NETTLE

The gentle touch, and the certainty of her words cut through some of the worry. 

He’s seen both sides of their world, life at court, and life alone with only the wild, and neither have felt wholly natural to him. But the freedom that he when he was on his own, what she says now, these other fae serving only themselves and the land, that’s something that he has never had trouble understanding or believing. He fears what would happen to his soul if he were forced to live in solitude again, cannot imagine being without those he cares about, but there are times when perhaps he misses that certainty of answering only to himself. Beyond the courts, each and every fae is royal in their own right, with only nature above them.

Mordred swallows deeply, then nods, letting the words bolster his courage, for once in the time since he had first found his court, letting some of that perfectly crafted image slip away. He feels more certain with her words, and he knows that if there is one thing he is perfectly adept at, it is mimicking what someone says is expected of him. With her example, surely he’ll be able to follow. Trying to brush away the worry, knowing that entering with doubts, thoughts of what he fears to lose on his mind is only asking for trouble, he lets her lead him forward into the workshop.

It’s a place unlike any he can remember seeing, never having sought out handmade weapons before, and there’s no hiding the awe on his face as he looks around at what the armorer has made with only his hands. Fiadh takes the lead greeting the other first, sweet words coming so easily. When she introduces him, he offers a smile, an inclining of his head.

“It is a great honor to meet you, I’ve heard legends of your work since long before I came to court,” he offers carefully, trying his best to keep his head held high. “Yes, we’ve come on behalf of both courts, because of the great dangers we all face, an unseen enemy.”

She feels a flush of pride at Mordred’s careful confidence. The show of it is good, it is enough and will serve him well. His head held high, he cuts a striking figure in the light, looks far grander than even he knows. Her smile grows at it, and at his words. So she watches carefully as the armorer rakes his eyes over Mordred, quick and calculating. Something flashes in his eyes when he looks back at Fiadh, something curious and knowing and amused.  

“We come to offer payment for your work.” She says, more straightforward now, yet her voice is still as sweet and gentle as it was before. They always did react well to someone innocent and beguiling. “On behalf of the leaders of the court. We have their permission to offer anything you see fit to request –– in exchange for the tools to help in our cause.

The man nods, still gruff and wary. “We have what you seek.” He says, “It will all be delivered soon to court.” His eyes are sharp, and it makes her feel unsteady on her feet. He is calculating something, he lets it sit for a long moment before he opens his mouth again. “Bradán wants a child. The memory of one, from you, dear Fiadh. That and the Seelie Prince’s first love.” 

“Done.” She agrees, only slightly quicker than she intended to. “He shall have them. What do you require?” 

He smiles, something almost savage, and looks at Mordred once again. She feels a spark of curiosity, of worry, deep down and somewhere alien. “The boy will pay when he becomes himself,” It sounds like a joke, sounds like he thinks it’s very funny. Fiadh doesn’t quite understand, but she nods regardless. “In the meantime, he can deliver a very important blade to the Unseelie Court.” He wraps the hilt of a sword in cloth and hands it, delicately, to Mordred. “A blade of great power. Bradán has enchanted it so that only the truest ruler of the court can use it, so have care, it will burn any other. Now you may go. We have work to complete.” 

He senses her before he sees her. 

It’s still, after almost two years, a slightly off-putting sensation. His skin tingles and his mouth goes a little dry and a nagging sense of wrongness tugs at the back of his mind, as if to say “One of these things is not like the others.”

He’s not sure, now, how he got away with ignoring it for all those years. How he was able to simply brush it off as his imagination or lack of sleep or an alcohol induced fever dream. In any case, it’s apart of him now (as it was meant to be, supposedly, from the beginning) and, today, he’s grateful for the warning. He’s always on edge around Fae, but first meetings tend to be worse. 

He doesn’t know a lot about Fiadh, beyond what he was told by Katurian and the few other people he’d spoken with so far, but the general consensus had seemed to have been that she wasn’t overly malicious or otherwise hell bent on a crusade to wipe out all human Otherworld inhabitants. 

So. That was a start, at least.

She’s quiet in her approach. Almost demure. Exceedingly elegant and seemingly harmless. He reluctantly takes her hand (more than a little taken aback by the decidedly human gesture) and offers her the empty seat at his table, all the while maintaining a careful distance. “Yeah, that’s me. I appreciate you coming on such short notice.” 

He resettles himself in his own seat, slouching back in a show of faux confidence, and nods in the direction of the counter. “Did you want anything? On me, of course.” 

“It’s really no problem.” She says, slow, as she settles herself down in the chair opposite him. Fiadh is careful to keep the distance that Oslo seems to want to maintain, careful not to get too close or move too quickly. There had been an undeniable reluctance in his touch, in his gaze. It makes her wonder what ways hes been wounded by her kind, what ways the distrust has been harboured and nurtured and allowed to grow. 

“Oh,” She says, slightly taken aback at the offer, glancing at the counter. “Oh –– no, thank you. I wouldn’t know what to have.” A small smile, warm and wryly amused at her own expense. She’s sure the changeling behind the counter would get her something she liked, but it was odd to imagine food designed mostly for humans. She wasn’t sure what would be good. 

She settles in her seat, keeps her smile in place as she finishes surveying the room and returns her gaze to the boy. “I’m at your disposal for as long as you need, however. I just hope that I can be of some help. Rumour has it you’re working to solve the mystery at hand. That’s very noble of you, Oslo.” 

     time. june 30, early morning      place. a quiet, secluded clearing, near the center of the seelie court            ( @hiddenfiadh​ )

She has spent more of her time delegating and less of it acting than she ordinarily liked, more time consulting with Brín by his throne than going out herself to deal with each individual problem as it arises—because there are just too many problems, too many leads for just her to follow up on herself. She tries to remind herself that that’s why she’s been building her coalition, pulling supporters from both courts, from the unaligned changelings, from the seers Zion knows and trusts. But she is restless, for something to do, especially after the stomach-churning crime scene where another yet changeling was killed.

So she decides to take the day to take one of the tasks upon herself, leave Brín about his business, Zion off on his own mission, and she finally, after days of waiting for someone she trusts to be free to take care of it, goes herself to talk to the solitary Fiadh. Sequestered away in one of the quietest places where she can still be protected by the watchful gaze of the court.

It’s strange, to see her there, braiding flowers on her own: she looks as if she ought to be sitting by a stream somewhere far, far away from here, from the faraway look in her eye that Ailis has only seen solitary fae get. But she’s grateful for Fiadh’s presence, and for the information she’ll hopefully be able to provide: Ailis, more than many, knows how hard a decision it can be to come to a court where you feel you have no home.

     ‘Am I interruping?’ she asks, quietly, from the tree line, as she approaches, knowing Fiadh will hear her, knowing she has heard her silent approach, but wanting to give the other woman a chance to say no if she’d rather be alone. 

She’s found a quiet place. On the outskirts, peaceful in its own way. Still, she misses her own home like a constant ache. Her land, her trees, the birds who would sing her from her slumber. She can feel that her delicate peace will be broken, the approach of another something she is well attuned to here, never quite at ease enough to fully lose herself. 

Fiadh doesn’t look up until Ailis speaks, though she feels her near before it. She’s telegraphing the movements, offering fare warning so that Fiadh will know she comes. The question itself is a funny thing, as if Fiadh can avoid the truth or the need to be around others in this time. She’s been waiting for this, after all, knew the time would come where she would have to give a more through explanation. When she does look up, she offers a delicate smile. Something gentle, unassuming. “Not at all.” She says, slow, setting her work aside to offer Ailis her attention. 

It sounds almost dry when it comes out, a small joke for herself, and an indication that she’s welcome. “In fact, I think I’ve been expecting you for quite some time. Sit, if you like. I’ll do my very best to give you what you seek.” In her mind, she tries to put herself to rights. To organise her sometimes jumbled thoughts into something straight and narrow, an arrow that will land true on memory and answer and explanation. 

It’s not an errand he’s particularly looking forward to.

In fact, if he gave into his fears, his cowardice, he would have no part in the hunt at all, too afraid that even approaching that cruel nature he left behind when he found the courts might overtake him again if he gets too close to it. There are things stronger than his own selfishness, though. He would do anything to keep those he cares for safe, to help give Ailis the revenge she desires, to make certain Keiran survives to see the world softer. And that means there is no place watching others do the work.

So he offered himself up. This feels like the lesser of all the evils, still helpful, but still keeping his promise to Keiran, treading carefully, while also seeking out that which could likely destroy the unknown evil surrounding them. The knowledge does very little to calm his nerves, though, not only from the rumors surrounding the armorer and his husband, but also from traveling through the wilds alone, vulnerable. It’s some solace knowing Fiadh has escaped danger once already, but he worries that luck is not on their side this time. When he was on his own, Mordred rarely saw other fae, rarely ventured out beyond the glen he called his home, and now he regrets that, knowing perhaps he could have found allies if he had been less terrified that he might not survive elsewhere. At least she knows those they seek. 

They reach their territory, but before they can approach further, she stops him with a firm hand on his shoulder, and he looks back at her, listening carefully. The words make him nervous, make him wonder if this was a mistake. The reality of the risk suddenly weighs down on him, realizing the sort of game they’re entering into.

“Someone cleverer should have come with you, or at least someone with more authority. What if I have to give them something I shouldn’t?” he asks, more of a rhetorical question, an admission of his worry. What if they ask him for the facade he’s built, or for his love? What if he says no, and returns to court empty handed? It’s too late for those thoughts, though. Someone else isn’t here, though, he is. 

The poor little lamb feels so full of doubt, so full of fear and worry. She wonders how he can stand how much he seems to feel. Nervous. She feels the edge of it in her own consciousness too, a distant worry that what was once escaped may not be so easy to run from a second time. She was fairly sure, however, that they were safe in this territory, at least until they needed to depart again.

She feels a surge of something gentle in her chest. He’s just a boy, behind it all. Maybe he doesn’t know himself well enough. Maybe he knows himself too well, and that’s what he truly fears. One way or another, there’s something in him that he doesn’t want to accept. Her voice sounds sure enough, seeking to comfort him in his own self-doubt. “You’re clever enough, Mordred –– and these men we seek care very little for the authority of Kings or Queens or Thrones. They serve themselves and the land, which you have just as much authority over as any other.” 

Fiadh reaches up to pet a hand across his cheek, to rest on his shoulder, a gentle and almost motherly touch. Children need such comfort in times of pain and stress, he inspires the instinct in her even if she does not feel the ownership, even if he is old enough to serve and raise himself. Not a child she seeks to gather, just a soul with something raw inside. 

There’s a spark of some small guilt, as well. She hadn’t meant her words and warnings to scare him, just to inspire caution in the face of others of their kind. Solitary fae could be far tricker than their cousins who lived in court. “If there is something you fear to lose, I will make the offer first and foremost. But stand tall and sharp, have care in what you say, and they can make no fool of you.” 

With the words said, she stops to take a breath. There is no real force to fear, after all. Just a worry of loss. Brín and Sorcha will likely have sent word ahead, notes and requests to the men they seek, carried by faithful creatures of the wood. When she seeks to hear it, she can hear the sounds of their work in the forge, smell the tang of metal in the air. She gives a nod, half for herself and half for Mordred, and sets her shoulders straight. With a the hand on his arm she guides him forward once again, graceful steps that carry them until they face one of those they seek. 

Fiachra stands in the deceptively unassuming expanse of an outdoor workshop, so sweetly cluttered with the objects the men have crafted, covering many surfaces she can see. His hands work to add what must be finishing touches to a blade, and she inhales a breath as he glances up from his work to take in the sight of them. The other must be in doors, working with the enchantments he weaves with such deft talent. “Why, dear friend, it has been an age.” She says, voice bright and honey sweet as if they world were well and right as rain. As if this happy meeting was the result of happenstance. “My heart is overjoyed to see you well.” With another pat of Mordred’s arm, she looks between them gently. “This is a new friend of mine, sweet Mordred, who I’m sure is quite thrilled to make your acquaintance.” 

Her companion is a delicate little thing on the surface. They must be kindred spirits, in a way. The kind of beasts you never spot until the hour has grown too late, feral and fierce at one moment, yet practiced in the art of gentle beauty and perfectly polished civility. A perfectly blossomed dahlia, symbolic of all the grace and aplomb expected of the fairest folk. Little Mordred, sweet of face.

Yet there is something inexplicable and unnamable about him, a thorn grazing the very back of her mind. Perhaps she met him once, too long ago to truly recall. Perhaps she knew his kin in the way that so many fae know one another. Perhaps he is just a soul so alike to hers that she feels this strange sense of familiarity. Who can know, who can tell. 

Together Fiadh and Mordred make their way through the wilds, past courtly domains and in to the true expanse of the land. The realm of solitary things, such is their quarry for the day. A petition from King and Queen for tools and weapons to serve them in a righteous war, in the defence of all the Otherworld. Fiadh knows the men they seek slightly better than most. They have crossed each others paths on more than one occasion, leading heir separate lives with the understanding that there was no hostility, no need to fear one another. The armourer and his husband, who could weave magic from the air itself in to any of his love’s creations.

She lingers on the edge of their territory, their home and workshop. The land here serves them before all else, provides them with what they require for all of their creations. She places a hand on Mordred’s shoulder to stop him before he can step further, feeling much like a mother holding back her young to offer some sage advice. “Bradán and Fiachra are known to be quick and clever with a deal, little one. You must have a care what you say and what you offer them. Make no promise you or your Prince could not bear to keep.” Her voice pitched low, calm through it all and offering small comforts. “They won’t hurt us, but they may not be very kind in the face of our weighty request.” 

The human world is so strange to her. Full of mystery. Full of distasteful things she’d rather return to the abyss. Oh, how she misses the land as it was. Back when it was all sea foam, endless dirt and endless trees that she could watch grow. The city seems like such a beast to eyes like hers, to a girl that has done everything she can to avoid humanity and the world of their making.

The cafe is common ground, somehow, for a meeting like this. Part of her world. Part of his. A boy named Oz, playing detective. He’s lucky, really, that she has a soft spot for humans with noble intentions. He’s part of that little crew, it seems, helping in an investigation so far out of all of their depths. All in the pursuit of peace, of knowledge. 

She’s a girl in possession of grand truths. She’s sure she will have to speak of them to many people, tell it to faerie and to humans alike. 

The pastel and peaceful interior of the cafe is much like an alien planet, so many things warring to catch her attention. The colours, the scent of baking and colourful mugs full of coffee, of all things. She glances around with eyes, too wide, before she focuses in on a boy clearly laying in wait. He has the aura of a damaged soul. Fiadh is good at spotting people who have seen more than their fair share of hardship, and her heart softens.

     “Oslo?” She asks, when she reaches his table. Her voice honey-slow and gentle. “I heard a rumour that you’d like to talk to me.” She reaches out, the slow offering of a hand, should he feel any desire to take it. “I’m Fiadh. Very pleased to meet you.”  

They aren’t expecting the request, though it feels silly now she’s said it, to not have expected it. The fae, they know, are all a little vain, in their own ways; they haven’t met one yet who hasn’t wanted stories to be told about them.

     ‘Well, er—rather a lot, really,’ they start. They wish they had their books with them, or their notes, wish they could recite the lyrical quality all of those tales seem to have, the sing-songy dreaminess of them. It feels well-suited to the evening, the quiet over here by this tree, the soft lilt of her voice. ‘But, ah…’

They pick one, at random, and clear their throat. They won’t be able to recite the exact language of it, but they know these stories like the back of their hand, especially the countless Fiadh-archetype stories they’ve used in their dissertation.

     ‘There’s Lovely Fiadh of the Hidden Fields, who finds an injured farmer just off the road and takes him back to, well, the hidden fields so she can nurse him back to health, and he falls madly in love with her, only to wake up one day back in his own bed on his own farm. Or the one where a father goes searching for his lost daughter and finds her dancing in the flowers with Fiadh, who tells him he must return in three weeks with a stone of equal value to his daughter if he wants her to come home—only, when he returns with the stone, she tells him that no stone could be worth the life of a young girl and refuses to let the girl go…’

There’s an inherent contradiction, to the stories, that has always given scholars pause: in some, Fiadh is so kind, benevolent; in others, she is cruel and tricky. Cian doesn’t think it’s a contradiction. They think it’s probably just the nature of a being so ancient, to sometimes seem fickle. 

Her smile is coy and pleased, almost childishly wide as she rests her chin into the palm of her hand and settles herself in to listen. They must be a storyteller, in their own way, she considers as she watches them comb through their mind for the tales to tell her. Apparently there are many, enough that the moment drags with honey sweetness and lets the anticipation build. 

Lovely Fiash of the Hidden Fields, oh, she did like to be a benevolent god on occasion. An old memory stirs at the recollection, an unwell man so close to death, one of the many stray souls she had gathered over the years and offered kindness. She could always tell when they were good and pure of heart, could always feel the pull that inspired her toward such gentleness and affection. Lovely Fiadh in her hidden fields could offer kisses, sweet and slow as fresh honey, innocent and sweet. Yet she always sent the men who loved her home eventually, when she grew tired of their company and was certain they were well enough to make their way in the world once again. 

It’s the mention of the girl that makes her straighten once again, her smile fading in to something almost melancholic. That’s a memory that sits clearer in her mind, aching near the surface. Grainne had been such a sweet little thing. A child, once cherished, now gone. Fiadh was a mother mourning then, though her girl had lived a long and happy life in her care, though her girl had lived far longer than she might have in the mortal realm. She remembers how she’d found her, remembers her brute of a father, the fool of a man and all his folly. “He offered me an emerald set in a golden ring.” She says, voice dreamy with the memory of it. “It must have been a family heirloom.” Her smile, sadder now, is directed at Cian again. “It was lovely. Not as lovely as her.” 

She has to clear her throat, to try and brush away the longing for the girl. She wants to gather the cheerfulness back, though it’s softer than when this began. “Am I the villain in that tale?” Fiadh is curious to know, wonders if they think her a monster for stealing a child. “I hope you’ll understand that it was the kinder thing for me to do.” Voice low, a secret. “He was a brute, you know? He hurt her terribly, so I loved her instead.” 

She knows the right things to say, that is clear as the middsummer sky. The question, of course, is if it’s genuine or if it’s merely a means to an end. It’s not suspicion, per se; no, he wouldn’t mind so much even if she didn’t believe her own words. More than that, it’s that he’s made his place in the world knowing the difference between other people’s truths and lies, they show him how to get what he wants from any given party. They’ve made him the connections that have served him so well in his time.  

There is no need to jump to conclusions. He has all the time in the world to figure out what he wants to from her, or anyone else. If he had to place a bet, though, he would guess for her, it is a bit of both. 

“Perhaps you’re right. Eyes find eyes, as the saying goes. It takes the keen to see the keen. And perhaps that well kept secret has served me well thus far,” he concedes, with a tilt of his head, looking at her thoughtfully. 

The hint of a smile quirks the corner of his lips as she explains her impression of the Seelie. There’s a sparkle in her eyes like she’s enjoying a hidden joke, one that seems tempting to take part in. “I’m a selfish creature, Fiadh, as much as I do for the good of my court,” Katurian shrugs, with a breath of laughter. “Just remember no decision needs be permanent. So many of our folk forget the benefits to adapting as times change, and everything changes so quickly lately. Sharper claws can be welcoming, too, to the right temperament.”

It’s funny, almost, that at a time such as this one could be caught up in flights of jealousy. Is it such a great offence to Katurian that Fiadh fled to the seelie court instead of the unseelie? She had forgotten, almost, that the courtly fae were prideful and vain little creatures. They thought themselves so superior to each other. 

Still, his laughter is sweet like honey, and she could easily find herself drawn in to his web if she were not so sharp herself. She has grown talented at resisting the wiles of others. 

“I shall keep your wise words in mind, should a need for a change of scenery ever arise.” She demurs, with a nod of her head. And she will, she already was. It was clever to have many ports that could offer safety in a storm. “I have no doubt that my temperament would respond well to the sharpness of your claws, my dear friend. But I suppose we will have to wait until the change comes upon me to test the theory. ” A soft note of humour in her voice, fleeting and cloying all at once. “For now, I shall have to leave you with but a memory and a token of my fondest affection. A far more gentle option, alas, I hope it suits you well.” 

There is a glint of something sharp in her eyes for a moment, a glimpse into a mirror world where she has wet her hands with blood and lured more foolish men to their dooms. Where her laughter had been a ragged and haphazard thing, lacking the grace she practiced for long hours. It’s gone again in an instant, and when she leans forward and presses a kiss to their cheek, it is a chaste and innocent thing. The type of kiss you would plant on the cheek of a child, a dear friend, a new springtime romance doomed to die before the leaves change once again on the trees and all turns to decay. 

They take the flower, begin to reply with their own name, when the familiarity of her name hits them. Fiadh. A name they have typed a thousand times over, a name they have read a thousand more. A name that adorns the title of an entire chapter of their dissertation, back on their laptop at home. Fiadh of the hidden valley, Fiadh of the lake. Mother of many. There were a dozen or more stories, of a faerie woman with that name, dwelling on her own, far away from others. 

Surely, it’s a common enough name, though large parts of their chapter on the Fiadh ur-myth are about speculation as to whether all the stories are about the same Fiadh or if the name became a shorthand for any faerie woman living in solitude. There are similarities, among them, and differences. Some which mention drowning men, some which mention stealing children, some which mention neither thing at all. They had settled firmly on the literary archetype side of the debate, deciding in their own conclusion that there was no single Fiadh, that the name became applied to any story of a wild and solitary and beautiful woman whose actual name had been lost to time.

But… 

     ‘Fiadh,’ they repeat, their voice sounding surprised. And then, after a moment. ‘No, god, sorry, it’s just, I wonder if I’ve read stories about you.’

There’s a heavy weight in the air after she utters her name. A spark of recognition that sets the world around them ablaze with some low level of curiosity and wonder. The look on their face is almost a whirlwind, a thoughtful little show of a thing. There are cogs within their mind, twirling round and round and round. 

The surprise in their voice has her tilting her head, slow and curious and a little wondering. She lets out a laugh, sweet and melodic and slow. “Stories?” She asks, in a gleeful and curious tone. 

It makes her wonder. All those men who crossed her paths. The ones she wounded and the ones she drowned. The ones to whom she offered shelter and food, singing them sweet songs and braiding flowers in their hair. So many of them had been guileless things, had given in so quickly to love in the face of her. She’d won them with brief kisses and allowed them to find rest with her, and in the morning sent them on their way again. Sometimes, when they sat beside her near her lake, the pulled out small instruments and wrote her songs. They promised her they would tell all that they met of her wonder, her magic and her beauty. 

She wonders what they told the world of her. What stories they shaped with their words. Was she a creature of glory, then? Was she a beauty and a terror all in one? “There have been many opportunities for those I knew to tell stories of me. Tell me, little one, what tales have you read of me? I’ll tell you if they’re true.” 

The old wariness comes back quickly—don’t take anything they offer you, don’t tell them your name, don’t eat anything or drink anything or say anything that might offend them—well-worn litanies and lessons that everything Cian has learned has taught, but there is something in him that still it all, stops it all: what is the point, of being one of them, if you still have to worry about all of that shite. It’s not something they let themself thing, often; it’s something they try their level best to ignore. But they aren’t an idiot. Denial doesn’t mean they don’t know. 

They take the water, from her, with a nod of gratitude. It is cool, and crystal clear, and it gives them a clarity they aren’t used to, when they drink it, the fog left by the little alcohol they’ve had today lifting. Clarity isn’t something they’ve sought out, lately, preferring distraction and pushing everything else to the side, but once they have it, it suddenly feels like maybe they shouldn’t have been avoiding it all this time.

     ‘No, they certainly don’t,’ they reply, handing the cup back to her. ‘I wish they did; I think it might make things a little bit easier.’

She offers them a warm smile as they drink, hoping it helps to clear the mind. So many people walk around in a fog, so many people hardly know what’s going on. Fiadh suffers from it too, jumbled thoughts and things she can’t quite make sense of. She’d rather have a clear head, at any given moment. 

Her fingers wrap around the cup again, a small nod of thanks in their direction. They seem to be such a world-weary thing, already tired of it all. At war within themself, that’s what it is. Pulled in too many directions. Never where they think they’re supposed to be. She wonders why. She wonders what would help them, in the end. To settle their spirit would be a victory for the ages. 

“Maybe they’ll manage it someday.” She offers. “It’s wishful thinking –– but maybe.” A soft smile, half a condolence already. The cup finds its place on the ground again, and her fingers return to the delicate braiding of flowers. Absentminded work. “That’s why I usually live on my own. Too much noise. Too many people. All those strong opinions they have. It’s much nicer to take life one person at a time and –– oh, i’ve been terribly rude. You don’t even know my name.” She holds out a flower, a delicate wild thing, for them to take. “I’m Fiadh.” 

Every movement is practiced, every smile, every sigh, perfected to the point where it might hardly even seem to be something not completely natural to lesser trained eyes. But he can see it, because what is it that he does if not the same, although perhaps with a different goal. What she hides with sweet words and gentleness, he’s not certain of yet, of course, but he can guess at her reasons, at least for now. What other reason would a solitary fae make the choice to come to court just now but safety? It’s captivating, though, the expert play. He can only imagine the unsuspecting creatures she’s lured into her hidden claws before now. 

Katurian is not so unsuspecting, but he’s seen enough to know that being lured into danger can often times lead to even more rewarding outcomes. 

“And then you shall find that I do not waste time on words I do not mean,” he says, matter-of-fact, as he regards her again. She does strike such a splendid image against the fire; it does more to bring out all the burns underneath the beauty, makes him wonder what he would need to do to see the fire she keeps.

“Mm, you flatter me, sweet Fiadh,” he hums, raising an eyebrow, voice still serious. Just a statement of a fact, not a condemnation. In fact, he enjoys the compliments, revels in them, but that does not mean he would ever allow them to utterly blind him to other purpose. “I’m not certain others would agree with you, and even fewer might deign to listen to me without threat of my Queen’s wrath. I’d ask what I’ve done to deserve the honor of being considered of the strongest among us, in your short time at court. Are your Seelie friends so disappointing?”

Katurian‘s eyes can be such heavy things. She wonders if he knows it. The way his gaze can weigh, the noise the cogs make when they churn in his mind. How much does he seek to know? What puzzles does he think she’s hiding from him. He is a slick thing, smooth and comfortable in the world. The truth is his domain, his to hoard while others lack it. His curiosity is a sweet thing, something she’d like to hoard for herself in turn. To keep his attention, to keep him wondering about her. 

It may suit her well, if the time ever comes when she needs his favour. 

Her smile quirks at the same moment his eyebrow raises, the serious tone of his voice revealing the surety he feels. She wonders how often attention is lavished on him. Does he feel forgotten, sometimes? He seems to think the others think very little of him, that they see him as something weaker, that cannot be trusted. “You say your people think so little of you, yet your Queen seems to hold you in high esteem. Perhaps she sees the same strength in you that I do now.” A musing voice, playful and thoughtful and still as sweet as fresh honey. “Maybe such things take a keener eye than most possess.” 

A small huff of laugher escapes. “Disappointing? Do you hope so, Katurian?” Her eyes twinkle in the light of the fire, her smile grows wider, a thing of happiness and mirth and endless amusement. “I wouldn’t say they disappoint. Perhaps their claws are not as sharp as I remember –– but it’s been a very long time since I returned to any court. They have been welcoming and kind, if not so fierce as I imagined.” 

She sounds so kind, when she speaks, gentle in a way so many others don’t these days, a little bit of peace lurking somewhere behind it. And where once they think they might have been afraid to approach a stranger, where once they would have cautioned themself with all the old tales and warnings about strangers in the woods, they find themself moving closer anyway. 

     ‘No, it’s not exactly my, uhh… my scene.’

They do sit, if only because she’s right—it is quieter, here, a peaceful little spot and as much as they would like to delude themself into believing that they’ll be heading home any minute now a part of them knows that’s not the case. There is a careful pull and push, these days, in the life of Cian Callaghan, indulging their instincts just enough that they won’t rupture and those instincts won’t take over in some way they can’t control. A quiet conversation, at the end of the party, before leaving—it’s a measured thing. One last moment before they return home to quell the spirits of the wild that call them. 

     ‘I guess we have that in common.’

The moment passes where Fiadh wonders if this stranger will turn tail and make their departure, brisk and wary. They come closer instead, a little part of her cheering with joy at it. She watches as they settle with an almost serene smile. Lets herself sink in to the instinct of calm and comfort and almost kindred spirits. 

“I don’t usually do all this.” She admits, a voice that says she agrees with everything they’re thinking. This was all what she had left behind, long ago. Courts full of people, parties from dawn until dusk. She’d carved out some peace and quiet for herself instead, far away, and filled it with only those she had chosen. It was a different kind of life, wilder and freer than those who lived in courts could even imagine. They didn’t know that they had almost become domesticated things, well kept and happy with each other as their masters. “Court. The celebrations with the turning of every season. They don’t know how to do anything quietly.” 

They look so young, sitting here beside her. Young and full of doubt. Wariness directed more at the world than at her, she realises. She sets her circlet of flowers down in her lap and reaches to her side, grasps a borrowed cup from the celebrations and holds it out to them. “Here. It’s water. There’s a steam, that way ––” she gestures with her eyes, a slight incline of her head. “I brought it for myself, but it looks like you might need it.” 

     time: 21 June, late evening      place: outside the stone circle           ( @hiddenfiadh​ )

It’s dark, already, somehow. It’s dark, and Brín is nowhere to be seen—which isn’t a surprise. But Cian had meant to leave earlier than this, had meant to make their excuses and get out around mid-afternoon, found some way to make it up to Brín later. 

But it’s dark, and growing darker, because even on the longest day of the year the sun still sets, and even when they mean well, Cian cannot seem to help but lose track of time when fae wine and fae revelry are involved. It’s dark, and growing darker, and they are so lost in their thoughts about how they meant to leave before now and how they ought to leave now, before the threat of unwanted unseelie attention grows any more that they hardly notice a woman staring at them from across the clearing, in the direction they were headed. 

     ‘Er,’ they say, and then raise a hand in greeting, hoping in the back of their mind that this isn’t the exact unwanted attention they were hoping to avoid. She doesn’t look threatening, though—which, of course, doesn’t mean anything. Doesn’t look Unseelie, either. Just looks curious, as she watches them. ‘Hi there.’

There’s a comfortable spot to sit, on the outskirts of the festivities, a tree which Fiadh puts her back against and works, braiding flowers together absentmindedly with deft fingers. The cool of the night is washing over her, a balm compared to the endless streaming of sunlight earlier in the day. She wonders if it lingered for as long in the mortal realm, wonders if it aches to set behind the horizon and leave them all, if even for a few scant hours. 

She notices the person approaching her long before they do. A sweet looking thing. She thinks perhaps that she saw them before, somewhere through the crowd. They’d looked so lost, for a brief moment, in a way that made her ache. Fiadh is a collector of lost things, she’d longed to sooth the wrinkles from their forehead and walk them toward some peace. She’d wanted to know their worries and their woes and iron them out until all seemed well again. 

“Hello.” She says, amused at their awkward greeting. Her eyes are welcoming, guileless, hoping against hope that their obvious longing to be alone won’t drive them away from her immediately. “I take it that you found the festivities as overwhelming as I did.” A truth for them, offered freely. The noise is alien and strange to her, and she grew tired of it long before she ventured off on her own. “Feel free to come and sit, if you like. It’s much quieter here.” 

A benefit to being known, and being thought of by so many as little more than messenger of words much more important than his own, is that it makes observation easy. He can talk without many truly listening, disguise his own plans behind empty words, use the silence to hear things all the more interesting, breaking that peace at just the right moment to have what he wants. Katurian can watch. And it’s no surprise that Fiadh is someone he’s been watching today. Everyone has. What better time to show off a new toy than a solstice celebration? 

He watches, and he sees more than others do. And he can see clearly that there is more beneath the surface of her celebrations, beauty adored by the other curious onlookers. What game does she play, venturing to the courts, choosing incorrectly? He’ll find out.

“I believe you’re dear to a great many more than you likely realize yet. We do love the novel, don’t we?” he hums quietly, smirk growing as she continues on, turning to him with a smile of her own, just as fierce, more untamed. It’s always pleasant when the others are just as willing to play games. She hasn’t been around long enough to tire of his, or to shrug them off. All the better for them both, he thinks. “Ah, how silly of me to think I’m the only one allowed to have hidden purposes. Then at least I would burn having witnessed such beauty once more.”

A breath of laughter escapes his lips at the epithet. Gentle, that is something he cannot remember ever being called before this moment. The softness of her voice nearly caresses him into thinking that could be true. “Perhaps it slipped my mind, in the shadow of all the death in our midst as of late,” Katurian says, voice serious suddenly. “I thank you for the reminder of our strength. Others, I believe, could use the same.”

Fiadh ducks her head, just slightly, at the continued litany of summer-sweet words. Playing at demure, playing with the fact that such compliments are rarely heard by those as solitary as she. She has lived long enough to know a snake in the grass when she sees one, but the warning stripes on Katurian are so intriguing she dare not look away. This frightful knight of the Unseelie court could mean ruin in so many different ways, could strike at any moment. But –– no, she gets the impression that Katurian prefers to bide his time. “Silly of you indeed. Luckily, Silliness is something I’m rather inclined to forgive. If the day comes for you to burn, dear Katurian, I shall endeavour to be steady at your side and ascertain how much you truly mean that.” 

A playful lilt of the voice, an all encompassing gentleness in the eyes. Fiadh has made a career out of hiding her claws, after all. Tucking the ruthless nature down until it is masked by the sweet smell of flowers and the gleaming of the light against her skin. Many a human has drowned at her hands, after all, enamoured and enraptured until their final moments at her hands. 

The serious note in his voice gentles her further, an understanding settling over her shoulders. Times of death weigh heavily indeed, and she herself has often given in to fear. It drove her from her home, after all. It drove her to find safety in numbers. “I don’t suppose that it’s my place to remind them. I’m nobody, compared to Prince’s and Queens.” Her smile is sweet, a bright thing in the dimming light. “You may do the job nicely. It’s in the nature of us fair folk to listen to the strongest among us, after all.” 

june 21st, dusk, midsummer party      ( @hiddenfiadh​ )

There’s only so long he can act as if he truly cares about any part of the celebration, as if he isn’t there for higher purposes, and those purposes only. Unfortunately enough, most others seem to be genuinely interested in the celebration of it all and little else. Very little headway made in subjects that matter, although he reminds himself that perhaps this in and of itself, can be progress. They’re all together, after all, even if the distinction between them looms all the clearer when they’re in such close quarters. 

At a certain point, though, Katurian is forced to enjoy himself, and that means wine, plenty of wine. That means allowing himself to wander through the celebrations with a less sharp eye, or perhaps allowing his sharp eyes to seek different gifts. And that is just what he finds, in the curious fae he’s seen more and more of lately. A softness hiding something vicious he can’t help but be curious of.

“You stand so close to the fire, my dear Fiadh,” he hums, coming to a stop at her shoulder, eyes trailing from her to the flames. “So fickle, especially during the solstices. I’ve seen too many pretty things burned to ashes, and a celebration is nothing without the gods’ sacrifices.”

The twinkle of the flames are such a pretty thing, this late in the day as the sun begins its descent behind the trees. The dimming of the light awakens a world that Fiadh will always love above all things. The smell of the earth feels different after the sun has gone away, the roosting of the birds a sight that sparks affection in her chest. Oh, if it was quiet enough that may fly down and wish her a good-night, coo gentle songs with her. 

The revelry is too loud for that, the din alien to her after so many centuries spent on her own in the wilds. She has been a shadow at these celebrations, doing her best to join in the fun. Oh, she danced with the best of them, wreathed herself in flowers and accepted complements as offered. She is a shiny new toy for many at court, a curiosity. 

Feeling the warmth at her shoulder, she turns her head only the slightest bit, enough to catch him out of the corner of her eye. Voice smooth and wry, melodic in the warmth of the evening. “Am I dear to you now, Katurian? Why, I must have risen greatly in your esteem without my own notice. Believe me when I say I am flattered at your concern.” A hint of a smile, warm and savage and a little bit delighted, turning more to face him. “Perhaps I sought to lure you over to my side and let the flames catch you instead, perhaps I have some other purpose for you yet to come to light.” 

Her smile turns softer, voice following suit. “No, gentle Katurian. You should have no fear of that, even for one as pretty as me. For we are made of greater things than the flames. The very dust of the earth, and the sky, and the stars. Have you forgotten it?”