by Vox Day
But it was more than faint recollections that came rushing back to him. Or into him, rather, for he found himself reeling before things he had never seen, places he had never been and beings he had never known. The speed of everything was shocking, the scale unearthly, and the very language in which he found himself trying to interpret this alien world was barely recognizable. It was harsh, unlovely, stripped down to what, to him, seemed to be a crudely sibilant parody of itself, and yet there was a certain elegance to its simplicity.
And then, the memories struck him. They struck him as Caesar was struck, like stabbing knives bent on cruel slaughter.
Chapter 6
Beauty’s Betrayal
Faire ympes of beautie, whose bright shining beames
adorne the world with like to heauenly light,
and to your willes both royalties and realmes
subdew, through conquest of your wondrous might
—Edmund Spenser, The Faerie Queene
It was a fine day, for Albion had been blessed by an early spring. The air was warm and the dawn winds were sweet with the promise of budding life. The change was most welcome to Oberon, for the winter had been rife with rumors of shifting allegiances within the Principalities and veritably plagued with emissaries from one dark Power or another seeking to draw him into what was, to him, nothing more than an unending web of profitless intrigue. It was extraordinary, this unaccountable fascination with the mundane world of Man, but it was not for Oberon. The King of Faerie occupied himself with other concerns, which, if less dramatic, were altogether more satisfying.
Particularly on a day like this, surrounded on every side by the promise of newly-woken beauty, it was unthinkable to trouble one’s mind with such distasteful, unpleasant matters.
“Hail, Oberon,” one of his Knights of the Rose saluted him, accompanied, the king was pleased to see, by a quintet of fetching nymphets. Oberon was holding his court in a happy, sun-kissed glade surrounded on three sides by a young forest composed primarily of ash and birch trees. The clearing was open to the east and presented a majestic view of the Cotswolds, their rounded peaks still dusted with the melting remnants of the season’s last snow.
Oberon was not loathe to see it go. While the Winter Court held pleasures of its own, it was truly a relief to escape the gloomy stronghold of Mount Badon and once more resume a-wandering throughout his island realm. Spring was always his favorite time of year, as old friends woke and came to pay him friendly homage and he met his newest subjects as they came to receive their names from their lawful lord and king.
Today his throne was a wondrous construction of brilliantly blooming flowers, and he idly plucked a white lily from the armrest as the Rose Knight, his noble face incongruously hidden behind a horned helm, presented the five wide-eyed nymphets. Dryads, they were, and still more than a little confused as to the state in which they’d discovered themselves, if he judged them correctly. One in particular, a slim dark-haired lady of a young ash tree, was shivering as if the warm April wind was blowing from the north. He smiled to himself, knowing that it was not Boreas who made her quiver so, but Oberon. Perhaps she retained some semblance of her memories or perhaps she was an unusually timid spirit, either way she did not yet realize that she had left her days of turmoil and strife behind her and had entered into a magical realm of gladness and good cheer.
“To me, my loves,” the Faery King cried, smiling, and four of the five were quick to obey. They came to him joyfully, laughing and giggling as they covered him with kisses and embraced him with white limbs lithe and supple.
“I name you, Dainia,” he told the first, a pale blonde birchgirl who clapped her little hands with delight. “You, my dear, are Vellissima, and you are Kallissima, and you, heart of my heart, shall henceforth be known to all as Miridriel.”
The four nymphets, each visibly pleased with her name, ensconced themselves comfortably about him as he regarded the reluctant dryad. Miridriel sat at his feet with her head upon his knee as the beech twins, Vellissima and Kallissima, shared his lap and Dainia stood behind the throne, artfully massaging his royal shoulders. They were good names, and apt, he considered, for beauty demands nothing less than its like, in appellations as in amor.
“Don’t be afraid, little darling,” he tried to coax the shy one to him. But she was rooted in place, and did not dare so much as to lift her downcast eyes to meet his own. “Come, my dear, there is nothing to fear. Put all thought of Heaven and Earth behind you, you are in Faerie now, and it is a place of love and joy, sweetling. Come, and be named!”
She did not respond, except to stubbornly shake her head and, perhaps, to blush a little. Oberon threw back his head and roared with laughter, and the assembled court joined in. Never before had a newborn nymph refused him, much less refused to receive her name. It was remarkable!
He was amused, but wondered if perhaps he did wrong to overlook her artless breach of protocol, which, after all, might be seen by some as an insult to his crown. And yet, there did not seem to be a spark of defiance in her; she simply stood there mute and unassuming, her eyes locked upon the greening earth as if she expected to watch it grow before her.
But as he pondered her fate, a horn blew, echoing across the waking hills, and the whole Court began to stir with excitement. The sounding heralded nothing less than the approach of his queen, and all thoughts of the reluctant dryad vanished from Oberon’s mind as he anticipated the prospect of feasting his eyes once more on beauty which he had not seen for two long fortnights. Like the red-breasted robin, the Queen of Faerie was ever eager for the first flowers of spring and this year she had taken advantage of winter’s early demise to leave their grim redoubt and breathe new life into the young buds sprouting across the length and breadth of Albion.
He rose from his throne and the twin dryads tumbled from his lap onto the still-moist earth with shrieks of startled laughter. Miridriel, a little quicker of thought, had divined his intentions and already stood at his side, from which he banished her with a smile and a pat on her lovely naked bottom.
“The Queen approaches our presence,” he announced grandly, as if every sprite, fairy and fae there did not already know. “We welcome her with joy, and we declare her path shall be strewn with rose petals, nay, with living roses!”
Oberon gestured at the earth and caused a carpet of blood-red roses to rise from the ground, creating a soft, flowery path which led from the hillside entrance to the glade all the way to the throne.
“Let there be music fit for a queen,” he commanded, and immediately a Knight of the Grey Heather produced a harp from about his person and began to sing in a voice that was as haunting as it was melodious. It was, however, not at all the effect the king was seeking.
“Sir Gaeris,” he called out to the singer, “your ready willingness to serve your queen does you credit, but if you love me, do be silent! It is spring and this is your queen, not a love-starved innocent to be beguiled by a handsome knight with a mournful voice and a plaintive gaze. Fauns, spritelings, your pipes, if you please.”
He sat back on his throne, satisfied by the distinctly more cheerful sounds of a fluted fanfare being expertly blown by a quartet of woodland creatures, and waited expectantly. Nor was he disappointed when, only a few moments later, a familiar figure crested the rise and caught her breath upon catching sight of the blossoming walkway. It was Titania, and she was more ravishing than ever, clasping her hands to her heart as she declaimed humbly:
Too much honor, from thee to me.
For what more may I hope to see
Than him whose worship is my whole,
Lord of my heart, my King, my soul?
The pipers had fallen silent as the court, breathless, waited for his response. Oberon smiled enigmatically and forced them to wait as he took in the vision that was his queen. Today she was more youthful than was normally her wont, and her long tresses were not pure scarlet, but shot through with sparkling copper that reflected the sun’s radiance w
ith a primaveric impertinence. She was wearing a simple white gown, nearly transparent in the sunlight, and its plunging neckline revealed a leafy silver pattern which ran up from between her breasts like a liquid metal river that divided into two just beneath her throat, then traced her collarbones, jaw and cheekbones until it came to fruition in an intricate pair of sigils that highlighted her green eyes.
As always, she robbed him of a portion of his glory. And yet, was her triumph not also his?
She smiled at him, but it was more than just affection, it was a daring expression of loving challenge. They were more than mere lord and lady, they were the King and Queen of Faerie, and so their coming together was as much ritual as reunion, with equal import given to display as to decorum.
There was a brief stirring amidst his knights and Oberon frowned, displeased that there should be any interference with what was, after all, nearly a sacred moment. He cleared his throat and bowed to his lady, then raised his hands and caused a gentle breeze to ripple through her curls, framing her face in a glorious blaze of coppery fire.
What honor there might be, is mine
O Lady, small be the glory
Humbled before the likes of thee,
Perfection, in sun’s fire refined.
Wherefore would be, without thee, spring?
Like my heart, frozen in winter
I pray, once more, do disinter
This thy heart’s slave, O love, thy king!
Oberon’s voice rang out over the hills as he reached his triumphant climax and his court broke into gladsome cheers at his flattering eloquence, which he capped off with a deep and graceful bow. As he righted himself, he lifted his gaze to meet his queen’s, expecting blushing admiration, or at the very least some modicum of pleasure. He was surprised to see there were tears brimming in her emerald eyes.
He took a step towards her, but as she turned her face away from him he heard the unmistakable sound of swords clearing leather, followed by the deadly crackle of angelfire. More astounded than alarmed, he whirled around to see the shocking sight of one of a Rose Knight striking down a pair of his sworn brethren, who were unarmed and defenseless against this treacherous attack.
For a moment, Oberon could do nothing more than stand and stare, even as his court dissolved into a panicked mass of frightened, screaming spirits. He could not tell if there was but one false knight or a dozen, so great was the sudden chaos. In the blink of an eye, two strange fae stood before him, they were clad in the livery of the Lily, but their faces were unknown to him. One brave nymph hurled herself at the taller of the two knights, but the false knight struck her down with the back of his fist and continued to advance on Oberon.
“How dare you,” hissed the Faery King, fair bidding to burst in his apoplectic outrage. “You bring your forsaken war into my Court? Would you have war, damned ones? Then you shall have it, but here you will find naught but death, destruction and the Pit!”
As one, both knights sprang towards him, thrusting their deadly demonic blades towards his chest, but he parried them untouched, with nothing more than a broad, sweeping gesture of his arm. The raw force of his angry will sent both weapons flying wildly through the air like a pair of flaming brands, and the disarmed knights cried out as the force that had wrenched their weapons from them sent them reeling. But they did not fall, for Oberon was quick to grab them both, each by his throat, and he roared like an enraged beast as he lifted them high into the air.
Their legs kicked wildly, but to no avail, and though their fingers clutched at his hands they would have found it easier to scrabble at stone. As Oberon slowly tightened his lethal grasp, he looked about and was pleased to see that only two of the false knights were still standing and both were hard-pressed, surrounded by the flashing swords of his loyal fae. Titania, he was relieved to see, was safe, as seven or eight of her fierce Flower Guard were circled protectively around her.
As the situation was under control, Oberon dared to loose his grasp on one attacker and drew him closer, even as he crushed the spirit out of the other. He felt a rush of heat as the dead fae went up in a rush of evil-smelling green flame, and cast the flaming wreckage from him with a mixed sense of fury and disgust.
“Who sent you,” he demanded. “I know you not. What grudge do you bear Albion, or her King?”
“No grudge,” gasped the other, still prying fruitlessly at Oberon’s fingers. “Sent… sent by… I can’t… no… can’t….”
The false fae screamed unexpectedly, and Oberon started as the other’s eyes, only inches from his own, suddenly disappeared, engulfed by flames burning out of the sockets. He could feel the hellfire heating up inside the other’s body, warming his hand even as it incinerated the insides of his captive. With a horrified shout, he hurled the imposter from him just as green flames burst through the angel’s skin. Nymph and knights alike scattered as the burning demon landed in their midst and was devoured by the unnatural fire.
“I told her that would never work,” he heard someone say, just as an icy, cold sensation flared in his back, as if he’d been stabbed by an icicle. He clutched at his back, but his arms felt strangely heavy, and when he tried to turn around to seize his attacker, he found himself losing his balance and he fell heavily on his side. He strained mightily to turn his head, and just managed to do so before the spreading paralysis froze him motionless on the ground.
“On the other hand, it wasn’t a bad little diversion, either.” The nameless nymphet who had defied him earlier now stood over him with a satisfied smirk on her face. She was demure no more; instead she was savagely shameless as she brandished a glowing blue dagger in her hand, which pulsed in a strangely lifelike manner. “Stand back, all of you, for in my hand I hold nothing less than the spirit of your king. A single word from me and his flame shall be quenched, now and for evermore!”
Oberon could not see anything but the false nymph—for whatever she was, she was no newborn spirit of the woods—but he could hear his brave fae whispering amongst themselves, wondering if the assassin could be speaking the truth and if they dared call her bluff. But before they had come to a decision, it was made for them. Titania’s voice was calm, but firm, as she ordered Albion’s knights to stand down, lest their king be destroyed.
The sorcerous cold was beginning to lace its frigid fingers through his mind now, and the vibrant spring colours were fading into invernal shades of grey when Titania kneeled down at his side. What haunted him most, though, as he slid into unconsciousness, was neither the two perfect tears which hung suspended from her long, crimson lashes nor the pale anguish which filled her bloodless face. What chilled him down to the very marrow of his soul was the sight of her lips forming a single, terrible word.
“Sorry,” she whispered. “O my love, I am so very sorry.”
Then the cruel night claimed him and he knew no more.
Chapter 7
Lord of the Forest
I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,
where oxlips and the nodding violet grows,
quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,
with sweet musk-roses and with eglantine:
—William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream
Robin watched dispassionately as Gloriana’s potion worked its magic, dissipating the demonic fury that earlier possessed the Faery King and replacing it with sorrow. Without warning, Oberon cried out and fell to his knees weeping, his face buried in his hands. Robin was distressed himself, not so much because he had caused such pain to his king, but because he could hear the clattering of someone rushing down the deep winding stairwell that led to Oberon’s prison.
He was loathe to lay hands on the king, but events left him little choice. Apologizing mentally, he grabbed Oberon’s arms and pulled him to his feet.
“My king, I fear we must leave, at once! Your enemies come, and we must fly!”
The Faery King looked at him unsteadily, his eyes red and confused, and sank back to his knees. “Titania�
�� my love, my queen.”
Bloody Hell! The footsteps were coming closer but it was only one angel, and, by the sound of it, a feminine one at that. That better be Lahalissa, or we’re finished. A moment later, he was relieved to see that it was indeed the lovely daemoness, albeit smoke-stained and more than a little battered.
“You have him! Is he…”
“No, his mind isn’t broken. But he despairs at Titania’s betrayal.”
“We must fly! Herne won’t be able to hold them off forever.”
“Herne? He fights?”
“The Mad One sent a cohort of Kesh’Adai who weren’t exactly prepared to run into a half-mad Great One. He fights like a demon!” Lahalissa laughed, sounding less than entirely sane herself. “Oh, he was a marvel of devastation! Half of them are no more, and the other half ran. But there will be reinforcements coming. They won’t be long.”
“Then we’d better be going.”
“How will we get the king to move?”
“He will. He must.”
Lahalissa’s jaw dropped as Robin struck the silently weeping Oberon, slapping his face with an audible crack.
“You dare!” the Faery King’s eyes flashed death, but Robin was not about to apologize for his unexpected lese majeste.
“Your majesty, those who bound you are upon us. The Hunter holds them off, but his strength is failing. We must leave, now, and seek safe haven. By the way, this is Lahalissa, Gloriana’s lady-in-waiting.”
“Yes, yes, of course, we must.” Oberon extended a hand to Lahalissa, and with her help the Faery King rose to his feet. “We thank you, fair spirit. And in light of your service, Puck, we forgive your crime. You are a spirit loyal, and true. Lahalissa, your mistress has given us much, including a suggestion that we join her immediately. Can you take us to her?”