Author: Courtney - "AvoidingAverage" on fanfic
POV: Oberon.
Other Works By This Author:
Broken Dreams - "The clever trap of the King of Hybern has cost Feyre her mate bond and she remains trapped behind enemy lines, alone and broken. Set immediately after ACOMAF."
The Falling - "The final battle with Hybern through Nesta's perspective with a new happy ending. One-Shot. Heavy Nessian."
Prologue:
Awakening
Once, he could feel the sun and sky above. Had known the touch of a lover, the tiny strength of his daughter's hand clutching his own…but no longer. Those memories were harder for him to recall but he would never forget the rage that simmered beneath his skin. He was forged anew in the fires of hatred and the desire for vengeance, forgetting the man he once was.
Time had long since lost all meaning to him. He lived by the distant sounds of waves crashing steadily against the rocky outcropping on the edges of the prison. Inside, the screams of the wretched and insane echoed off the stone walls. With no hope of escape or even death, the other inhabitants of these cells were nothing but the animalistic imprints of an immortal race.
He forced himself to focus, forced himself to remain sane and not lose sight of what he must do.
I am Oberon. I will not let them erase me. I will have my revenge. They will never forget and I will never forgive.
The words were a balm and stinging irritant. Part of him knew that escape from the Prison was impossible, that some of the creatures within these walls had remained trapped for millennia. To accept that fact would destroy him, so he continued to repeat his mantra even when the names and faces of his past became blurry. Even when he began to forget the male he had been. He refused to forget the blood that was spilled.
Somewhere deep beneath the ground, he began to forget about the light and accepted the horrors of the dark.
Time passed as it always did, even when you could not mark its passage. He ignored most things now, aside from the occasional whispers of the new High Lord of the Night Court's visits. The others were restless, sensing that something was changing in the world outside. It was hard to hope for anything, but he allowed himself to plan nonetheless.
When a new wave of magic swept through the lands and into the very bones of the Prison, he took his chance. His power was weakened by the wards, but the destruction of what could only be the Wall had confused them. Small fissures in the magic spread through the barriers placed on this floating rock. With a bit of pressure, he began to chip away at the wards keeping his cell door closed and his magic tucked away.
It took time and patience to break through the door but these things he had in abundance. It was another thing entirely to move through the labyrinth of corridors towards the exit he only vaguely recalled. Within the first hundred yards, it was clear that he was not the only one who'd noticed the new weakness in the walls. Terrifying shapes and sounds loomed in the darkness, united by their desires to be free of this place.
Each step was torture as the spells pulled and tore at his skin and magic. He refused to halt his relentless path towards freedom, towards vengeance.
I am Oberon, he panted.
I will not let them erase me.
I will have my revenge.
They will never forget and I will never forgive.
Snarling with a mixture of hope and riotous fury, he forced himself through the last of the clinging spell work and into the blinding light of day.
For a moment, he stood stunned at the sensation of freedom. His eyes hurt from the exposure but he refused to close them, refused to return to the dark. Instead he gathered his magic, and winnowed as far away from the Prison as possible.
He moved quickly, understanding that it was only a matter of time before one of the watchdogs of the Night Court would begin to hunt him. He planned to be long gone before they even realized he was missing.
Stretching out his senses, he frowned when he felt an ancient and familiar magic throb in the south. Interesting…someone was playing with the Cauldron. How very naughty indeed.
Satisfied that the fae courts had their own problems to concern them, he took advantage of the fallen Wall and crossed into the human world. In the world before the Prison, humans were little more than slaves for the High Lords. He sneered at the tiny homes and stinking cities that he passed through, continuing to move towards the mountains at the edge of his visions. Stupid, mewling wretches had no idea of what lay in store for them.
No one did.
He was panting by the time he reached the foothills and began to cast about for a new trail to follow. His months spent locked inside the Prison had weakened him and his magic flickered weakly in his chest. Oberon just smiled, it was only a matter of time before the world would be filled with the cries of mourning and the sweet scent of death. His magic would return and his revenge would be sweet.
In the meantime, he would begin by hunting a few witches.
It took time to set up his plans and ensure his victory, far too long for any human to attempt the same. It was unfortunate really-he wanted so desperately to reacquaint himself with the land of his youth. Still, the Prison had taught him patience, allowed him to consider every piece of the puzzle that was the High Courts of Prythian. United, they would remain a threat to his newfound power.
So, instead of ripping his way through the heart of the immortal lands, he sought new allies. Ones that remained a thorn in the side of those who sought to establish justice and order between humans and magic users. The witches. As descendants of the Valg, they thrived in chaos and disorder, violence and bloodshed-and that suited him just fine.
The matrons of the witch clans were obviously reluctant to bow to his leadership but his unique...skills made their refusal futile.
Oberon looked up from his musings with mild interest at the sound of sharp footsteps. The irritable, but familiar form of his witch general entered the room, followed by her second. Sif touched two fingers briefly to her brow and waited for him to acknowledge her, "Did you complete your mission?" he asked, his deep voice sweeping through the room.
She glowered at him, "Would I return otherwise?" Oberon resisted the urge to grin at her prickly nature. Sif was always easy to rile.
Gesturing imperiously, she signaled for a group of alarmed looking fae into the room. Their clothes were travel worn and stained and it was obvious that they belonged to the working classes of immortals, far below the lofty palaces of the High Lords. Once, long, long ago, he would have pitied their position in life, but now he recognized them for what they truly were-pawns in a much grander scheme.
Oberon allowed the silence to build the tension in the room, knowing the cluster of creatures were taking in the macabre and grandiose furnishings of his throne room. Long ago, in one of his first forays into the mortal world, Oberon had amused himself by fashioning himself into a god for a small tribe of humans. Apollo, they had called him, a god of healing and disease as well as truth and prophecy. For centuries, he and his court had manipulated the politics and petty squabbles of mankind for their own amusement until they had grown bored of the short lives and silly hopes of their playthings and returned to the world of immortals.
In homage to his time as a god, Oberon fashioned his home to look like the lustrous temples of the ancient human civilization. Gleaming white marble pillars soared up out of intricate floor mosaics set with precious stones.
The new Witch King lounged on a throne that was a glaring contrast to the clean Grecian styles around him. His throne was made from hundreds of softly gleaming bones partially covered by a deep red cushion that stood out in jarring contrast against the pale skeletal remains. Fleshless spines formed the framework for the back and armrest while countless tiny finger bones created delicate patterns along the various leg and arm bones used to support his nightmarish design. Four skulls sat at each corner of the throne's back and armrests respectively—each belonging to one of the former Matrons of the witch clans. A blatant warning to each of his visitors.
In comparison to this gruesome reminder of how Oberon had come to power, the high king himself was rather innocuous. He appeared to be only in his late thirties with a charmingly handsome face framed by tousled dark hair carefully arranged to show off his features while still appearing effortless. One could almost forget what kind of malevolence he was capable of at least until you looked into his eyes. They were a sickly kind of yellow that had no natural counterpart and they seemed to bleed with unimaginable horrors. The king's clothing was cut simply to show off the intricate embroidery covering every inch of exposed fabric. On closer inspection, an unfortunate witness could make out the tiny figures writhing in pain with a stylized red border decorating the edges of his high collar.
It was an image carefully crafted to ensure the loyalty and obedience of all his followers as well as a gruesome reminder of the nature of his powers. Once he was convinced that his guests were suitably cowed, he stood, drawing their attention back to him.
"Welcome to my kingdom." He smiled charmingly, "I hope Sif wasn't too rough with you?"
His general snorted in derision and leaned against one of the columns in the back, her second remaining silently at her side. The fairies shivered and remained silent, too terrified to speak. There were seven of them, one from each of the High Courts though he wondered if they realized they were representing their homelands. It was obvious that they could not claim the magical abilities that were bred in the high fae. The magic of the lesser fae, or fairies, were typically split into elemental skills: water, earth, fire, and air were the most common and easily manipulated. Each member of their race and subraces controlled their element in different ways. Some could control and communicate with the animals of their forests; others could pull the water from the rivers and seas and force it to bend to their will.
Sif had done well to choose relatively healthy fairies that lacked the capacity to combat most offensive magic, but they had enough magic to serve his purposes. To their High Lords and Ladies, they were nothing more than the workers that ensured the fields were worked and their pantries remained well stocked. After this night however, they would become the first soldiers in a war that would rattle the stars from the sky.
He continued as if they had all given an affirmative, "I am sorry for the rude introduction, but, you see, you are a very important part of a much grander scheme." As he spoke, he walked closer to the huddled group of fairies. Gently, he held out his hands to them, "Come, take my hand and I will show you how we can change the world…"
Oberon's grin slowly widened as the first fae hesitantly reached out and allowed their skin to touch, "Don't worry, my friends, you will be returned to your homes safely and with ample provisions with my apologies for the inconvenience."
Hope bloomed on their faces as he continued, "I hope you would not mind delivering a message for me on your return." Gesturing to a nearby servant, he produced several sealed letters and handed one to each of the fae. "I need these delivered to the High Lords of each court and my friends here," he gestured to the witches remaining silently on guard at the edges of the throne room, "are not welcome in northern Prythian."
"Do we have a deal?" The poor creatures were so relieved that they jostled each other to pluck a letter from his hand. A few even had broad smiles of relief on their plain faces. Foolish creatures.
Hiding his thoughts, he turned once more to Sif, "See that they are given ample supplies and a swift mount," Oberon smiled cheerfully at the group, "they need to return home quickly."