Author's Notes: Originally posted elsewhere beginning January 2013. I will be posting a handful of chapters here a week until we're caught up with what's available elsewhere.
Love Like Winter 1/?
by Meredith Bronwen Mallory (garnettrees)
"Warn your warmth to turn away,
Here it's December every day.
Press your lips to the sculptures and surely you'll stay
(love like winter)
for of sugar and ice I am made..."
-'Love Like Winter' by the AFI
("Once- long ago, when all the world was green and young- there lived two little boys."
The story is told in Edie's voice, for it is she that first weaves it. As years pass, the narrative begins to fade, passing out of her firm contralto and into Charles' gentle countertenor. He and Erik are too young for work or war, but too old for stories. In the night, on the pallet just an arm's length away, Erik whispers, "Charles, the story-"
Charles is the younger of the two, and Charles is a prince, but he yields. Even if the daylight hours have been full of teasing and spats, even as his older friend blows alternately hot and cold, the little elf-boy just sighs and takes up the thread. The beginning of the story is set, recited from memory.
"Two little boys, of very different breeds. They shared not a drop of blood, but they were the best of friends-"
And so it goes.)
The battle has been raging for hours and- though he has a limited field of view from his narrow tower window- Charles fears the Elfkind bowmen are becoming overwhelmed. The enemy came in the watches of the night, and the warriors of Acidalium have been holding them off ever since. At first, the two forces seemed so evenly matched as to perpetuate the fight for years. Then, as the wraith-pale flush of dawn began to dissolve the night, the tell-tale iron storm clouds of the enemy had begun to gather. Those thunderheads banished the very idea of sunshine, blanketing the sky like a sheet of dull, battered armor. Charles knows it is noon only only thanks to the rare crystal water-clock, with its delicate tiers and dripping, concentric circles. It occupies in a place of honor amongst his root-woven bookshelves and the seemingly endless flood of herbs growing in their neat little ivory garden plots. Day or no, the snow had soon let loose like the bitterest of night blizzards, accompanied by a fierce tiger's roar of thunder that betrayed its origins. No natural storm this- not even the product simply of a talented coven. There is a powerful conjurer out there, whose hand has authored both the deep chill and the snow currently obscuring the sky-blue cloaks of the Imperial Guard. A white chaos.
The King had sent for Ororo, insisting Charles stay behind. He'd locked the door for good measure- not that such physical barriers are actually capable of holding the scholar for long. Charles frowns direly at the keyhole. For all his magic, fear of his stepfather is more than enough to keep him where he is.
He hopes the Strategic Mages aren't exhausting Ororo, giving her too many orders at once. She is still so young, and her manna so raw. If only he'd been allowed to accompany them, he could have walked her through it. Then, at least, he'd feel useful. Never mind that he and Emma have spent most of the past three days weaving white (and sometimes gray) magic into the arrows and broadswords of the Imperial Guard. They are both skilled spell-casters, the pride of Acidalium's alabaster spires, but all defensive magic has its limits. Charles has no idea where Emma is right now, but he is more than certain she's putting to use some of the more aggressive spells they learned in secret. At the time, it had seemed so audacious- they'd crouched mischievously in the forgotten alcoves of the library, alive with their little rebellion.
'Could I use them, though?' the young elf asks himself. Charles listens to the cries and sounds of war below, and shakes his head. Probably he is giving himself too much credit; when pressed, many can take a life and not think of it, no matter their intellectual or moral qualms. When your back is against the wall, as they say.
He fears he'll feel his own spine hit the marble soon enough.
'So don't let them maneuver you there to begin with,' he imagines Erik saying, voice just beginning to deepen to that of a grown man's. 'I know you always slip out of my traps.' Ah, but that was Castles, Devil's Tower, Hounds and Jackals- intellectual games, but still games in the end.
And so long ago.
(Edie sets the story, but Charles fairly sings it. That's always Erik's excuse, for surely he knows it just as well himself. Even in the softness of youth, there is something brash about the older boy. Like the sparks that fly from the metal-smith's anvil, like the shield and ploughs and swords he is learning to forge into submission. Charles is of the Court, and thus expected to cultivate more sedentary talents. A scholar, yes, and a bard. He has a ghostwood dulcimer, and a little bronze pick Erik made himself.
"These two lived in the same city; they shared their toys, and their studies, and their play. In the dark forest to the north, they learned all the secret paths and little hiding spots together. They were more quiet amongst the thrush than the stealthiest of deer."
Erik and Charles live in Chryse Planitia- there are no forests here. In the great capital of the North, there are rolling grasslands, endless marshy rivers where they explore and play. They are experts of the reeds, silent and quick.
"One day, the two boys decided the play hide and seek in the forest...")
The Dark Lord's forces seem tireless, clad in vibranium armor supposedly the gift of Loki himself, and armed with wards so unspeakable it hardly bears thinking about. Looking down at the mass of combatants, the black banners flying in defiance of the snow, the tattered blue seal of his own house still held aloft, it strikes the elf prince afresh just how powerful the enemy has become. It has come to this- Acidalium, once the tiered garden-tower of Elvish academics and members of the lower court, now the final stronghold for their kind. They have been arrogant, and they have been foolish, and now here is the price. Though only a halfling, Charles is able to acknowledge the flaws of Elfkind, just has he is able to see the nobility of his lineage. They have hobbled themselves, letting fear of breaking convention and a horror of change render them defenseless against the Dark Lord's tide. Now his magic outpaces theirs, having evolved in ways their petty traditions could never have allowed for.
That's the problem with magic, dark and light. The delineation is a human one, and therefore extremely flawed. Never the less, it has been universally adopted. The Elves- and other beings of higher spheres- have lived with the Sons of Man too long, seduced by 'either/or'. As a scholar of the esoteric and the obscure, Charles knows there's really not that much difference between supposed 'white' and 'black' spells. One can start out with the best of intentions and end up enacting evil spell craft. There's a subconscious element to all casting, and a quality that stems from the soul. Manna- magical energy- comes from ones indestructible inner being (though what one called it can be argued, as many do). Since the Parting of the Spheres, or what Man called 'The Fall', no creature is truly pure.
Charles leaps lightly from his perch near the high, narrow window- begins pacing the floor. He loathes this inaction, the sense that there is more he could be doing to protect his colleagues and students. Kurt will not permit it, though. These days, the Elvish King looks at Charles with an eye even more suspicious than he did in the boy's childhood. Lady Sharon, too, expresses some unease in his company, though she is still bright and prone to distraction, as all faey are. It was the Dark Lord, they both said; it was rumored that he sought mages to bolster his already incredible power. Charles could be used against his own people, if he 'fell into the wrong hands'.
'Falling,' he thinks morosely. His arms come around his own thin torso in a short of self-hug- it allows him to reach back and itch and the healing flesh of his shoulder blades, as well. If he leapt from the window now, he would fall, not fly. He'd land in one piece, certainly, though wind-magic is not one of his most polished skills. Briefly, he traces a hand over his quarterstaff, propped innocuously against his writing desk. Pole fighting is made for close-quarters combat; Charles is not suited for the sword, but he is lithe, quick on his feet, and deadly accurate.
'Aye,' Kurt had agreed with him snidely, nodding in a manner that mocked wisdom. 'And the moment you let loose with a spell, the Dark Lord would snatch you up. Eat you- G-d knows he'd not even have to chew, you're such a scrap.'
(As the years pass, the differences between them become more difficult to ignore. Charles' studies become ever more complex and time-consuming. Erik is apprenticed, his hands rough from work, ever more aware of the soot and grim that doesn't always wash away. Old enough to be aware of the looks, the narrow gazes down noses, that pure blood elves give him when he goes to see his friend. The way they whisper about Charles and his small, folded faey wings- as if they can get away with it. As if no one can hear them behind their fine, smooth hands.
"You're like a little doll!" he says to Charles once, half sneering. There is something intense about his gaze, about the way he looms close, even as he laughs. "I bet even in the moonlight, you'd burn.")
The young academic forces his breathing to even, idly casting his eyes over his workspace. The many quartz-bottles full of colored ink shine in the firelight, their gem tones echoed in the drying manuscripts he's been illuminating. So much for that, and for his lengthy treatise on inner focus. It has long pleased students of the magical crafts to over-simplify, creating a set of rules and ritual to avoid serious self-examination. He'd hoped to present his argument to the Council, persuade them that some of the sorcerer's tactics must be changed. Then word had come that the Dark Lord's forces where advancing through the plateau of Leng, where even most seasoned warlocks feared to tread, cutting their travel time in half. The Elves had, once again, been caught off guard.
The 'gray' magic he and Emma used- in the few short days they had to prepare- is frowned upon, but thankfully subtle and difficult for the lay being to detect. To do this, they wrought wards and spells not only to engender victory, alacrity and valor, but imbued also with their fierce affection for those they'd known who had already fallen. It is not _quite_ a desire for revenge, but it is close enough that it would give their teachers pause. Emma thinks of her older brother as she works. Tall, ash-blond as she, talented with both lyre and javelin. He fell years ago, when Shaw first so treacherously breached the kingdom's boarders.
(Erik doesn't say 'I'm sorry'- he never does. Not even when he pushes Charles into the pool on the pavilion, even when he teases Raven so mercilessly about her crush that she doesn't talk to either of them for days.
He comes to throw pebbles against the lattice of Charles' window. The elf-prince lingers in the shadowy curtains, where he has been pretending not to wait.
"Come out," the smithy's apprentice beckons. The Chrysian night is still- summer-warm, and thick with inarticulate promises.
"I can't," Charles sniffs in exaggerated disdain. "The moonlight might burn me."
But he opens the window anyway.)
Charles weaves for Erik, always; would do so even if no one needed weapons grade spells. Twenty years is the length of a life for many unfortunate humans- especially soldiering ones- and almost nothing to an Elf. Still, Charles is very young, not past his first century, and it seems to him that these past two decades have been very long, indeed. Doubtless, the gangly rough-yet-comely halfling looks nothing like he did when Charles knew him, but it's hard to picture anything else. Erik was astonishingly handsome, even as a boy. Grey-green eyes like the arctic seas off Kadaath, which Charles has only read about. Face angular but pleasing, down to the strong, determined jaw. Erik's beauty came from his mother, transmuted in his own features to a sort of masculine loveliness. The stone mason- Jakob Lehnsherr- had been human, but his wife was a creature of higher spheres. An angel, humans had said, for they were vague and easily confused.
Now, seemingly trapped in the thick adrenaline between moments, Charles forces himself to sit. His hands lay quite naturally on his knees, palms up, as he tries to clear his mind. He can cast wards, at least, from here. He begins the structure of the spell, envisioning the boy he knew- best friend, antagonist, brother in all but blood- and leaves it at that. The rest doesn't really bear thinking about. Yet his own mind is unruly, and he is heartsore with fear.
(How was he to know those still summer nights were numbered? Erik climbs into the bedchamber, moving restlessly amongst the books and brushes and inks. There were days he seemed alive with inner-lightning, unable to be still. He'd gotten funny about being touched, or sitting on Charles' bed.
Yet there he is, and he is still the prince's best and most-loved friend. Charles is patient. Careful and soothing, the way he has seen with wild horses. Finally, Erik sits on the floor.
"Tell it," he says.)
"I _can't_," Charles says aloud, presently. He is alone, shunted aside- there is no one to hear him speaking to his memories. The story changed over the years, shifted like quicksilver; the boys got lost in the woods and had an adventure, or they outwitted ogres. They found hidden treasure, or discovered an enchanted princess and went on a quest. He doesn't remember how Edie originally told it, and he himself had woven it so many different ways. What does it matter? It couldn't charge the bare and chilling truth.
Twenty years. Two human decades, since Shaw decided he was no longer content with his occasional raids on the rich lands of Jord. Ever a leader of particular convictions, he had declared that Sons of Adam should not mingle with the more supernatural breeds, and he held forth his sword to author this decree. Out of the cold desert wastes of Nod he swept, a terrible, pitiless sandstorm. He burned villages, slaughtered all that breathed a word of defiance, conscripting every young man of more than twelve summers. He'd driven the Elves back, too- away from the capital of Chyrse Planitia, and back to the more ancient holdings in Syrtis and Acidalium. How enraged Kurt had been, snarling at the indignity of retreat. He had sent the Court away, ahead of the advancing army, loudly insisting it was only a precaution.
Charles' last memory of Erik is a view from the carriage as it bore him away from his friend.
It's hard to hold that image in his mind's eye, regardless of the power it possesses. It is still clear as silver etching in crystal, even after all this time, and that hurts. The slump of the older boy's shoulders, the fit of his protective dragon-hide tunic. Erik had been silent as he watched them leave, one hand fisted around the pendant Charles had given him, the other clutching a sword. Not even a true weapon, but one of Jackob Lehnsherr's copper chisels that Erik had magicked into a saber's blade. He was good at that, wickedly coaxing metals to his will, but he'd still looked so skinny and lost. Fourteen, yes, but no where near the age for war.
Whether Shaw conscripted them or not, his war forced many young men and women to take up arms. Strife and chaos came to Jord, disturbing the delicate peace between the other worldly kingdoms, and that of Man. Co-existence had always been tenuous, but Shaw's purity rhetoric had burdened tolerance past the point of breaking. The humans countered with their own definition of the 'True Form', denouncing halfings, shapeshifters, and all practitioners of magic as the spawn of hell. They withdrew to their own fortresses, each with its own dogmatic set of rituals and prohibitions, which they characterized as the 'word of G-d'. Even the humans outside such cloisters, taking refuge instead in Acidalium and other Evlish strongholds, seethed with night-deep resentment. Why shouldn't they, when Kurt taxed them for his protection, demanding they acknowledge their 'betters'? It seemed the warlord of Nod- formerly the land of exile- could sift age-old grudges out of still water, by word as well as sword.
("Don't be afraid," Erik tells him, one of those final evenings. They are too young to be aware of the true scope of the danger, but too old to remain oblivious. It is an in-between time, like the green and somehow pained growth of new trees. For the first time in a long while, Erik takes Charles' hands in his own. "I'll protect you."
"You'll do no such thing!" the prince scolds, alarmed. "You can come with me- with the Court- Shaw isn't invincible... when it's safe, we'll come back." Even as he says it, part of him knows its a lie.
The older boy shakes his head. "The Elf Court will not abide my mother or I among them. Charles, they barely tolerate _you_." For once, he isn't saying it to be cruel. For all Charles strives to see the good in everyone he meets, he is very painfully aware that- prince or no- he is 'other'. The Elves can be as slavish about 'purity' as Shaw.
"I know." He tries to look down, but Erik won't let him. The taller boy pulls him into a rough, close hug.
"They don't matter, anyway.")
Shaw was mad from the beginning, or so the wagging tongues of Elvish Court intoned. He wanted to breed armies that came to their magic naturally, instead of through skill and years of study. He despised the Sons of Adam for their weakness, and the Elves for their high-minded dedication to three-fold rule.
Shaw, the Lord of Carnage, they called him. Shaw, the Silver Death; for he was ever so fond of cutting into his enemies, to expose quivering organic clockwork and see what made them tick. It was far better to die on the battlefield, one more cord of wood in a seemingly endless fire, then to be taken alive. It seemed they were doomed to contain the conflagration only, never quite able to exhaust the flames.
'Oh, but then!'Charles thinks, biting his lip brutally. He keeps weaving, head down, though he can hear the Master of the Guard's horn sounding, signaling their forces to retreat and protect the keep. A moment later, the whole ziggurat trembles- a blast from a cannon, reinforced with a coating of strong rage-magic.
That... that is something new.
How it had shocked the placid Elvish council, word of the enemy's new tactics. Wedding magic to technology was blasphemous, and wholly out of keeping with Shaw's ideology. It was all that was talked of. After all, the last time they'd had something appalling to discuss had been Charles' own birth. The Heir of the House of Xavier, a halfling! That what woman, that faey, not content with her conquest of the Duke. When he died, Lady Sharon- an artist with the delicate threads of power- began endearing herself to the king.
They called her the 'Fairy Whore'.
And worse.
The change came suddenly, five years ago- and it turned the tide of the war. Charles' twenty-first year, that had been, just old enough to take an acolyte's orders and choose his magical specialty. The rumors from the front lines became so wild they could hardly be credited. Survivors whispered of a Dark Lord, a man with no face save the shadow beneath his helmet. It was said he forged weapons of deadly accuracy, and led his soldiers into battle without fear. This warrior, it was said, believed the Elves in possession of some great and precious treasure, and he would take it at all costs. Some insisted this creature and Shaw were one and the same; that the Lord of Carnage had finally delved into magic's so hideous they warped his physical being. Certainly, there was reason to believe this, for Shaw himself was seen no more.
'Except that doesn't quite make sense.' With a sigh, Charles ties off the end of the ward. He raises the fingers of his right hand to his temple, concentrating on a burst of magical energy. It is a tell- one his teachers have long been at pains to correct- but no one is here to see it now.
With the ease of long practice, the scholar deftly climbs to the ledge of his high tower window once more. If the impact from the cannon is visible from here, he will lay the ward against it, and perhaps buy Acidalium a bit more precious time. One glance at the Dark Lord's armies easily argues against the theory of Shaw. Even now, they are covering en masse, storming the four cardinal gates of the city, trampling the blue robes of the fallen Royal Guard. They are goblins and dwarves, every combination of human and sylph and nymph and gnome imaginable. Most of the artillery men appear to be the get of satyrs, notorious for rutting with human maids. Outcasts, all of them- never fully one thing or the other. Caught in a gulf, they are strangers to their own selves, as Erik had been.
"_Is_," Charles corrects viciously, aloud. For years, he has placed faith in the power of words, as if he can somehow protect his old friend by keeping him in the present tense. So many have been lost- Gabrielle, felled by another archer's aim; Bobby, cut in two while still upon his horse; Moira, whose city was captured but a year ago. It is whispered in the Court that it is a kindness to hope her safely dead. Raven, who remained in Chryse all those years ago. She was a shape-shifter, and even her pretty blond elfin form was not welcome amongst the noble Elves.
Erik... foolishly, Charles clings to hope, however faint. Not a scar, but a raw open wound. Pulsing, still bleeding freely in defiance of time. Now, selfishly, the prince wonders if perhaps he will be blessed to find his wish not granted. It is almost certain the scholar will die today, all magikal skill and martial training aside. Perhaps Erik will be there to greet him in the Afterlife, on the shores of the land Elves call Para'Dys. The bountiful land Edie sang of as Gan-Eden.
(No matter how the story went, the end was always the same. The two boys- those youthful heroes who were each other's yin and yang- acquitted themselves bravely. They slew dragons, righted wrongs. They returned treasure to the rightful owners, and land to the peoples that had toiled over it so. If they came to rule a kingdom, they did it justly, with honor in their every deed.
And they did it together.)
Wryly, Charles smiles a little at his own foolishness. Then, not giving himself time to think, he gathers up the ward and scrambles back up to his lone, narrow window. With years of practiced grace, he filters the perception in the air around him. It is not so much a concealing spell as it is a shift away, directing the eye elsewhere. 'Don't look here, it's not important.' Sure enough, he is able to perch on the narrow buttress, crane his neck as he tries to absurd the chaos of battle down below.
Acidalium's wards are badly damaged, and many of the enemy's ice arrows are flying true. He can't get a good look at the damage from the cannon blast from here, but he can see the tattered, web-like framework of many smaller holes nearby. It looks almost as if acid has eaten through the magic. A moment later, he can very clearly see why. There is a Faey woman- from the Dark Court, by the look of her tattoos- hovering to the southeast. Her wings are moving so quickly they can scarcely be seen, and she is spitting eldritch green bits of spell work from between pouty lips. Below her, two shifter demons are anxiously watching, waiting for a breach just big enough to teleport through. The blue one is young and too jittery, but the red one is strong, fully grown. He manages long pauses between appearances, materializing with little to no effort.
Biting his lip, Charles casts about for any sign of his own forces. The main of the fighting is actually over to the west, which is probably why so much of the Dark Faey's damage has gone undetected. Breaking concealment, he throws up the newly-made ward in his hand, melding it seamlessly with the city's shields. That definitely gets their attention. The faey woman screeches into the wind, peppering her green blasts harder and with more frequency. She's riding the warm air currents. Distantly, Charles can feel Ororo summoning a cold blast to knock her down, but its too diffuse. Balancing precariously on one palm, Charles sends a cold gust of his own. Wind is not his element, but Ororo's magic recognizes a friend in his own, giving the draft just enough strength to send their enemy swooping downward. She manages to land anyway, but must do so amidst the squad of ogres battering the gate. Most of her projectiles land on her own people, but a few snag on Charles' repaired ward.
The blue demon flickers in and out. He still can't get through.
The red one...
The red one disappears, and does not come back.
Charles' heart is in his throat, so pounding and swollen that he does not at first realize he's translated thought into action. Swinging down from the parapet, he nimbly alights on another ledge, slipping his lithe form through yet another narrow window. He's never jumped from such a height, and his astonished bark of laughter echoes loudly in the empty stairwell. At least this way, he doesn't have to worry about wasting time disarming Kurt's locks. In that same instant, he sobers, drawing in lungfuls of cold air as he summons his quarterstaff. Aparating objects is much easier than summoning living forms through the ether, especially something as personal as a weapon. Charles carved his staff himself, of the strongest ghostwood. The adamantium grips should glow if the demon is near, but he's not going to rely on that. He's never had the chance to test it, after all.
The red one is here, in this almost-empty wing of the citadel, where he can run riot and compromise the catacombs Kurt had sealed shut months ago. It's so hideously simple, and Charles quietly berates himself. For all his much-vaunted call for new strategy, he had failed to really consider how damning even a single teleporter could be. He can't bring a whole army in with him, but he might not need to. Charles will have to find him- and kill him- before the creature can bring any scouting intelligence to the Dark Lord. There is no treasure here but, clearly, the Dark Lord doesn't know that, or refuses to believe it. Just wraith-thick coatings of dust and cobwebs, fading mosaics and great marble pillars depicting former glories.
Even the sound of his bare feet on stone steps seems hideously loud to Charles' ears, never mind the light rustle of his tunic. He can sense that the wards were reached, but has no feeling for where the demon may be within the compromised sanctuary. He should be able to sense the foreign manna, the magical will of one harboring ill intent... but there's nothing. Down one flight, and then another- pausing, closing his eyes now and again to extend his empathic senses. Surely the demon didn't teleport in and out that fast? Perhaps, the scholar considers frantically, it only meant to smuggle in some technological terror, a thing of fire and gunpowder that could be left to wreck havoc on its own.
No, no. There is a sound, like the clang of a sword or some other metal one has attempted to lay aside quietly. Marshalling his will, Charles tracks discreetly down the forgotten corridor. Perhaps this demon teleporter is a disciple of the Old Ones, with magic so strong and subtle even the dedicated young scholar cannot detect it. His form is frozen utterly still, awaiting any new noise as he contemplates this terrible prospect, when he hears it:
"Charles!"
Every rib in his chest must vibrate with the strength of his heart, but the prince does not move. It is not a voice he recognizes, though the urgency is implicit in the whisper. Is the demon empathically inclined as well? He is moving quickly, ensuring he maintains cover, when he feels a strong hand pluck him up from behind. Whirling quickly, he uses his quarterstaff to balance his weight, cracking against the offender's wrist as the collar of his own tunic rips loudly. He lands in a crouch, surprised when there are not more blows to follow immediately. Instead, a sort of stillness overtakes the hall, as if there other dare not move.
It is no demon that meets Charles' gaze as he straightens from his embattled position. It is a man- a human man, from a glance. Tall, rugged, clad in the dragon-hide typically worn underneath armor. There's a sword- sheathed- at his side, and many a delicate throwing knife strapped to his boots, but he is oddly vulnerable. No helmet, no vibranium chest-plate or gauntlets. The other is so still that Charles could almost believe him one of Acidalium's many beautiful statues, if not for the living color trapped in the flush of his cheeks.
"Charles," says the intruder again. The prince straightens his shoulders, transferring the grip of his own weapon into both hands. He does not relax his stance, even as he searches for some clue to the stranger's identity.
"I am he," the Xavier heir says carefully. The human man is tall, and he spreads his strong arms wide in a gesture universally meant to indicate he is not armed. Gray green eyes, the color of some powerful storm, gaze fixedly into the scholar's own. He says nothing, briefly reaching out a hand, before snatching it back as though he's afraid he'll be burned. In spite of himself, Charles takes a step closer, if only for better inspection. The solider bears no mark, no brand on his clothing or skin, to indicate allegiance- the dragon hide is deep maroon, patched in places with more common bit of violet scale. Underneath, the stranger wears a simple, dirty cloth shirt- only the collar of it is visible, and it parts to reveal an odd ornament.
"Charles," he says again, and the prince begins to wonder if the figure is some illusion, cast with only a few words and a shimmering form to lead him astray. Except no conjured shade could have gripped him so, nor could it produce the battle-sweat rolling down against the pendant the figure wears. It's a delicate little thing, twined in a vague suggestion of wings, with an empty circle indicating there was once a jewel set within. It...
Blue gaze flickering up, Charles finds himself taking in that visage once more. An edge of startled wonder creeps along his spine, finally relaxing his combat-ready stance. He feels transfixed, as one scrying for the future over a deep well. Then, as suddenly as the star-burst of a match, something in those features begins to make sense. Memory casts a ghostly shadow over the present form, revealing a face he knows.
"...Erik?"
There are strong arms around him, warm and unyielding, but somehow filled with care. He hears a deep voice whispering- mostly his name, and something almost subvocal, lyrical and beyond human speech. Charles feels a brief prickle of alarm, but it is quickly lost as the taller form swings him 'round in an enthusiastic embrace. The prince's bare feet no longer touch the floor- firm, dry kisses are being pressed into his hair.
The weight of the realization makes his knees weak. "My god, Erik!"
The quarterstaff clatters numbly to the ground.
Notes/Glossary:
Jord- from Norwegian, 'Earth'.
Land of Nod- from Genesis, supposedly the land 'east of Eden', where Cain was sent after he murdered his younger brother.
Acidalium- from Greek mythology. The fountain where Venus and the Graces bathed.
Leng- from Lovecraft. A terrible continent lost in the Flood.
Kadaath- from Lovecraft. A forbidden region- thought to be in the Antarctic- in the cold wastes, home to something even star-spawn fear.
Chryse Planitia- Greek, 'golden plain'. Also an area on Mars, to the north, where one of the Viking landers took photos.
Gan Eden- Hebrew. The Garden of Eden, or an allusion to Heaven. ... yeah, I know I'm weird. It's way too late to do anything about it. ^_~