Chapter 88: 88
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My face burns redder than the crimson cloth on the table.
"Shit, I am so sorry," I mutter, burying my impossibly flushed face in my hands to slump despairing in my chair, my back rigid against the cold slab of wood as I press myself against it, suddenly all too keen to disappear from this place entirely. I groan inwardly. Why, why of all things did that have to happen?
Ithuriel purses his lips in disapproval, but Fangorn flicks away my shame with a prominent flick of his finger. The bulky man makes his way over and looms beside me, placing a reassuring hand on my shoulder and giving me a couple of comforting pats. Unfortunately, it does little to ease my tensions.
"Well, I wouldn't actually be surprised if you were having a conversation with My Lord, he has a tendency to make himself known in an unusual variety of places. And no need to be embarrassed my child, this is Soren we are talking about, it's hardly surprising. I think he must have enough sexual prowess to make just about anyone moan,"
Kal groans, covering his ears in mock disgust, wings twitching irritably.
"Thanks dad, we all really needed to hear that,"
Fangorn gives a booming laugh as he heaves himself round to the opposite side of the room, perching himself on the edge of the table and leaning back against the half light of the candles that illuminate his well toned figure in satisfying proportions- despite the fact half of his body is draped in a thick, leathery cloak. I can certainly see the appeal to Lilyana. This man might as well have the body of a god.
His eyes are that same chilling blood red of all vampires: eyes that carry a permanent, terrifying luminosity, yet simultaneously gleam with the sultry disposition that make them seem like they both want to bed you and tear out your organs at the same time. To one not experienced in such an intense look, it could truly be a terrifying combination.
Across his high boned face and stark jaw line, a scar runs rigidly down his right eye, cutting a deep gash through the perfect alabaster skin- the likes of which could only have been carved out by a silver sword at the hands of a meticulous warrior. Considering Fangorn's status- or should I say ex status, as Soren's best general, the scar certainly raises some questions as to how exactly it had been acquired. An angel? A rogue sword fight? But his face is hard set into a stony disposition, eyes blank and emotionless, giving nothing away- the look of a warrior long trained to bury his emotions, if a man like him could have any, that is. It is a practised look, an excellent façade- the only notion of its unpicking is the occasional stolen glance towards the wings on Ithuriel's back, as though remembering something long, long ago, tucked deep in the half forgotten depths of the outcast's mind. Perhaps he an Soren aren't so dissimilar.
Then he composes himself and leans back casually once more. And so I continue my surveillance unobserved. I imagine if I were a good enough painter, Fangorn would be an excellent subject to paint. His body is broad and extremely well kept despite living in the end, a place prior to this I had assumed no people nor veritable food sources would dwell, but looking over at the fresh flush of blood through his skin makes me do a double take on my former assessment. His hair is long, dark, brown to the point of almost being black, yet while it shares the same colour as Soren's, Fangorn does not share the same mussy, curled locks that I so dearly love. Instead his hair is spiked upwards, fluffed back past the fine daggers of his horns that stretch back past his head like that of an addax. I draw my gaze away. Something about lingering so long on such a menacing appearance does little to calm the roiling nerves of my stomach.
Briefly my mind flits to wonder how the love between Lilyana and Fangorn came to be in the first place- on which battlefield must they have met? But it is a thought I cannot dwell on as a rumbling grow lurches me to awareness.
"Ithuriel says you seek my aid to find the flame." Fangorn announces in his deep, gravelling voice, and I start. I jerk my head up to meet his gaze from across the table just as Ithuriel comes to take his place beside me, unusually silent and brooding- though perhaps that has something to do with the transpiration of the fact I was… well, nevermind. I clear my throat.
"Yes, you see, we were hoping you might know something about the location of the flame, or be able to help us track it down. You see, we are running out of time and-"
Fangorn holds up his hand and immediately my sentence is cut short by the sheer force of his willpower. A murmur of discomfort shifts around the room, even in Kal, who has since taken to pouring himself his third cup of tea out of sheer nervousness, an act in which I can only imagine what it does to his bowels. I find myself half surprised that he isn't not excusing himself for a toilet break every five minutes with the utter amount of tea he has downed - like a sweet tooth pixie who has got their hands on the maple syrup their mother has locked away in the drawer. But maybe dragons do not suffer from such ailments.
Fangorn taps his fingers on the table, bringing our silence to his attention.
"Tell me, Queen Serena, say I tell you where to find the flame. Say I gave away my people secret they have held for generations, let them succumb to the angels ways-"
"But they aren't your people any more, they cast you out! Soren, cast you out." Ithuriel insists, rising from his seat in a vivid insistence, cracking his fist on the table hard enough to send a shock wave reverberating around the room. I spare him a glance, wide eyes and utterly surprised at the pure outrage that simmers within his usually calm voice. It is brutal, viscous, and very un-Ithuriel. Clearly something has gone on between the two of them, something that has slipped my notice.
Ithuriel's outrage is met by a steely calm.
"They cast me out, yes, but they are still my people. Nobody, not even the Prince of Sezeria, can take away a person's inheritance." he says, gazing down upon Ithuriel with a look that I can only place as disappointment, and scorn. Ithuriel sinks back into his seat reluctantly.
"You were saying, Fangorn?" I say, returning my attention back to the towering vampire who has since brought out a hunting knife from its sheath at his belt, stained and well worn with eons of use. He runs his thumb over the blunt point, scrapping a thin line of blood from the tip of his finger, welling up upon the skin. Something prickles inside me.
"If I told you how to get to the flame, what then? Do you go back to your people? Sacrifice your destiny and resume your position as Queen on a throne that is controlled by the hands of pallid, decrepit councillors who haven't bothered to see the changes in this world for the whole of their miserable lives? And what of your Soren? Are you so willing to betray him, give up your love?"
Ithuriel tenses in the seat next to me, letting loose a snarl.
"She does not love-"
"Enough, Ithuriel! Let her speak!" Fangorn hisses his command, his voice cold, authoritative, the voice of a general conditioning to his knight that has spoken out of line. I gnaw on my lip. I can certainly see why Soren would choose such a domineering figure for his general- this is a man who takes no nonsense, a man who could win wars.
I grip my fingers on the edge of my seat, fingers cutting in against the wood. It's hard, cold, steadying my mind against the confusion and the blood and the roaring of my untamed heart, steeling me against the screams and the white haired vision that resurfaces like a bat from a cave. I push them all out, all these thoughts, and simply think. Fangorn is asking me to admit the words I never thought I would have to voice, the forbidden truth of my situation- but it is a risk I must take. I take a long, heavy breath.
"If I find the flame, I will return it to the angels." I start warily, and notice Ithuriel's shoulders visibly relax a bit. Kal looks towards me, over the cup of his tea, a twinkle in his eyes as he urges me to continue with a light dip of his head, assuring me of the situation. Another breath.
"But," I add, ignoring the painstaking drop in Ithuriel's face, desperate to focus on something else; the flickering on the lanterns, the spread of Kal's wings, even the ponderous expression deep set expression that lines the faint wrinkles of Fangorn's face. Anything, anything other than the look of betrayal I know is to come. Anything at all. I grip my seat harder.
"I won't be returning to Illistrae. I know I have no heir, not currently at least. But I cannot return, not to the council, not to that tomb. I plan to give my crown to Lilyana, at least until the time comes until I have an heir willing to take up that position, or things have changed. As for Soren... I am staying with him. And I can only hope that with our mating bond, our... love, is strong enough to withstand the time when he comes to find out who I am."
Fangorn nods his approval, sheathing his knife back into his belt, satisfied by my words. He wipes away the blots of blood beading on the pad of his thumb on the hem of his cloak. Beside me comes Ithuriel's incredulous stuttering, his voice catching in his throat as he chokes out the words:
"What do you mean, changed?"
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My face burns redder than the crimson cloth on the table.
"Shit, I am so sorry," I mutter, burying my impossibly flushed face in my hands to slump despairing in my chair, my back rigid against the cold slab of wood as I press myself against it, suddenly all too keen to disappear from this place entirely. I groan inwardly. Why, why of all things did that have to happen?
Ithuriel purses his lips in disapproval, but Fangorn flicks away my shame with a prominent flick of his finger. The bulky man makes his way over and looms beside me, placing a reassuring hand on my shoulder and giving me a couple of comforting pats. Unfortunately, it does little to ease my tensions.
"Well, I wouldn't actually be surprised if you were having a conversation with My Lord, he has a tendency to make himself known in an unusual variety of places. And no need to be embarrassed my child, this is Soren we are talking about, it's hardly surprising. I think he must have enough sexual prowess to make just about anyone moan,"
Kal groans, covering his ears in mock disgust, wings twitching irritably.
"Thanks dad, we all really needed to hear that,"
Fangorn gives a booming laugh as he heaves himself round to the opposite side of the room, perching himself on the edge of the table and leaning back against the half light of the candles that illuminate his well toned figure in satisfying proportions- despite the fact half of his body is draped in a thick, leathery cloak. I can certainly see the appeal to Lilyana. This man might as well have the body of a god.
His eyes are that same chilling blood red of all vampires: eyes that carry a permanent, terrifying luminosity, yet simultaneously gleam with the sultry disposition that make them seem like they both want to bed you and tear out your organs at the same time. To one not experienced in such an intense look, it could truly be a terrifying combination.
Across his high boned face and stark jaw line, a scar runs rigidly down his right eye, cutting a deep gash through the perfect alabaster skin- the likes of which could only have been carved out by a silver sword at the hands of a meticulous warrior. Considering Fangorn's status- or should I say ex status, as Soren's best general, the scar certainly raises some questions as to how exactly it had been acquired. An angel? A rogue sword fight? But his face is hard set into a stony disposition, eyes blank and emotionless, giving nothing away- the look of a warrior long trained to bury his emotions, if a man like him could have any, that is. It is a practised look, an excellent façade- the only notion of its unpicking is the occasional stolen glance towards the wings on Ithuriel's back, as though remembering something long, long ago, tucked deep in the half forgotten depths of the outcast's mind. Perhaps he an Soren aren't so dissimilar.
Then he composes himself and leans back casually once more. And so I continue my surveillance unobserved. I imagine if I were a good enough painter, Fangorn would be an excellent subject to paint. His body is broad and extremely well kept despite living in the end, a place prior to this I had assumed no people nor veritable food sources would dwell, but looking over at the fresh flush of blood through his skin makes me do a double take on my former assessment. His hair is long, dark, brown to the point of almost being black, yet while it shares the same colour as Soren's, Fangorn does not share the same mussy, curled locks that I so dearly love. Instead his hair is spiked upwards, fluffed back past the fine daggers of his horns that stretch back past his head like that of an addax. I draw my gaze away. Something about lingering so long on such a menacing appearance does little to calm the roiling nerves of my stomach.
Briefly my mind flits to wonder how the love between Lilyana and Fangorn came to be in the first place- on which battlefield must they have met? But it is a thought I cannot dwell on as a rumbling grow lurches me to awareness.
"Ithuriel says you seek my aid to find the flame." Fangorn announces in his deep, gravelling voice, and I start. I jerk my head up to meet his gaze from across the table just as Ithuriel comes to take his place beside me, unusually silent and brooding- though perhaps that has something to do with the transpiration of the fact I was… well, nevermind. I clear my throat.
"Yes, you see, we were hoping you might know something about the location of the flame, or be able to help us track it down. You see, we are running out of time and-"
Fangorn holds up his hand and immediately my sentence is cut short by the sheer force of his willpower. A murmur of discomfort shifts around the room, even in Kal, who has since taken to pouring himself his third cup of tea out of sheer nervousness, an act in which I can only imagine what it does to his bowels. I find myself half surprised that he isn't not excusing himself for a toilet break every five minutes with the utter amount of tea he has downed - like a sweet tooth pixie who has got their hands on the maple syrup their mother has locked away in the drawer. But maybe dragons do not suffer from such ailments.
Fangorn taps his fingers on the table, bringing our silence to his attention.
"Tell me, Queen Serena, say I tell you where to find the flame. Say I gave away my people secret they have held for generations, let them succumb to the angels ways-"
"But they aren't your people any more, they cast you out! Soren, cast you out." Ithuriel insists, rising from his seat in a vivid insistence, cracking his fist on the table hard enough to send a shock wave reverberating around the room. I spare him a glance, wide eyes and utterly surprised at the pure outrage that simmers within his usually calm voice. It is brutal, viscous, and very un-Ithuriel. Clearly something has gone on between the two of them, something that has slipped my notice.
Ithuriel's outrage is met by a steely calm.
"They cast me out, yes, but they are still my people. Nobody, not even the Prince of Sezeria, can take away a person's inheritance." he says, gazing down upon Ithuriel with a look that I can only place as disappointment, and scorn. Ithuriel sinks back into his seat reluctantly.
"You were saying, Fangorn?" I say, returning my attention back to the towering vampire who has since brought out a hunting knife from its sheath at his belt, stained and well worn with eons of use. He runs his thumb over the blunt point, scrapping a thin line of blood from the tip of his finger, welling up upon the skin. Something prickles inside me.
"If I told you how to get to the flame, what then? Do you go back to your people? Sacrifice your destiny and resume your position as Queen on a throne that is controlled by the hands of pallid, decrepit councillors who haven't bothered to see the changes in this world for the whole of their miserable lives? And what of your Soren? Are you so willing to betray him, give up your love?"
Ithuriel tenses in the seat next to me, letting loose a snarl.
"She does not love-"
"Enough, Ithuriel! Let her speak!" Fangorn hisses his command, his voice cold, authoritative, the voice of a general conditioning to his knight that has spoken out of line. I gnaw on my lip. I can certainly see why Soren would choose such a domineering figure for his general- this is a man who takes no nonsense, a man who could win wars.
I grip my fingers on the edge of my seat, fingers cutting in against the wood. It's hard, cold, steadying my mind against the confusion and the blood and the roaring of my untamed heart, steeling me against the screams and the white haired vision that resurfaces like a bat from a cave. I push them all out, all these thoughts, and simply think. Fangorn is asking me to admit the words I never thought I would have to voice, the forbidden truth of my situation- but it is a risk I must take. I take a long, heavy breath.
"If I find the flame, I will return it to the angels." I start warily, and notice Ithuriel's shoulders visibly relax a bit. Kal looks towards me, over the cup of his tea, a twinkle in his eyes as he urges me to continue with a light dip of his head, assuring me of the situation. Another breath.
"But," I add, ignoring the painstaking drop in Ithuriel's face, desperate to focus on something else; the flickering on the lanterns, the spread of Kal's wings, even the ponderous expression deep set expression that lines the faint wrinkles of Fangorn's face. Anything, anything other than the look of betrayal I know is to come. Anything at all. I grip my seat harder.
"I won't be returning to Illistrae. I know I have no heir, not currently at least. But I cannot return, not to the council, not to that tomb. I plan to give my crown to Lilyana, at least until the time comes until I have an heir willing to take up that position, or things have changed. As for Soren... I am staying with him. And I can only hope that with our mating bond, our... love, is strong enough to withstand the time when he comes to find out who I am."
Fangorn nods his approval, sheathing his knife back into his belt, satisfied by my words. He wipes away the blots of blood beading on the pad of his thumb on the hem of his cloak. Beside me comes Ithuriel's incredulous stuttering, his voice catching in his throat as he chokes out the words:
"What do you mean, changed?"
My face burns redder than the crimson cloth on the table."Shit, I am so sorry," I mutter, burying my impossibly flushed face in my hands to slump despairing in my chair, my back rigid against the cold slab of wood as I press myself against it, suddenly all too keen to disappear from this place entirely. I groan inwardly. Why, why of all things did that have to happen? Ithuriel purses his lips in disapproval, but Fangorn flicks away my shame with a prominent flick of his finger. The bulky man makes his way over and looms beside me, placing a reassuring hand on my shoulder and giving me a couple of comforting pats. Unfortunately, it does little to ease my tensions."Well, I wouldn't actually be surprised if you were having a conversation with My Lord, he has a tendency to make himself known in an unusual variety of places. And no need to be embarrassed my child, this is Soren we are talking about, it's hardly surprising. I think he must have enough sexual prowess to make just about anyone moan,"Kal groans, covering his ears in mock disgust, wings twitching irritably."Thanks dad, we all really needed to hear that,"Fangorn gives a booming laugh as he heaves himself round to the opposite side of the room, perching himself on the edge of the table and leaning back against the half light of the candles that illuminate his well toned figure in satisfying proportions- despite the fact half of his body is draped in a thick, leathery cloak. I can certainly see the appeal to Lilyana. This man might as well have the body of a god.His eyes are that same chilling blood red of all vampires: eyes that carry a permanent, terrifying luminosity, yet simultaneously gleam with the sultry disposition that make them seem like they both want to bed you and tear out your organs at the same time. To one not experienced in such an intense look, it could truly be a terrifying combination. Across his high boned face and stark jaw line, a scar runs rigidly down his right eye, cutting a deep gash through the perfect alabaster skin- the likes of which could only have been carved out by a silver sword at the hands of a meticulous warrior. Considering Fangorn's status- or should I say ex status, as Soren's best general, the scar certainly raises some questions as to how exactly it had been acquired. An angel? A rogue sword fight? But his face is hard set into a stony disposition, eyes blank and emotionless, giving nothing away- the look of a warrior long trained to bury his emotions, if a man like him could have any, that is. It is a practised look, an excellent faade- the only notion of its unpicking is the occasional stolen glance towards the wings on Ithuriel's back, as though remembering something long, long ago, tucked deep in the half forgotten depths of the outcast's mind. Perhaps he an Soren aren't so dissimilar. Then he composes himself and leans back casually once more. And so I continue my surveillance unobserved. I imagine if I were a good enough painter, Fangorn would be an excellent subject to paint. His body is broad and extremely well kept despite living in the end, a place prior to this I had assumed no people nor veritable food sources would dwell, but looking over at the fresh flush of blood through his skin makes me do a double take on my former assessment. His hair is long, dark, brown to the point of almost being black, yet while it shares the same colour as Soren's, Fangorn does not share the same mussy, curled locks that I so dearly love. Instead his hair is spiked upwards, fluffed back past the fine daggers of his horns that stretch back past his head like that of an addax. I draw my gaze away. Something about lingering so long on such a menacing appearance does little to calm the roiling nerves of my stomach.Briefly my mind flits to wonder how the love between Lilyana and Fangorn came to be in the first place- on which battlefield must they have met? But it is a thought I cannot dwell on as a rumbling grow lurches me to awareness. "Ithuriel says you seek my aid to find the flame." Fangorn announces in his deep, gravelling voice, and I start. I jerk my head up to meet his gaze from across the table just as Ithuriel comes to take his place beside me, unusually silent and brooding- though perhaps that has something to do with the transpiration of the fact I was well, nevermind. I clear my throat."Yes, you see, we were hoping you might know something about the location of the flame, or be able to help us track it down. You see, we are running out of time and-"Fangorn holds up his hand and immediately my sentence is cut short by the sheer force of his willpower. A murmur of discomfort shifts around the room, even in Kal, who has since taken to pouring himself his third cup of tea out of sheer nervousness, an act in which I can only imagine what it does to his bowels. I find myself half surprised that he isn't not excusing himself for a toilet break every five minutes with the utter amount of tea he has downed - like a sweet tooth pixie who has got their hands on the maple syrup their mother has locked away in the drawer. But maybe dragons do not suffer from such ailments.Fangorn taps his fingers on the table, bringing our silence to his attention."Tell me, Queen Serena, say I tell you where to find the flame. Say I gave away my people secret they have held for generations, let them succumb to the angels ways-""But they aren't your people any more, they cast you out! Soren, cast you out." Ithuriel insists, rising from his seat in a vivid insistence, cracking his fist on the table hard enough to send a shock wave reverberating around the room. I spare him a glance, wide eyes and utterly surprised at the pure outrage that simmers within his usually calm voice. It is brutal, viscous, and very un-Ithuriel. Clearly something has gone on between the two of them, something that has slipped my notice.Ithuriel's outrage is met by a steely calm. "They cast me out, yes, but they are still my people. Nobody, not even the Prince of Sezeria, can take away a person's inheritance." he says, gazing down upon Ithuriel with a look that I can only place as disappointment, and scorn. Ithuriel sinks back into his seat reluctantly. "You were saying, Fangorn?" I say, returning my attention back to the towering vampire who has since brought out a hunting knife from its sheath at his belt, stained and well worn with eons of use. He runs his thumb over the blunt point, scrapping a thin line of blood from the tip of his finger, welling up upon the skin. Something prickles inside me. "If I told you how to get to the flame, what then? Do you go back to your people? Sacrifice your destiny and resume your position as Queen on a throne that is controlled by the hands of pallid, decrepit councillors who haven't bothered to see the changes in this world for the whole of their miserable lives? And what of your Soren? Are you so willing to betray him, give up your love?"Ithuriel tenses in the seat next to me, letting loose a snarl."She does not love-""Enough, Ithuriel! Let her speak!" Fangorn hisses his command, his voice cold, authoritative, the voice of a general conditioning to his knight that has spoken out of line. I gnaw on my lip. I can certainly see why Soren would choose such a domineering figure for his general- this is a man who takes no nonsense, a man who could win wars. I grip my fingers on the edge of my seat, fingers cutting in against the wood. It's hard, cold, steadying my mind against the confusion and the blood and the roaring of my untamed heart, steeling me against the screams and the white haired vision that resurfaces like a bat from a cave. I push them all out, all these thoughts, and simply think. Fangorn is asking me to admit the words I never thought I would have to voice, the forbidden truth of my situation- but it is a risk I must take. I take a long, heavy breath."If I find the flame, I will return it to the angels." I start warily, and notice Ithuriel's shoulders visibly relax a bit. Kal looks towards me, over the cup of his tea, a twinkle in his eyes as he urges me to continue with a light dip of his head, assuring me of the situation. Another breath."But," I add, ignoring the painstaking drop in Ithuriel's face, desperate to focus on something else; the flickering on the lanterns, the spread of Kal's wings, even the ponderous expression deep set expression that lines the faint wrinkles of Fangorn's face. Anything, anything other than the look of betrayal I know is to come. Anything at all. I grip my seat harder."I won't be returning to Illistrae. I know I have no heir, not currently at least. But I cannot return, not to the council, not to that tomb. I plan to give my crown to Lilyana, at least until the time comes until I have an heir willing to take up that position, or things have changed. As for Soren... I am staying with him. And I can only hope that with our mating bond, our... love, is strong enough to withstand the time when he comes to find out who I am."Fangorn nods his approval, sheathing his knife back into his belt, satisfied by my words. He wipes away the blots of blood beading on the pad of his thumb on the hem of his cloak. Beside me comes Ithuriel's incredulous stuttering, his voice catching in his throat as he chokes out the words:"What do you mean, changed?"
