Chapter Text
The Open sign on the door has disappeared. The window remains open, but the bowl of berries and seeds Deceit has become used to snacking on over the last century are nowhere in sight. A peek inside reveals more questions than answers, with it’s toppled furniture and spilled potions; a waste, really. Several weeks worth of work had been smashed upon the walls and floor, and the glass had yet to be cleaned up, despite the lingering tell of magic in the air.
Troubling.
Deceit releases a loud ‘caw’ and receives only an echo in return.
Hm. This does not bode well for the Masters preference towards the healer. Perhaps a replacement will be needed?
The spirit decides to do a quick survey of the area for the woman, in case a replacement will not be required after all.
It circles the house a few times before flying off, seeking any sign of her it can find. About half a mile East of the house, it spies a plainly dressed woman dangling her legs into a slow moving river, her emotions bundled tightly to herself.
‘Ah’, it thinks. ‘That is likely her.’
Deceit makes a soft landing nearby, floating into the fade to avoid detection.
She does not look as she normally does, it thinks.
Her left eye is red rimmed and swollen from an overabundance of tears, Sylaise’s vallaslin warped oddly over the patchy skin. Her arms are bruised still, but there appears to be a new layer on top of the lingering ones she normally sports under her coats and she has scrapes on her knees that are still bleeding, slowly.
As it approaches her, it notices her other eye has turned a dark shade of purple, and is more swollen than the first, and that she is sporting a necklace of bruises to match. Her emotions are being clutched into herself, as though she is frightened to allow them to breathe and Deceit briefly wonders if its partner might not be better suited to this particular task.
Something has gone wrong.
Her usual smile has vanished and she stares into the river numbly; Deceit is reminded briefly of Contemplation, and wonders if it has perhaps taken its own interest in the woman, however he sees no such spirit near her.
The ones it does see are….concerning, given its Masters own interest in the woman.
Still, it was tasked with keeping an eye on her and reporting back, and it will carry out its orders.
Deceit steps back through the dreaming and caws softly, craning its neck up at her. She startles, her hand shooting up to her chest and clutching at her shirt. Telling.
Her body language relaxes, marginally, when she sees Deceit, and she plasters her smile back onto her face, but it is not so simple to hide from the spirit. Still, it will allow her what little armors she has for herself. She will likely need them.
“Hello little bird. What are you doing out here?”
Deceit gives her a quiet caw, and steps closer, nudging lightly at her hand.
“Ah, I’m afraid I don’t have any food on me. My apologies. You will need to find someone else to feed you now, I think.”
Deceit tilts its head further, and nudges at her hand again.
Selene rubs two fingers gently down its neck and lets out a sigh. A wave of regret and loss pour out of her, before she reigns them in again.
“I have been replaced, little bird. The Lady has deemed to open up a clinic close to my own home. It is good, for the people. They will have access to a wider range of healing capabilities, there will be a whole team of healers to look after them, with access to much better resources than I could have offered.” she pauses “Still, selfish of me, I suppose. To wish I could have kept my own open. I have no other skills to offer our Lady, and I am not properly skilled enough to be employed in the new clinic.” she rubs gently at the marks on her neck, and winces “That has been made abundantly clear.”
Deceit thinks to itself, wondering at assisting without making itself known. It flies off, and takes note of the loneliness that sparks from her when it goes before returning with a branch of berries.
It places them down, and nudges them towards her.
She blinks, looking first at the berries, and then at Deceit. She carefully removes one from the branch and holds it out towards Deceit, but it pushes her hand back towards her. She makes a quiet ‘ah’ sound, and eats the berry herself. She offers the next to the raven, who takes it readily, and so it goes until the berries have disappeared.
Her cloud looks better now, it thinks. Less tangled up and more docile. Perhaps she has made a decision on something?
“Can you keep a secret, little bird?”
‘Oh yes’ Deceit thinks ‘but you may not like where I do so,’ but it only caws quietly at her.
“I am going to run away. There is nothing for me here now, and if I return it is likely they will come back for me, and I will not have the opportunity to run again. Surely there has to be someplace else out there in need of a healer, even a lowly one like myself, right?” She turns and looks up at the sky before continuing “I don’t suppose you would know of someplace I would be welcome would you?”
Deceit ponders for a moment.
“Perhaps” it responds.
Selene turns. Stares. And Screams.
~
Deceit waits patiently for the woman to stop screaming.
It takes some time. She scrambles backwards, and her alarm is very palpable. It looks almost painful as it twists her expression, in amidst the bruises on her face.
“Y-you… you are an elf?!” the woman finally manages to demand, once she has finished screaming, and put more distance between them.
Deceit considers this. It is and it is not, which is true of many things. Right now it is a raven, but it is also not a raven, and never has been. It is itself, and it is someone else, too. It is the truth - because it must know truth to disguise it - but the essence of it is a lie.
This does not seem like it would be a useful response at the moment, however.
Through the bond, it contemplates the facets of this matter, consulting with the Great Aspect, and with Fear, in the simplistic passing of senses and images and basic thoughts and emotions. The Great Aspect is not pleased by the woman’s treatment. This displeasure filters through into Deceit, and after a few moments, a decision is made.
Deceit flaps its wings, and the air shifts, and the shape of it changes. A black-feathered cloak falls from its shoulders, as the simplistic form of the raven grows long, and the feathers on its head turn to dark locks of hair, and the outline of an elf clad in dark layers overtakes it.
The woman is afraid.
Deceit extends a bony, narrow hand towards her.
“I will not harm you,” it says. This is not a lie.
The woman stares, and does not accept the hand; though she does not refuse it, either. She seems caught by indecision. Deceit is patient, however. It waits, as she stares, and swallows, and remains curled defensively inward. Her eyes flit all over the form it has taken.
“You are unmarked,” she notes at last, in a quiet voice. “Are you Nameless?”
It shakes its head.
“I am named Deceit,” it tells her.
The response provokes more fear, and shock. The woman makes a sound that is possibly a laugh, but does not carry humour, nor relief. She is attempting to find some front she can wear. Some further defence that she can wrap around herself, but her efforts are failing.
“You… you mean Lord Dirthamen’s Deceit?” she finally manages to ask. She is trembling, now. “You have been deceiving me this… well, no, of course you have. But why? Because - because I danced with him once?”
Deceit inclines its head.
It does not always comprehend the aims of the Great Aspect; and yet, by the same token, it can never fail to. Such aims are Deceit’s own, and yet Deceit itself is not separate enough to comprehend every nuance, or see the scope of every motivation. The woman is warm and good, has does nothing to merit punishment, and is… worthy of concern, even if Deceit does not entirely understand why, in particular, it matters, when she is not even one of their responsibilities. But Daughter has been changing their perception of responsibility; and the Great Aspect is always the first to grasp these changes.
“You should take my hand,” Deceit recommends. “Your prospects are not good here. They will be better, if you accept.”
The woman wavers, and is very afraid. Fear would almost certainly do better, here, but it would never have been able to disguise itself well enough for this task. After a moment, though, the woman’s fear of one unknown danger proves greater than her fear of another, and she reaches out and takes their hand.
Deceit helps her to her feet. It pulls the feathered cloak from its shoulders, and wraps it around her own, and lifts the hood above her head. They feathers cast her bruised face in shadow.
“Close your eyes,” it advises.
A tear slides down her cheek, but she does as asked.
Deceit raises its hands and closes them, and the light flashes, and magic streaks through itself from all corners. The feathered cloak wraps around the woman, and carries her through the Dreaming. Along the currents that run between Deceit and the Great Aspect, until she is safely delivered into his presence.
It is a tiring endeavour.
Deceit wavers, when it is done. It takes a moment, and draws strength from the Dreaming. One of the congregated spirits offers a fragment of power, and it accepts, repaying it with a secret. The exchange is enough to bolster its form again. It lets the image shift, until it takes on the appearance of the woman. Matching detail for detail, right down to the necklace of bruises and the red-rimmed eyes.
Then Deceit waits by the river.
Time passes. It listens to the currents of the Dreaming, and the rush of the river water, and the whispers of the natural spirits that congregate around. The sun is low by the time someone comes; an elf in Sylaise’s vallaslin, hard-faced and calling out. Deceit stays by the river until they are much nearer.
“Have you been out here all day?” the elf snaps. “There are still duties to tend to, even if your healing skills are no longer required. You were told to come and accept an evaluation from…”
The elf’s rant trails off as Deceit stands, and glances back only once, before flinging itself into the river.
The water rushes up to greet it.
It is painful, at first. Cold and violent, as its form is smashed against passing rocks, until at last it slips beneath the current and into the Dreaming instead. There the river is warm, and its passage is energising, rather then distressing. The last remnants of the shape it had adopted are twisted away from it, as it tumbles down and down. Until at last the river twists down into the tangle of other dreams, and Deceit bursts from it, spreading black raven wings.
It soars towards tumultuous skies, and is quite pleased with the trick it has played.
~
She is not quite sure where she has been sent. Everything is hazy and her head is swimming in sensations she can’t quite put her finger on. Perhaps accepting help from a Deceit spirit wasn’t her smartest idea, but it’s not like things could get much worse for her.
Right?
…this was a bad idea.
Things begin to clarify for her, slowly.
There is a man standing before her, but she can’t quite seem to distinguish any features. After a moment she realizes why; he is wearing a mask.
Oh.
Of course. She really shouldn’t have expected anything less, she supposes.
She hastily moves into a bow, more than aware that there is a very high chance that she has been whisked off here to be used for some secret-evil-Evanuris sacrifice…thing. Sure, that sounds right.
Then again, sending someone to spy on her for a century seems a bit excessive if she’s just going to be killed anyways. Maybe there’s something else at play here?
Does he do this regularly? She really should have paid more attention to world politics, she’s not actually sure of his usual actions. He’s the one with the daughter, right? The new one. Maybe she’s going to be given to his daughter as some sort of sacrificial present? Twisted, but not unheard of. Maybe he is having a fight with Lady Sylaise, so he wanted to steal something that couldn’t be traced back to him?
She realizes she has yet to actually speak, and that he is simply staring at her (Probably? Are his eyes actually where the holes for them are?) and that she is still in the cloak. What’s the protocol here? Should she take the cloak off and hand it to him? Or a servant? Or should she give it back to Deceit directly? She doesn’t seem to see the Spirit anywhere when she glances around, so she pointedly keeps her gaze directed at the ground.
“My Lord Dirthamen. I apologize for the intrusion, I did not mean to take advantage of your…” she pauses, trying to think of an adequate term before giving up with “hospitality.”
He nods, and she wonders if she is supposed to continue. ‘May as well, it’s not like my chances of surviving the day are particularly high anyways,’
“It seems your spirit of Deceit has been visiting me regularly over the last century and…no, you already know that, of course you do, I apologize my Lord. Recently I was…no, that’s just another excuse, and probably something you already know as well. I am sorry, my Lord. I-I don’t know what I am doing h-here.” She hears him take a step towards her and it takes her a moment to realize the world isn’t shaking in his wake but that she is, she is shaking and she is crying and she is scared and she feels so useless, she has always been useless and just wasting time and now she is going to die and no one will mourn her or miss her and-
The hood is pulled back, and there is a finger under her chin. She is fairly certain her eyes are still leaking and ruining his gloves and she will likely be punished for that as well as whatever else she is here to atone for. Did she offend him, when they danced? No, he said he had enjoyed it, surely he wouldn’t have done so if she had done something incorrectly then. He mentioned wanting to dance again. Should she have…followed up? Written him a letter perhaps? No, that…he can’t really have expected her to get a letter sent to him directly, it would never have been allowed.
“Are you in pain?” she hears him rumble, more than speak. It is mildly off-putting, but she thinks he is trying to be…gentle? She feels more than sees his eyes on her face and she slowly shakes her head.
“No more than is bearable, my Lord.”
She can’t actually see his mouth, but she gets the impression that if she could he would be frowning. His cloud is tinged with…concern.
What? That can’t be right.
She feels his mana start to run over her, and she flinches when it touches her eye and neck, and immediately begins to apologize before he moves his hand to place a finger over her mouth.
“You do not need to apologize. You are safe here.”
She levels her gaze at him and speaks before she can stop herself “Forgive me if I find that difficult to believe, given that you have been spying on me for a century.”
Oh no. That was not the time for her backbone to take over.
Ohhhhh, he’s definitely going to kill her now.
Goodbye life. No uthenera for her, just eternal torture. Torn apart by spirits in the dreaming perhaps? Turned into a conscious statue maybe? Nothing good, she’s sure.
But he just tilts his head curiously at her “You are upset with the actions We have chosen?”
She remains silent, fighting back her adrenaline before it gets her into any more trouble. What can she even say to him? That she is upset he chose to carry on a lie to her for a century? That she is upset that she was sent through the dreaming without rhyme or reason? That she is upset her lot in life means that she is just supposed to accept that her only options are to choose between which people in power she is the most afraid of, or that she should thank him from freeing her from one fate only to surely tie her into servitude himself?
“No, my Lord Dirthamen,” she says instead.
Disapproval radiates off of him, but as she pushes down her own surge of emotions she is too tired, too worn to care. “You will be afforded a room here, until a suitable place for you can be found. We will discuss what skills you would like to pursue when you wake.”
“I am not-” she manages, before she is suddenly overtaken with a disturbingly comfortable peace of mind, and slips into the dreaming.
‘We will be discussing that as well’ she mumbles to herself, as she begins her explorations.
~
Selene is afraid of him.
Dirthamen is accustomed to being feared. He is powerful and, he has gathered, often difficult for others to anticipate. This makes him seem unpredictable, which is a beneficial quality in many ways; but is not reassuring. He is not surprised by Selene’s fear.
Her spark of anger gives him pause, however.
He thinks on it, as he sends her off into the Dreaming. It will be easier for her, if she can rest, and be healed, and then wake to consider matters anew. Or at least, he assumes it will be. That is what he has observed in other cases. Though there are exceptions, too, of course. There is a chance she will be angry; and he finds himself intrigued by the prospect.
Her denial is frustrating, though. He does not care to be lied to. But she is afraid; the fearful lie to protect themselves. He keeps this in mind, as he catches her before she can collapse. For a moment he examines her features. Then he shifts her over to one arm, and lifts his hand; and it is the work of a moment, to take Sylaise’s writing from her face.
Her bare features look very… clear, even with some of the discolouration of her bruises still lingering. It seems almost a shame, to rewrite his own vallaslin across such a canvas. But he does, because without that, she will not fare well at all.
Then he carries her with him out of his study, and into the corridor beyond.
The sentry on duty blinks at them, and surprise rises up around them before it is swiftly quelled.
“My lord,” they say, simply.
Dirthamen hands Selene to them. Still wrapped in Deceit’s cloak.
“Take her - with care - to the Healing Halls,” he instructs. “Have them repair her injuries. Then send Sanehn to me.” Sanehn can see to the preparation of chambers and suitable accommodations, he thinks. She is talented at organising the care of his people, and has risen admirably to fill up many of the spaces left blank by his daughter’s ascension.
The sentry complies with a bow, and sweeps off with Selene. Dirthamen watches them go a moment, before returning to his study. Deceit is well-pleased over its recent exploits, and is whirling through the Dreaming. Fear is wary of this turn of events; but that is only to be expected.
Still, he is somewhat surprised when Deceit makes an inquiry after Selene, and a request. After a moment, though, he simply acquiesces; and the raven wings through dreams to find Selene’s own wandering consciousness. He observes through Deceit’s eyes, for a moment, as it greets Selene, and she responds still with fear and wariness and hesitance. But then his attention is called to the Waking world again by a knock on his door, as Sanehn arrives.
In the midst of making arrangements for Selene, he becomes aware of a bolt of shock. It distracts him, a moment, and he tilts his head, as Deceit sends him the answer - the shock is not its own, but what it has picked up from Selene. In the Dreaming, his newest subject has discovered the change to her reflection; the writing that has been rewritten. Her feelings over it seem to be strong, but not clear. The greatest one is, again, fear; and resignation, but also, inexplicably, frustration.
Deceit does not know why, either.
It asks her. But she gives only yet more denials, in return.
Dirthamen frowns. His daughter knows more, on the sensitivities of markings. Perhaps Fear can be sent to ask for her advice. This is a strange move for him, he knows. He has been negotiating with Selene over this subject for some time, but his sister had proven more eager to redirect his attention, than to seize the opportunity presented by his existing interests. She had been set upon winning him over to favouring her Melarue; as if Dirthamen had suddenly opened a doorway within himself to carnality in general, and not one individual in particular.
“Shall I leave you to confer with yourself, my lord?” Sanehn asks, after a long moment of silence on his part.
“Yes, please,” he says. “If any issues with the arrangements are raised, let me know.”
With a nod, she withdraws.
Dirthamen makes his won decision, simultaneously, and sends Fear to find Mana’Din. His daughter is not asleep; the raven passes through to the Waking, and Dirthamen’s awareness of it dims, by necessity. In the Dreaming, Deceit reclaims its feathered cloak from Selene, and its plumage grows as the magical weight of it is renewed in its form.
Why are you doing this? Selene asks. What is to become of me?
You are Dirthamen’s, now, Deceit offers, simply. In its own perception, a concept of kinship rises up. This is something it has in common with Selene.
But Selene does not seem comforted.
~
Selene wakes up feeling, well, better than she has in a long time to be honest. Her joints and muscles don’t ache for the first time in decades, and she thinks she could probably just lay in this bed forever and be completely fine with it.
“That would be a waste.” she hears from the chair beside her bed.
She sighs, one hand flopping over her eyes.
“Good morning to you too, Deceit.”
The spirit inclines its head, and waits as Selene turns and gets out of bed. She lets out a quiet groan as she stretches briefly, and wanders around the room. It’s much nicer than her home was, well decorated with several large windows. Everything is neat, and in its place without a spec of dirt or dust anywhere.
She opens the closet, and her breath catches. It is filled with silks, and satins, and magic woven into cloth and she runs her hands gently down the patterns as she turns to Deceit. “I cannot wear these.”
“You can here. Measures have been taken.” the spirit nods “Wear what you like.”
Selene turns back to the closet, chewing on her lower lip nervously. She peruses through the options, and chooses one of the plainer pieces-a sleeveless black dress with silver embroidery and a high collar. Nice enough to not offend, but not nearly so opulent as to draw attention, she hopes.
She begins to undress when she sees Deceit still sitting in the chair, and still looking like an elf.
“Er, do you think you could…”
“I have seen you change before, there is nothing to hide.”
“Yes, but you were a bird then.”
“I was as conscious of things then as I am now.”
“Is that supposed to reassure me?”
Deceit drums its fingers on the arm of the chair, but closes its eyes. She is still a bit uncomfortable, but changes quickly until she realizes it is supposed to button up the back. Embarrassed, she asks Deceit for its assistance.
“May I open my eyes for this task?” it teases.
“Oh, don’t be an ass. I think I liked you more when you couldn’t talk.”
“Would you prefer I did not speak around you then?”
“No, that’s not what I…” she sighs “Sorry. Thank you. I was just trying to do a bit of friendly teasing.”
Deceit pauses and finishes the final button.
“Is that how you see me?”
“Hm?”
“You said friendly. Is that how you see me?”
“Well, yeah. I mean, lying is a terrible basis for a friendship, so I would appreciate if you were honest with me, moving forward, but I would consider you a friend, certainly.”
Deceit tilts its head at her, and she tries not to giggle at how reminiscent it is of their Raven form “I do not know if that would be possible.”
Selene hm’s to herself thoughtfully “You could lie about me, rather than to me. I don’t really have a name to protect anymore, and my existence here is in itself a deception, so it wouldn’t really be so much of a stretch, right?”
Deceit considers her offer for a few moments “I will make an attempt. Will you be repaying me with the same then?”
“What, tell you the truth?” she shrugs and nods “I will make an attempt,” she recites back to him, mimicking his serious tone.
She stops when she catches her reflection in the mirror. Her face is repaired but…different. Well, probably not actually different, aside from the markings. She runs her fingers lightly down the silver writing, and is weirdly grateful for the change in color-the light pink that had been in style when she got her markings reminded her more of a branding than anything else. Still, she feels strangely disconnected from the face looking back at her, and it makes the pit of her stomach clench as the playful mood evaporates into one of frustration.
“They are not so awful,” Deceit states “And they will keep you hidden.”
Selene scoffs “Sure, I’m sure there are entire armies on the search for a dead lower-class healer. Can’t have anyone recognizing me.”
“You are still upset?”
“Is that really so strange?”
Deceit stares at her “I have seen you give kindness to those who have hurt you repeatedly, but We save you from a situation you were unhappy with, give you shelter and clothing and safety, and are treated with scorn?”
Selene pauses, and considers “…You are right. I am grateful, for your help. But it does not mean I have to be grateful for his.”
“We are not as separate as you seem to believe. He has done nothing to harm you, and nothing to earn your anger. You have lied to him, repeatedly, through omissions and denials. Perhaps it is you and I that are alike, and We have misjudged you, then?”
“What was I supposed to do? Tell him the truth? I have experienced firsthand what happens when you tell someone who is above you something they do not wish to hear. I am tired of being told that when someone makes their own decisions about what to do to my body, I should say ‘thank you sir, may I have another’. I have sworn no fealty, I have made no oath. You tell me he is interested in me, but he does not know me. It seems to me as though He saw a pretty face at a dance, and decided that I was something for him to possess, and my face marks his claim more clearly than any bruise ever could. When he bores of me, I will be tossed aside like a used doll and he will move on to the next creature to catch his eye, because that is how the system is designed to work. So tell me, Deceit, precisely which part of this situation am I supposed to find flattering?”
The spirit is taken slightly aback by her rage, unsure of how to respond to this situation, and so it relays it back to the Great Aspect for guidance. He is also unsure of how to proceed, and commands the Spirit to bring Selene to the study, in hopes of getting things sorted.
“We should go.” Deceit says
Selene relents and follows him out.
~
Fear is still consulting with Mana’Din, when Deceit brings Selene back to his study, after relaying the contents of their more recent interaction.
Dirthamen is still uncertain of how to approach her anger, distress, and obfuscation; though Fear is illuminating several things with Mana’Din. His daughter does not know Selene, and apparently this is an impediment to her own assessment of the situation. But she has taken a step into the Dreaming to consult, now, and is offering a variety of possibilities.
“In the simplest terms, if she has been mistreated, then she will be afraid of being mistreated again. If she has felt helpless, then she will be afraid of feeling helpless again. You must make your intentions clear, but even then, she might not trust them. Do not punish her mistrust. The purpose of it is not to insult you, it is to protect her. Even if it seems insulting.”
Fear understands this, and it is good that Mana’Din is explaining things in terms it can readily comprehend, because that makes it very easy for the sentiments to pass through to himself in turn.
Deceit is in elven form, again, when it escorts Selene back to him. Dirthamen gives it a moment, and then bids it return to the Dreaming. There are other matters it can attend to, for now.
Selene’s nervousness increases at Deceit’s withdrawal, however.
He ponders this.
“Do you like birds?” he asks.
Selene blinks, and opens her mouth. And then closes it again, and fixes her gaze firmly onto the floor in front of her.
“Of course, my Lord,” she says, quietly. It is a… simplistic answer, and seems to presume some anticipation on his part, but he does not think it is necessarily untrue, either. Fear relays it to Mana’Din, and Dirthamen perceives an instance of her running a hand down her face.
“She is probably tying herself into knots trying to guess at your motives,” his daughter opines. “Tell her plainly what you expect, and try to make her more comfortable.”
“Would you like to sit down?” Dirthamen offers. The silvery fall of the dress she is wearing suits her, and he is surprised to find himself sparing a moment to admire the change which a better style of dress affords her. She looks very tall, in it. But that is neither here nor there, he supposes.
“No, thank you, my Lord,” Selene replies, and remains stiffly on her feet.
Dirthamen does not press the matter. If she is more comfortable standing, then that is what is relevant.
Tell her plainly what you expect.
That is a surprisingly difficult prospect, he finds, as the silence stretches on between them. In no small part because… he is not certain what he expects. These actions are unlike him. There is a boldness in the moves he has chosen, a risk he would have, just centuries ago, considered to be not worth taking. The last time he made such moves, he adopted a child. But perhaps that has influenced the shift in his perspective. Despite the consequences, he cannot regret any part of that decision.
In that case, it may be best to simply start with what he does not plan.
“I have no intention of harming you,” he tells her. “Not now, nor in the near future. Should my presence prove unpalatable to you, then you will be given suitable accommodations elsewhere in my territory. Or my daughter’s territory, if that would be to your preference. I am not as skilled at handling these matters as she is. I will make no demands upon your body. You are my subject now, which means that I am responsible for your well-being. Among other things. If you break the laws of this territory, you will be punished, as any other person would be punished. But that is the extent of the danger you might face. You are under no obligation to like me.”
Selene looks up. Her emotions are difficult to read, and her expression is equally challenging to interpret. But he thinks suspicion is written throughout her countenance, to some degree.
“Then why am I here? Why have you been spying on me?” she asks, at last; before lowering her gaze again.
Dirthamen tilts his head, and considers.
“I find you compelling,” he says.
The answer makes her flinch, for some reason. Her hands flex, and she glances at him again, before staying precisely where she is. Dirthamen considers, again, and then makes a decision; he calls back Fear, and thanks his daughter. The raven arcs through the Dreaming, but it takes time to make its way back to him, even so. Across borders and past barriers, through secret paths that it has forged along with Deceit, over the years.
“I do not suppose I can stop you from doing whatever you feel compelled to,” Selene finally says, rigid as a board.
“No,” he confirms. “You cannot. But I am not ruled by compulsion.” Not in most cases, at least. But she had taken Deceit’s hand. She had accepted the offer, and so even now, he thinks, he is not so far gone.
“So, what? I am supposed to just…” she begins, and then bites her tongue. “Forgive me, my Lord. You are, of course, very virtuous.”
That would be a pleasant and uncommon compliment, he thinks, if she was sincere in it.
“You may speak plainly, if you would prefer,” he offers.
“And die?” Selene asks, with a bitter laugh that she swallows, as she pales again. Her limbs shake, slightly. Dirthamen thinks he would like it much better if she would talk to him as she had before, when they had first met at Sylaise’s ball. When she had thought him only some other elf in attendance, and not the leader of a territory.
Fear arrives, then.
As the raven breaks through the Dreaming, Selene flinches, and braces herself. Fear takes up a post over the doorway, and observes her keenly.
She is terrified, it confirms.
What of? Dirthamen wonders.
Hmm, Fear says, and after a moment, whirls down towards the floor. It is not nearly so adept at changing its form as Deceit, of course. But it can manage the shift. Its wings flurry, and a shadowy, elven toe touches the floor, rather than a raven’s talons. Fear’s body is spindly, and dark, all disjointed limbs and sharp, unearthly features. The hollows of its eyes are deep, and they glint like embers. Selene’s eyes are wide as it reaches for her, and grasps her by the wrist, and then the chin.
Fear locks her gaze to its own.
Dirthamen considers stopping the encounter, though. Selene is very pale, and he can feel her alarm quite clearly, for all her lack of voiced objections.
It only lasts a moment, though, before Fear lets her go.
“We will not do that,” it tells her; its voice a whispery echo of his own.
Then it snaps back to a more comfortable shape, and wings its way up to another perch in the higher reaches of the room.
She is afraid we will break her, Fear clarifies. In the many ways a person can be broken. She is afraid of suffering what she has suffered before, but also of losing herself. There are many layers to it.
They contemplate this matter together, for a time. But there does not seem to be a clear resolution to it, yet. Patience and observation would probably be best. Dirthamen is surprised by his own impulse to have Selene’s discomfort banished at once. He supposes it stems from that same desire in him, to have her speak to him easily again. She cannot do that if she is convinced he may reprimand her for it. But his own assurances have fallen flat.
Time may be the only hope of easing her distress.
“You may have a month,” Dirthamen informs her. “Spend it how you wish. You may familiarise yourself with the rest of my people. You may pursue your interests. Your rank and role of the moment are Attendant to me, but your duties will only be to yourself, for now. This should afford you the freedom to commission tutors, if you should desire, or request and assistance you might need.”
Selene swallows.
“And when the month is over?”’ she asks, quietly. Her head remains bowed.
“Then we will speak again,” Dirthamen decides. By that time she may be calmer, and have requests regarding her own path, and will, perhaps, speak to him more easily.
Or she will cement her dislike for him.
Either outcome will provide a clearer way forward, though.
~
Time seems to move very slowly, at the beginning of the month.
She spends the first week looking for ways to escape.
She treads old paths that seem untraveled and searches for gaps in the dreaming, but each time she thinks she has found an exit, Deceit or Fear are on the other side, waiting.
She much prefers when it is Deceit.
She begins to wander the buildings in the second week. She finds a library that she enjoys (and a second library she is repeatedly shooed away from), as well as the gardens where she offers to help when they need it.
She is told to speak to Sanehn if she needs help with anything, who seems nice enough, but she tries not to bother her too often. Mostly Selene asks to be shown where she can retrieve food items and materials for her rooms from, in case she is ever in need of anything.
When Sanehn informs her that she can simply ask someone else to get things for her due to her rank, Selenes stomach twists and she excuses herself to try and find their location on her own.
Finding things on her own here turns out to be a terrible idea.
She nearly falls into a gaping, moaning, chasm behind an (unlocked, she swears) door, before Deceit flies her out and gives her a stern lecture.
Right. Ask before opening strange doors. Got it.
The third week is spent trying out various venues of study. She tries a variety of fighting skills, and discovers that she is terrible with all form of weapons. The swords seem to swing her around more than she does them, she cannot notch an arrow to save her life, knives keep slipping from her grasp, and she has whapped herself in the head with the staff enough times please put it away, thank you.
The magic lessons are nice though. She quite likes the meditation, something she never really had time for before, but she realizes it is also an easy way to lose track of time when she accidentally loses an entire day teetering on the edge of the dreaming.
The fourth week she tries to focus more on the written arts, as she panics trying to find a suitable place for herself in this domain. She quite likes the older mathematical theories in some of the rarer tomes, and eagerly devours their contents. She takes a variety of the books, along with papers and quills to a large empty room with high ceilings she discovered in her second week that seems to be empty most of the time. The ceiling is made up of a large glass dome, and she can see the sky through it when she looks up.
After several hours of staring at letters and numbers that seemed to have trouble staying on the page (she’s not sure if it’s an enchantment to keep her from reading it, or just a troublesome spirit playing pranks) she lets out a loud “UGH” and flops onto her back in the middle of the floor.
The sound echoes around her, and after such a long time surrounded by silence (Seriously, why do so many of these people never speak? Is there some sort of ‘don’t get attached to the new girl she’s just a temp’ rule floating around? Probably) it’s a massive relief just to hear something. She experiments with the acoustics of the room briefly, sounding out her consonants and sounds and just making strange noises in general.
Once she bores of that, she stands, brushes herself off, moves to the side of the room farthest from the door, closes her eyes and imagines a stage beneath her feet. She starts quietly, humming out a tune her mother used to sing when she was younger and still welcomed by her family.
Once she feels comfortable she has found the right key, she adds words, and emphasis in the appropriate places as she sings. It has been a long time since she sang outside of a few quiet bars for her younger or more panicked clients, so her voice cracks on a few of the higher notes, but she pushes through it, determined to get to the end of the song.
She feels comfortable, and safe for the first time and as though things might manage to turn out alright for her. No one has harmed her, or attempted to, her needs have been more than met, and Lord Dirthamen seems to actually be well received by his servants.
As the song swells and she prepares for the climax, she opens her eyes and spies Fear sitting on the dome above her.
She immediately stops, clutching the too-fine fabric at her sides tightly, still too familiar with the last time Fear came close to her.
When it doesn’t fly off, she gathers up the books and papers she had brought with her, and heads back towards her rooms instead.
At least she can pretend to have a moment of privacy there.
~
As Selene finds herself in the month’s grace she has been given, Dirthamen is visited by his daughter.
Mana’Din is Lavellan, is his child, and he is happy to have her visit. Though raising her took only a small percentage of his life, in practice, there are still days when he finds himself expecting to find her within the walls of his palace. To hear tiny footfalls trailing after his own, or to look towards a certain corner of his study and see her ensconced there.
She is a balm to the wound of his absent brother. The silence that still clings to parts of his soul feels less distant, when she walks up to him and puts her arms around him. Rests her forehead against his own.
Mask to mask.
“Tell me about this matter. This woman you have found,” she asks him.
Selene is in the libraries, attempting to explore a passageway which contains an infinite loop. She has realized the trap, but has not asked Fear for help in escaping it yet. There is no danger, though. And Dirthamen hopes she will find whatever she is seeking enough to satisfy her, before she becomes unduly distressed.
He draws his daughter into his parlour, and begins to explain. As best he can.
“There was a party,” he says. “She spoke to me. I do not think she knew who I was. She has been mistreated, and I asked her to dance. I had thought the attention might afford her some advantage with Sylaise. But Sylaise has only become convinced that I possess more generic weaknesses than particular interests.”
Mana’Din taps the side of her mask.
“An uncommon error,” she muses. “And now you have… stolen this woman from her?”
“Yes,” Dirthamen confirms. “Her mistreatment had grown excessive. Deceit was watching it. We offered her a way out, and she accepted. But. She has been… unhappy with this resolution. She claims Deceit as her friend, but distrusts me. I have given her a grace period, to adjust, but she dislikes… many things. She is difficult to anticipate.”
Mana’Din ponders this for a moment.
“And you wish to anticipate her?” she surmises. “You are not content to simply let things happen as they will, or to stand back and observe what she will choose to do, for good or ill?”
Dirthamen frowns.
“I am not,” he confirms.
“You like her,” Mana’Din suggests.
“Yes,” he allows. “Deceit has shown me much of her.”
“But Deceit - both kinds - have been the only proxy by which she has known you,” his daughter points out. “As your servant, she is utterly at your mercy. She lacks true choice. You could take her life upon a whim, and even though I know you would not - that you value people - that doesn’t erase your power over her. Any interaction between you is layered by this dynamic. She cannot safely go against you, and you cannot suppose that any choice she makes towards you is freely given.”
This is true, though Dirthamen once again wonders at his child’s capacity to value freedom and autonomy. He does not know if he has rightly met any free being in all of the universe. Even a Spirit of Freedom is bound by the limitations of form and environment. But choice is important, and the restrictions that their expectations place upon it have only become more clear to him, over the years.
His mother’s empire is great in its faults.
“What do you want from this?” Mana’Din asks him.
What does he want? His eye falls to Selene, and he thinks of his brother’s absence. He thinks of friends he never earned, in the days when those he might have approached as an equal were still plentiful.
He is lonely, he knows. His daughter is often gone, and his mother feels far from him, and his brother is sealed away.
“I wish for her to speak to me as she did, at Sylaise’s festivities, before she knew who I was,” Dirthamen at last admits.
Mana’Din nods.
“You want her to know who you are, but still talk to you easily,” she surmises.
“Yes,” he agrees.
“This will take time,” hie daughter tells him. “It is not impossible. But if you would have her be comfortable in speaking to you, then you must earn that trust. And you must speak to her often. You must let her say her piece without consequence, even if she insults you. You will always have power over her, but, if you want this, then you must not use it. Let her make her own choices, and her own mistakes. Even then, what you want might not happen for a very long time, if it ever does.”
It is something worth longing for, Dirthamen decides. Perhaps, in some ways, it is something he has already longed for across thousands of years of living.
“When her month is up, if she wishes to leave, I can take her,” Mana’Din offers.
“I do not like that idea,” he admits.
His daughter smiles, a little.
“No. But there are worse ones, and I will tell her a lot of embarrassing stories about you,” she offers. “That is bound to help reduce her fear.”
This is true. Mana’Din does seem capable of defeating his reputation, at least, for small periods of time. Many of his higher-ranking servants are much freer in how they approach him, since she came. And even his lower-ranking ones do not drop so readily to the ground when he makes his way past them, now.
Dirthamen sets the matter aside for further consideration. His daughter will help, he knows, but she will also uphold her responsibilities to anyone in her territories. Including Selene. That is reassuring in its way, though her lands are still far too dangerous.
“What of you?” he asks. “Are you still employing rebel assassins at your council table?”
“No one on my council is foolish enough to assassinate me,” she replies.
Their conversation turns, then, and runs over a number of topics before her visit must finally come to an end.
Dirthamen meditates upon his daughter’s assessments, and his own desires, and the nature of the world, and the thought of Selene, for a long while afterwards. For days, in fact. He drifts through the Dreaming, and consults with the spirits he finds there. Many offer assistance, but after consideration, he turns them down.
It is singing that draws him up from his contemplation at last. Singing that come from Fear, but of course, it is not Fear doing it. An echo of Selene dances through the fragments of the dream he is, like a ghostly shade. Singing and moving, beautiful and fragile before the image is lost.
It makes DIrthamen think. The first time they met, it was a party. They danced.
The night before Selene’s month is up, then, he conjures a dream. Vaulted ceilings and elegant floors in an approximation of Selene’s palace chambers. He does not know if it is correct to their first meeting; there have been so many balls, so many festivals, so many dances over the centuries that his impressions of them tend to bleed together. But the chamber he creates is filled with music and dancers, nevertheless.
He wears a dark, starlit suit, and stands in the midst of the dance floor. And waits, for Selene to dream.
Some spirits come. Drawn in by the shaping of his dance hall, and the ringing of the music. They take forms, and drift across the floor. Some dance themselves. After a time, the light turns radiant, and Dirthamen stills as he feels the telltale edges of a spirit he has not sensed in… a very long time.
One he had not thought he would meet again, in truth.
Glory.
It is there and gone but a moment later; and yet the dream becomes more resplendent than he ever could have made it, by its passing. Almost indistinguishable from the most opulent of his sister’s celebrations, and yet, there is a shine to the lights, a subtlety to the shadows, that speaks of his own predilections.
When Selene arrives, a spirit of Desire first sweeps her onto the dance floor.
She is dressed in moonlit silk, and her eyes are wide as she takes in the chamber.
“Is this… a dream?” she wonders, and her doubt is understandable.
“Yes,” Dirthamen confirms.
She turns to face him, and stills in surprise.
He offers her a bow.
“Forgive me. It was comfortable to speak to you in this setting, once. I had hoped it might be, again.”
~
Oh.
This is why it seemed familiar, she thinks.
He is wearing the same suit, and it makes something catch in her throat.
He is very handsome, even if she cannot see his face, she thinks again.
He bows, and she panics. She should be bowing, or curtseying, or kneeling maybe? She gets caught doing a strange mix of the three and ends up feeling more awkward than before. Disappointment briefly shoots out of Dirthamen before disappearing.
“I am sorry, my lord. I did not think to learn the proper greetings during my month. I will attempt to rectify my mistake, before we meet tomorrow.” she pauses, and considers the situation “…are we still meeting tomorrow? Or is this…it?”
Dirthamen is silent for a moment before he answers “I would like this to not be ‘it’. But it is your decision.” he holds a hand out. “Will you dance with me?”
Selene hesitates. She thinks of the past month, and the things that she has seen. The way she has been treated. She thinks of Deceit, and of Fear. She thinks back to the night they met.
And she chooses to take his hand.
He steps towards her, moving into a casual waltz. Music swells around them, though she has difficulty pinpointing the source, as she follows Dirthamens lead.
“How have you spent your month?”
“Is this the part where I pretend you haven’t been watching my every move?” She questions aloud, before flinching “I’m sorry my Lord, I just-”
“No. That was fine. I prefer when you speak candidly. You are correct, We have been keeping an eye on you, to keep you out of trouble.”
“Yes, I gathered as much when Deceit saved me from falling to my death in that chasm. Thank you, I suppose.”
“I am merely glad you were unharmed.”he hesitates a moment “I would appreciate if you did not attempt such dangerous excursions alone, however.”
Selene laughs, at that.
Dirthamen is pleased with the sound.
“I will do my best, my lord.”
The song ends, and flows effortlessly into the next, as the dance continues.
“Have you decided what you would like to do here?” he inquires as she spins out and back into his arms, falling easily back into the steps and the mood from the party.
“Mm, not quite. I have…” she bites her lip nervously, and almost misses her step “I made a list. I wasn’t sure what you actually have a need for here, so I listed out a few options based on what I think I might prefer, and ranked them accordingly. I was going to discuss them with you tomorrow, but if you would rather do this here, I will do my best to recall the information for you.”
“That will not be necessary. We will still meet tomorrow, in my study.” he ponders her, and the change in her demeanor from what he has seen through Their eyes. “You seem happier here.”
Selene missteps, and Dirthamen effortlessly corrects her with an arm wrapped around her waist pulling her closer.
“Do I?” she gulps, desperately reminding herself of their stations and propriety and trying to focus on anything other than his arm nestled securely around her in a way she does not seem to find unpleasant in the least.
“Yes. Although whether it is the location or the scenario eludes me still.”
“Apologies, my Lord Dirthamen.” she says, trying again to remind herself of who, precisely, he is. They seem to have stopped dancing, and are now standing in the middle of an opulent ballroom, with very little room between them.
Dirthamen takes note of her supposed discomfort, but attributes it to the wrong element and takes a step back, releasing her.
“Apologies are not needed. Thank you, for gracing me with a dance once more. I hope it will not be our last.” he places another kiss to her hand through his mask, and vanishes, leaving her alone with the ballroom.
Desire, who had been watching from across the floor groans and runs a hand down its face.
Selene tries to regain her wits before waking up to start the day. It is a more difficult battle than she would care to admit.
~
Longing and Desire are not, come to it, very far apart on the spectrum of things.
And the spirits still recall Dirthamen as Longing, at times, though he has moved further away from the simplicity of that nature since he acquired his daughter. But the primary difference, Desire knows, is that longing is somewhat more… resigned, by inclination.
The ballroom dream lingers even after its intended occupants have left it. Long enough that, as it drifts further from its nearness to the Waking world, Glory returns. Desire whirls around the dance floor, and finds itself caught at once in bright, gleaming arms. Vast and gentle, at once, as they they sweep Desire up in a moment of whirling grace.
The shape of Glory is not quite suited to the ballroom; not quite a dancer, as it spreads too far to take up anything less than the whole of the scene. But for a moment, part of it is small enough for even Desire to hold.
The warmth of it suffuses Desire so thoroughly that even once the dream does dissolve, and Glory is gone again, they feel alight with their own purpose. They flit through to the Waking, and find another of the evening’s dancers still making her way through her morning breakfast; eating alone, and obviously plagued by contradicting wishes.
“Safe,” Desire muses. “But also, free. Unrestricted, but, not exposed. You wanted to keep dancing with him, and speak to him more. But your steps stopped.”
Selene glances up at her, blinking and startled, at first; but then her countenance relaxes. Spirits do not seem to disquiet her the way that other elves sometimes do.
Desire knows. Sometimes elves take the costs of their own desires at the expense of others.
“Does it matter what I want?” Selene wonders. “Dirthamen… any of the Leaders of the People can take what they wish. If one of them wants something from me, then, the matter is already decided.”
Desire is quiet. It thinks of Glory, and of all the things that might endanger it. Even the greatest of spirits can fall prey to the machinations of those in the Waking world. Wants can conflict; and power is often the deciding factor in whose are realised.
But.
“What Dirthamen desires is companionship, freely given. To take that by force would be the undoing of his own wish. One cannot achieve their desires by undermining them, unless they are willing to change the shape of them.”
Selene stares a moment, clearly a bit taken aback. She blinks.
“Are you telling me he is lonely?” she wonders.
Desire waves.
“I do not know,” it admits. “I know what he wishes. I am only telling you this much because desires should be achieved. If you are going to seize yours, you must decide upon them. To do that, you must know what might truly be achieved, and what might be illusions cast around you.”
“Desires can change,” Selene says.
“And power might shift,” Desire reasons. “But today, you have desires, and the power to reach for them. If tomorrow, you might not, does that not mean you should seize the day?”
As the woman is contemplating this remark, then, the spirit flits off once more. It traverses through several more halls; visits other elves. It sits in quiet with Sanehn, who desires easy, unspoken company; and sings for Halvarel, who wishes for the songs of days gone by. Or, rather, the days gone by; Desire could only craft those in a sleeping dream, however.
It makes its way up and up to where Deceit lingers in the rafters of a library, resting its plumage from a recent endeavour in the Dreaming.
Deceit’s desires are Dirthamen’s.
But… not entirely.
“I could hide her,” the raven reasons. “Even from him. I could make her a cloak that would hide her so thoroughly, she could walk the streets of Arlathan itself and none would remark upon her. None would know, save I, and then only if I looked for her.”
It does not know if it desires this, though. So Desire leaves it, and carries on, and then drifts away.
Back to Glory.
Back to the brightness of its own wants.