Nor had she any trouble recognizing the tyrant on sight. He was the ugly one.
Behind her, she was aware of Proteus's efforts to stand up. He must have been dropped from higher up onto the sand.
She wished he’d recover quickly and back her up, for these two meant to mock her, perhaps thinking her ignorant.
And that she was not.
Why, every book, every story, every page she’d ever read in search of escape from the immutable landscape at the end of reality, had told her the same thing.
Villains were ugly, with contorted features, decayed bodies, wasted — eaten by their own venom inside and out.
So when she and Proteus had landed on this beach, in the very crux of magic at the heart of all, she knew very well who the two men who fought on the sand were.
One of them, the blond one, with the face of an angel and a beauty that dwarfed Proteus's own, must be the mortal.
Oh, mortals were supposed to be second in beauty to elves, and already Miranda’s sense of proportion was offended by this breach in the hull of reality. But, all the same, this mortal was good, or at least not bad.
There was no poison in him, no evil that could taint his features and twist his body. And he was beautiful enough to have attracted the heart of the king of fairyland.
And cunning enough to see the evil of the tyrant’s love, if their brawl was witness.
And surely that villain, that mean creature who had killed her own parents and Proteus's too, must be the dark-haired, coarse creature, whose hair had deserted the front of his head, leaving his forehead an immense expanse, towering above his sun-burned face, where, at the corner of lips and mouth, small wrinkles had started to crease his dry skin.
Yet this creature turned surprised eyes towards her and questioned, “Who, me? A villain?”
There was sincere shock in his golden falcon-like eyes, sincere questing in his bewildered voice.
But would the villain not be a great actor? Would the villain not be a great deceiver? He’d kept the hill in his thrall, believing his goodness despite it all, had he not?
“You. You, who murdered my parents, you who--”
A sound like a high, disordered laugh stopped her. It came from the blond mortal. He’d been on his knees, but now he stood, a hand over his mouth, as though repressing further laughter. His bright, moss-green eyes managed to look both grieved and amused, both shocked and disdainful.
As Miranda looked towards him, he lowered the hand that hid his mouth, and showed his lips stained with sparkling bright-red blood. “Your quarrel is with me, fair maiden, with me, who am of your blood and your extraction. It is not with this chance, happen-met mortal caught in the currents of elven grief.”
The creature’s diction was perfect, his voice as harmonious as Proteus's own. He was a vision speaking and yet....
She tried to think of what he was saying. It didn’t make sense, for he seemed to be claiming for himself elven blood and Miranda’s own enmity.
She opened her mouth to protest, but she could not, for the creature took a step towards her and spoke in his calm voice that yet seemed to command the attention of the very raging winds, the howling, moving landscape. “I am your uncle, fair maiden, or at least so I assume if you’re the star-crossed daughter of that iniquitous Sylvanus who once ruled the hill and fairyland. For I was his brother, and I sit on the throne he disgraced.”
Thus speaking he walked towards her, his hands at his side, looking meek and fond.
But what he said couldn’t be true. He was beautiful. Even with his injured, bloodied lips, he was more beautiful than Proteus, more perfect than anyone Miranda had ever seen, save the Hunter himself.
Only the Hunter’s beauty was a cold thing, a removed thing, dark and full of dread, while this elf’s beauty was full of gentle appeal and caring kindness and something else -- warm passion and fiery intensity, seeming repressed and for all that the more powerful.
If he was an elf. But how could he be an elf? Only one elf should be here, and that her wicked uncle, full of evil and darkness. In every tale, didn’t evil make the evildoer appear heinous?
She could believe her eyes and this fair creature’s voice, or she could believe the books she had read. The books must be true, while this creature....
Faith, she thought, feeling suddenly released from her dilemma. Faith, he was lying. Lying to protect the elf whom he loved. Proteus had said nothing about the mortal loving the elf, only about the elf loving the mortal, but surely — elven glamour taken into account — the mortal loved the elf, too. And out of his love, he wished to protect Quicksilver.
“Your intentions are good,” Miranda said, looking on the gentle creature with softened gaze. “But you should leave this fight to the immortals and stand aside, good man.”
This time, the smile in the bruised lips was unmistakable, but the green eyes still showed a mix of pity and amusement.
“I am not a mortal, kind princess,” the creature spoke. “My name is Quicksilver, king of the fairyland in the lands of Avalon, and I’m your uncle. I know not why you think I should be different, but this is the truth. And the truth is that your father tried to ensnare me and steal my throne and the Hunter who is the avenger of injustice took--”
“Stop, stop foul liar,” Proteus screamed. Running past Miranda, he jumped on the ... mortal? King of elvenland?
Miranda stared in horror as her love attacked this creature who looked even better than he and therefore must be better or more righteous.
He must, or else were all tales false, all writers liars.
Proteus slammed into the other person, and the other person withstood his charge.
The dark-haired, ugly creature who stood nearer Miranda turned also to watch and, looking scared, put his hands to his mouth, covering it with both of them as though afraid that an unthought word or an incautious breath should escape it.
Proteus punched the— mortal?
Miranda grabbed the creature’s arm, so hard that she could feel his flesh through the padded velvet of the sleeve. “Stop them,” she said. “Stop them. Oh, can’t you stop them?”
The creature looked... terrified.
His golden eyes stared at Miranda in unremitting misery. He shook his head hard.
Yet Proteus was throwing his punches with all his strength, attempting to scratch and claw at the blond person.
The blond withstood it but did not try to hurt Proteus in revenge.
They must both be elves, mustn’t they? For how could a mortal withstand the strength of fairyland?
The other one, the defender — Quicksilver? — returned every move with a faster, stronger one, holding now onto Proteus's wrist and preventing the younger elf’s punches from reaching their destination, and now stepping out of Proteus's misguided charges and allowing the young elf to fall.
No human could ever oppose an elf with greater strength, with more agility. Even among elves, only a better-born one or an older, more experienced one could do it.
But then the blond, with the face of an angel, the speed of a king, the strength of the best of elves must be her wicked uncle, Quicksilver.
As the obscene certainty of what should be impossibility dawned upon Miranda’s amazed mind, she turned startled eyes to the man beside her, the mortal, the human.
“He is the King of elves, is he not?” She asked, words dripping from her mouth almost unmeant. “That blond man is an elf, and the king, isn’t he? And you’re the mortal he once loved.”
The man let his hands fall from in front of his face, and his mouth opened as though he’d protest, but he said not a word. His eyes reflected fear as though his mind were a measure that fear had filled till no more would fit. He pressed his lips together and nodded, looking afraid that even this gesture would have ill-effect.
“Stop,” the stranger elf — Quicksilver — said. “Stop, noble Proteus. The anger that fills you is noble, nay righteous, in your circumstances. But it is misguided.”
&
nbsp; Miranda turned in time to see the stranger parry a knife thrust with his arm — did Proteus truly have a knife out? Had he unsheathed to fight an unprotected man?
The knife sliced through the fabric and skin and drops of immortal blood fell, glittering, to the sand of the crux which, as though injured, whirled in greater fury and howled in greater grief at the intrusion.
“Stop,” Quicksilver yelled. “I did what I had to do, only what I had to do. How could I tolerate rebels in the hill? Your noble father would not swear fealty, and for that he had to die. But my quarrel is not with you. Noble Proteus, you are the only heir I’m likely to have. Marry this princess of fairyland.” While stepping aside from a vicious thrust, Quicksilver gestured towards Miranda. “Marry her and be blessed, and only give me a little time and I shall step aside and leave the two of you to reign undisturbed in fairyland. I am tired. The war has broken me. Take my throne and all honor with it.” Quicksilver stepped just out of reach of the fast-weaving dagger that Proteus wielded with fast-striking anger. “Take it, for I do not want it.”
It seemed to Miranda the offer was more than fair, the justice more than just. If her uncle lied not — and every one of her senses, every fiber of her being, every instinct of the royal blood of fairyland, told her that Quicksilver told the truth — then this offer was justice in itself and they’d already achieved what they wanted from this daring sortie, this unequaled attempt on the throne of Fairyland.
But Proteus only clenched his teeth tight and muttered through them in a voice scarcely harder than a whisper, in a tone scarcely more human than a dog’s growl, “I want the throne after your death, and only your blood will slake the thirst for vengeance in my heart.” Thus speaking, he threw himself at Quicksilver, yelling, “So die all tyrants.”
But Quicksilver stepped out of the way and held onto Proteus's knife yielding wrist, even as Proteus's other hand scratched in a fury at Quicksilver’s face, attempting to injure his eyes.
“Yield to reason. Listen to what I say,” Quicksilver said. “And if you still need my death, I’ll be contented to die, only not in the crux, where my death might cause magical storms that would swallow all. Only listen to me, noble Proteus.”
“You will die now, dog,” Proteus screamed. “Arise, black vengeance, from thy hollow cell!”
With renewed fury, he kicked at the king of fairyland, hitting him between the legs and bringing him down to his knees, face contorted.
Quicksilver got his hands up, just in time, to divert the dagger aimed at his heart.
Miranda screamed and ran in, but, close to the two fighters, didn’t know whom to help. For she loved Proteus, but Proteus was attacking a man who did not defend himself. Even if that man were a tyrant — and had a tyrant ever behaved thus? In a fury of terror and despair, she scratched at her silken skirt and clawed at her own sleeves, her sweat-slick hands searching for something she could do. “No, no, no,” she screamed into the indifferent, hollow wind, at the indifferent, fighting elves.
“Only stop him, maiden, stop him from killing me here, and elsewhere can you take satisfaction for any wrongs you believe I might--” Quicksilver said.
Quicksilver’s dagger hung, undisturbed, in its sheath, at his waist.
Miranda didn’t know what to think, what to do. Her whole world had turned upside down in moments.
Was Proteus not good, who looked so fair? But Quicksilver was fair also, and behold, he defended himself — defended himself, only — from Proteus's vicious attacks, without retaliating, without inflicting the injury he could.
Was not Quicksilver evil and a murderer?
Oh, had she been mistaken? In Proteus's fair face did a monster hide, like a dragon in a flowering cave?
Yet every poem, every story, every legend, human and elven both, said that virtue and beauty went hand in hand.
Again, Quicksilver interposed his hand, between him and the stab that would kill him.
His lips were healed, but his hand, arm, and shoulder bled in persistent rivulets.
And now Proteus reached into his jacket for the net that would deprive Quicksilver of all magical power and allow him to bleed and die as a mortal would.
Miranda could save Quicksilver. She could pull back Proteus or deal an unexpected, stunning blow to her lover.
But he was her lover, was he not? Did she not love him well?
Oh, her mind was like one of those models of the spheres, which went round and round a fixed point and never arrived anywhere.
For she knew that Proteus was good — he had been kind to her.
Yet here was Quicksilver, whom Proteus had said was a villain, and, the king of fairyland was sparing Proteus, holding back his superior strength, his superior speed, his sheathed weapon.
Miranda could feel that strength in Quicksilver that could have reduced the young elf to nothing with a glancing blow.
Why didn’t Quicksilver do it? Who’d ever heard of a villain who held back from causing harm?
Could Proteus be wrong, and Quicksilver not be evil, after all?
But if it was so, then Proteus's father had been evil and Proteus's own bend on revenge must make him evil.
Proteus brought forth the glittering net from his jacket.
Miranda heard a scream emerge from her throat, ripping it raw as it erupted from between her lips.
The mortal turned to stare at her and, for a moment, the two combatant elves stopped -- Proteus holding his bloody knife in one hand and the net in the other -- like some statue in a long-ago monument, where models of long dead men carry on the form of a fight that future generations have forgotten.
The net dangled from Proteus's hand, and Quicksilver spared it but a glance, before staring at Miranda, stunned, worried.
He put his hand out to Miranda, as though he’d give her strength, as though he’d help her.
Miranda could understand none of it.
For so long she’d dreamed of living with Proteus and ruling in fairyland, yet when offered that dream, when offered that chance, on a silver platter, Proteus clamored for blood and vengeance.
And when offered vengeance deferred, he clamored for it now.
Was her lord then so hot, his thirst for blood and death so great?
Was he then her lord?
She didn’t know and she couldn’t think, with the magical storm roaring around her and howling in her mind. She couldn’t think, she couldn’t look upon the two combatants.
If she could go way, then she could think--
Diving in, close to the combatants, she reached for Proteus's hand that held the net and pulled it from his fingers.
It felt cold and burning in her hand, cold and burning both.
She saw Proteus's look of outrage. Would he come for her, now? But before she could decide whether the look she saw was anger or just offense, her feet, reasoning before her head, carried her running, away from the howling sand and wind, away from the combatants, away from her doubts and fears.
Away into the forest, with the magical net.
Scene Fifteen
The same howling sand, the same beach, the sound of magic waves that beat upon a magical shore, and the two combatants frozen mid-fight, and Will staring at the elf maiden as she runs inland, towards the green fringe of woodland.
Pinned to the sand, beneath Proteus's fury-strong arms, Quicksilver struggled, as the girl elf — Miranda? — ran into the forest.
“Miranda,” he called, as Proteus let go of Quicksilver and stared after the girl and the magical object she carried.
Quicksilver had felt the magical strength, the dread power of that object. What had Proteus planned to do?
While Proteus was thus distracted, Quicksilver shoved him away, struggled to his feet.
When Proteus turned back, Quicksilver was on his feet and danced back from Proteus's reach.
He felt blood drip from his hand and arm, but it was nothing. Scratches, nothing more.
He looked on Proteus's furious face, his cont
orted features, his clenched teeth and felt only pity.
Oh, how the young elf must smart, how his injuries must hurt for him to rebel thus, to take a young human from his family, to make use of a young maiden who had been brought up in seclusion in a land beyond fairyland.
“She loves you, Proteus,” Quicksilver said, as he danced away from his cousin’s reach. “She loves you, Proteus, and you’re a fool if you don’t thank the gods for the blessing.”
But Proteus's teeth stayed clenched, and his face contorted as he lurched and launched towards Quicksilver.
His blood leapt, eager for Quicksilver’s blood.
“She was the one who cast the spell, was she not?” Quicksilver asked, this time parrying the stab with his arm. He should bring his dagger out. But his mind reminded him of other times when he had not meant to kill and yet had ended killing.
Once the dagger was in his hand, who could say what would happen and who would suffer for it?
And he’d not kill Proteus. He’d not.
Proteus was almost his last relative. Only the girl, Sylvanus's daughter, was closer. Only the girl. And the girl loved Proteus, and for the sake of her tender, young heart, Quicksilver would spare him, no matter what his crimes.
Aye, Quicksilver would spare him were his crimes ten times worse, his heart ten times blacker. “You made her kidnap the young mortal, did you not?” Quicksilver asked. “And it was her inexperience that took him to the crux.”
He spoke, trying to distract Proteus. Yet Proteus, teeth clenched, stabbed and stabbed and stabbed, hot breathing vengeance behind his mad strength. His need to kill Quicksilver glimmered from his eyes like holy fire.
“Poor girl, what will she do when she finds that you marred her power and twisted her magic,” Quicksilver said. “What will she do when she finds that you’ve endangered us all and all of magic besides? Go to her, Proteus. Go to her. If we get out of the crux, then I shall, in rightness and by my honor, and by this dread oath I swear on the darkness of the Hunter and his dark vengeance, allow you to kill me and ensure you don’t suffer the vengeance of fairyland. I’ll make you king of the hill first. Only spare my queen, the fair Ariel, and do with me as you will.”
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