Disclaimer: I don't own the Black Jewels, but love the characters. Any faults are mine, not Anne Bishop's.
Ebon Askavi
Twice a month he descended to the depths of the Keep, where very few were allowed to walk. Lorn, legendary Prince of the Dragons, liked his privacy, and quiet.
But he was the last of his kind, and the High Lord had gained an impression of loneliness, too. It was a feeling he understood.
So Saetan asked permission, and was given it, to share some time with Lorn. Just to talk about what Jaenelle or Witch had done that week. Occasionally he would relate events in the lives of the former First Circle Queens and their Consorts, sent through chatty letters addressed to 'Uncle Saetan'. Sometimes he brought a book to read aloud to Lorn, so afterwards they could talk for a while, making a small bridge between two races so far apart and different.
It was a change for Saetan to be with a being who dwarfed him in every way. He was usually the one others thought of as older, wiser, more powerful and experienced.
You are my son, Lorn had said. You have upheld the ways of the Blood.
Saetan treasured those words. He had always done his best, even as the weight of his mistakes sometimes burdened his heart with a load that felt impossible to carry much longer.
The chamber lightened as torches flared to life, enough so he could make his way along the wall to a comfortable chair placed beside a small table.
*Ssaetan.* Lorn's golden eyes opened. They were as large as dinner plates.
"Lorn," he replied courteously, giving a bow of respect for the one who was the source of the Blood's power. Lorn's scales were the Jewels they were gifted with, even the ever-changing Twilight's Dawn, the jewel Jaenelle now wore in place of the Ebon-black.
*You are troubled.*
Saetan blinked in surprise. "No, things are going well."
*In your heart.*
He did not deny it. Lorn had immense powers – he was the power that embrued the Keep. Even Witch respected Lorn.
"Perhaps a little," he admitted. "At times I feel torn between the Realms. I'm a Guardian, one of the living dead. But I have ties to the Living Realms, ties I'm not strong enough to cut, at least not completely. It's a weakness I wish to overcome, but it's difficult."
The huge golden eyes stared at him. He was accustomed to that gaze, but he still felt the weight of it.
At last Lorn said, *When a goal iss accomplisshed, another comess.*
He wasn't certain what that had to do with his problem, but he accepted it was all Lorn had to say. Dragons were hard to push, even the small ones that lived in the Fyreborn Islands and were distant descendants of their mighty ancestors who had once ruled all.
Saetan held up a book. "I thought you might find this interesting," he said, and sat down. He formed a ball of bright candle-light with a thought, opened the pages to the passage he marked with a strip of paper, and began to read.
When he was back in his bedroom, Saetan thought about Lorn's words. His goal...what was his goal now?
As soon as Jaenelle came into his life, his goal had been to keep his fragile Lady safe. He instructed her at Craft, encouraged her hesitant attempts to reach out to her childhood friends. He protected her as she grew to womanhood. It was one of his greatest joys, as well as with deep-seated relief, when she became Daemon's wife.
Daemon, whose predatory nature had honed him into a lethal weapon that would always defend his Queen. Who had waited seventeen hundred years to be Witch's Consort and Jaenelle's husband.
And oh, that Dance between the two of them was a sight to behold! As Lucivar liked to say, Witch danced with Sadist, while Daemon made love to Jaenelle.
The last three decades had brought pain and blood to all in Kaeleer and Terreille. But also joy, warmth, laughter, and love – reminders of why it had been worth the long wait for Witch to appear in the flesh.
How could he turn his back on his own children?
Although they were grown, he was an integral part of their lives. Still...they didn't really need him any longer. Surely it would not be long before he could take those last steps backwards.
Wouldn't it?
Saetan faced the truth he wanted to hide from. Could he honestly step away and no longer care about his children and grandchildren?
Never read another story to Ruthvian and Daemonar? Never watch them grow up, fall in love, get married and have children of their own? Never play with the children of his blood when Daemon and Jaenelle started their family?
He couldn't do it. He couldn't step back, never to walk in the Living Realms again. It was traditional for a Guardian. The ties had to be cut, Cassandra told him. She had done it, watched her people fade and die off, new races appear and flourish.
But hadn't she become weary of the half-life, towards the end? What was that she had said to him in his dream?
I wish I had been a better friend to you.
He wished for it, too. Someone to share a laugh with, drink a glass of yarbarah in front of the fire, when the endless nights became more Darkness than even he could bear. And if she had regrets about severing their relationship...
Was his longing to keep the ties of love that bound him to the living, such a bad thing?
Long ago, when he was struggling to be accepted by people who looked down on him for having no father, no connections, there was a saying in old Terreille.
Dried blood only turns to dust.
Not even the Ebon-black powers of Witch, she who was the living myth, dreams made flesh, can change the Past. But every Black Widow knows that the tangled webs show what is possible. The Future is never set; a man's choices determine his path.
Another goal comess.
