Hey folks, just thought I'd let you know I'm still looking for a secondary beta; if any of you are interested.
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Even though there's only an hour's difference between Montana and California she still feels tired. Covering up a yawn she sways slightly as they walk off the plane and limpets herself to Jordan's side. A chuckle escapes him as his arm wraps around her. "Almost there love." He kisses her temple.
Peter's hand brushes her shoulder as they start to head over to the carousel to grab their bags. "Do we have a ride, or do we need to find a rental place?"
Jordan hums, "there should be someone waiting for us."
They walk out of baggage claim to arrivals and Peter makes a sound. Following his gaze she sees a man in a suit holding a sign that reads 'Martin'. "Guess that's us."
The man smiles at them, "Greetings, I'm George and I'll be your chauffeur. May I take the bags sir?"
Peter smiles. "Of course."
Bags exchange hands, and George gives a little bow. "If you all would follow me."
Exiting the airport they walk to short term parking and George leads them into the late afternoon sunlight towards a boring sedan. Unlike the plane ride, where she and Peter kept Jordan between them, she finds herself ensconced in the middle seat.
Lydia lets herself drowse as they pull out, her head resting against Peter's shoulder. Jordan's voice becomes pleasing white noise as he starts talking with George, asking after family members and the state of said family's farm. It's a nice way for the time to pass and before she knows it they're pulling into a driveway.
Peter nudges her gently, "are you going to walk? Or should one of us carry you?" He sounds amused.
She huffs and blinking sits upright. "I can still walk." She might look like a drunk doing it, but she wasn't going to collapse any time soon.
"Of course," at least Peter manages to not sound condescending. He climbs out of the car and offers her an hand. Magnanimously she takes it.
They're parked near an old, but well cared for, house; four stories tall with light spilling from nearly every window. It's warm and well, homey, and Lydia for some reason finds herself comforted by it.
"This way please," George's voice makes her jump, and she whirls around to see him standing at the edge of a what might be a grain field of some sort –Lydia preferred physics and chemistry to botany. George starts walking through it, on a path that Lydia can barely see, and the three of them hurry to catch up.
The walk through the grain, as well as a second one of some green plant with small purple flowers, field leaves Lydia feeling rejuvenated. Which she appreciates as they trek through yet another field, she'd hate for the first thing she did at the Winter Court to be a nap.
Though she didn't think the Winter Court would be out in the middle of nowhere. Finally thought Lydia sees what must be their destination.
Morana stands next to a large hill, seemingly out of place in the otherwise flat grass field. She's wearing a dress this time, a dark, almost black green; it makes her skin appear, well, snow white, which is helped along by the fact all of her hair's been pinned up in a style Lydia can quite make out in the shade of the hill. She's also smiling slightly as they come to a stop in front of her. "Greeting, and welcome to an entrance of the Winter Court." Turning to George she steps up in front of him and leaning down kisses him on the forehead. "Your service is noted and appreciated George Michael McManus. You may go now."
George bows low a few times, apparently flustered by mother's attentions. "Thank you Your Majesty." After he sets their bags down he practically runs back across the fields towards the farmhouse.
With him gone Morana turns her full attention to them. "Welcome home Lydia, and you as well Erwann."
Peter bows before Morana can ask after him, Lydia finds herself biting back a smile at the action. "My name is Peter Hale Your Majesty."
"Ah yes, you were lurking when Lydia and I first met," which sounds more like a statement of a fact than any sort of accusation.
He gives his most charming smile. "Indeed. It is a pleasure to finally meet you Your Majesty."
If Morana's pleased by the attention she doesn't show it. "And I welcome you as well Peter Hale, know that while you walk as a guest in my halls you bear my protection; and any who harm you without grievous provocation from you shall be punished."
"Your words comfort me Your Majesty." And to think, Lydia had been worried about how Peter might fare at the Court.
Mother gives a sharp nod. "Now, we shall enter. Lydia? Attend please."
Lydia isn't quite sure what all 'attend' entails, but she thinks it's a safe bet to assume at the very least it means walking up to her mother. "Yes?"
"When you are leaving it will be far easier to open a door, but opening from this end can be tricky. Here," Lydia gives a start of surprise when her mother's cool hand takes her own and lifts it up. "Feel what I do, at the moment I do not think you will need to be able to copy my actions, but it is never too early to begin learning."
It's subtle, like brushing against silk, but Lydia definitely feels something. She's glad Morana said she wouldn't have to do this herself just yet, because she hadn't been able to do much beyond feel it.
Before them the hill splits open, like a giant breaking an apple in two. When it stops there's a large fissure leading into murky blueness. Morana takes a step towards it, Lydia blinks when she notices the luggage starts floating after her mother. "Erwann bring up the rear please. Lydia, Peter, if you would stick close."
Not sure if the feeling welling up inside her is apprehension or awe Lydia begins following her mother.
They pass through the blue far faster than Lydia thought it would take, more like passing through a curtain than the fog she'd expected, and they find themselves in a brightly lit stone hall. It's sparsely decorated, no greenery what so ever –not that Lydia expected any– and the surrounding stone carved into jagged looking mountains. If this is the entrance to the Winter Court it's less imposing than Lydia'd thought it would be; the lack of halls or doors, however, is worrying.
"Your Majesty?" A gray haired man in a dark blue suit seemingly steps out of thin air; his skin has a purplish cast to it, but Lydia can't tell if that's from the suit or if it's his natural skin color.
"Raginald, if you would be so kind as to take these to Sir Erwann's room." The luggage floats over to him, settling noiselessly onto the floor.
The man bows, picks up the luggage and begins walking off. The brief exchange reminds Lydia so much of a hotel that it leaves her disoriented for a second.
"I hope you do not mind Erwann that I took the liberty of moving and expanding your rooms. If any of you wish something to be changed let me know and I shall do it."
Jordan inclines his head slightly. "So long as I can find them Your Majesty," he's smiling slightly.
Morana softly snaps her fingers and a small, fluffy, glowing ball appears over her fingers, she flicks her wrist and it goes floating over to Jordan, "that shall lead you when we part ways. But we at least will start on the same path."
It takes Lydia a second to realize that the entryway now has a hall leading off it; was Morana doing all of it? Or did this dimension, it had to be a pocket dimension of some sort, have a sort of qasi-sentience to it that it shifted depending on what you wanted and where you wanted to go?
Before Lydia can think to ask though Morana begins walking, continuing to speak as she does so. "If you feel up to it I would like to introduce you to the court this evening at dinner, though a proper presentation won't happen until tomorrow. Breakfasts shall be brought to your room," she looks at them sidelong.
"Lydia you and I shall head directly to the dressmakers, Erwann you and Peter are free to do as you wish, though I also suggest you take Peter to your tailor for clothes,"–Lydia and Jordan both nudge Peter to cut off any protest over his clothes–"as well as the blacksmith.
"The Summer Solstice is not until Friday, but I expect you to be as flawless in your comportment as possible Lydia, so you shall have lessons every day."
Lydia bites back a groan, she's sure she'll enjoy learning all the political-type things Morana has to teach her, but right now the thought of lessons isn't an attractive one.
"Though they will most likely be comportment only, I do not intend to step down from my throne for a few centuries more at least, giving you much time to learn the intricacies of the court and its workings. I shall have a tutor sent for Peter, unless you wish to teach him Erwann?"
Jordan shrugs. "I'd better, I don't think many tutors could stand Peter." In retaliation Peter pinches Jordan hard; Lydia can't help but roll her eyes at the two of them.
A brief smile crosses Morana's face. "I see. Then Lydia and I shall leave you two to your own devices, I shall not see you until dinner, but I shall make sure Lydia returns to your chambers when we are finished."
Since it's clear they're parting ways for the moment Lydia goes hugs the both of them. "Behave," she affectionately chides Peter as they pull apart.
"When have I never?" Peter mock pouts as he picks up her luggage.
Jordan and she share a look, "don't worry Lydia I'll make sure he doesn't get into too much trouble."
"Ah," Morana interrupts them. "One final thing," she turns to Peter. "If you wish I will have one of the McManus' bring food for you to consume, or eat of ours. It is your choice."
Lydia's mind doesn't quite catch on to what her mother is saying, at least not right away. It still comes to her thought: those who eat fae food were bound to them, forever. A small part of her shivers at that, especially considering for her and Jordan it's just food.
If Peter knows this –and he has to his father's side of the family came from Ireland– he doesn't look worried. "If I do eat from your table, what would happen?"
Morana gives a nod, as if that's exactly the right question to ask. "You would be bound to return to our realm, or consume more of it, at least every six months; easy enough to do as long as you are with my daughter," her gaze flicks to Lydia. "Who will hopefully be here every solstice. Of course, more often is better. Before you leave we shall make a Way to Beacon Hills itself, making the travel that much easier. You'll notice a difference when you return to normal food, it will not be quite as good as it was before. You are welcome to take some time and think about it, though at least some warning would be preferred so I may send a message to the house to set aside a portion for you."
"Your offer is a generous one," Peter sketches a little bow. "But I believe I shall enjoy supping at your table."
Lydia wants to tease Peter on using 'supping', but well, in context it makes some sense. Also this isn't exactly the right time for teasing.
Instead she pulls them each down for a goodbye kiss. "I'll see you both later," she says as she steps back towards her mother.
"Yes," Jordan nods, as he takes Peter's hand in his.
Peter nods as well. "Have fun shopping." She laughs as she watches them walk off.
"Come," Morana sounds gentle and Lydia pulls herself away from watching her boys go and turns her attention back to her mother. Who is now standing in front of yet another suddenly there hallway.
"How do you do that?" Lydia asks as they begin walking. This hallway isn't as plain as the previous one, long abstract tapestries line either side and every once in a while they pass sumptuous looking chairs.
"By virtue of being queen. I am tied to the Mound and it to me; and when I give you the crown the same will happen to you." A intersecting hall appears and Morana turns down it. "I can move everything and anything around as I see fit, though it is generally considered rude to move rooms without getting the permission of the inhabitants first, or making sure it is empty upon movement."
Out of habit Lydia checks her phone for the time, only to notice that the clock on her lock screen's, well, freaking the fuck out.
Morana makes a thoughtful noise, "ah, I should have mentioned that electronics tend to become. . .persnickety in here. It would probably be best if you turned it off."
A suggestion that's completely fine with Lydia; especially considering barely anyone knows she's here and she'd rather not deal with the 'pack' freaking the fuck out when they realized she'd left Beacon Hills yet again. Then again she'd just been planning on deleting any and all texts and e-mails she'd get from them; they had no right to show worry and concern for her after the shit they pulled a few days ago. So she turns her phone of and tucks it away.
"Here we are," they come to a stop in front of an elaborately carved door, with a pale blue light set into a niche about eye level for someone much taller than Lydia. The door swings open at Morana's touch and she gestures for Lydia to enter before her.
Inside the dressmakers is one large room, full of more fabrics than Lydia thinks she's ever seen in her life. The dressmaker herself is a young, or at least young looking, tall yet plump woman with dirty blonde hair and a large smile. She curtsies upon seeing them, "your majesty, a pleasure as always. And who is this?"
"Hello Cecilia," Morana gives an acknowledging tilt of her head. "This is my daughter Lydia. We are here to start her wardrobe."
Cecilia curtsies again, "of course your majesty." She made a brief gesture. "Step into the light your highness."
Lydia's about to ask 'what light' when a shaft of sunlight shines down from the ceiling. Ah, Lydia steps into it and focuses on Morana while Cecilia walks around her. Morana's moves to sit at a desk covered in papers and begins to go through them. "What are you doing, mother?" She tacks that on as an afterthought, she has no idea if there's any sort of appearance they need to be keeping up but it's probably best to act like there is for now.
"Cecilia is my dressmaker, so all the ladies wish for her to make them their dresses as well. I go through all the petitions and let her know which ones she may accept and which she may refuse." She gives a small shrug. "These days a lack of options for punishing those who displease me means I must resort to petty means."
Oh. It sounds a little like some of the things Lydia herself has done, and she didn't expect running a. . .country? Race? Culture? To be anything like high school. She twitches when she feels something cool start wrapping around her. She looks down to see Cecilia's four –four?– hands wrapping measuring tape around various parts of Lydia's body.
They make quick work of it too, far faster than Lydia would have thought. Though she feels like Cecilia's measured every inch of her.
"Shoes," Cecilia looks down pointedly.
"I'm sorry what?" What about her shoes?
"I need you to take them off, so I can measure for new ones." So, apparently not every inch of her had been measured yet. But Lydia dutifully slips off her shoes and lifts her feet up one at a time for Cecilia's four hands to measure every inch of.
"What's going to be expected of me?" Lydia asks as Cecilia finally finishes the measuring and leaves to begin digging through her ocean of fabric bolts.
Morana turns her head slightly and looks at Lydia. "Less than you might expect Lydia. On Friday I will reaffirm your position as my heir before both courts, and you will name your retinue, your inner circle. The ones who will stay by your side and work in your best interests until one of you dies, or you release them from service."
Cecilia returns, arms full of bolts, and the three of them begin to look through them. "Beyond your lovers it would be best for you to pick perhaps three others. Though you may chose more if you wish." She picks up a indigo fabric with hundreds of small clear beads sown on, they catch the light throwing off small rainbows. "Something in this I think. Tonight after dinner many of the court will want to talk with you, try and convince you to pick them; a retinue is a prestigious position to occupy."
Lydia nods, absorbing it all in, as her eyes glance over fabrics. They land on a sumptuous green brocade shot through with gold and she reaches out to feel, it's far softer than she expected. "I'd like this too. Is there anything in particular I should be looking for?" She never expected what sounds like the fae equivalent of a job interview to be a possibility.
Her mother shrugs as she puts a too true red in the 'discard' pile. "Just pay attention and choose those you like best, those you want. Whatever talents or strengths they possess might not serve you now, but may do you well in the future. Qualifications aren't important."
Something Lydia finds both reassuring and terrifying at the same time; when it came to her peers she had gotten pretty good at being able to tell when people were evading, or just flat out lying. But with creatures who were so far older than her that in their eyes she and Peter were the same? Well, she didn't even have a footing.
But she had time yet before she had to make any sort of decision at least, and Morana and Jordan could help her wade through the good and less good.
She lets all of it percolate in the back of her mind, there but not taking up her every thought, as she goes back to picking out fabrics. They're at it for a full half an hour more, which is more time than Lydia's ever spent in her life looking at fabric before.
But eventually the bolts of fabric come to an end, or at least Cecilia stops bringing them forward, and there's a good stack of about fifty or so bolts set off for Lydia's wardrobe. She wonders if she'll be able to take it with her when she goes back to Beacon Hills, it seems a shame to get all these clothes made just for her and then she only has a week to wear them.
"And what sort of style shall we be looking to? Or will it all be modern?"
The question startles Lydia out of her thoughts, and it takes her a moment to realize Cecilia's talking to her and not Morana. "Ah, just modern." Lydia's never been one to look through books on old fashions; sure she'd watch the occasional historical, but rarely for the 'costume porn', and she's got no idea what sort of old fashions might look good on her.
"Yes," Morana agrees, "that would be best for now." Going over to the bolts of fabric she picks up the indigo one from earlier. "And a dress in this for tonight."
Cecilia takes the bolt with a bow, "that will not be a problem at all Your Majesty. If you give me a path I can have it delivered as soon as I finish."
Lydia should probably be paying attention as her mother gives directions, but she can't find it in her to do so, tuning it all out as her mind wanders back to having to sort through complete strangers to basically work for her.
"Lydia," she blinks and turns to see Morana standing by the door. "Come," she says, her voice distant.
Apprehensive Lydia follows her mother.
000
Peter's nose itches, the wolf in him wary of so many new scents; there's cold, strange scents he has no words for, and people, so many people. The wariness has him sticking close to Jordan –or is he only Erwann now? Though part of that is also because Peter doesn't want to get 'suddenly' lost.
So sticking close, but that doesn't stop his eyes from taking in everything they can. The floor in this hallways has a thin green-white rug running down the middle with doors about every fifty or so feet, each of them intricately carved. Was that the fae equivalent of addresses? Or is it something less formal then that?
The rest of him is more concerned with the fact that he'd agreed to eat fae food, even though given the opportunity to not. He doesn't regret the choice and has no intention of changing it, but still all of those facts are. . .more than he expected of himself. Implicitly agreeing to be with Jordan and Lydia for the 'long haul' as it were.
"You alright?" Jordan reaches out and squeezes Peter's arm, the fuzzy snowball still floats sedately in front of them.
He shrugs. "I'm not sure," it's hard for him to even think of what words to use to describe this amalgamation of intense curiosity and wary fear.
Jordan turns his head slightly to give a faint smile. "I know it'll take some getting used to. But after a while it's not so hard." Which makes it out to be like going to a new school, a prospect Peter finds amusing, if not at all comforting.
The fuzzy snowball halts in front of a door just as carved as the rest, this one a massive tree nearly taking up the whole area. Even without the fuzzball, Jordan there, or the luggage waiting in front of it, Peter would've been able to tell this was Jordan's door.
It's job now finished the fuzzball starts to fade away and the luggage lands on the ground with faint rattles. Next to him Jordan looks. . .rattled? Discomfited? Off-kilter? Or maybe it's just simple surprise. Peter mimics Jordan's early action. "And what about you? How are you holding up?"
He starts, then turns quickly, his pale green eyes slightly darker. Jordan exhales slowly. "I'm, alright. It's just been a while and. . ." He drifts off.
Not that he needs to say anything more for Peter to catch his drift. Peter moves his hand up to rest on Jordan's shoulder and tries for a little levity. "Well am I going to get the dime or the nickle tour? And I hope your not expecting me to pay."
The smile he'd hoped for twitches Jordan's lips. "I don't know, you seem like kind of a shady guy. Maybe the ha'penny tour." He's smiling now and reaches out to push the door open.
"No locks?" He'd hate for some drunk fae to stumble into the room by accident.
"They're magic doors Peter, they don't need locks." With the door now open Jordan steps back and grabs two of the suitcases, leaving Peter to pick up his own.
The room they enter isn't the bedroom Peter expected, more of a living room. Nearly covering all four walls is a large tapestry, a forest scene of some sort, it's eye catching colors managing to distract you enough from the fact that there were no windows. Not that Peter really expected any underground.
The only gaps in the tapestry are two doors, and a fireplace that leaves Peter's wolf unsettled. Besides that there are a few seating areas, probably for entertaining guests. There isn't as much live greenery as Peter expected from Jordan; then again the man hasn't lived here in twenty years and the plants at his house are most likely the ones that would be here.
Besides the fireplace it's pleasant, not the sort of place Peter generally prefers; but definitely in keeping with Jordan's Spartan leanings –Peter's trying to cure him of it but so far no luck. Beside him Jordan makes a pleased sound, to which Peter gives him a questioning look.
"The queen had cleaners come through, I doubt any of us would appreciate eighteen years of dust." Now that Jordan mentions it, that wouldn't have been pleasant at all. "The bedroom's this way." He starts walking to the door on the left.
As they go to the door Peter lets his eyes rove over the tapestry, spotting various woodland creatures tucked away. The detail of it is quite good, almost lifelike. Right next to the door there are people on horseback and. . .Peter raises himself up to get a closer look. "Is this you?"
Jordan follows Peter's gaze and flushes, which is really all the answer Peter needs. "It was a thank you gift." Jordan explains as he pushes open the door. Which Peter's guessing leads to Jordan's actual room.
It's a good likeness, though the Jordan in the tapestry is more blond than Jordan is in real life. He and the others around him must be 'preparing' for a hunt, all sumptuously dressed in clothes from another age. He wants to ask if one of them is his sister but holds it in. "How old is it?" He asks as he follows Jordan into the bedroom.
Which is a little more decorated than the 'living' room but not by much. There's a desk, three wardrobes –two newer than the other, an armor stand, and a bed even plainer looking than the one in their bedroom, though far bigger. On the 'empty' wall is a large sea/icescape painting, and barely noticeable next to it another door.
Looking up from unpacking his things Jordan blinks, "what? Oh. The tapestry? Five or six hundred years old, why?"
"No reason, just curious." Which is the truth, Jordan doesn't talk much about anything much beyond the past century or so. Peter's fairly certain it's a Jordan thing, not a fae thing; that Jordan might be embarrassed to be the oldest out of all of them, and is going out of his way to not remind them of it.
Sweet, but vaguely misguided. "Is is something that actually happened?"
Jordan shrugs as he hangs his sword up –and how on earth had he gotten that past customs? "Well I've certainly done enough hunting in my lifetime that it could be true."
Peter should probably be unpacking his own things, but that sounds far too boring to him at the moment, though since Jordan's clearly done with his. . .
With purpose Peter heads towards him, not bothering to hide what he's attempting. Still the gasp of surprise that comes from Jordan when Peter pins him to the nearby wall is deeply satisfying. Leaning in just enough, Peter kisses Jordan, enjoying the way Jordan's mouth gives under his assault.
They break apart and Peter leans his forehead against Jordan's. "So tell me, Sir Erwann," he lets a note of teasing creep in. "How does it feel to be home?" Peter wouldn't fool himself into thinking that Jordan calls the house he and Peter live in 'home', not in the same sense anyways.
"It's," Jordan's eyelids flutter shut and he pushes slightly against Peter's forehead. "It's good. This place, it holds my soul." Impossible green eyes open and Peter finds himself a little transfixed. "And to be here with you and Lydia," he presses a soft kiss against Peter's cheek. "It means more to me than you can even imagine."
Something in Peter bursts at Jordan's words and he kisses Jordan again, with much less finesse. But the wolf in him's far more settled than it's been since they got here; the reassurance that Jordan's here, not leaving them more comforting than Peter ever expected it to be.
He'd never expected to fall in love with two people, but it's becoming clear to him that he has.
Jordan breaks the kiss, eyes blown and panting. "We should be going."
"Come on," Peter wheedles. "We should see if this bed is as sturdy as yours. It'd be better to deal with a broken bed now, than later."
Jordan squirms against him as he rolls his eyes. "We really should be getting you to the blacksmith at the very least."
Which isn't an unequivocal 'no', Jordan knows full well one of those will actually get Peter to stop. "I don't see why I should visit a blacksmith, I'm hardly liable to pick up a sword anytime soon." He nuzzles under Jordan's jaw, scraping his teeth lightly against skin.
"Because, ah, good armor takes time." Clearly Peter needs to be upping his game if Jordan's still coherent.
And yet, Peter pulls away; looking into Jordan's pleasure glazed eyes. "Why would I need armor?" It seems about as useful to him as a sword; granted a werewolf is about as likely to survive getting stabbed in the chest as human is, and armor would stop that, but it's not like he could wear full plate day in day out.
Leaning his head against the wall Jordan takes deep breaths, trying to calm his racing heart. "Appearances for the most part." His heart returns to it's steady pace and while Peter usually enjoys revving it back up again, this time he decides to leave well enough alone. "Everyone here knows looks can be deceiving, but they still have expectations of how things should look."
An idea Peter knows all to well. He gives a mock sigh of disappointment. "Aright, fine. We'll go see a blacksmith about a superfluous suit of armor."
Jordan darts in and gives him a heady kiss. "After that though we can come back and try and break the bed."
Peter laughs.
000
Lydia's seen portrait halls before in museums, but none like this.
The nine portraits within are massive, stretching high up and dominating the hall, making it feel narrow and almost claustrophobic. All are eye catching in their own rights, and Lydia doesn't know where to look first. "Morana?"
"This way," she begins walking down the hall and Lydia follows. They walk quickly, barely giving time for Lydia to actually look upon each, only glimpsing flashes: long blue hair, bright bloody eyes, serious expressions, rich clothing.
"You may come back later if you wish, to fully see the rest of the Courts rulers, but this one you deserve to see first." Morana comes to a stop, portraits flanking her on either side. One is of her, the other. . . "Your father, Hjörtur."
The size of the painting gives a false impression of what his height might have been, but does nothing to disguise the fact that his build seems better suited to, well, a football player than a king. His red hair –the same as Lydia's– flows over his shoulders in bright waves topped with a crown of golden icicles, and his clothes, in warm blues and purples, are from another age entirely.
His pose is somewhere between rest and attention, relaxed, but with a hand on the elaborate looking hilt of a sword. In his other hand he holds a harp of some sort.
"He looks. . ." She wants to say 'not at all like I expected' except she'd never really giving any sort of thought as to what her father might look like. Casting an eye on her mother she notices that Morana's features are almost too still, making her wonder if there's a glamour covering her mother's face.
"Not as you expected," there's a wry tone to Morana's voice. "I do believe nearly everyone was surprised when I accepted his suit. Then again he'd made quite a few waves coming here instead of the summer court like the rest of his brethren. He once told me he'd experienced enough heat to last him a lifetime." Her lips twitch, dispelling Lydia's thought that her mother had masked her face with a glamour. "That didn't stop him from complaining on occasion 'bellows!" Morana's voice deepens slightly attempting to imitate a more masculine tone. "'If this place gets any colder I fear my blood will freeze right in my veins!'"
Lydia doesn't bother to hide the smile those words bring to her. "I appreciate you showing this to me." She does, even if she'd never thought of her father, there's still a relief in knowing him after a fashion.
"Think nothing of it dearest, you deserve more than this," her hand gestures at the painting. "But this is all I have to give. I still have your father's things, if you would like to go through them at a later date."
"I don't think I will," she never knew her father, to her they'll just be things; it's her mother who's attached meaning and memories to his things.
Morana nods as if she'd expected that answer. "We should continue on, there is one more place you need to see before we part ways." With a flick of her wrist a door appears between her father's portrait and one of a willowy black woman. It opens to reveal yet another empty hallway.
As they begin to walk Lydia finds she's annoyed at that for some reason. "Why haven't we run into anyone?" She asks, you'd think with all the halls they'd been through there'd have been at least one other person they'd encounter.
"Because I've been intentionally leading us down empty hallways. I wish for as few people as possible to know about you before I introduce you to the court tonight."
Oh, Lydia doesn't quite know how to feel about that; she would've liked to have met other fae in potentially less stressful situations than dinner might be, but on the other hand she knows all about making entrances.
Wordlessly they reach the end of the hall, where a nondescript white door appears to loom, even though it couldn't be much taller than her mother. Unlike with Cecilia's door this one doesn't open right away when mother puts her hand on it; and when she pulls her hand away a red palmprint remains behind. Eye-catching, at least until it faded into whatever material the door is made of.
Ponderously slow the door opens revealing the start of a staircase that's quickly consumed by darkness and bringing with it a blast of cold air. Lydia finds herself reminded of Walcott's house, and hopes there's not a farm of bodies in here too.
Morana begins to descend the stairs leading down, much more slow and measured than her earlier walking. Steeling herself Lydia follows, resting a hand against one of the cool walls to brace herself against.
Once they're both inside the door swings shut, leaving them in complete darkness. "Morana?" Lydia isn't quite worried just yet, but she's wondering if she has cause to.
"It's alright Lydia," she sounds as calm as always, and a faint light beings to emanate from her mother. It's enough to see by, but not enough to properly light the stairwell. She continues down the stairs, forcing Lydia to catch up or be left in the darkness.
"Does it have to be so dark?" At least it doesn't come out as much of a whine Lydia thought it might. Some of that strange, ambient fae lighting would be appreciated right now.
Her mother gives a sound that's almost like laughter. "Yes, my dear it does. It's a deterrent and safeguard, on the rare chance someone manages to find this place and get past the door."
Lydia nearly asks what could be so important as to need all of that, but then there's real light up ahead and they're stepping into it and onto a platform carved from the wall. She hadn't thought you could get a feeling of openness underground, but the strange cave-room –there really wasn't a better word for it– proves her wrong.
The small platform she and mother come out on is somewhere in the middle, height wise, of the cavern. Everything is lit by a faint white glow but when she looks up the glow eventually fade away to darkness, though there are still faint star-like lights up there.
"Glow worms," Morana answers before she can even ask. Though they're clearly not like any glow worms Lydia's ever encountered if they're making this much light.
It's also cold in here, the cold of a walk in freezer, and Lydia, dressed as she is for summer, finds herself chaffing her arms.
Hearing the sound of running water, though how there could be running water in a place this cold she can't fathom, she looks down towards the sound. And gasps.
A pool of water, sits at the very bottom of the cavern, the running water sound coming from the small waterfall that feeds it. Surrounding the pool is a good amount of snow covered ground, enough that there are trees and plants –though like the running water she has no idea as to the 'how'– clearly growing. Overall it projects a feeling of still serenity, a place you could escape to and not be bothered.
"'Only to come here and look on the pool bears the penalty of death.'" Lydia finds herself quoting.
Mother gives a soft laugh. "Indeed. Tolkien was fairly astute in that respect."
The fact that she recognized the quote surprises Lydia. "You've read Lord of the Rings?"
"A bit more than that. Asha and I squabbled over Tolkien like hens after corn. The last joke was on us though, I became a man and she was turned white." Lydia's long since grown to appreciate Winter's bluntness, which can hid more tricks than you would think possible. "But his words, in this case are true. None may be here save you and I, and any children you might have in the future. This is the Heart of Winter and it is for no eyes but ours." Morana gestures to the stairs leading down. "I will leave you now, but you must bathe in the waters, let them know you and touch you." She manages to surprise Lydia by pulling her into a hug, The fabric of Morana's dress is soft against Lydia's cheek and she lets her mother hold her.
Just as quickly as the hug began its done and Morana turns to leave, but Lydia speaks before she can step back into the tunnel. "But how am I going to find my way back?" The Mound is still a maze to her and it doesn't seem right that a princess should get lost.
Looking over her shoulder Morana gives her a secret, conspiratorial smile. "You'll know the way." And with that she leaves.
With a vaguely annoyed sigh Lydia begins descending the steps, the farther down she goes the colder it becomes, and Lydia wishes she had a parka; and feels desperately grateful that she can't slip on ice.
Once on the ground the snow supports her weight where it once would've given way, so she leaves no footprints as she walks to the pool. And still it gets colder and colder; Lydia wonders if she'll ever be truly warm again. She's long since stopped shivering and if she were human Lydia would be panicking.
Now standing at the edge of the pool she stares down into it, marveling at how it manages to be dark and clear at the same time.
She raises a foot to step into the pool, but stops herself, feeling like there's something else she needs to do first. Moments later it comes to her as a flash of insight, she needs to be naked.
Gods that's terrifying, because that's exactly what people in the last stage of hypothermia do and she does not want to die.
So it's with great reluctance, and lots of faith, that she strips. And deciding to get it over with in one fell swoop, the pool is certainly deep enough for it, she takes a deep breath and dives in.
Only to have that deep breath punched out of her by the sheer shock of cold. By rights this water should be frozen solid it's so cold, yet here she is in the middle of it trying not to open her mouth and breath water as well as trying to swim to the surface. But the surface doesn't seem to be getting any closer and finally Lydia feels herself giving in and lets the water have her.
Somehow the world around her sighs, and the next thing she knows she's lying on the bank of the pool, perfectly dry and not at all cold. In a haze she dresses, but eschews her shoes –so she can feel the land beneath her– and ascends the steps. Once at the mouth of the other stairs she heads up, only wanting to go back to their room, curl up and sleep.
Like the coldness of the water it's a shock to realize that she knows exactly how to get from the Heart to their room. As an experiment she thinks about going to the kitchens, and just like that she knows how to get from here to there. No matter where she thinks of to go she knows the way. Guess that's what mother meant by 'knowing the way', she thinks ruefully as she starts walking towards their rooms; she could sleep for a year.
She'd like to say she admired the tapestry on the walls and the painting that dominates the bedroom, but she finds herself far more concerned with the empty bed. Barely sparing the energy it took to shimmy out of her dress she falls into bed; absently hoping Peter and Jordan return soon from whatever it might have been that they're doing, two warm bodies against hers sounds just right.
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Next week: dinner, politics, banshee 101, and something finally comes to light.
