In a Dark Time

~ All natural shapes blazing unnatural light. ~

Caspian had always been aware of the wings on his back. From the slight pressure they gave when he moved or turned, which helped keep him balanced, to how they felt when the breeze brushed past them. They'd grown as he had, and he could still remember the pride on his parent's face whenever they saw them.

His wings had been a pretty, translucent blue. He often likened them to the colour of the sky in the morning, when it was free of clouds. They drew people's attention, like bees to the pollen, and they were his birthright. They showed his pure faerie bloodline, not tarnished over the generations. And they were prized in the Courts.

That's why it hurt more than anything to lose them.

~ And in broad day, the midnight come again. ~

It was cold in the Unseelie Court. And dark, always dark. It was called the Autumn and Winter Courts for a reason, and it wasn't just because of their personality.

However, it was cruel and unforgiving to most as it was rumoured to be, bringing out the worst qualities that others shunned. Kill or be killed. Groups of faeries taunted one another and vied for their place among the thorns. The fae ferocity and menace came out with a deadly grace.

It may have seemed scary to some, but to Caspian, it was home.

~ My shadow pinned against a sweating wall ~

Perhaps some might have wished to have turned back time - to have not taunted the faeries who did it like he had. But Caspian was too proud to ever wish that. They'd deserved what he'd said, and he wouldn't take it back.

But he should have been smarter than to pick a fight with a group of older, malicious faeries.

Although he'd fought back, they overwhelmed him with numbers, pushing him to the ground and pinning his wrists and legs down. He'd thrashed, cursed, bit down on their fingers, and done everything he could, but they wouldn't loosen their hold.

His face was pushed to the ground so he couldn't see properly, but he heard the blade being drawn. He assumed they'd beat him up a bit more, give him some cuts to teach him a lesson. So he tensed a little, waiting for it to be over, but he wasn't ready for the reality.

He wasn't prepared when the blade pressed down on the tender part where his wings met his back. They started cutting with the blade, sawing, hacking, whatever they could do to get his wings off. He pressed his mouth into the dirt to keep from screaming at the pain. His back felt like it was on fire, and he'd never known such pain existed. He'd cursed into the ground, and in his mind, using every swear word he knew and still it wasn't enough. He teetered on the edge of passing out, and perhaps he did for a moment or two, but if he did, it wasn't for long enough.

The metallic, yet sweet, smell of faerie blood, his blood, was thick in the air. He could hear them panting as they worked, the adrenaline rushing through their veins urging them on. His mouth was full of dirt and grass and blood from his split lip, and his hand clawed at the grass, his nails digging into the dirt as his back arched up in pain. A low moan sounded deep in his throat, and he couldn't stop it. He felt nauseous, and he fought to keep the bile down, his head spinning. But he wouldn't cry. He couldn't. He'd never give them the satisfaction.

He hardly registered their hissed whispers through his pain, the words incomprehensible in his aching mind.

"Hurry up, it's taking too long."

"Damn pure faeries."

"That'll teach them."

"Shut him up, someone's bound to have heard."

"No one cares."

"Look at him..."

"It's..."

"N..."

He was glad he couldn't make out all of their taunts and their laughs. The humiliation hurt just as much as the physical pain.

He found himself doing something he never thought he'd do - wish it was all over. Please, just let the pain end. Please. He didn't want to live with the shame. His parents would shun him, he knew. So would the whole Court. He'd be forever known as 'the faerie whose wings were cut off,' or 'the faerie who was weak.'

It seemed to take forever - the mix of skin, cartilage and bone reluctant to part. But they'd managed to cut his wings off, finally letting him go. He'd slumped to the ground before tilting his head to the side so he could see. He wished he hadn't though, when he saw them hold up his wings like some kind of trophy or prize.

The only word he could repeat in his mind was 'No,' and his vision was blurry with pain, the ground slick with blood as he tried to sit up. Stumbling when the pain was too much, he slowly dragged himself along the ground with his hands, to underneath a tree where he'd be less noticable. Maybe no one would see him in his pitiful state when he died. That's all he wished for.

But dreams were never granted...

because

he

didn't

die.

~ I know the purity of pure despair ~

Caspian hated any forms of weakness, and therefore he hated how long he took to recover. Hated himself even, for being so weak.

For weeks he could hardly move, the pain blinding and too great to stand. But he wouldn't take anyone's help. Not at the Court - though few offered - and not at the Institute when he was cast out, and had to move there. He just couldn't. To accept help was to accept that he was weak. Beaten. That he was broken. And any pain his back produced was better than admitting that.

He quickly lost track of the time it took for the pain to die down a little, as well as the feeling of wrongness. The wrongness of a limb lost. The feelings of hopelessness and aimlessness were even slower to fade. As he recovered, he couldn't help but miss his home, depite everything, and he hated the Institute and the city and the mundanes and the noise and everything about the place. He'd always known his place in life - who he was, what he'd become, his status in the hierarchy - and now he had no reason to do anything. Getting into fights in the taverns of the Downworld Towns a year later may have been satisfying, but it wasn't fulfilling. He struggled with the aimlessness, being reckless and getting into even more fights.

After all, he had absolutely nothing to worry about losing. Nothing he needed to protect.

~ What's madness but nobility of soul ~

Sometimes he relived it in his sleep. He'd try and thrash and claw at the ground and get away, but his arms were restrained, and he couldn't move. He was frozen, knowing what was coming, without any way to prevent it. And the pain... the pain felt real. Just like it did back then. When he finally awoke, the muscles in his back were tense and sore, and he had to grit his teeth when he tried to get up and stumbled.

Horrors were not only meant to be lived once, he'd soon learnt. They were relived again and again until one day, perhaps he'd be strong enough to feel no pain.

He sometimes wondered whether that day would ever come.

~ A fallen man, I climb out of my fear ~

A cocky, arrogant Hunt faerie had been the first one to try and talk with him, despite his stony expression and demeanour. The first to find out his name.

It had taken a while for Aspen to convince Caspian to join the Hunt, since he was too stubborn and proud and angry to consider it.

But although he'd never admit it, he missed the sense of belonging he'd felt in the Unseelie Court, and to be able to do something, to belong somewhere again, was a tempting thought. A dangerous, dangerous thought.

Eventually he'd reluctantly agreed, and joined the Hunt, although he kept to the edges, ignoring the others. They weren't like him, and he doubted he'd ever fit in.

A new staff - his favourite weapon - helped to lift his spirits slightly. He treasured it, as if it were the same one that had been left back at the Unseelie Court. But some part of him knew it couldn't be replaced. Some part of him knew he couldn't be replaced.

The old Caspian had died long ago, leaving a battered, tarnished substitute in his place.

Though he wanted to, he didn't believe in new beginnings or second chances.

~ Death of the self in a long tearless night ~

He'd seen the reflection of his face once in the water before he'd plunged his hands into it, and he'd recoiled at the sight. One of his eyes had darkened to a black when he'd joined the Hunt, and it was startling against his pale, fae features and his light, blonde hair. It suited him more than anything - black like the colour of his soul. A symbol of his inner turmoil and darkness that he struggled to keep hidden. And he desperately needed to keep it hidden, for he knew no one wanted to know weak, worthless creatures - like the ogres and the knockers and the goblins and the other strange monsters of the Unseelie Court - which were like himself. The grotesque scars on his back served as good enough reminders of that.

There was no way he'd forget what he really was.

~ Dark, dark my light, and darker my desire ~

Slowly, very slowly, he got used to the Wild Hunt. He found he didn't mind it so much, as he started to find his place. He trained and trained, honing his skills back to what they once were, and they even asked him to train some of the newer recruits.

The Hunt boasted freedom. Freedom to sleep among the stars, to ride with the wind, and to fight with the ferocity of a scorned faerie when the time came. He grew used to the smell of night and the wild freedom it offered.

When he needed a break, he could always go to the hidden lake Aspen had shown him. There it was peaceful - most of the time. At times the other faerie was infuriating - asking too many questions, and over time Caspian gave too many of his weaknesses and thoughts away. Aspen was unrelenting and incredibly vain and annoying and cocky and too many things to mention. But he was many other things too, things Caspian didn't like to think too much about.

So he often found himself staring out at the lake, his mind for once not racing, and his thoughts for once - nearly - at peace.

~ I meet my shadow in the deepening shade ~

The Wings sat for years in a dusty cabinet in a small display in the Towns. A trophy among thorns. The room was dimly lit, and the Wings hadn't seen sunlight or the stars for many years. They weren't alive anymore - the nerves and cartilage had long since been torn - and the once brilliant blue had dulled. A lonely limb, no longer usable, hidden behind glass.

The starting phrases in italics are from the poem, In a Dark Time by Theodore Roethke.