The New Remorse, a modern faerie tales fanfic

: the new remorse :

by fierymetis

A/N: I was re-reading Ironside the other day, and I just kept thinking about Ellebere. He's only in the book for, like, three scenes, but I was very intrigued by him and I wanted to see more. This is what happened.

There's some scenes where the dialogue is exactly the same as it is in the book -- that's because I'm really just re-telling the scene, but from Ellebere's point of view, so don't be alarmed.

The title of this fic is taken from the lovely poem by Oscar Wilde.

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing featured here.

We're damned after all,
Through fortune and flame we fall,
And if you can stay, then I'll show you the way
To return from the ashes you call.

When Ellebere swears fealty to the Unseelie King, he doesn't wonder what he's doing here; doesn't marvel at the chain of events, the difficult decisions and missed chances, which brought him to this dark place, because there is no time for that.

There is time only for counting the steps he takes toward his Dark Majesty as Dulcamara saunters away, her black hair swaying around her hips and her skeletal wings throwing shadows behind her. Ellebere drops to his knees and dips his head, focusing on the dirt and the rocks and the broken glass.

Once, when Lady Nicnevin ruled the Unseelie Court, Ellebere and Roiben stood together behind her throne. They had done her bidding without question, without complaint. They had been soaked in the same blood and covered in the same ash. They'd stood before her when the bodies were cleared away and the fires put out, and, more often than not, she'd have already forgotten them.

Roiben saw the darkness in him then. He saw that Ellebere was terrible -- perhaps as terrible as Roiben himself -- and that he would do terrible things for the one who wore the crown.

That is why he's here, he and Dulcamara both: to be as awful as their King desires them to be. That's why he's kneeling in the dirt before a throne of thorns, measuring his words, uttering these damnable vows that bind him. They don't mean anything to him, but he means them all the same.

"Rise, Ellebere."

Roiben's expression is dark, grim, and Ellebere can see no trace of the Seelie knight who came to them so many years ago. There is no hope in those eyes, hope to someday be free of the Court of Nightmares. There is neither kindness nor mercy, and for a moment, Ellebere thinks that maybe, just maybe, this Roiben of the Seelie Court -- not now, though, not ever again -- is truly meant to be their King.

Under the hill, on the darkest, coldest night of the year. Ellebere marches behind his King at an exact three paces -- counting his steps again -- and Dulcamara does the same. His stride is stiff, and he is conscious of each movement.

When Roiben is crowned, Ellebere and Dulcamara kneel on either side of him, and the whole court kneels with them. A great noise wells up from the gathered fey, shaking the hollow hill, but whether it is with joy or fear or anger that they shriek, Ellebere cannot tell.

It's strange to watch him, Roiben, now that he's been crowned. He's sitting on his throne, nodding vaguely as his fey line up to pledge their loyalty to him. His expression is weary, bored, like he's already tired of this. Sometimes his mouth turns down at the corners and his eyes flash darkly, and Ellebere knows he's disgusted by them, the denizens of the Unseelie Court.

They're his, though -- all of these fey, and all of this land, and everything that happens here. Their horrors will haunt his dreams and their blood will stain his hands and there's no backing away now, no breaking free.

The pixie girl, Kaye, stumbles up to Roiben. She's drunk, sloppily drunk, and Ellebere is almost peeved -- almost, because it's really none of his business, strange and shameful as it may be. It is not his place to dissect the whims and fancies of his King; only to serve them.

Ellebere remembers that night, barely a moon ago, when Mabry dueled with the human girl for the heart of a troll. The duel itself was unimportant -- the outcome of it did not interest him in the least. What Ellebere remembers most about that night was the human prisoners, the boy and the girl, when they stirred awake and struggled against their manacles. He remembers when Kaye stepped up to the throne. She brushed past him, unseeing, and whispered in the ear of his King. Roiben smiled then, smiled at hearing her words.

He doesn't know quite why, but as he remembers it, he tastes bile in the back of his throat.

Then Kaye opens her mouth, and those words come spilling out, and things change.

A declaration and an impossible task.

Another great noise -- jeering laughter, this time; hooting and shrieking and howling -- rises up from the host, but Ellebere does not smile. His eyes are trained on the face of his King. Roiben's face is steel and stone. Hail is falling in his eyes.

"I promise that if I find who put this idea in your head, they will pay for it with their own."

Ellebere does not frown, though he knows upon who the task would fall.

Dulcamara drums her fingers on the tabletop, the jagged silver rings she always wears glinting in the firelight, and he hates the sound of it. He wants to seize her wrist, twist her arm, make her still, but he does none of those things.

They aren't quite arguing, Roiben and Ruddles, but they're as close to arguing as they could ever get, considering how impossible it is to argue with a King. Ellebere watches, silent. It's better to watch, to observe, before jumping into something.

Dulcamara speaks up, demanding blood, as per her usual request. Ellebere looks between the three of them, but says nothing. Sometimes he thinks, traitorously, that Roiben is no fit King, at least not of the Unseelie Court. He is far from callous enough to rule here; he is too kindhearted, and it shows.

Roiben's eyes fall on him, reflective as mirrors, and Ellebere sees himself in them; sees himself as Roiben sees him -- a hateful knight, only as faithful as his vow.

No loyalty here. Only time and obligation.

The truth of it burns him, and as Roiben turns away, Ellebere feels a strange urge to prove them both wrong. To overcome himself.

Where did you, so young, learn such sacrifice? — We suffer each other to have each other a while.

Ellebere would die for Roiben, without a moment's hesitation.

It isn't a question of affection or of camaraderie; only a matter of duty. He swore his life away that night, when he knelt at Roiben's feet. He carefully recited those ancient vows, just as he'd done when he served Nicnevin, and it isn't any different this time, not really. One monarch is much like another -- master or mistress, king or queen, Roiben or Nicnevin. It's all the same.

Except that Roiben does not order him to slaughter innocents.

And Roiben does not torture him for the amusement of the court.

And, when all is said and done, Roiben does not forget about him.

It shouldn't be different, but it is. As different as night and day, though the sun rarely shines in the Court of Nightmares.

And maybe that's it.

We all carry on,
When our brothers-in-arms are gone,
So raise your glass high,
For tomorrow we die,
And return to the ashes you call.

The hollow hill is falling all around him. The earth quakes above and below and around. Every shriek and shout echoes in through the broken hill, and Ellebere's skull vibrates with the noise. He does not draw his sword; he only shoulders his way through the cacophony. None of this matters. He has no time.

Roiben is standing in the center of it all -- standing, just standing. He's staring, gaping at the flames and the bodies and the debris. There's no time for that, either. Ellebere shoves Roiben out of the way of a falling tombstone, and, for a second, Roiben just looks at him. Ellebere grabs Roiben's arms.

"You must leave, my Lord!"

"Where is Ruddles? Dulcamara?"

"They don't matter!" Ellebere tightens his grip. He shakes Roiben roughly. This is all he has time for -- protecting his King, getting him away from this place. Dulcamara can manage herself. He can't speak for Ruddles, but it hardly matters. Ellebere cares for neither of them. He has no time. "You are our King!"

Roiben jerks away from him. "Get the fey in the hallways to safety. Take them to the Kinnelon ruins."

Ellebere hesitates, unwilling to let Roiben out of his sight. His heart is pounding in his ears, his lungs burn with iron and smoke, his whole body is tingling, telling him to run, to fight, to do anything but stand here, and he's worried about his King. Worried. Him, Ellebere. He doesn't remember when he was last truly worried about anything -- there was never anything for him to worry about. But now . . .

"As you said, I am your King. Do it now!" Roiben turns and dashes into the fray. He's lost among the smoke in a second, and Ellebere cannot follow him.

Not easy to state the change you made.
If I'm alive now, then I was dead,
Though, like a stone, unbothered by it,
Staying put according to habit.

Roiben stirs Ellebere in a way he isn't sure he understands.

There is something in the eyes of his King that chills him; something so cold and so dark that it's suffocating. Roiben's eyes shine with the sorrow of a thousand ages, burn like cold stars, too far and too bright, that Ellebere cannot hope to touch.

When their eyes meet, Ellebere has to suppress a shiver, a shudder, a physical reaction to the cold wave thrumming over his skin like a shadow over snow. His heart beats wildly, pounding like a war-drum, as if to ward off the cold and release the pent-up excitement and curiosity and longing.

When he looks in Roiben's eyes, Ellebere is cold. Deathly-cold.

But he never looks away.

It's frigid and damp among the ruins, but Ellebere doesn't mind. He's watching Ethine as she makes her way toward Roiben's makeshift chambers, glancing around her like any one of the Unseelie fey might grab her and rip her apart, and it's very possible that one of them might. Ellebere isn't sure if he would stop them if they did.

Ethine and Roiben are like mirror-images of each other. Ellebere can see Roiben in her face.

It's haunting, the resemblance, and Ellebere feels cold as he looks at her. Her eyes shine, too, like Roiben's, and he looks for the sadness in them, but she's too far away.

Later, when Roiben orders Ellebere to escort Ethine to her quarters, she shies away from him. She should -- he's just as terrible as the rest of them -- but he still wants to look in her eyes.

"You hate us," Ellebere says, not quite looking at her. "You hate us for stealing your brother away."

Ethine says nothing. He hadn't expected her to.

There's no one around, and he takes her arm, drawing her close. She struggles feebly in his grip. He's close enough to kiss her, and Ethine looks like she's afraid he will, but he's not interested in that. He searches for that untouchable sadness in her eyes, but it isn't there, and he releases her when he doesn't find it.

She stumbles backward, pale and fearful, like he might grab her again. He doesn't.

"Your eyes are dull," he says, starting to walk again. "Unpolished silver."

Ethine holds no charm for him. Not like her brother.

Come back and haunt me.

He doesn't think he'd call it love.

Love is something found in poems and songs; something fleeting and bittersweet; something that makes wise men fools and fools practically handicapped.

In short, love is something to be avoided at all costs, and Ellebere prides himself on having dodged that particular arrow.

Ellebere is not in love with Roiben.

He is devoted, yes, but Roiben is his King, and that is to be expected. Ellebere's vows bind him, and one form of devotion begets another.

He is fascinated, but Roiben is powerful and magnificent. He possesses a majesty and a strength that Ellebere will never know. It is only natural to admire Roiben.

He is intrigued, but Roiben is a mystery. Dark and glittering and fine, he begs to be explored, to be solved.

Ellebere is all of these things -- devoted, fascinated, intrigued -- and many, many more. He is captivated and aching and cold. He is hollow and needful and alone.

But he is not in love.

"Why are you doing this?" Ellebere asks one day, because the silence is choking him, and he can think of nothing else to say.

Roiben arches one brow. "Pardon?"

Ellebere knows he's saying all the wrong things, but he plows ahead, unable to stop himself. "This. Making these preparations and plans. It is hopeless. We cannot win." He turns to Roiben and his blood turns to ice. It's almost a pleasant sensation. Those eyes. "Why are you trying?"

Roiben laughs, softly. A small smile touches his mouth. "Sometimes I do not know, myself," he says. "Perhaps it is love for my court, for my fey. Perhaps it is hate for the Bright Lady. Perhaps it is for no reason at all, or perhaps it is simply because I can."

Ellebere laughs too, but his is a short bark, a scoff. "All but the first reason, I might believe. Any love you may have for the Night Court, my Lord, is tragically misplaced."

"And what do you know of love?" Roiben asks, so suddenly that Ellebere is taken off-guard.

"My Lord?"

"What do you know of love?" he repeats. His voice is soft, serious.

Ellebere pauses for a moment, pondering that. "Love," he says finally, "is very much like a flower."

"Poetic." Roiben tilts his head slightly. "Do continue."

"Love blooms," says Ellebere. "Then it dies."

The sin was mine; I did not understand.

There's a Seelie spark in Roiben.

It's a flicker, a match-scratch, a guttering candle flame; barely there, but there all the same.

All turn their heads, ignoring, waiting for it to extinguish itself.

All but Ellebere.

It is all he can do to look away.

In the dark, claustrophobic hours of the night, Ellebere can feel it: a chill, something jagged and painful and heavy, settled in the bottom of his heart. It makes his chest tight, makes it hard to breathe, makes him close his eyes and long for things that he shouldn't long for. It's familiar, that chill, and he knows who it is. He worries about what it might mean.

In the morning, he doesn't have to check and see if it's still there. He feels it always; that cold pressure, that heavy ache, and he knows that he carries Roiben around in his heart.

Some are born to sweet delight,
Some are born to endless night.

The duel will take place tomorrow, and Ellebere knows his part as well as anything. Roiben trusts him -- he showed Ellebere that he trusts him by giving him such a crucial role in the coming exchange.

It's quiet on Hart Island. The only sounds are the waves lapping the shore and Ellebere's own troubled thoughts echoing through the corridors of his mind. Roiben stands before him, a dark outline against a darker sky, looking out over the sea.

"I was wrong," Ellebere says, clenching his fists and pressing them against his legs.

Roiben doesn't bother to glance over his shoulder. "About what?"

"It isn't hopeless."

"Not quite." His voice is strange, and Ellebere wishes he could see Roiben's face.

Roiben turns suddenly; walks slowly toward Ellebere until there's only two feet separating them. Ellebere can see him now -- his expression is considering, and his eyes are glowing with a faint light. Ellebere is so cold that he feels like his bones are going to explode.

"Do you think of hope often?" Roiben asks.

"Only in the dark."

Roiben smiles a little. "Nighttime is far better for thinking," he agrees. "But I find myself unsettled by what the darkness brings."

"As do I." The cold intensifies and Ellebere's heart is pounding frantically. He knows what Roiben is saying to him, but, at the same time, he does not.

"Strange thoughts," says Roiben.

"Impossible thoughts," says Ellebere.

Roiben takes a slow, deep breath. Ellebere stops breathing.

"This is the line that marks insanity, Ellebere." Roiben draws a line in the dirt with the toe of his boot. "Cross it."

He cannot disobey.

Ellebere steps over the line -- two steps; he's counting -- and presses his mouth to Roiben's.

It isn't a soft kiss. It isn't tender and magical, like first kisses are supposed to be. There are no fireworks exploding inside Ellebere's head, not that he expected any, because fireworks happen for lovers, and this still isn't love. Not really. Not yet.

Their kiss is fierce, desperate, a painful clash of teeth. Ellebere can see those cold stars burning in front of his eyes, so bright he fears he might go blind. He's close to Roiben's sadness, to his dark cold. He's close enough to touch.

Roiben jerks him closer; they stumble backward into a stone monument and collapse into the dirt. Ellebere knots his fingers in Roiben's hair, and it's like silver moonlight, running through his fingers. Running through and slipping away. Losing it.

It's more than what he wanted, much more.

But when it's over, Ellebere can't help but think that it's less, too, because after tomorrow, Roiben will either be dead or too busy ruling over both courts to remember him anymore.

And would it have been worth it, after all?

"This is no place for a pixie."

Ellebere twists Kaye's arms behind her back. He knows that he's hurting her, and he likes it. He hates her. He doesn't want to waste his energy hating her, he doesn't want her to be worth any of his effort, but he does. He hates her. He can't help it.

Roiben's eyes are blank when he looks at her, and Ellebere wonders what he's thinking about. Roiben silences Ruddles complaints with a wave of his hand, and before Ellebere knows what has happened, she's completed her quest and he's dropping her arms and stepping away because now she can command him, too.

It's ridiculous, of course -- her answer is a riddle, but it's enough to please Ruddles. She is his Queen now, and Ellebere still hates her.

And he would still die for Roiben.

Talathain shoves past him, shamed and covered in blood, but Ellebere doesn't even look at him. His eyes are trained on his King, just as they always are, just as they always will be. Roiben is leaning on Kaye's shoulder, barely conscious, dripping blood.

His Kaye.

His Queen.

His, forever.

Dulcamara is suddenly beside him, knife gripped too tightly in her bony fist, her face contorted with rage. He knows what she's thinking -- she wanted so badly to slash Talathain's throat, to make him scream and bleed and beg for death, but was not allowed the pleasure. Their King is too merciful.

Ellebere and Dulcamara follow closely as Roiben is carried out of the circle and through the crowds of fey, but not as closely as Kaye. Her expression is fearful, her eyes anguished, and Ellebere finds, suddenly, strangely, that he does not hate her. He cannot hate her, she who brings his King such joy.

Now, he finds, he can only hate himself.

"Ellebere," says Roiben, eyes shining strangely, "would you do me a good turn?"

It's evening on Hart Island, and Kaye is out of sight, busily looking after her humans. Ruddles is distracted by a matter of some importance, and Dulcamara is doing some task or another. Ellebere turns to his King, letting the cold seep into him.

"I am yours," he says, and it's truer than he'll ever admit.

"Take Kaye to her home come nightfall," Roiben says. His expression is vague and faraway. "Make sure she arrives there safely."

"It shall be my honor."

Roiben does not speak again until the silence becomes so heavy that it snaps on its own. He gives Ellebere a sideways glance.

"Are you truly mine, Ellebere?"

"Until you dismiss me or I die defending you, my Lord," says Ellebere. He pauses for a heartbeat, then goes on. "And I gladly would."

For a moment, Ellebere thinks that Roiben might have shivered. Perhaps he feels the cold that Ellebere has carried with him for months now.

Darkness falls slowly over the island, swallowing up the monuments and mausoleums. Ellebere makes to leave -- he must find Kaye and see her home -- but Roiben grabs his arm, stopping him. Roiben isn't looking at him, but it's all the same.

Something breaks inside Ellebere's chest. He can't keep the truth inside any longer. It makes him weak.

"My Lord . . ."

"Ellebere?"

A pause on Ellebere's end. Then --

"Nothing, my Lord."

Roiben nods and releases his arm. Ellebere goes out to find his Queen.

The chill is constant now, as familiar as any small ache. Ellebere can feel it always, like a jagged chunk of ice, piercing his heart with every beat. It's painful, but not unpleasantly so. If nothing else, it reminds him that he's still alive.

Roiben is busy, to be sure, but he hasn't quite forgotten about Ellebere, though now he has far more knights than he did when he ruled only the Unseelie Court. There's a hope to be found there, but Ellebere doesn't search for it. He has grown weary of that. These days, Ellebere has strength only to stand by Roiben's side and watch him with his Queen, and some days, he barely has enough for that.

Now that the two Courts have been united under Roiben's rule, Ellebere has time to think. He's learned some things during this shaky peace, though he'll never admit to any of them.

When he stands beside his King and his bones ache from the effort of not touching him, he knows why.

Ellebere is in love with Roiben.

He can't say it. He can never say it, not of his own accord, but it's true all the same.

And someday, he thinks, Roiben will ask him again what he thinks of love, and he won't be able to hide it anymore. Roiben will ask him what he thinks of love, and he will have to admit to it, tell Roiben that all he knows of love he learned from him, because he cannot lie, and everything will change again.

But until that day comes, he will be Roiben's sworn knight -- no more, no less.

Ellebere supposes that, in the end, he really will die for Roiben.

It will not be in battle, in combat, to keep Roiben from being killed. There will be no valiant end for Ellebere.

His end will arrive slowly, painfully, and he will see it coming. It will be a slow, selfish death; a death of grief and heartache and secret shame. It will be the death that he deserves.

Ellebere will wait for it, and when it comes, he will be ready.

And I shall weep and worship, as before.

: finis. :

A/N: I apologize. I really do. I wrote this fic over two days, while I was stumbling around in a My Chemical Romance-induced haze.

I think Roiben is a bit out of character here. He's a funny one to write, and I doubt I'll be trying to write him again anytime soon. I stand by my Ellebere, however. Considering the fact that really doesn't have much of a character, poor dear, it is therefore rather difficult to keep him in one.

Here's the "credits" -- a list of where the lines and lyrics from this fic come from:

"Mama" by My Chemical Romance
"Love Letter" by Sylvia Plath
"The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T. S. Elliot
"Auguries of Innocence" by William Blake
"The Scientist" by Coldplay
"The New Remorse" by Oscar Wilde