A/N: Okay, so for those of you who reviewed chapter 6 and got a preview of chapter 7 from Godric's POV, this will seem wrong - because it's not what you expected. Apologies. All I can say is that my muse pulled me in a completely different direction.

Many thanks to Mrskroy, rachel olsen-williams and every single reader!

xXxXxXxXx Present Day xXxXxXxXx

I'd thought that I'd lost everything – my life, my family… my sanity. But little did I know that, in time, all three would be returned to me, just in a slightly different form and fashion. But I couldn't help but remember the warning I'd been given… that without careful action, history was likely to repeat itself.

oOoOoOoOo Flashback oOoOoOoOo

At least once a day, Fintan found his thoughts drifting towards the granddaughter he had only held in his arms once, the one who needed to stay hidden now more than ever. He wondered what she preferred for breakfast, how she fared in her schooling, what color she favored – he posited on it all. From what shade her hair color had become to which loop she made first when tying her shoes, he imagined each detail to an almost excruciating degree. His heart often ached, dying to know all about the life he had missed, the one he had protected with a cluviel dor, a faery wish.

Mostly he hoped she was inexplicably happy, but he feared that much like himself, she was not.

It was not as if Fintan did not appreciate his new lodgings or life, especially since he spent each day and night wrapped up in the arms of his true love. He adored living in the Human Realm, just not the reason he had found himself standing outside the front door of the house on Hummingbird Lane over ten years prior. Adele had welcomed him with open arms – without a word passing between them – and Fintan had been all too eager to step into her embrace. He was desperate to grab for some sense of normalcy, stability – to protect the little family he had left.

Because more than a decade ago, the Purist's war, the civil battle amongst the Fae, had ended – with Breandan beheading Fintan's father, committing avunculicide.

Breandan held his gruesome show in public so the whole Faery Realm could bear witness, be certain without any lingering doubts who had won. Lochlan and Neave had stood by his side with crazy eyes and razor sharp blades, daring anyone to challenge the new ruler's claim to the throne. The two thrived on chaos and itched for an unfair fight. They preferred to toy with their adversaries, or chosen prey, like a cat bats at a trapped mouse. Fear fueled their lust for blood and destruction. But Breandan's victory signaled the unceremonious end of their fun unless insurgents appeared among the masses – moved against the Realm's new prince.

They sincerely hoped some unwitting fool would step forward, and sacrifice his life for their games.

But their bloody dreams were dashed as the entirety of the Fae people dropped to their knees, swearing fealty to their newest monarch whose boots were stained red. The previous prince laid in pieces at Breandan's feet, but the faeries' gazes refused to travel so low. It was easier, and safer, to lock step and declare allegiance than to risk being torn to shreds.

The Fae were nothing, if not fiercely protective of their ability to live for an almost endless number of years – all except for Fintan, who had traded his near eternity for the wish afforded by a cluviel dor.

But Fintan had not been present to witness the death of his father, or to rise up against the new regime. He was chained by his cousin, Breandan, awaiting his own sentence in a cell as the unsettling gasps rang out from the crowd. He knew in that moment that Niall was gone, his three thousand years ended with the swipe of what Fintan imagined was a sharp blade – from the sound its swing had echoed into the air. He winced and covered his ears, unwilling to listen to Purists' roar of approval, to the world he knew come crashing down around him. He hoped his own death would be just as swift, but also the last of Breandan's show.

In short, Fintan had prayed to the Gods that he was the only other prisoner left in the castle's cells.

Sweat beaded on his forehead as he wrung his shackled hands. He feared his part-faery granddaughter was among those left to face execution – like he believed himself to be. He could not help but worry that Breandan had amassed a great crowd, every last citizen of the Faery Realm because he intended to mark his territory, publicly massacre the last of the halflings as a tribute to the Gods. The Purists, the victors in the Faery War, subscribed to the notion that those who sullied the blood – carried it in a diluted form – had desecrated its importance and angered the Gods who had created their race. They had slaughtered each and every half-blood without impunity, without restraint or mercy. As far as Fintan knew, unless another faery had accomplished a feat similar to his own, his granddaughter was the sole surviving part-Fae in all the world, in any realm.

Although impervious to magical detection – thanks to the power of cluviel dor – Fintan wanted to trust it also meant she was beyond the faction's clutches. But one of his father's closest guards had been exposed as a quisling, so he found himself afraid all the same.

His granddaughter not only carried Fae blood, but royal blood, which made her the worst sort of offender in the Purists' eyes. They believed in platitudes and absolutes. Because her blood had magical properties, she would be identified as the root cause of the faery people's problem with infertility – or at least she would be seen as such, if they had discovered she existed. As Fintan peered out the small barred window of his cell, the beauty of the hills and valleys juxtaposed against the eerie silence of his perceived demise, Fintan shed a single mutinous tear. He wished he had done many things differently – spent every possible moment with his granddaughter instead of magicking her away.

But Fintan flicked the wetness away as his cousin bounded into the room, and unshackled him.

"Do you know why I'm keeping you alive?" Breandan said, without waiting for Fintan to give a physical or audible response, "Well, let me tell you why, my dear cousin. You and your father were fighting a losing battle from the get-go; you both betrayed our people, our race without even a second thought. And for what? So that some faery scum could run off and fuck humans? So our people could mate and reproduce with an inferior race, and ruin everything? You stood on the losing side, cousin, but I don't think you so much agreed with your father as fell in line. I know you, Fintan; we grew up at each other's side. We're practically brothers! For that, and only that reason, Fintan, I spare your life. Cousin, believe me, if it was up to me, I would embrace you with open arms, but I can't do that. I CAN'T!"

Breandan hissed out an uneasy breath through gritted teeth to calm his upheaved emotions before he continued.

"But you can't live here either, not as a traitor to your people, our people. No, you will live alone, and in shame, in the Human Realm. That will be your punishment, your absolution for standing against our people by following Niall. But know this, my dear cousin," Breandan warned, a threat evident in his tone, "My scry will never cease its search for halflings, and I don't believe in mercy. So keep your dick in your pants, if you catch my drift. Because while Lochlan and Neave would just adore having a new plaything, I suspect you would prefer not to gift them one. Tell me you understand."

Fintan nodded, exhaling a breath he did not even realize he had been holding.

As Darick, Niall's treasonous imbecile of a second, officially exiled him from the Realm – Breandan closing all portals behind him – Fintan could not help but smile, despite his still-grieving heart. It had been an awful day, and he had suffered great, irreparable losses. But the Gods had answered his prayers, his granddaughter had not become a victim of the halfling massacre.

He knew because his cousin would have never left him with his life otherwise.

Once assured he had truly been left to his own devices, Fintan had begun an exhaustive and laborious search to locate his granddaughter. Since he had made his wish, he had been inexplicably worried for her safety, a tense and unsettling feeling continuously anchored in his gut at all times. What if she had not grown up with love or support? What if her human parents were cruel and cold, as he knew they could sometimes be? What if her life had been hard?

Those were the kinds of thoughts that kept him up at night.

He had given little thought, and no concern, to his people's greatest enemy – vampires. They were not his, or those borne in his bloodline's biggest problem by any stretch of the imagination. Royal blood, being what it was, acted like a sort of poison to the whole of the blood-sucking race. It meant nothing that Fintan's granddaughter was only a partial faery because she was royalty all the same, her blood just as potent and potentially deadly. Amongst the walking dead, she would be invulnerable, or at least undrainable – if a bloodsucker dared to taste her. It was the underlying, unspoken reason he had agreed to let her go, to leave her amongst mortals, knowing immortals intrigued and enticed by her smell hid in the shadows, in the night…

"Fintan?"

Adele called out, her utterance traveling from her position at the second floor staircase and ringing throughout the expanse of the house.

"Yes, Adele?"

He replied back from the first floor living room, shaking off his heavy thoughts of his father's murder and his fleeting worries about his granddaughter's uncertain future.

"Someone's callin' for you."

Fintan had not even heard the technology's jingling song, but still he rose from the floral couch and shuffled towards the kitchen, to reach the closest telephonic device. Pushing through the swinging door, he turned to lift the rotary phone from its wall pocket. He raised it to his ear, and made a request before addressing the unknown caller.

"Adele? I am on the line now, my sweets. Could you please hang up your side?"

He paused, waiting to hear the tell-tale click before continuing.

Although Fintan trusted Adele, with all his heart and soul, he had an inkling who the caller could be. He did not imagine she would appreciate it if she found out that he had been lying to her for the past seventeen years.

Like all the residents of Bon Temps, she believed that her youngest grandchild – Sookie Adele – had passed from the earth shortly before her birth. He did not have it in himself to tell her the truth, not yet. He knew it would break her heart to find out her son's daughter had been alive all these years but merely outside of the family's grasp. He could only imaginehow Sookie's mother would respond. Fintan desperately wanted to shield his human family from his maneuverings to locate the thought-dead child until she was found. But even then, he had no idea how he was going to explain to Adele or Sookie's mother and father why – or how – he had done what he had done.

But Fintan had resigned himself to jump that bridge once he came to it, and not a moment sooner.

"Fintan, if you are agreeable," Desmond said, not waiting for his friend to question his identity, knowing he would recognize him by voice, "Can you pop over to my law office in Dallas? I need to speak to you… face-to-face."

For years, Fintan's closest friend, Desmond Cataliades – a demon lawyer immersed in both the human and supernatural world – had been assisting him in the search for Sookie's whereabouts. As it turned out, hers had been a closed adoption, which he was learning had been crafted to prevent the very thing he desperately wanted – to find her.

So far, the only thing the pair had uncovered was dead-ends, and red herrings.

"Of course, my friend."

Fintan responded, not knowing what else to say to such an ominous sounding statement.

Remembering enough of the building's layout to transport inside of it with ease, Fintan was met by Desmond's assistant, Charity, who was quick to offer a beverage he just as swiftly denied. With a small smile and a nod of her head, she ushered him towards a walled-off meeting room, assuring him that Mr. Cataliades would join him momentarily. Fintan sank down into one of the black leather office chairs, noticing that it swiveled at the slightest movement. Anxious, he tapped his fingers on the mahogany table before him, the rhythm erratic and without intention.

A blank, but large TV adorned the wall at the end of the table, and Fintan took note of it, without sparing a second thought on its purpose.

Not minutes later, Desmond ambled into the room, gently closing the wooden door behind him. It was an uncharacteristically temperate gesture from the demon who normally crashed and bounded about like a bull in a china shop. Fintan pushed back his chair, to raise himself to his feet, but his friend's gesture asked him nonverbally to sit. Unable to form words, inexplicably nervous to the point of muteness, Fintan complied with a simple bow of his head. But he stiffened against the padded fabric as he slipped once again to a seated position, steeling himself for the bad news he expected to come.

Without explanation or ceremony, Desmond slumped into the chair across the table from him and snatched the remote from the table, powering on the TV and flipping it to a random news channel. The brightness and noise took Fintan off-guard and he flinched slightly as the scripted ramblings of a newscaster filled the air.

"We're still here in Central Dallas tonight," the young brunette woman exclaimed, a microphone clutched in her hand and inches from her mouth, "at the scene of a grisly murder in the Preston Hollow area, where three bodies – now identified as Henry, Paige, and Ginny Harding – were found electrocuted inside their moderately-sized suburban home. The killer, now dubbed the Berzerker..."

With a soft click, the screen flashed to another channel.

"...the Berzerker, nicknamed after a comic book character who possessed the supernatural ability to shock people with lightning, is still at large. Dallas police are asking anyone with information..."

Click.

"...kie Adele, or Addy as her friends called her, is presumed dead, although her body has yet to be recovered. An anonymous source has told us that the police found a shirt, sized for an adult male and covered in blood, shoved under the seventeen year old's mattress. DNA testing will show whether or not it is in fact..."

Click.

"... flight home this morning from a Spring Break trip to New Orleans, where hospital records indicate the missing Harding had been the victim of a brutal stabbing that perforated several of her organs, requiring immediate and extensive surgery..."

Desmond silenced the program with a press of the mute button.

"Why would you show me this?"

Fintan asked, still staring at the movement on the now silent screen, afraid he already knew the answer to his own question.

"I doubt it's national news, but here it's on every channel. No, let me back up… There was…" Desmond said cautiously, pausing every so often, "… a fairy girl, a telepathic one… on the plane… next to me… when I traveled from Louisiana back to Dallas earlier today."

Fintan's breath hitched in his throat, but he stifled the noise, hiding it from his demon friend.

He had just moments before been incognizant, or at least inadvertently unawares, of the implications of Desmond's statement. Fintan and Adele had long since forgotten the gift the demon had graced them with as she carried his first child, Corbett – Sookie's father. He had assumed, when Corbett was born without the gift to read human minds – a demon trait unnatural to his own kind – that Desmond's blood had simply gone to waste because it had not found a faery spark to attach itself to.

He had not considered it would linger until one presented itself, and the realization made him feel sick from embarrassment.

"Are you sure?"

Fintan asked, questioning both the belief that Desmond had not only sat next to one of his kind, but to one who was likely his own kin.

"Yes, I'm positive."

The certainty in the demon's growly voice did not escape Fintan's notice, but he felt out of sorts and like the world had been turned upside down all the same. His friend had found a fairy – probably her – but it seemed there was more to it than that – much more. Fintan was not sure if his stomach, or his nerves, could handle it.

"You know, I had vampire blood once…." Desmond grumbled out without waiting for Fintan's response, his gravelly tone sounding more worried and concerned than prickly or biting like usual, "Not by choice, mind you; not really. I'd been assaulted, aberrantly caught by surprise. I was fortunate enough, stupidly lucky, to stumble into a vampire who owed me an enormous favor as I stood perched on the precipice of death. I still needed help, after that I mean – vampire blood isn't exactly a cure-all…"

"Why are you telling me this?!"

Fintan exclaimed exasperatedly, gripping the arm rests of the chair as if they were lifelines. While he had accurately gleaned his friend's point, he hoped he was wrong all the same.

A sigh drifted quietly across the table before Desmond continued.

"It messed with me – the vampire blood – amplified my powers and made them go haywire. It warred inside me until it burned out. I almost died, died mind you, despite the fact that demons are preternaturally strong... I'm telling you this because your granddaughter reeked of vampire blood – whether she'd had a lot or a little, I could not say for sure..."

Fintan was not sure that one was infinitely better than the other. But before he could say a thing, Desmond continued motioning to the stationary picture of the young blonde girl dubbed "Addy" in the upper right-hand corner of the telecast.

Desmond sighed loudly, placing his hand on his forehead and squeezing his eyes shut in a surprisingly emotional display for the usually impassive demon.

"Addy, as they call her, is Sookie, your granddaughter. She's the fairy who sat right next to me on the plane. She wasn't well when I met her. Her telepathy was obviously paining her. I should've stayed, should've done…" Desmond's breath hitched in this throat, "… so many things differently… in hindsight. I imagine whatever Fae powers she has were only momentarily held at bay… I don't know, your kind is so fucking secretive," the volume of Desmond's voice raised and carried anger in its wake before subsiding, resigning itself again to sorrow, "…considering the events that surely followed, and her... unexplainable absence..."

Fintan stilled, aware that the most prevalent faery power was the ability to shoot white light from one's own form when properly agitated or threatened – and vampire blood, according to Desmond, was an unavoidable ignition switch. Desmond's implication, unavoidable and plain, was that she had died – spontaneously combusted, leaving nothing in her wake. Fintan had no means, or motivations, to argue against Desmond's unspoken conclusion, despondently stripped of all his hopes and dreams.

Because Desmond's assertion was logical – even if unpalatable – and the most likely of all scenarios, given the evidence.

With few words shared between them, Fintan languidly bid his goodbyes, bags appearing under his worried and tear-filled eyes almost instantly. His granddaughter was dead, and all the magics in the world could not bring her back. No one could cheat death. He had wasted his life, her life, on his father's war – to lose both abruptly and unexpectedly. Fintan did not know how to move forward, or what he would do next.

All he knew was that he would never truly be readied to say goodbye.

oOoOoOoOooOoOoOoOo

Darick stood motionless next to the unoccupied throne, waiting.

He spent many a day waiting, expecting for the floor to fall out beneath him. He had been a royal guard, a second by all accounts, for Prince Brigant, the fallen despot who had been disposed of unceremoniously and publicly by the former insurgent, now King – Breandan. Despite his ties to Prince Brigant, Darick had always felt a small tug towards the Purists' side of the war. Its platitudes were not only pleasing to him, but also logical – of course, blood offenses would offend the Gods who had blessed his race with special gifts. He had a difficult time accepting Niall's espoused beliefs that supernaturals and humans were meant to mix and explore their bounds, but Darick never faltered in his service to his prince, or voiced his disagreement.

Because he was nothing if not devotedly loyal to Niall Brigant – even when he did not necessarily want to be.

His sister Meridian had chastised him more than once for remaining in the Prince's employ during the Faery War. She was none too quiet behind closed doors in her exclamations. She ardently believed that he should betray Niall, and feed the Prince's many secrets to the rebel cause – help to take down the incumbent regime from the inside. Darick was not quite so invested in the Purist cause, or in the know, to take such extreme action. He shrugged off the sentiment, knowing that his sister had her own motivations for pushing him to accept Breandan and his machinations. Namely, because she had begun a torrid affair with the handsome rebel shortly after the beginnings of the uprising. Love, whether true or lustful, had blinded her to the Purist leader's numerous atrocities against the Faery race.

But Darick remained steadfast in his fidelities and allegiance to his sister – even when he did not necessarily want to be.

He loved his sister, unconditionally and unfathomably, but she tested his meddle – smarter than him, but stupidly ignorant to her misalignments. He found himself with loyalties on both sides of the war, and it plagued him – almost to the point of exhaustion. While the Prince noted his distant temperament and adjusted accordingly, his sister almost intentionally made things more difficult.

But without one word of protest or anger, he suffered her emotional shifts and outbursts all the same. His mind pulled out a memory, reminded him of a moment almost fifteen years old as he shifted nervously from one foot to the other. His extremities had become sore and sleepy from his motionless position next to the still empty throne.

It had already been a long day, and he imagined it was only going to get longer.

"Surely there's something you can tell me!" With desperation laced in her tone, Meridian had pressed him on one particularly memorable occasion, before the war had met its end, "Something that would cause Prince Brigant to crumble and break."

There was, but Darick simply shook his head 'no' in response to his sister's pleadings. He pursed his lips in a tight line while donning an apologetic affection, and she had none of it.

"UGH! I vouched for you, brother! I told Breandan you were trustworthy, and on our side, yet you pull this… this SHIT!"

She cried out throwing her hands into the air before stomping away from him.

Despite his prominent position in the Faery court – or perhaps because of it – Darick had been welcomed by Breandan with open arms into his inner circle. Not once did the charming dissident press the faery guard for intel or implore him to leave Niall's side – but his sister surely did, often and without reprieve. Darick understood inherently that she was simply Breandan's sweet-faced mouthpiece, controlled subversively with a dark purpose in mind. Over time, Darick imagined Breandan's patience grew short as his sister's had done the same.

The night in question had only been minorly different, Darick realized as his sister bounded back into the room with her long red hair bouncing as if with purpose and hands fisted at her sides.

"Do NOT make a fool of me!" Meridian spat out through gritted teeth, "You traveled to the Human Realm with the old codger, and often. Do NOT tell me you learned nothing! You know his secrets! You DO! Tell me ONE! SHOW ME YOU LOVE ME!"

She had unceremoniously demanded, on this occasion and this occasion alone, asking for tangible and undeniable proof of his affections. He flinched as her harsh words assaulted his ears, none of his discomfort betrayed by his placid expression. As a veritable slave to his devotions, Darick had felt compelled to oblige her request. Because despite his silence and dismissive shakes of his head, he had been privy to one of the Prince's most closely-held secrets.

Well, actually two – both of which could be exploited to acquiesce to his sister's passionate appeal.

But on the other hand, Darick could not. A sinking feeling bloomed in his stomach at even the thought, betray Prince Brigant – turn his back on the faery he guarded with his life. So while internally planning to undercut the reigning royalty's own machinations, he had found that silence was all he could offer his sister in this moment. But Darick had hoped, fervently and without measure, that his intended tithing would pave his way into her heart and repair the rift cut between them.

Meridian had been none too impressed at his stillness, clucking her tongue in an exasperated fashion before turning on her heel to amble out of the room again.

But as it turned out, Darick had the eyes, but not the stomach to satisfy his sister's entreaty that he prove his love for her.

Thundering through one of the Prince's hidden portals, secreted away still to this day, Darick had found himself in the Human Realm searching for a halfling child he knew his regent had ferreted away. Unable to call upon faery magics, suspecting the cluviel dor's wish impeded such an ability, Darick had relied on his tracking abilities, and what little he knew about the girl – which in reality was not much.

But it had been a successful endeavor all the same as happenstance placed him squarely in the path of the young fledging as she stumbled on chubby, three-year-old legs towards an unknown goal.

As always, Darick had all the dumb luck in the world.

He had scooped her into his arms almost instantly, hoping to relegate her back to the Realm – to her doom – without pretense or struggle. He wanted to satisfy his sister's request quickly, and get it over with. But then the young child wailed out, startling and shaking his resolve. Darick had not felt touched by her plight or softened towards her. No, he had been scared out of his ever-loving mind. What was he doing? – He queried to himself. Darick wracked his brains to remember why he had thought he had the nerve, or the stomach, to drag a young, and unassuming child back to the Faery Realm – to an inevitable slaughter.

He could not do it, not even for his sister, so he took the toddler back to her home instead.

On his return, Meridian had neither questioned his whereabouts nor implored him again to draw a veritable line in the sand and choose a side. Darick wondered if perhaps it was because she was afraid she would not like the one he would picked if she continued to force the issue.

In truth, he thought her fears were a little premature – because he still had not decided.

Darick continued to shift from foot to foot as he thought about the girl, and the one, short-lived interaction they shared when she was three. Snapping back to reality, he stood at attention again. His soggy, sweat-laced head was worse for the wear, but otherwise he looked indifferent and well-kempt.

Or at least, he hoped so.

He could not say whether or not he enjoyed his position at Breandan's side, or throne. He was nervous to be stationed rank in the Faery Court, the one-lasting fixture of the old regime. While most of Prince Brigant's militia had been disposed of, culled for fighting against the Purist uprising, Darick had been spared. Perhaps, he had been shielded from a brutal death because of Meridian and the small sway she held over Breandan's heart. But Darick suspected his services had been retained due to Breandan's false belief that the faery guard knew far more than he let on.

Darick knew his silence was seen as telling, but mostly he just felt more comfortable keeping his mouth closed than opening it.

He had watched Breandan decapitate his Prince over ten years ago, once again holding his tongue when asked – albeit indirectly – to stand up for his loyalties. Instead, he had sworn fealty to his sister's lover with his fingers crossed behind his back. He could not afford to spread himself any thinner, still torn between the ever-lingering fidelity he felt towards the fallen monarch and the unconditional love he held for his sister. In short, Breandan had purchased no real estate in his heart or mind because all the available space had already been spoken for. Darick lived in constant fear that one day Breandan would wise up to it, and kill him – like the other guards for their disloyalties – as well.

Today was no different – except that in one way, it was.

"FIND IT! FIND THE HALFLING NOW!"

Breandan screeched at an almost preternatural volume as the bolted into the room, his scrying crystal in one hand with a world map of the Human Realm in the other.

The rock had twice buzzed and spun momentarily, indicating the appearance of a very powerful faery spark, only to fall limp just as swiftly. But Breandan had gleaned the meaning of the movements all the same – somewhere in the other world, there was a halfling newborn cloaked by magics; what else could the glimmer have been? But location still undiscerned, Breandan thought he knew the how behind crystal's sudden, but short flash into animated life. There was only one faery still living on the human plane – Fintan, his expatriate cousin. Breandan cursed himself inwardly for allowing his emotions to rule the decision to let his pseudo-brother to live free despite standing on the wrong side of the Faery War.

It was a mistake he vowed he would not make again – giving his heart rule of his head.

Darick stiffened, tamping down his anxiety-filled movements, and stared forward as the new ruler of the Faery Realm ascended his throne. He looked around, eyes flitting about while his head stayed still, trying to ascertain exactly who had been charged to hunt down said halfling. But he hoped, sending an unspoken prayer to his Gods, it was not him – and in short work, they granted his request.

Darick's eyes spotted Lochlan and Neave, the former hot on the heels of the latter as they ambled into the room, extreme delight overtaking both of their countenances.

"Open the portals, open the portals."

The two chanted in unison, glee rife in their shared tone as they jumped up and down like children boosted by a sugar high. Darick stifled the urge to roll his eyes, understanding inherently such actions would be interpreted as disobedience – treachery. Breandan steepled his fingers as he slumped down further into the throne, dropping both the inert crystal and now equally worthless map abruptly to the ground with an air of disappointment.

"Fine! Have at ya."

Breandan exclaimed.

With a sweep of his hand, he opened every known portal between the Faery and Human Realm as if it was of no consequence. In that brief moment, Darick could not help but think on all the unknown ones, or the girl hidden behind them. Lochlan and Neave disappeared almost instantly, crazed with bloodlust; but Darick made no moves, not even to blink. He did not want to appear to be interested, or in the know.

Because, for the second time ever, he was – and it made him infinitely uncomfortable.

Darick knew Fintan was the only faery in the human realm, having shepherded him there himself. He also knew Fintan had been hiding a family, a non-magical one. While Darick supposed it was possible another halfling had been inauspiciously born to Fintan's mortal son, he worried instead for the girl. The one he had left to her life all those many years ago. The one Darick had tracked across the state when she moved, still not knowing how he felt about her. The one who now spent her evenings in the company of a strangely protective vampire. The one he suspected was probably going to experience a brutal death tonight at the hands of Lochlan and Neave.

He did not exactly know how he felt about it, a mix of emotions swirling within him.

In truth, Darick believed her death would appease the Gods, and restore health to the Faery Realm. But on the other hand, he also knew Prince Brigant had desperately wanted her alive – although he was immeasurably glad that he had no idea why. Nonplussed by curiosity, Darick enjoyed being blissfully ignorant and unaware. But in this, he was not. Darick sucked in a sharp breath as he accepted he could no longer embrace the stalemate, allow his loyalties to remain at an impasse. He had been torn between his devotions to Prince Brigant and his love for Meridian, but it was inescapably time to draw a line in the sand...

BAM!

A sharp pain in his leg drew his attentions back to his world, and its demanding dictator.

"Darick!" Breandan barked as he kicked the spaced-out guard, "Pay attention! I SAID, let Lochlan and Neave track down the baby. You bring me back my traitorous cousin, Fintan… NOW!"

"Yes, my liege."

Darick agreed with feigned deference rife in his tone, already planning to deviate from his bidden task.

He swept into a low bow before he popped from the room, leaving Breandan to his grumblings about family and blood.

oOoOoOoOooOoOoOoOo

Knowing all too well where his target resided, Darick popped outside the little farmhouse on Hummingbird Lane after ensuring the girl had not only met her demise, but also found her second life. He had been surprised, not pleasantly, to see the vampire had side-stepped his own final death. He had hoped to kill two birds with one stone. But all-in-all, Darick considered his machinations a success.

It was not the perfect result, or his intended outcome, but it worked all the same.

The star-filled night reminded him of the last time he had graced the Louisiana state. It was much the same he supposed – all of it because of the girl. Albeit, this time he was with a different Brigant, and had a different, darker purpose in mind, it was still very much the same. As they had before, the crickets' soft, but shrill serenades practically canopied the field in front of the house. The irritating insects seemed insistent on playing an unsolicited accompaniment to the unfolding scene.

It made Darick uncomfortable, a familiar feeling for him.

"Fintan?"

Darick asked gingerly, as he hesitantly approached the royal son of his Prince.

"Of course, he noticed the power surge…"

Fintan responded, from his position on the porch swing chair, never pulling his head up from his cupped hands.

He imagined it was fitting, to die on the same day as his precious granddaughter – who he had traded his infinite years for. Overwrought by guilt and regret, he could not even bring himself to care, desperate only to apologize to Adele before succumbing to a fate deserved for his folly. It was time; time to atone for his sins against his family. He was powerless to resist – his cousin's ministrations, or his Gods' furies. His comeuppance stood manifested in the form of the turncoat, the dissident who had betrayed his father and partnered with the Purist scum.

"I have been charged to bring you back to the Realm, so you can stand trial for your crimes against the kingdom and its ideologies. Treason… your cousin said."

Darick announced, taking another step towards the farmhouse porch.

A long pause stood between them, filling the foggy space like a billowing smoke. The silence became palpable as even the crickets ceased their incessant din. Several minutes passed before Fintan spoke, his quiet words slicing like a knife through the thick night air.

"You know, you all finally got what you wanted. What does it matter now? Why can you not just leave me alone? She is dead, you Purist piece of shit! Dead!"

Fintan sobbed out in a shaky whisper-yell, raising to his feet while still obscuring his tear-stained face.

There were many words that bubbled into Darick's throat, comforting things he could not bear to say aloud or offer in response. Instead, he plucked out a small string of words, hoping their meaning could be gleaned without further explanation. Darick knew, in some sense, he had chosen a side, but he was not quite ready to wear it as a veritable pin fastened to his armored chest. He closed the small space between them, ascending the few porch stairs and placed a consoling hand on the shoulder of a very surprised Fintan.

With a slow tempo, and a telling tone, Darick whispered back to the grieving faery.

"But just because she is dead does not mean she is gone."

Darick spied a small smile tug at Fintan's lips as he shackled him for transport back to the Faery Realm, and it caused his heart to clench. The faery soldier regretted bringing him such momentary happiness. Not because it had not been Darick's aim – to alleviate Fintan's sorrow – but because once the two of them returned to the Realm, he imagined he would never see Fintan's smile again.