were mirrored by a thousand pinpoints of light in this savagely beautiful castle, with its impossible spiraling minarets and towers.

There was a garden, which could be called a garden because though things grew here wild, they grew wild at the behest and direction of the Fae Singers, who through the dawn and dusk could be heard, walking along barely visible paths singing in lilting voices to the wild, which molded itself at the accord of those Singers. The gardens were coldly beautiful, overgrown with soft ferns, shaded by vaulting Elms and Willows. The cold beauty was here and there warmed by a spout of vividly red, yellow, white flowers.

The garden… here was where she walked in the evenings, after the Singers had retired for the night and the world slept. She didn’t sleep, though. His love. His seductress. His tormentor. She walked these savage, beautiful gardens in the night. And he did too.

Quietly, he stalked her through the night, often catching only a fleeting glimpse or two. Tonight was no different. She stood now, next to a babbling brook, bare feet on a crushed quartz lined clearing, smooth, beautiful face haloed by the moon’s cold alabaster glow.

Beren was not so close that he could make out her features well, even with his keen Fae vision. He didn’t have to be. The seasons had passed into years, hundreds of times, in his life. Most of that he’d called her his own. Most of that, she’d held his heart, owned his soul. Her face was etched in his memory. Every pore, every line. It was a poignant moment, that he let himself stand there, still and invisible, wrapped in a soft brown cloak, unruly hair caught here and there by a brisk night breeze.

These little moments in time, they were enough to bear him unto eternity. So he told himself. But eternity… it was such a long time. Blank faced, he turned away, melted into the shadows and the forest, palm against the rough bark of an Elm, head bowed, face full of stricken grief.

Living off of these little moments, it was killing him. Stale bread and tepid water for a man starving long years. He was out of breath, like he’d just been punched very hard in the gut. But he didn’t weep. His tears were all dried. Nor did he sob. He was just… catching his breath. Liar. It’s just…

Now and then, when he watched her in the distance, he forgot that she was Queen. He forgot that he, though her husband, was merely Prince Regent. Forgot that he was Half Elven. Forgot that the Court kept them apart, demanded it with their scheming and internal political warfare. Forgot that he’d not spoken to her in years. How passed the years? How many seasons had slipped one into the next, without the sound of her voice, her delicate touch?

Not since the Plague had passed, and he’d slipped in to see her, when she was on one of these walks. Assuring himself that yes, she was untouched and showing that he was, too. Ten years then, in the time reckoning of mortals. Ten years is not so long for the Fae. But before that, it’d been longer still. He’d seen her very little before the Breaking and the upsurgence of the Traitors, but since…

And that one night, embossed golden in his memory forever… it was so little. The coldness in their demeanor. The miles that separated them, an unsurpassable gulf, even when they’d touched. And that touch, so fleeting and delicate, the tip of her index finger stretched out, at arm’s length, touching at the corner of his eye where a tear should have been, would have been… but wasn’t. But her eyes… In her eyes, he read the love, deep and enduring, that he knew was reflected in his own. So many years of regrets.

He looked back on that night now, and wished he’d taken her hand. He wished he’d have kissed those fingers. Told her he loved her. That he missed her. How hard it’d been, to stay away.

It’s amazing, the fickle games that fate plays. This night, of all nights, an advisor had come up. Beren’s ears were keen; he heard the man in the distance, and disappeared. Advisor. It brought up pained memories of courtly betrayal, the shame he’d faced in front of sophisticated, robed diplomats and politicians. A new generation had slowly taken power with new ideas of what was acceptable and what wasn’t. A half breed prince regent apparently no longer was. It had been brutal, the political maneuverings to force him out of court, to force the Queen to take a more suitable husband. Though in the end unsuccessful in this most extreme measure, Beren had left the Court to take up duties amongst the Fae WildRunners.

The fracturing of her court had put the Queen through so much pain, and pain was one thing he couldn’t bear to see in her eyes, no matter how she tried to hide it. Once, he’d thought it was the most dreadful thing he could ever face. Now, though… now he knew better. This distance, it was a far more powerful enemy, and one that he knew he must surely fall before.

Back in the forest, he straightened, his vision clearing and coming to the present. He’d recently returned from a long sojourn into the forest with a patrol of WildRunners, and would be nearby for a fortnight. He knew that the next night, he would return and repeat this ordeal once again. For now, however, the pain was too great. He fled before it, to seek the loving embrace of the wild.