The snow was falling thick and fast. Lucivar stood at the window and looked out at it, frowning slightly, golden eyes shadowed.
"Happy Winsol, Prick," a voice said quietly behind him. He turned, still expressionless, and faced his brother, who lifted a glass of deep red wine in a mock toast. "Excited?"
"No," Lucivar said flatly, and turned back to the window, rustling his wings, feeling his temper itch at the reins he placed on it.
"I'm amazed they haven't noticed the problem they have on their hands, yet." Daemon's voice was cool, even, almost amused. If you didn't know him, it might have sounded friendly. Lucivar knew him altogether too well.
Lucivar let his lips twitch. "They have a short memory. For some things."
"Perhaps we should remind them."
"Perhaps we should." He felt his hands clench on the windowsill. Winsol. The one day where the Blood danced for the glory of Witch, the celebrate the Darkness. Or maybe it had been that way once. Not for him, not any longer. For a pleasure slave, the only thing Winsol meant was longer nights, more reminders that the world he hoped for had not come and didn't seem likely to ever exist. He gritted his teeth and wheeled.
"How long, Daemon?"
His brother lounged against a bookcase, his golden eyes half closed and almost glazed, examining his long, black fingernails. He flicked his gaze up. "How long what, Prick?"
Lucivar rocked back on his heels and paced, feeling the bitterness and anger well up in him again. "How long since Tersa – promised. How long since she said that Witch was coming?"
"Four hundred and twenty years," Daemon said, quietly. Lucivar didn't quite flinch at his tone, but simply barreled on.
"And since then? Not a sign, not a word, not even a whisper. Nothing. Not even a murmur in the Darkness."
"No." Daemon's voice was quieter, deadlier. "No, not a sound. But we wait."
"We could be waiting forever." Lucivar spat it through his teeth, the fury boiling under his skin.
"Tersa doesn't lie. She will come."
"When?"
"When she does." Daemon lifted his eyes to meet Lucivar's, gold on gold. "The witches here tonight may be long dead by then. But you and I will be here. And you and I…we will survive and serve her."
"If she will have us, then." He hated the bitterness in his own voice. Hated it. But he couldn't repress it, either. Daemon didn't answer, and after a while he took a deep breath. "I hate this."
"What? Waiting? You've never been the most patient of people, Prick, but…"
"You know what I mean," Lucivar snapped. "This. Winsol. Every year. Dance for the glory of Witch, when all they want is to forget that Witch even might exist, someday."
"It doesn't matter." Daemon's voice was still low, controlled. "What they make Winsol isn't what it is." Lucivar looked away. He couldn't express, not to anyone, the bitter shame he felt, thinking about the night ahead.
"Mother Night, Bastard…" He returned to the window, stared out at the snow. "How can we…"
"Fight," Daemon said, sharply. "Bend, not break. Give as good as you get. I don't need to tell you this, Lucivar." He straightened. "We're not going to wait to be called."
"No?" He turned to look at his brother, trying to gauge the expression on those still, beautiful features.
"No. Let us remind them what we are."
Bastard pleasure slaves, Lucivar kept himself from saying, but Daemon knew it anyway. His eyes flared. "No. Ebon-Gray and Black Warlord Princes. Will you share a cup with me, brother, for the glory of Witch?"
Lucivar found a smile curving his lips. He could feel the chill in his eyes. "As long as I don't have to dance with you as well."
Daemon smiled back, his court mask donned, face cold as he stepped to Lucivar's side, gracefully. "I think I'll reserve that pleasure for someone else. Shall we?"
"Yes," he said simply, and they strode from the room, steps perfectly matched, the cold of snow following them out.