Title: Mine

Author: Personification of Fluff

Rating: T

Disclaimer: This is the result of me rereading a BJT book for what has got to be the billionth time and finally taking some advice and writing a piece of fan fiction for it. Do I own it? Not in the slightest. Am I making money off of it? I wish. Is the BJT an indulgence for me and writing a fan fic for it is the only way I can get some the addiction out, like a reader's AA meeting? You betcha.

Summary: Hopefully a selection of short stories about different aspects of the BJT realm: Protocol, nature of Warlord Princes, castest, blood and landen relations, etc. The first one is about Saetan and Sylvia, because it kills me that Saetan doesn't get a happy ending, and he's probably my favorite character. He needs a giant hug.

Mine

Part 1: Guardians

For Emily.

Daemon was four when he was beaten up by an older boy. At four, he didn't have the strength or muscle—or the skill with Craft—to be able to defend himself. When Daemon dragged himself home after the fight, Manny had taken care of the split lip and had given him that night's steak to put over his blackened eye.

When Saetan found out what had happened, his anger was fierce and sudden. A pillow in his study exploded into singed ash before he could put a leash on his anger. "Why wasn't I informed immediately when he came home?" he demanded in sepulchral voice of barely contained range. He knew he couldn't find the boy that had hurt his son and return the favour, but oh, how he wanted to!

Manny was shaken. Her fear left a sour taste in his mouth. She wasn't the first woman that had stood in fear before him, and it always killed him a little to know she wouldn't be the last. Everything has a price, he reminded himself. The cost of being the only Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince in the history of the Realms was that there would be others who were in fear of him… but he damn well wished that it wouldn't be the people who worked for him, the people with whom he had to interact on a daily basis.

"He's ashamed. He didn't want me to tell you, because he's ashamed. He thinks he should have done better."

"He was beaten up by a boy almost twice his age! There was no way he could have done better!"

"Your son doesn't feel that way."

Saetan nodded and went to go and talk to his son. The first thing he did was scoop the boy up in his arms. It pained his heart when he heard Daemon beginning to sniffle, like he was afraid that his father was going to go and take him outside for a spanking… or something worse. Instead, Saetan carried him up the stairs and into his bedroom, and then put Daemon into Saeten's own bed.

Daemon looked up at him with wide yellow eyes. There were the same color as his father's, but without the knife-sharp edge to them. Saetan wished his son would never need to become that deadly, but it was futile. He was a Warlord Prince. It was in his nature that he would learn to rise to the killing edge. Saetan's job was to ensure that when Daemon was old enough to find himself on the killing fields, he would know enough to survive.

"You're not mad at me?" he sniffled.

Saetan's lips remained pressed into a stern frown, but he settled beside Daemon on the bed after tucking the thick comforter firmly around his son after using Craft to vanish his dirty, grass-stained clothes.

"I'm mad that you got into a fight that you had no hope of possibly winning. You need to learn how to pick and choose your battles. When you are an adult, if you pick a fight with an opponent that eclipses your power, you ought to be prepared to die for making the mistake."

His son's eyes widened. Then he looked confused. "You would have won."

"No, I wouldn't have. Not if it was the same odds." He paused. "What made you decide to fight him, anyway?" Was his son beginning to turn into a Warlord Prince earlier than Saetan had expected?

"He made fun of Lucivar! He called him a bastard, and a half-breed, and fu…"

"I get the idea," Saetan soothingly, before Daemon could recite every name the boy had called Lucivar. Daemon leaned into his father's hand, letting the Black Widow stroke his dark hair.

Daemon's small little body nuzzled up against the long length of Saetan's torso, and he wished he could stay this way forever. He would be proud of the man his son would one day become, but he cherished this time now, when his son still needed his father's psychic scent to feel safe.

"If that's what he was calling Lucivar, I think that you had the right idea trying to beat him up. Maybe we need to just need to teach you how to fight." His son's eyes lit up. "But not today." Saetan called in his glasses and a book, amused at the way Daemon warred between being excited at story time, and wanting to curl up and take a nap as he listened to his father's voice echo in his belly. "Today, I think we need a story to take your mind off of the black eye and sore jaw you'll have tomorrow morning. Now, which one shall we read?"

"Both?" Daemon asked with hope.

Saetan's lips twitched into the faintest hint of a smile. "Yes… yes, I think we might just have time for both."


Saetan SaDiablo, the Steward of the Dark Court, assistant historian of the Keep, and High Lord of Hell awoke with the setting of the sun and gasped from the strength of his dreams. He blinked, clearing the sleep—or the semblance of the sleep Guardians require while the sun is up—from his eyes. For a moment, he could feel his son's four-year old body pressed against his torso again, eyes shining gold with hope.

Memories… All that Saetan had left were the memories. He smiled faintly when he recalled that wasn't true. There was Witch, there was Daemonar, there were still his sons… But sometimes, it was getting hard to make it to the next day. Oh, the Keep kept him busy enough, but he lived for the times when his sons came to visit, when his grandchildren came to visit, when Gray and Cassidy came to visit, when Karla visited him, when Surreal visited…

He lived for those visits, and when the visitors left, he felt empty. Oh, there would be amusement, too. Days later he would still find himself chuckling over Jaenelle's latest explosion, or the trouble that Daemonar was causing in town as he began to challenge his father, and he would spend hours tending to the plants Cassidy and Gray sent him to keep his personal rooms from forgetting that earth was more than just the mountain which was his home.

But deep down, he was saddened. He didn't want to just hear an account of how Marian had sent Lucifar down to fetch an overly intoxicated Daemonar from the Tavern, only to have both of them come staggering home together, piss drunk.

He wanted to have been there himself.

*Saetan? Are you awake?* The message come from a male-to-male thread. Geoffrey.

*I just woke up. Is something the matter?* There had been nothing urgent in Geoffrey's psychic tone, but Saetan wondered why he would be needed so soon after he had just woken up.

*Nothing urgent. The High Lord of Hell is needed at his leisure.*

Saetan frowned and began to dress himself. If the High Lord was needed, then it was close enough to an emergency. In his haste to get dressed, he put his pants on backwards before he realized they were going on the wrong way. "Mother Night," he hissed, beginning again. To ease himself, he began pestering Geoffrey for more information. Was it one of the children? Were they okay? If the High Lord was needed now, then how long would it before the Executioner would be needed? *Is it one of the children?*

*No. Really, Seatan, take your time. She's not going anywhere, and the message says that she's being well taken care of."

*She?*

*Protocol, Seatan.*

The not-too-subtle reminder gave him room to breathe. This was not an emergency. It was not going to be one of the children waiting for him. The person would be shown courtesy, be provided food and drink if they needed it, and thus would give him time to ready himself, physically and mentally, for whatever would be needed. He didn't have to rush getting ready, and he could prepare himself for the battlefield ahead.

Seatan headed for the bath.


After his shower, the transition from the Keep's historian to the High Lord of Hell was almost instantaneous and fluid. He had been the High Lord even when he walked among the living fifty thousand years ago. It was ingrained into him, a part of his very nature—the nature of the black jewel that he wore.

It felt good being in Hell again. His old study brought back memories of when Jaenelle had been a little girl and had come visiting. Of his sons playing chess on the board in the corner while he taught the daughter of his soul craft. Of Andulvar Yaslana. Of plants suspiciously dying from the overpowered healing draughts they had dumped into the pots, and of Winsol gifts brightly wrapped awaiting Jaenelle's approval.

The woman waiting for him brought back a flood of memories as well. He took one look at that face framed by dark grey hair and the twinkle held back in those eyes.

Mine.

Sylvia, the Queen of Halaway. Well, the old Queen of Halaway. He had been at her funeral last week.

For a moment he felt confusion, and then his eyes narrowed to mask the feeling of betrayal. He knew what she was. She hadn't made the transition to demon-dead. No, she was a Guardian, like him. It meant that, like Cassandra, she had lied to him. Centuries ago, the Black-Jeweled witch Cassandra had made Saetan think she had died a natural death, and had let him continue thinking that until the appearance of Jaenelle had caused their paths to cross again and he learned she had become a Guardian.

Judging from the way Sylvia looked hurt, she knew what he had been thinking. Sylvia had never been a fan of Cassandra, and he suddenly wondered if perhaps Saetan's tenuous relationship with the red-headed witch hadn't had something to do with it. The knowledge that her feelings were offended made him angrier. He had a right to be angry, damn it.

The casket was slowly being lowered into the ground. Saetan hated why he had to be there, but he was glad that the sky was overcast, or else he doubted that he would have been able to attend the funeral. He looked around. Jaenelle looked apologetic and polite. If she was going to cry or break down over Sylvia's death, she would mourn with Daemon. Daemon, of course, was stoic. He hadn't known Sylvia as well as Saetan had, but he'd always admired her for the spunkiness she shared with Jaenelle.

Sylvia's children and grandchildren looked the worst. Her oldest grandson looked to him hopefully. He saw the question in his eyes. Has my mother made the transition to demon-dead?

Saetan lowered his head. If she had, he would have known, and she hadn't. She must have gone on to rejoin the darkness. All that was left of Sylvia in the world was in the closed casket being lowered into the ground. With that knowledge, he felt his heart sinking again.

Sylvia had been his. Jaenelle was his too, the Queen of Ebon Askavi, but that relationship was different. She was the daughter of his soul. His job serving was to guide her, to help her bear the weight of the mountain of Ebon Askavi. Sylvia had belonged him in a different way.

He had loved her.

He had loved her for being a good queen, for being a good mother, for the way she would encourage Jaenelle subtly. For the way doing the latter would step on his toes. For the arguments they would have about what was considered proper attire for a young Queen. For the way she dealt with the Coven. For the way she made him smile.

For the way she trusted him. For the way she loved him back. For the way that she could see him rise to the killing edge and not fear him.

And now she was gone, a whisper in the darkness.

How many others would he wait to see put into the ground? How many other friends would he guide into being demon-dead? First Morton, now Sylvia. His eyes flickered to where his waif stood, leaning slightly on Daemon and entirely avoiding his gaze.

Jaenelle. She was from one of the short-lived races. One day, it would be he, Lucivar, and Daemon standing watching her grave being dug, then covered with soil. It would be they who cut their wrists and muttered the words of ritual that would promise to keep her memory alive. And it would be him who would comfort Daemon and Lucivar when she was gone.

So he continued to hang on, even though Sylvia was gone, the first Queen other than Jaenelle to see him stand at the killing edge and not fear it, because his sons would need him when they lost their Queen…

He frowned at Sylvia, and he moved to his desk. Sitting behind it would give him the feeling of comfort he needed to see this through. He hoped.

She showed no signs of speaking, so he settled into his old chair, rested his elbows on the desk, steepled his fingers, and began. His gold eyes were lazy. Fools and idiots would think it was an expression of laziness, but Sylvia knew that it wasn't. He wasn't merely hurt, he was furious. If she made an error…

Then she squashed the thought. If she made an error, he would get mad and he would yell. If he was beyond that anger, he would speak quietly with words that would rip her heart to pieces. A piece of furniture or two might even find itself turned into ash by witchfire if he needed to work off his anger with Craft. Maybe the Keep would have a new supply of firewood if he needed to work it off physically, but he would not hurt her. He would never use his Jewels on her. He might rise to the killing edge, and he was sure as hell going cold already, but he would follow Protocol.

Because this was Saetan.

"The secrets on how to become a Guardian have been lost for centuries. So how did…" He stopped and he groaned. Then the cold fury returned, and this time it wasn't just directed at just Sylvia. His daughter had stood there at the ceremony knowing that the grave had been empty, knowing that Sylvia was making the transition to Gaurdian! And she had let him believe that she was really dead! "Jeanelle."

Sylvia nodded. "And because Jaenelle knows, you can rest assured that Daemon knows, too."

"And your family?"

"They knew. They didn't understand why I felt the need to do this, but they knew what was going on."

Saetan felt like his heart was breaking. "So then the only person at the funeral that didn't know was…"

Her shoulders sagged. "You, Saetan."

His name, in that voice! He never thought he would hear it again. It brought him back, just a little. He was relieved that she was a Guardian, that she was sitting across from him with a distinct psychic scent, speaking, tangible… but the pang of betrayal was still too sharp for him to forgive her.

"Why not me?"

"Jaenelle wasn't sure if it would work or not. So if it didn't work, and I didn't become a Guardian, then…"

"Then I would never know," he finished for her. I would never have known you tried to become a Guardian and failed. I wouldn't have felt like I lost you, or like I was responsible. He arched an eyebrow. She frowned at him, answering his unspoken question. She would never have lied to him like Cassandra had lied to him. She had lied to him only to protect him from being hurt if she failed.

Which led to a whole new set of questions. The Guardians were not like the demon-dead. They didn't die of natural causes and then make the transition. They elected to become Guardians while they were still living. That translated to only one question.

"Why?"

Sylvia sighed. "Why did I decide to become a Guardian, you mean? I felt like… I knew it was my time to go. My children are all grown up, and I've given time to my grandchildren." She paused a moment to let those arguments sink in, and to give her other words more impact. "Because if I kept living any longer, I would too old to be of any use to you."

There was a stirring, a hunger, deep within him. It wasn't sexual, but it was possessive. The memory of what they had once been before, and the acknowledgement that he sometimes longed to have it again. Saetan looked at her again—really looked. Her hair had gone grey. Not the silver of his own hair, but slate-grey. There were laugh lines around her wilful mouth, and wrinkles in the corner of her eyes, reminding him of all the times her beautiful eyes had closed with delighted laughter. She was older, yes, but still beautiful.

But Guardians did not have those kinds of urges…

Sylvia frowned at him. "Don't look at me like that, Seatan. I apparently chose my words badly. I didn't mean I would be of no use to you sexually." She sighed and crossed her leg, resting her hands on her knee. Saetan frowned when he saw she was wearing pants. Even dead, she couldn't wear a skirt or a dress? She smiled kindly when she spotted his frown. "I meant this: Draca and Geoffrey won't be enough for you, Seatan. When you have a bad day, who will you go to when you need a hug? Or a back rub? When you do go out—because we both know that you happen to have the same indulgences as Daemon—who will go and enjoy the theatre with you?"

"I do not need hugs," Seatan hissed.

"But you will. I'm the first Saetan. Within four more decades, there will be others. A lot of others, Saetan." She rose from her chair to stand in front of his desk and reach across it to touch his hand. "I wanted to do this because I want to help you. This way we have time to become comfortable with each other again."

The feelings of her fingertips on his skin sent another bolt into him. He turned his hand around to close his fingers around her and then reconsidered, sliding his hand out from under hers. He pretended not to see her flinch at the rejection.

She reached into her inside jacket pocket and brought out a creased letter, tossing it on to the desk in front of him. "After the storm, you retreated into the Keep. I didn't fight you on it because I knew it was what you needed at the time. I thought that maybe you would eventually miss our friendship, but you never came back. When we saw each other in passing, you were polite, so damned polite!"

"I wasn't whole-"

"I didn't give a damn about you as a whole!" she snapped. "You were the one who didn't want to be around me because you were worried that no longer being able to perform sexually would cause us to break! That you couldn't be there as my lover, I understood. Don't you see, Saetan? Yes, Mother Night, I missed you as my lover and there hasn't been anyone else but you since then, but I missed my friend more. The man who would talk to me about raising the Coven one parent to another, the man that would accompany me to the theatre," she let out a choked laugh as her emotions over came her, "the man who knew my wardrobe better than I did."

She wiped her eyes and looked at him across the table. Saetan watched the tears fall and had to fight the urge to cross to her and take her into his arms. Those tears were his fault, and seeing her cry was bringing back the cold fury, this time directed at himself.

"I did this because I wanted my friend back. The man who could see past the title, the man who taught my sons with the same dignity as his taught his own sons. I missed the lover, but it was the friend I loved first… and never stopped missing."

He reached out and touched the worn letter lying on his desk. He could still remember every single word. He could still remember the way it had wrenched his heart to write it, to give her up because she was living, and he was not.

Saetan's voice was soft with gentleness when he spoke. The memories of his conversation with Daemon were still fresh in his mind. Pick and choose your battles. Sylvia had let him win, once, and now she had given up everything she had left in order to be with him when he would need her. Because she was right. In a few more decades, there would be people had had watched grow sitting in the chair across from him: Aaron, Kardeen, Kalush, Karla, Cassidy… Jaenelle.

He would be there for Daemon and Lucifar. She would be there for him. When he came home, when he needed a sanctuary, she would be there helping to bear his pain.

Her expression was open and vulnerable as she stood there, waiting for his reaction.

She had picked her battle well. How could he turn her down when she was standing there, when she had stepped up to the battlefield for him?

Those gold eyes warmed as he looked up at her. "I never stopped missing you, either."

Then she was suddenly in his arms, hugging him tightly. Her psychic scent surrounded him, made him feel safe and whole. His lips were on hers, tasting her, and she was weeping from the sweet familiarity of it, but it went no further as she rested her cheek against his shoulder and breathed in deeply. She relaxed against him, and his heart rejoiced. Sylvia. Sweet, sassy Sylvia who didn't fear him, and found comfort within the dark psychic scent of a Black-Jewelled Warlord Prince.

Mine.