So. It's been...a really long time, hasn't it? Never fear; I am alive, and still writing. The beta'ing on this one got a little squirrelly - still working that out. Anyway. This is a direct sequal to Child of Rapine. The timeline may be spotty-just ignore the man behind the curtain, please, my fics are much too complicated for me to understand. Second Son is for Roarke, who deserves some love, and some really lovely sex, and for Nick, who is possibly the most annoyingly reticent character I've ever had the pleasure of beating my head against, and who also (very seriously) needs love. And also for absolutely everyone who commented, and my wonderful beta, tigersilver. Say hi, ladies and gentlemen. So you know, this fic is COMPLETE, and while updating may be spotty, it WILL HAPPEN.
Warnings (for the entirely of the story): Porn/lovescenes [sex] between two males. Hurt/Comfort. Torture - much, much later on. Politics, though minimal. Magic. Gods. Possibly dragons... and general adorableness.
And now...
Prologue
Not quite forty years before…
He moved lithely, despite the heavy leather armor that hugged his body, belying the weariness that had written itself in the fine lines of his face. Strode, with all the comfortable ease of a predator in a sheepfold through the maze of patchwork tents and hasty lean-tos that had been constructed on the sandy plain.
But, these sheep were the dangerous sort: armed to the teeth, vicious, and mean with the thrill of victory still flooding their veins. Yet neither jeers nor challenges arose to greet him; he walked unaccosted, seemingly oblivious to the men that eyed him warily. It was quite an accomplishment for one with only eight and twenty summers behind him.
The last battle had been won. This war was over, and by midnight, he'd be free of his contract with the warlord who ruled this bedraggled horde of mercenaries, and now this arid little scrap of a land, where traders from the Far South and the West traveled. There was little left to accomplish but to pack what few things had made their way from his bag, roll up his tent, and be off. His final payment jingled softly in its leather pouch hidden deep in one of the larger pouches dangling from his sword belt.
His temporary dwelling wasn't located near any of the others—this not from the arrogant priggishness as some of the men suggested, after imbibing much alcohol, and quietly, but out of consideration and necessity. A sleeping mage, no matter how strong, was never a completely safe companion, as magic had a tendency to lash out in defense of its host. It was said for good reason that if one came across a sleeping mage or a sleeping dragon, one should choose first the dragon to awake.
…A dragon would kill quickly, after all, with a single burst of flame or the deadly sweep of one massive talon. The mage was unlikely to be nearly as kind. A trained battlemage, or so it followed, was even less likely to be inclined toward leniency.
The other mercenaries kept clear and the mage took no offense; he expected it, rather, from soldiers who'd survived this long.
That matter aside, his small encampment better ensured his privacy. Here, at the edge of the scrubby forest they'd settled near, he could set wards without concern that some hapless infantryman would stumble drunkenly into them and be given the shock of his life. No; anyone headed this way was intent upon wreaking havoc onhis tent, and deserving of anything they received if they attempted to disturb him or his possessions unannounced.
It was for that reason that he paused. His temporary dwelling was alight—from the inside.
Temper to match the fiery hue of his hair began to spark in his gut. But it didn't make him a fool. He guarded well as he made his way forward, sending the subtle tendrils of his power before him.
He paused again when no information was returned to him, and pushed down all his rush of hot anger completely. His visitor was no common ruffian, it seemed. But neither was he or she intent on robbery. A whisper of steel against leather sounded loud to him as he tugged the long dagger he wore from its sheath and gripped it familiarly, just in case. Magic wouldn't stop everything.
"I carry only tidings of peace, mage, be at ease." The voice was feminine, delicate as the magnolia blossoms of these strange Southern lands and as calm as Southern seas. "Peace."
The mage made no response, still testing the air about him. All was indeed at peace…and yet the burr of his homeland clung to the undersides of this stranger's vowels, humming vibrant within the clipped consonants. Intriguing, that was.
A woman. No…a woman who was a little more than merely human, this.
His eyes narrowed, pinpointing her position within his tent. Roarke—for that was the name this Mage bore, when among company—wasn't fool enough to trust a strange woman at her word—plenty of good men had died at the hands of pretty lasses. He had no intention of joining their ranks.
He shifted, circling the tent with the silent stalk of the cuir cat-fiadhaich-the fabled dweller of the jagged Deibh Pigeán Mountains, in the High North. T'was an easy thing to manage, severing one of the ropes that anchored the tent, while blades of wind and ice took the weighted tarp on his command, dropping the heavy cloth on her. A delaying tactic only, but one that gave him advantage without harming either of them.
The light within sputtered and then guttered out; the woman gave a muffled shriek, and struggled with the canvas. Roarke waited patiently, concealed in the shadows of the trees.
She emerged at last, smoothing down her hair. A slender, pale figure in the moonlight, long, silvery tresses loose about her shoulders; a colorless dress cut short like a tunic and worn over slim-cut braes that disappeared into high leather boots. A short sword hung from at her left hip.
Black eyes narrowed, regarding the familiar silhouette she made. The Mage knew those robes—that otherworldly air.
"Yer a long way from yer temple, Priestess," he called, throwing his voice. She turned to face his location, deceptively calm. But her hand settled lightly over the hilt of her blade.
"I act as emissary for the Goddess." She tossed her head peremptorily. "As you must know, Mage. And—I repeat—I come in peace."
He didn't respond for a long moment—he hadn't expected anything different, when he'd recognized her order from her clothing and weapon.
The Moonmother—Thalia was her name, if the bards were to be believed (he'd never really believed they were, names being what they were)—was the God-Queen in the Highlands, a woman-warrior who had allegedly fought and defeated her War-god consort before taking him in marriage. Her followers aspired to similar ideals—they were trained young to be deadly, and used all their many talents to bring about the Goddess's will. Rumor had it that the Goddess would occasionally speak through one, and had been known to defend her priestesses as fiercely as they defended her. A good thing, then, that he had avoided outright violence.
"And wot does yer Lady want with me tha's brought ye so far into another god's territory?" They were fierce, gods were, in defending and expanding their lands, and didn't take lightly invasion.
"It is not something I may tell you, Mage but something she will impart to you personally."
Expressive rusty-colored eyebrows rose sharply in the dark, angling up unseen. "Ah'll just wait 'ere, then, 'til she deigns tae appear a'fore me, shall Ah?"
"Kind of you, Mage." He wasn't so green as to startle when she looked straight at him, nearly through him, but his heart gave a little leap within his chest. The priestess's voice had altered itself substantially, going smooth and soft; sweet, yet terribly strong in its timbre. Her eyes, too, were changed; now glowing with the sheen of antique gold, fiadhaich's in the dappling moonlight.
Not quite the strangest thing he'd ever seen—no, the rabid minotaur-hybrid a year and a half ago took that distinction—but certainly high on his personal list.
"Ah'll guess, and say yer m'Lady Thalia." There was no point in staying in the shadows now. He stepped away from them, into the clearing. "Ma'am," he added, after a moment. A little respect never came amiss with any God.
"That I am."
"'Course. It figures. Just—no light'nbolts, please," he requested, only half in humor. "'S'it's such a messy way tae die, m'Lady. You understan', Ah'm sure."
"Certainly not, Mage. I've no use for you dead," Thalia replied archly. Roarke blinked at her tone and decided he wasn't at all surprised by her spiritedness. She had defeated Selis singlehandedly, after all, and her consort was a mischievous, clever bastard of a War-god, from all accounts. To say nothing of creating the rock and ice of the Highlands and the creatures that survived there.
"A nice coincidence, tha'. Ah've no use fer death, personally," he quipped, and wondered if he shouldn't shut his mouth now, to continue avoiding a messy death.
Instead, the Goddess chuckled; warm and deep. It was a sensual laugh, unconsciously, innocently so (or perhaps not; she was a goddess); stirring his blood. Politely, he ignored his body's untimely reaction—Roarke had no desire to find himself lacking, abruptly, the part of himself that made him a man because his body didn't understand that the lady in front of it (and more importantly, the goddess's notoriously jealous, protective husband) was not in any way available, and never (ever) would be.
"All the better. I've a task for you, mage."
Any amusement faded from him. Gods bearing tasks were tricky, and dangerous. "And what's tha'?"
She gave him a look Roarke suspected was supposed to be encouraging. "You are to search out children who bear power, particularly those who live in fear. You are to protect these children, house them, teach them. Raise them, as children should be raised."
He choked on his next breath.
"Ye wan' me tae do wot?" he demanded, aghast.
She smiled; the curve of the priestess's lips was fierce in the moonlight. "You heard me fine, mage. I should add that it is your destiny to do this—I'm sure I don't have to tell you how rare it is for mortals to learn what Fate has in store for them."
"Ah'd not 'ave minded the illusion o' a choice, Goddess," he growled, mind whirling. Children—mage children. Gods help him. Mage children coming from abuse and danger and, knowing humans, exploitation. It just kept getting better.
"I know." The smile softened, became almost regretful. "But to do all you must, you need to begin soon.
"In the Northlands, there is a forest. It is rich in magic more ancient even than me—it is an elemental place. In time, it will come to be called after your familiar."
"Ah've no familiar." The highland growl in his voice was very nearly hollow with resignation. It would probably earn him that lightening bolt to clap his hands over his ears and start humming in denial.
"Not yet, no. He will be born soon, mage, in our homeland, less than a league from your brother's home. Purest white, and birthed as the sun slides above the horizon. You will know him, even as he knows you."
"Why?"
An expression of surprise passed lightly over her borrowed features. "Why? Because it is your destiny."
"Tha's not the only reason," black eyes were narrowed and sharp, as shock dulled and he started to think. "Ah'm young yet, a 'alf dozen years oot of mah own training. Mah magic's not settled yet, an' won't fer another decade, a' least."
She scowled, and then sighed. "You are too young, yes. But there are no others in the Highlands now, not with any degree of true power. It's been five an sixty years since the last full-blooded mage has been born to my people; you are the eldest of a…a wave of powerful magic-wielders. Already, several more have come. Few communities have the resources or the…strength of purpose, to raise a mage. And I cannot, will not, have them destroyed with greed, clumsiness, or bigotry."
"Won'erful. Any other parts o' mah life tha' Ah've nae yet lived ye wish ta share?" he couldn't keep the bite from his tone—Roarke hadn't any desire to know his fate. It led only to pain to know what would be when one wasn't meant to.
"Yes." She paid no mind to his flinch. "Within the forest, there is a lake, as clear and reflective as glass. Beside it, you will build with magic, stone, and wood, a sanctuary for your kind. A place of learning, of safety. A home, for those who need one. Do you understand?"
"Aye," he managed, fighting the faintness from his voice. Children, damaged and power-filled children, and a bloody castle he'd have to construct to last. "Ah 'ave one question."
"Ask."
"Who did Ah piss off?"