Ahhhhhhh! We're finally at the end! I'm off to Lord of Shadows with my own plot.
I doubt anyone's reading this since this thing was so long, but hey, I feel accomplished that I managed to finish this. I've been so engrossed in this story because I'm excited to get to my end goal with my characters and also QoAaD is so long but so goooood. Good gods Cassandra Clare is just releasing so many books and I wonder when it'll come to an end.
I need to get to the damn sequel of my FF13 story, and also get to the HoO story because like I've got three to four chapters lined up, I just haven't gotten much plot to actually post and therefore have been saving it up. I've been working so much on THIS story (hehe 300,000+ words totaled on this story and almost 100,000 of it was in these last few chapters) that my other, more popular ones, have been neglected so here's hoping I can stay on track.
Now onto what I'm going to name the next story…
:)
"Kieran, do you want to see Fionn again?"
Finnegan still felt awkward around Kieran. Where Fionn had been kind to him ever since they'd met, Kieran had no such mercy. He hadn't had to deal with comforting Finnegan away from suicide within their first few encounters. Finnegan had once felt bold enough to kiss Fionn right in front of his brother - but that was with Fionn by his side, feeling more confident than ever of their safety and victory.
But Kieran was…well, he was the brother of the one Finnegan liked - loved. It wasn't like the two were particularly close.
"Will you aid us in saving Fionn?"
Kieran didn't answer for an extended period of time. Finn knew that awkward silence was probably not something the Fair Folk feared, and he himself had tried to refine his twitchy attitude, but even so, something about being stuck with Kieran just…
"Kieran, are you going to help or not?"
"I don't know!" Kieran finally snapped.
Finnegan could only stare at him. "You don't…how can you be uncertain about helping him? Your brother?! If nothing else, you owe him your life-"
"Don't you think I know that?!"
Fionn had once admitted to Finnegan that he felt Kieran resembled their mother more heavily than Fionn did; Fionn felt that he himself had inherited none of their mother's traits and Kieran had turned out the 'proper' son by comparison. Finnegan now knew that he had also felt inadequacy at being born a woman - a daughter rather than a son, a princess in a Court filled with princes. He knew that Fionn probably wanted to be born a prince if only to blend in with the dozens of others.
But Finnegan could see Fionn in Kieran's face now. Once, Finnegan might've seen nothing but the regular fey features that come of the Fair Folk - he wouldn't have been able to tell the difference between gentry faeries and their ethereal beauty. Now he noticed the specific angles of their cheekbones, their eye placement and shape, the curve of their noses, the way their ears pointed out within their hair at the same angle. He couldn't say particularly what might be shared between them and the masses, but he could definitely say that Fionn wasn't the only one to inherit traits from their mother - not that he knew what she looked like, only that if Kieran resembled her enough for Dearil to easily identify him, then Fionn definitely shared her traits as well.
"Perhaps I am not ready for his return! Not yet," Kieran added lightly. He took a shallow breath and quickly recomposed himself. "I wish to…there are parts of me that wish to confront Fionn for his crimes - bring down upon him proper retribution, and to hear what excuses he may have that I might dismiss in my fury. And there are other parts of my soul that do not want the truth to be spoken." He scoffed. "As if unspoken truth holds less weight; as though they can unmake the past. How human of me to feel such things. I had once scorned Mark on that very subject. I…I cannot…I am not ready to confront Fionn."
"So you won't use the weapon?"
He tugged the blade out of the scabbard Veon and Andy had made to hide and contain the blade's dark power. Kieran didn't know how to control it as Fionn had, and they warned that relying on the knife when he didn't know its strength could backfire on him drastically. That being said, it could still absorb people into it (though that would only add to Fionn's death sentence) and break through many powerful enchantments. Only something as dark and cursed as Fionn's sentence would ever resist the weapon's power. Hopefully they never had to meet something like that.
"I believe…Fionn has already been imprisoned within the blade."
"Can you sense it?"
"I have always…since my infancy I have always sensed my brother like none other of my kind. And he has always known my suffering. I thought it to be commonplace, to be connected to my kin, my beloved brother who shares not only the blood of our father but that of our mother as well. He could sense my pain, and I came to believe I could do the same."
"Like intuition?" Kieran nodded. "Kind of like a parabatai bond then."
"This bond was born of blood, not fire. Dearil…Fionn's curse that made him into a man drained his magical reserves to the point that he required a warlock's aid to survive."
"Which is why he was forced to stay in touch with Veon."
"Gwyn likely knew of his affairs, allowing him to depart the lands of Faerie without facing death so long as he intended to return to the Wild Hunt. He was bound by the Hunt, no matter if he might step beyond Faerieland's boundaries. However, now that Dearil has returned, her curse does not drain her energies and she is far more magically adept than Fionn. But what cannot be stripped away through change of form is blood." He held up his hand, which contained a light scar spanning the length of his palm. "Fionn bound us through my infancy through a blood oath. Even though Dearil had not made that oath, her finger contains the scar of Fionn's contribution. We are bound by an oath that has coursed through our veins for decades."
Finnegan thought back to the many scars that Fionn had, so many that he beared with pride, saying they symbolize all that he has survived. Now that he thought about it, Fionn rubbed his index finger at times when he was thinking about his brother. Finnegan had never noticed, he was ashamed to say, such a quirk. Maybe he was just imaging remembering Fionn doing anything at all.
"So you know that Fionn's in the blade because you can sense him…but I thought the oath was of blood."
"Blood eventually bleeds to the soul," Kieran dismissed. "I was a mere infant upon the sealing of our bond; I have known of nothing less. It was carved within my soul, and I've no doubt Fionn purposefully carved it within his own. He began a new life upon the curse to become Fionn, so essentially we are both newborns at the time of the oath." He motioned to the dark blade, swirling with sickening magical energies. "He is there, he is suffering. Dearil must know it as well. I woke one night with her beside me, plagued by the night's glamours of her mind."
"Nightmares…of Fionn?"
He nodded. "She does not like the blade. She claims to hear screams, and once she held it only to bleed from an unknown attack. It was all the more imperative that a scabbard to contain the weapon be made."
"I thought that Fionn's soul being returned to the weapon would…I mean it got what it wanted. Why would the curse on the blade remain?"
"Perchance it is because I was not the one to slay Fionn though I took the burden of doing so; mayhap though Fionn is the one to have made the oath, his soul was not whole at the time and yet remains incomplete as he suffers. There are many odd things to have occurred to beget our current circumstances. What matters now is that Dearil is not Fionn, and she would suffer a fate unjust should she wish to save him. I would not ask that of her."
Finnegan felt himself pale, the blood rushing from his face. Fionn must've been…he was to be tortured by everyone he had killed with that blade. His own, self-made punishment. He used the weapon to kill countless enemies knowing what it would mean for him. If Dearil was afraid of such a fate, if she would be harmed trying to get him back…there was even a possibility that to retrieve Fionn, Dearil would have to take his place. He knew bargains, he knew how cruel they could be to counter and reverse.
"It…it's her choice. It's her…she chooses to bear the responsibility or she chooses to leave him. That's…we…I won't make her choose that. If it brings her pain, then she does not have to bear the weight of his sins."
Kieran stared solemnly at the sifting aura within the blade. He almost imagined that the hue had changed; he'd grown up with that weapon always at his brother's side. Something about it was different - it was crueler, it was satisfied that it could now torture its intended victim. And maybe it was sad too, though he couldn't say why. Yes, he sensed a tinge of sadness within the weapon, somehow.
"Did you love him?" Finnegan asked.
"Yes," Kieran replied automatically. "And I hated him. The bond of brotherhood is complex, filled with both adoration and disdain."
"True brotherhood, you mean. It is entirely possible for kin to hate each other with no love, those that do not feel that blood entitles someone to their respect. It is when you have a bond that you care about enough to contribute both love and hate and still stay together that is the brotherhood you speak of."
"Perhaps so."
Finnegan noticed the amount of 'perhaps' that made it into Faerie conversations. Albeit he had heard less 'mayhap' and 'perchance' than normal - maybe because Fionn had adjusted to human speech so much that he was getting lazy. Why did that thought make Finnegan so happy yet so sad?
"How do you mourn someone who is gone, but not truly gone?" Finnegan wondered.
"Your kind might bear a rune or the colors of pure white," Kieran said. When Finnegan gave him a slightly surprised look, he shrugged. "Mark spoke of his people's customs. And should he return, you would…'blue banners when the lost return,'" he remembered. Finnegan recalled when Arthur had mentioned blue banners when he'd seen Mark in the Sanctuary during that bargain, how Kieran had been coldly puzzled.
Finnegan knew that he probably shouldn't wear white. No one would understand who he was mourning, and even if they assumed it was his uncle or someone else, they would always be wrong. With the Cold Peace, he couldn't admit it was a faerie he loved and lost. But he pulled out his stele and bared his wrist, drawing the mourning rune.
The red rune bit into his skin, and admittedly he was forcing it to do so. He wanted to let it burn the pain away, but of course mourning runes were purely symbolic. The rune didn't blaze with the same lava-like beauty that Fionn's runes had, but even so, he felt it appropriate that his mourning rune was not black.
He requested Kieran's scabbard and drew the mourning rune on the fabric. It blazed silver instead of red, but silver helped camouflage it better. Kieran didn't protest even when Finnegan gave him the opportunity to stop him. Kieran slipped Fionn's cursed blade into its new scabbard and returned it to his person.
"Ave Atque Vale."
Kieran could only nod in silence.
Dearil was unsure how she should say goodbye to these benevolent strangers.
On the one hand, she knew they were kind enough to have nursed her back to health and protect her as they have. They offered supplies for the journey she and her brother were to embark upon, they had treated her without true harm or ill intent.
Should she feel guilty for burdening them with her woes? Should she offer reparations of some kind for the trouble she has caused? No, there was nothing to mourn.
"Are you sure you want…?"
The beautiful warlock was difficult to stare at. As was the incubus child, but she could at least understand it with him. She couldn't understand why this other warlock seemed to shimmer - not as the incubus-spawn, but somehow that was even more appealing to her. Who was his father, she wondered? He seemed very intent on keeping it secret.
Dearil had trouble meeting anyone's gaze; she had been trained for most of her life to avoid another's eyes, for meeting them would suggest you thought yourself an equal worthy of gazing into their very soul - and allowing them to do the same to you. But this warlock was so…sparkly. She had seen very few warlocks in her days, but perhaps it was not just his warlock mark - perhaps it was humans in general that fascinated her. That was not odd, she told herself. The Fair Folk found beauty in what was fleeting; the beauty of humans was ever so fleeting indeed.
She nodded her head, staring down at his bare feet upon the odd fabric that decorated the floors of parts of the apartment - carpet, they had called it. "I am certain, Sir ZeB."
It was odd how her body tensed at his reaction. Fear, perhaps? No…this was different from fear. She knew fear. She'd known it her whole life. This was…satisfaction. It was hope. It was hope that she had managed to please her superior in some way. He seemed to like it when she called him 'Sir ZeB.' Though his companions called him otherwise, and though she had once been resigned to calling him 'Warlock,' she found it wisest that she please him with the odd codename that he used in Faerie. She was one of the Fair Folk, after all, and that meant that he would be Sir ZeB to her.
"Well…okay." He handed her the box she had requested.
Filled with wrought iron chunks and arrowheads, sticks of rowan wood, vials of holy water, salt, and small boxes of grave soil - Dearil had requested a box with all the ingredients necessary to harm faeries. The box itself was made of enchanted wood that blocked out the effects, but even so she could feel the discomfort itch her fingers as a sort of phantom pain.
She barely came up to his shoulders in terms of height, but somehow she couldn't feel intimidated by him. There was something so gentle about his aura and his power; it was like she could feel within him fear that he would make an error that would offend her. She wanted to tell him that he had no reason to fear her wrath. She was not of high enough rank, no matter her father's blood coursing through her veins, that he should fear her scorn as he would others of her kind.
"I offer my sincerest gratitude, Sir ZeB. Yours is a most generous soul; your home is that of warmth and compassion unbeknownst to mine heart."
"I help anyone in the Shadow World that needs me. Though," he added, "you are one of the best Downworlders I've ever had the honor of meeting."
"H-Honor?" she repeated dumbly. "That which you speak of - mine soul you judge - it is not so bold a grace that you might deign to flatter-"
"It is not that I must deign to flatter you. It is that I genuinely wish your happiness and treat you as my equal to some capacity."
Dearil flinched, hoping that her hair fell across her face and hid the rising heat in her cheeks. "We are not equals, you and I."
"Perhaps not identical are we. However, I live and you live. We have the free will of choice, souls that pure demons do not possess, and that is what separates us from savage monsters who live only for carnage until their death. It is kinship and camaraderie that allow us to thrive in such a harsh and dangerous world, and so until you prove yourself a threat to my existence or the physical and mental wellbeing of me and my friends, then I will hope that we might become friends too."
Friends…
That was an odd concept for her. She did not have friends. She knew the word, of course, and she knew what it meant, but she had never truly experienced it. All her life she had known only her brothers and sister. She'd had brothers that had treated her better than others, but they…
She clenched her teeth, trying not to let the pain show on her face. Now was not the time to mourn the past. And yet she could not deny that anyone who showed her kindness would suffer because of it.
She did not want to see this beautiful warlock in pain. She could imagine it - his soothing voice turning to wails of agony, his glowing scales dyed red with blood and carved from his very flesh, his kind eyes shimmering with sympathy turned to betrayal. She could imagine the fear in his eyes, and then she could see the love and compassion bleed from his gaze, hardening into hatred and loathing. She had seen it before. And she didn't think she could bear to see it again.
She bowed her body, the box clasped within her grip. "I give you my thanks, Sir ZeB, but it is best that we might never cross paths again."
"Don't…don't enjoy my presence?" he quipped, but he could not hide the pain in his voice. "That's a shame. I figured my charm was irresistible."
The aching in his words were like daggers to her heart. She wished she could stay here, in this haven of peace and comfort and security. Kind angels, kind warlocks, her brother safe with her…
But she couldn't stay. Her blood pulled her home, to the realm of Faerie, to the Unseelie Court of her father, who she venerated above all others - to her King.
And so why did it bring her nearly to tears to say goodbye to these strangers?
Dearil stood straight and turned away without a word, heading into the portal room where her brother Kieran awaited her. She couldn't find anything else to say to the kind warlock, and she feared she might end up asking to stay another night just to be beside him and his handsome, luminescent face - and to see those beautiful angels for one more day, to know of their kindness. She wanted to read all those books in the shelves of the warlock's library, she wanted more of the foreign food and the odd carpet between her toes and the warm blankets of their beds. She wanted more nights falling asleep to the angel Finnegan's music and the stuffed bear whose smoky scent reminded her of home and comfort.
Dearil wiped her eyes and steadied her breathing. No. No more thinking. Thinking hurt. Thinking meant longing, longing meant she would be tormented by this crippling ache in her chest. She couldn't afford that right now. Home. She needed to return home.
Odd, it was, that her own home did not prompt the same longing that this foreign apartment did.
Kieran would take her to the last known location of the Wild Hunt. They prepared provisions in case the Hunt had moved, but Kieran would be able to track them down again. He would summon his steed and they would ride across Faerie and catch up to Gwyn's Hunt.
The angel Finnegan met her at the door, handing her a bag of the provisions, she assumed. "It's, uh, from Veon. Durable and lightweight, holds a lot."
Dearil nodded. She pulled the flap open and slipped the box of faerie-repellants inside.
"What's that?" Sir Finnegan asked.
"You needn't know." She hoped she didn't sound too dismissive or harsh. She didn't want to upset him.
She would never see him again, she told herself. She would never hear his beautiful voice again, or hear an instrument blessed by the angels. She chanced a glance up at his face. She wondered how and why humans had so many dots on their skin. Did all the male Shadowhunters have them? Maybe it came with the strange, dull orange hair color. Even though it did not glow with magic as hers did, she still felt it beautiful. Humans were so enchanting, she mused once more.
"Okay," he conceded with little resistance. "Are you ready? Do you need anything else? Maybe we should get you some shoes-"
"I abhor footwear," she snapped, before silencing herself. She resisted the urge to bite her lip. She had once bit her lip until it bled to chastise herself, until she'd been told that it gave away her weakness and that she had done wrong.
"Oh, so you go barefoot everywhere?" he said, barely reacting to her outburst. She had expected scorn, though she knew of his kindness within her very core. She knew him, somehow. She knew he was not cruel. "You don't get calluses though - at least on your hands. Being barefoot opens you up to diseases when traveling. I'm not sure about Faerie, but I'm sure that even one of the Fair Folk is subject to both pain and illness should your feet be pierced and your bloodstream corrupted."
She flinched, realizing he was right. Blood was a powerful thing, and it was true that her kind didn't grow calluses no matter the damage their skin took. If she ended up piercing her feet and bleeding across the grounds of Faerie as they traveled, there was no telling the damage she could end up doing.
She was so unused to traveling that it had hardly occurred to her. She had only journeyed from the Unseelie Court to this warlock's apartment - her one venture into the unknown. And she had run herself ragged doing so. Getting to the human world had been simple once she'd figured out the shifting patterns of the entrances and exits, and the worst thing she'd faced was the hard pavement and asphalt, which wasn't jagged though it did finally wear down her feet to be nearly bleeding while she asked for the nearest warlock and managed her way to his apartment. Luckily shedding blood on human asphalt didn't have the same risk as bleeding amongst the nature of Faerie.
"I'd thought of that," Sir ZeB suddenly said. He had magically appeared behind her (not magic, she hadn't sensed it, but close enough with his level of stealth) and held up a pair of sandals. "I had to figure out your shoe size and find a proper type of shoe that would be useful to you, but I think I finally settled on a pair."
He set them down and pulled the three straps open, allowing her to easily slip her feet in and then use some odd clasp (velcro, whatever that was) and adjust the grip the shoes had on her feet. That allowed them to hug her foot properly, and he demonstrated how easy it was to readjust them to her liking. She could either pull them tight enough that she had to pull the straps loose to free herself, or she could leave them loose enough that she could slide her feet in and out at will.
She blushed again as he helped her into the shoes, constantly asking her opinion on how tight they were, if she was hurt, if they were pinching her skin, if she could move her foot properly, and-
"You needn't question me so incessantly!" she finally hissed.
What was it about this warlock that kept causing her to snap? Perhaps it was that she hated making her opinion known, and that it was exhausting to have to make choices - it was fatiguing to be fearful of every decision being scorned upon.
"Sorry, Princess." He was smiling! Such a smile clearly demonstrated that he felt no true remorse.
"Do not…you…umph!" She was rendered speechless, only able to release a frustrated grunt. She hoped her face didn't look red as her hair.
She was not called a princess very often, though she technically was one. She was simply Kingsdöttær; a word thrown at her almost in scorn and shame. That equated to princess, but it just didn't feel right.
"You said my hands do not have calluses," Dearil realized. No, she was not…actually yes, she was trying to distract herself from the utterly charming warlock.
"I, uh…" Sir Finnegan seemed taken off guard that she had returned the conversation to him. "Oh, yeah, I did, didn't I?"
And Finnegan was the exact opposite of Sir ZeB somehow. He was not bold and was very reserved, though he tried to act otherwise. But she had felt him when he had put his heart and soul behind his music. How she wished to hear the melodies of the human world more often. He wanted to comfort her too, he wanted to please her as though she were not the equivalent of a lowly servant - as though being a Kingsdöttær and being a princess meant she should be revered.
"Come along now, Dear." The other angel was reaching out for her, gently touching her shoulder. Her hair shimmered like the moonlight even as the dawn sun swept through the apartment windows. "Stop distracting her!" She shook her head. "Boys…"
She swept Dearil into the portal room while Finnegan looked like he was guilty and Sir ZeB attempted to protest.
"Don't let the handsome men get to you, Dearil," Selina said. "I know boys can be charming, but play your cards right and you can have them stuttering over themselves and at your command."
Dearil couldn't help her shocked face, but she supposed that Shadowhunters were different than faeries. Really, Dearil herself was different than regular faerie women. Shadowhunter women like this Lady Selina must be bold to control the men around her so flawlessly.
"I could never do such a thing," Dearil confessed. She could hardly imagine being so bold.
"Well met, Dearil," Kieran greeted.
She nodded her head. "Well met," she agreed.
"You are prepared for our departure?"
She nodded once more. She slung her bag over her body, the weight barely a bother. The strap was built with a wide surface area, rather than a cord that would bite into her skin. Kieran had a similar bag; both were designed to disguise well into Faerie - that is, they wouldn't quickly be identified as foreign. Dearil's dress had a glamour over it, as did the Centurion cloak draped across her shoulders. The cloak was at least durable and might actually be a dull enough color to blend in naturally. Her bag had a clip hidden at the base of the strap too, so that she could release the strap and slide it under her cloak without taking the cloak off. Kieran had a new cloak as well, though it was not one of the Nephilim Centurions.
Kieran held out his hand, and she noticed the scar across his hand. Her own reached out to clasp his instinctively, a tingle running through her hand and down her body through her very veins. His hand did not necessarily engulf hers, but she could feel his protective nature through his grip. She saw her mother in him, fierce yet calming as the tides.
"Have you used a Portal before?" Selina asked.
She shook her head. She knew of Portals, how they worked. You needed to know your destination or at least have someone who knew of it to guide you. Portals and teleportation were available through warlock magic or faerie magic, but she knew that warlock Portals would be different than faerie magic. Perhaps once in a while she was summoned to her father's court through magic because he was impatient, and she herself was adept at her own faerie magic, but warlock magic was…off.
"I will guide you," Kieran promised.
Dearil reviewed their plan to meet Gwyn and allow him to send her to the Unseelie Court. She had only Kieran to guide her through the dangers of Faerie, and he had to report to the Wild Hunt or face Gwyn's wrath, so if she wanted to find her way home without dying in a world she did not know, she needed to follow him. That, and…she was her brother - her mother's child. She wanted to at least get to know him before she returned to the Unseelie Court and he returned to the Wild Hunt.
"Kieran," Sir Finnegan announced. "You said Fionn always knew your pain. Because of your bond?"
Kieran nodded.
"And so now, with Dearil…"
Kieran nodded once more.
Dearil frowned. Was he suggesting what she thought he was?
The difference between Dearil and Fionn - at least, one of the greater differences of note - was that Dearil was far more magically adept. She was unburdened by the curse that drained Fionn's life, but on top of that she was trained in many forms of rune magic (regular runes and sigils, not those of the Angel). The blood bond between Fionn and Kieran had made it so that Fionn knew of Kieran's pain, and to some extent Kieran could know of Fionn's. But with Dearil's power being far more potent…
"Keep her safe."
"I will do so," Kieran agreed.
Sir Finnegan's eyes tried to meet Dearil's. "I…uh…good luck. I hope you're happy."
"Thank you, Sir Finnegan. And Sir ZeB. I…offer my gratitude unto you all." She bowed her head, hand still clasped within Kieran's.
Kieran urged her along, giving a final nod before he trekked through the open Portal, taking Dearil with him.
"As predicted," Selina sighed.
"I mean it's not a very big loss," Finnegan said.
"I'm sorry, sir." One of the mundane servants that worked at the San Francisco Institute - her family taken in because they had been born with the Sight - set a plate of food in front of Finnegan.
He had started to feel more comfortable away from the Institute for a long time now, long before he'd ever lost his uncle and had been wrapped up in the Blackthorns' lives. He had known the Blackthorns and the Carstairs for a long time as he grew up, though he wasn't nearly as close to them as Emma was - practically part of the same family.
He and his family, the Scion family, the Dalmasca family, none of them were famous enough to be known in the Shadowhunter world. Technically his father had taken his mother's last name - which wasn't illegal or anything, and often it was done to preserve a family name if, say, the woman's family line only had a single daughter (remaining). Shadowhunters popped out a lot of children, mostly because there was no telling how many might make it to adulthood, and sometimes it did happen that there might be a temporary end to a family line unless a mundane ascended and took on the new moniker.
The San Fran Institute wasn't that big in comparison to the New York or the London Institutes - or even the Los Angeles Institute, Finn believed. Others might argue; California was big in the whole of things (it took up the coast of the US, after all), but Finn had always thought that Arthur Blackthorn - and before him Andrew Blackthorn - was more powerful. Maybe that was simply because Samuel wasn't that involved in his childrens' lives. Especially after the 'death' of his parabatai, leaving the blank scar of the rune on his abdomen that was never visible.
"You don't have to apologize, Elena," Finn said.
As a cook and servant alike who served her own food, Elena was often the one to deliver food - either at the dining table or to one of their rooms when food was summoned. Elena was one of the few people who helped hide and supported Finnegan's musical talents, even wanting to be taught piano herself. There wasn't a way to really hide something from Elena - who had access to pretty much every room in the Institute so long as it wasn't runed to be locked.
"But you've had so little time to prove yourself," Elena urged. "You've always been a kind master to me, and I know you're a good Shadowhunter."
He smiled. "Thanks, Elena, but…I don't really want to be put in charge. I think I only was because Samuel was my uncle."
"Master Samuel was a kind and generous man, but he held great heartbreak and confusion and a great burden on his shoulders."
"He did have some big important missions that even we were dispatched on, Finn," Selina pointed out.
"Like I paid any attention to those, Lee."
"Master Finnegan, you can't possibly have been so distracted that you ignore crucial information!"
Something about Elena addressing her as 'Master Finnegan' reminded him of Dearil, calling him 'Sir Finnegan.' Something about that made him smile. She was so innocent, and easily she reminded him of himself.
"Master Finnegan, what is that look on your face?"
"Hm? What look?"
Selina sighed and shook her head. "He's going through some things, Elena. Please don't push it."
"It's fine," Finnegan said. "I can't just avoid it forever." He rubbed his finger over the mourning rune on his wrist. It still stung and throbbed, as if it were the first rune he'd ever received.
He had been given his first rune prematurely, and rather than the Voyance rune on the back of his dominant hand, it had been an Endurance rune, hidden on his shoulder blade. He'd heard a story once of a girl who'd been given a Strength rune before the Voyance rune, but the Endurance rune, he had reasoned as a child, surely would allow him to bear the weight of his first rune regardless. That's what his father had convinced him of, him and his sister.
The scar left behind from that Endurance rune still shimmered on his back like it had been carved into him with a knife. He really shouldn't say such a thing, considering what he knew had happened to Mark Blackthorn, but…
Gods, Selina had been furious when she'd found out. He demanded that she suffer through the same thing, that she wanted to be branded as they were and would not let them bear such a burden alone. Finn's mother and uncle had forbidden it, making the three of them promise by the angel not to say anything. She'd arranged for a Silent Brother to keep the secret during their actual first rune ceremony, or to at least avoid punishment for it. Selina managed to convince Finnegan to give her an Endurance rune same as theirs, and Merida had quickly found out. Not trusting Finnegan's shaky hand, Merida snatched the stele from him and did it herself. It was then that they'd been marked a trio, Finn thought. It was a silent pack that they would stick together and put their camaraderie before anything else. Selina had once joked about the siblings competing to see who would become her parabatai.
"Well you've hardly told me all the juicy details about your work," Elena said. She plopped down in one of the empty seats of the large dining table - built to serve dozens of Shadowhunters at once, but only needing to ever serve less than a dozen at any given time.
Elena he trusted with a lot of things, but all she had ever known was that he fell in love with a Downworlder long ago, back in his teenage years. She'd urged him to confess his relationship - especially after Alec Lightwood had so famously kissed a warlock in the middle of a room full of Shadowhunters and Downworlders alike that were preparing for war. A part of Finn had always wished that he'd have the excuse to use the Alliance rune on himself and Fionn. He'd been waiting for the excuse to do so. Now he would never have it.
Finnegan lightly explained what had been going on, with her so helpfully interjecting at certain intervals with 'Ooo's and 'Aww's and other such helpful audience noises that would occur on a movie or TV sitcom.
"I'm sorry, Master Finnegan. You must have loved him very dearly."
Elena now knew that he had loved and lost a faerie man, so there. Finnegan had a minor thought that a few years ago, he'd have died of mortification if even someone as close to him as Elena ever found out his secrets.
"Dearil is alive, that's all that matters. I know Kieran will keep her safe." 'At least until she returns to the Unseelie Court.'
He thought of all the hints that Fionn had ever dropped about his sister being abused in the Court, how Fionn had said that his father had once stabbed him with wrought iron every day for a few years. Dearil wanted to do what the Unseelie King wanted, and Finnegan couldn't tell if he wanted her to be successful as well, or if he wanted the King to never get what he wanted out of her. But Dearil would go back to him, she would suffer as she tried to please a man who would likely never accept her.
He ended up bending the body of his fork under his grip. Ugh, he had a Strength rune that still had some juice left in it. Not like it was the first time that a Shadowhunter had damaged the silverware though.
"Sorry, Elena."
She sighed, but he could tell she wasn't truly upset. "It's fine, you self-deprecating carrot."
"Strawberry," he corrected, before blinking. Where had that come from?
Elena laughed. "Right then."
Elena had short blonde hair, pale almost as Selina's, but with blue and pink highlights that apparently grew naturally. There was evidence of faerie blood in her ancestors (probably the reason she had the Sight), but she didn't have pointy ears or sharp features, and her hair highlights were actually quite pale and blended in almost naturally, so it was easy for her to just tell people that it was some mundane hair dye. Especially with the Cold Peace, Elena hid her heritage and her hair more strictly. Luckily she blended in with the rest of the mundane servants well enough.
She was beautiful, certainly, but not Finn's type. Did he have a type? He certainly liked Elena, but not in a romantic sense. Maybe that would just be how it was with every woman he met.
He hoped that he and Dearil could be friends like with Elena.
"There's that look again," Elena sighed.
"What look?"
"The look of longing. You want Dearil, you want to convince her that Fionn is worth saving, but you also don't want her to make any sacrifices. You want to keep your distance because everything and everyone tells you that you should, but you also want to connect to the only thing that's left of Fionn."
He frowned. "Stop being so wise."
She laughed. "I've got to be wise if I intend to stand up to the expectations of Nephilim."
The door to the dining room popped open and another of the servants poked his head through. "What's up, Gregory?"
Gregory, who ran most of the errands around the Institute to search for someone and request something, to mail letters, etc. looked displeased. "It's your father, sir."
Finnegan tensed and sat up straight. Selina gripped the table cloth like she intended to either rip a hole through it or sweep it out from under the entire table like a party trick. If nothing else, it'd be an amusing distraction to see her try. Selina's face had gone pale as her icy blonde hair.
Elena shot to her feet and pushed her chair in, as if trying to conceal that she had dared sit at a table meant for her masters. Finnegan and Selina were fine with her sitting with them, but of course others were harsher towards servants and some even figured out Elena's heritage and still thought the sixtieth of faerie blood in her system made her untrustworthy.
"Why is he here?" Finnegan demanded. He had never been brave in the face of his father, but he knew that putting up a front of a leader who had earned his place was important to getting anywhere with the man.
Finnegan was an adult now. The strange distance between being seventeen and eighteen, the close yet far juxtaposition of a child and an adult, seemed to haunt Finnegan even now. His father treated him both like a child and an adult who hadn't yet earned the right to be called so. Even when he'd turned eighteen, he still hadn't really comprehended that he was now considered an 'adult' and now had all the privileges that he'd been denied just days previous - heck, just hours previous. A part of him still felt like a teenager, like that seventeen-year-old who had just as much wisdom as he would have a few months later as an eighteen-year-old and yet was still considered a child. His father made him feel like a fifteen-year-old, too young to even pretend he was an adult, and yet older than some of the twelve-year-olds who were fighting wars like Emma and Julian.
But Fionn had given him the courage to stand up for himself. He couldn't rely on Fionn now. He had to start standing on his own two feet, stop hiding like being a Scion meant he was not an important Shadowhunter, like that meant he could just hide in a corner, not speak out during meetings because his voice wouldn't matter.
"Because in light of your failure, I have been assigned to the San Francisco Institute as its new Head, Finnegan."
Selina flinched and fisted a handful of the dining table cloth. "No…"
"Why so pale, Selina Dalmasca?" Finnegan's father pushed past Gregory into the dining room, leaving the servant baffled and chastised as if he'd done something wrong. "You've nothing to fear, after all. I'm going to whip the California Institutes into shape - considering how poorly affairs around here have been dealt with in these recent weeks since your promotion, Finnegan. If you manage to do well enough, perhaps your demotion will only be temporary."
Finnegan tried not to let his anger show. Selina looked absolutely terrified in a way he'd never seen from her before. He recalled what Selina had said about his father; 'He's a witch. Evil, very bad, probably gave the Scourge to Phoenix. They possess people, and he was probably going after your mom since she was the next Oracle…'
Selina had spoken so casually about the affair that he believed she didn't have anything to fear. But if a human - Finn's dad - had been capable of giving Fionn the curse that had nearly ripped him apart, one that was a threat to the whole Astral realm…
"We welcome you back to the San Francisco Institute," Finnegan said calmly. He knew that now was as good a time as anything to prove how strong and unfazed he could be by such unfortunate circumstances."You just missed Merida."
"I will see your sister soon enough," he promised. "Now, how about you be a gentleman and escort me to my new office?"
Dearil rested her head against her stuffed bear, using it as a pillow. Sir ZeB appeared to have snuck it into her belongings when he'd prepared the rest of her supplies. She was happy to have it, honestly, though she feared it might be taken or destroyed in the dangers of Faerie.
It seemed to be flame-proof as well, which was considerate of Sir ZeB. She was able to sleep in a small bonfire that Kieran sat beside on watch while she slept. He said that he would take a watch and she asked when he would sleep. During the day, he said, when it would be easier for her to see enemies while she was on watch and alert him. So long as they stayed still and cloaked, it would hopefully be better camouflage than a pyre in the dark night.
Dearil had no dreams. She couldn't say that she wanted any, after the events at the warlock's apartment.
She took her first watch, and Kieran said to wake her at dusk when the sun was near to the horizon. It was uneventful, thankfully, but she still felt a small surge of pride that Kieran trusted her enough to guard him while he slept. Maybe it was simply because he couldn't just go without sleep, but it was a smidgeon of trust that her other brothers would never have given her - at least not without warning her many times and threaten her for failure.
When Kieran woke, he summoned his faerie steed and helped her mount in front of him so that he could keep her steady. She had few experiences with horses, but she certainly felt a combination of exhilaration and terror as they took off at seemingly impossible speeds and even took off from the ground. She gripped Kieran's arm wrapped around her tightly the entire time, but she wouldn't say the experience terrified her into not wanting to ride once again.
Kerian did not talk much during the trip. Dearil found herself wanting to talk to him in order to get to know him, but she knew better than to speak to her brothers without warning. There was an undeniable air of chaos around him - as the Wild Hunt who reaped the dead emanated.
But he was also very kind and gentle. He offered her their water supplies before he took it himself, and made sure that she ate before he did. He let her sleep longer than he ever did and tried to avoid waking her violently unless he was sure there was a threat they were better fleeing from.
And he was learning, too. He learned what happened when she faced bouts of weakness where her blood sugar dipped from the wrong types of food or just not enough food. Their supplies held a bottle of honey, which he had been instructed to spread across her gums should she face a bout of weakness. He gave them extra time so that she could perfectly set up their temporary camps with everything straight and aligned. He helped her collect the objects that drew her eye but also made sure that what he let her keep was going to actually be useful in satisfying her urges. Whenever she felt she was losing something, he asked her whether she wanted her bear or it and staring at her bear helped her regain her self-control.
The worst part was probably her concentration. Kieran had to repeat things to make sure she was listening, and eventually he settled on the solution that making her repeat it helped make sure she had listened and that she understood. Really important information he challenged her on at random, calling out to see if she still remembered when to wake him up, what food and water they had left, how to summon his steed, etc. When she couldn't sleep because her mind refused to rest, he had her tell him of the spells she knew until she exhausted herself talking - what felt like hours of discussion was actually only about twenty to thirty minutes. He refused to let her wander off to be alone, but he respected when she didn't want to talk.
"How soon shall we meet the Hunt?" Dearil finally asked.
"Two days travel, I might presume. They do not move away from us, but nor do they seek us out."
"Will Gwyn punish you?"
"I cannot say for certain. He may be obligated to do so."
"For your crime against the Unseelie Court?"
"For the loss of Mark Blackthorn, despite the terms of a farce agreement failing to be met. Mark may yet be considered a deserter, but I must vouch that he must not be. He is with his family, and that is his right."
"What were the terms of the agreement unfulfilled?"
Kieran explained what had happened in recent days with Mark, Iarlath, the Blackthorns, and his own erroneous judgment.
"You did so love this half-fey," Dearil finally said.
Kieran nodded cautiously. "A love as bright as the sun and vast as the seas…"
"Do you remember Mother?" Dearil blurted.
Kieran's dark, bi-colored eyes turned towards her curiously. Dearil had broken her habit of feeling ashamed when she spoke out of turn, at least with Kieran. She accepted what punishments he would harm her with, but he had so far proven quite lenient. And she had the right to ask this question.
"I remember her face still," he admitted. "You do not forget those that love you."
"How long…how long since she perished?"
Kieran did not let much emotion show, but Dearil could see his hidden tension - and his utter despair. The only thing that Kieran reacted so sorrowfully to was when he had explained his betrayal of Mark.
He had come to terms with the fact that he had hurt Mark, and it had been his fault. He had betrayed the one he loved - not intentionally, perhaps, but it was his own foolishness, selfishness, and hasty inexperience that had caused him to act with jealous rage. His punishment was to face the possibility of never seeing Mark again, and even if he saw Mark again, Mark may never forgive him. Even if Mark forgave him, Mark may never love him again.
Dearil felt her heart clench. She felt her brother's pain - a vice on her heart that clamped down and made her feel like it would pop. She wondered if she would cry blood tears, if her body would turn to a puddle of blackened ooze and her bones would turn to dust. She wondered: if he broke, how would she be punished by this blood oath that she herself did not consent to?
"Many years," he said. "I was young, but her face remains clear in my mind still."
"You look much her child, do you know?"
"So I am told." He finally met her eyes. "As do you."
Dearil's eyes quickly darted to the grass. It was warm beneath her, and she caused some blades of greenery to sizzle and then smoke as she waited. "You cannot possibly think such."
"And why would that be?"
"My - our - mother was gentle as the stream and fierce as the tides. Her smile was warming to an aching soul, and her pain did not impede her compassion. She was beautiful of face and handsome of heart. I do not resemble her. I do not have her appearance nor her mannerisms. I have not her bravery, courage, or strength. I did not inherit her smile or even her weary mask that would resist the withering waves of life that erode at my defenses."
"You have her stubborn innocence," Kieran muttered. He caught Dearil frowning at him and shrugged. "You do not seem to understand how your face resembles hers. You hold yourself in low regard, yet your jaw sets as hers did when she faced unpleasant words or circumstances. You bend and bow under the whims of superiors, and yet there is resilience and ferocity behind your eyes."
"I cannot satisfy. I am but a useless child my father ought to have dispatched long ago. You must know of his hatred regarding daughters. I should not have lived beyond my birth, and I only breathe now because my father wants of me a blessing I cannot give him - though I would offer succor were I able. And as I fail to control my own power, others suffer in my stead. My inadequacy harms those around me and even those with no involvement. Mother is gone…!"
Dearil finally snapped and broke down crying, burying her head in her knees and pulling her cloak around her as if to hide from the rest of the world. She hated crying, but she did it all the time. She'd had countless nights unable to sleep, where the only time she ever did rest was because someone physically knocked her out - either from blunt-force trauma or from blood loss. Crying was a sign that she was weak, a sign that what her brothers and father did affected her, and her one sister warned her against showing such emotion to tormentors. If she could not handle her own brothers, her family that would not have her killed for her missteps, then she would not survive a captor that truly meant her harm.
But she was tired of being strong. She was tired of her mind and body always working against her and having to hold herself together like repelling magnets trying to fly in all directions. In times of her sorrow she would go to her mother. She would be held by a tight embrace that did not cause her pain; her mother would hold her together when she had lost the energy to. Her mother would count to her, she would sing light melodies and teach Dearil to repeat them. They could spend the night up late telling her mother stories of what she learned - once she'd explained the names of dozens of stars, and another time she'd explained famous poets and musicians.
She tried to concentrate on something, perhaps a story to distract her. She needed something she knew by heart, something that would take her concentration away, even if she started wandering down a tangent and just kept going. Anything to keep her moving.
'Once there was a goddess who had a loving husband. He ended up dying one day, and finding herself unable to move on, she decided she would go to the Underworld to get him back. She fought her way through many trials of the gates down to this Hell and met the Queen of the Underworld. But upon demanding her husband, she was informed that she cannot see her husband because she is living and he is dead. And so she attempted to leave, however the Queen would not have it. She had broken into the Underworld and disrespected its Queen, and so she would find that leaving is far more difficult than entering. And so the Queen inflicted her with dozens of curses. Though she was a goddess and therefore could not die, she would be imprisoned within the Underworld in constant agony for however long the Queen desired her punishment to be.'
Dearil finally managed to stop trembling, and her tears had finally stopped. She wiped her face with her cloak, but she realized that Kieran was holding her. He gripped her tightly with far more strength than she, but she knew he would not harm her.
"Mother is dead," he agreed lightly. "My brother is dead. We are alone yet together, you and I. Let us walk this cursed existence together, however long the path before us may stretch. Or however short it may not."
Dearil nodded.
She thought back to Sir Finnegan, how he longed to find his companion whom she had become in her lost life. She remembered the darkness, the fear, and the pain of Fionn Flann - who had damned himself with hundreds of curses all so that he might protect Kieran.
'Without the goddess' blessings, the land would grow barren and the creatures would all die out. As such, a god created a new being in order to rescue her - a sexless creation who braved their way to the Underworld and charmed the Queen into giving her the healing water that could restore the goddess. The two fled the Underworld together, but the Queen, enraged, cursed the goddess' rescuer to forever live their life in the shadows and to be outcasts from society. The goddess, learning of the curse, blessed her savior with the powers of healing, prophecy, and wisdom. Though they would always be an outcast among their people who must travel in the dark, they would stand at the crossroads and guide others on the journey home.'
Dearil eyed the scabbard on her brother's hip.
Descending into Hell. What was the Shadowhunter saying? 'Easy is the descent into Hell.' Exiled from hir people, and gifted only to guide others - born and rewarded all in service of others. A hero who lived in the shadows and any who were like them would suffer the same fate. Dearil wondered if she would ever find them, guided home, but ever so lonely for the whole of her existence.
"Dearil, gather your supplies," Kieran ordered. "We must depart. Dearil!"
She realized he had tensed up. Dearil stared off into the distance where his eyes had landed and saw a precession of faerie steeds thundering towards them. How long had she been able to see them? How long had Kieran been sharply demanding that she release him and gather her belongings?
She hated the fact that her mind stopped processing things at random intervals and she felt like she woke up having lost information that was right in front of her eyes. It was one thing to lose memories of a former life; it was another thing to fail to process information because of your own concentration issues.
The Wild Hunt, she first assumed. But though Kieran may yet face punishment for his crime, the concern on his face was not of dread, but of panic.
Dearil was swift to gather her few belongings, shoving them all into her bag haphazardly. She pulled her box of faerie repellants above to the top of her bag, resting it atop her stuffed bear that took up a great deal of space. Its beady gaze stared up at her innocently. She wished she could be so ignorant about the world.
"Who is that?" she finally asked. "The Wild Hunt?"
"No," Kieran said, throwing her atop his steed Windspear. "That is not the Wild Hunt."
"Then who?"
He mounted behind her, swift and practiced as a warrior who had spent many years learning to be both ruthless and efficient upon a steed. He was preparing for battle if they could not escape.
"Those are the forces of our father's court. The Unseelie King has sent for us."
"And we prepare to flee?"
Kieran urged Windspear to take off, and Dearil could barely hear Kieran speaking into her ear over the wind as they quickly rose up to speed and took off into the dawn sky. They preferred to travel under cover of night (though day and night alike had their challenges) and they had just recently settled down before they were forced to depart. It was Dearil's turn to rest, but adrenaline pushed her to wakefulness.
"I must speak to Gwyn for Mark. And I will not let them have you. They will not take you from me. Not yet."
Dearil tried to process the implication of what he was saying. Kieran wanted to keep her from the Court…because he did not want to be separated? From a sister he barely knew, the one who became a man that took his mother away from him. From a sister who had a slew of problems that required others to constantly put in effort around her. But perhaps he merely felt obligated. She was his sister, the daughter of his mother.
He would likely suffer consequences at the hands of the Court, as would she. Though they hurried to the Wild Hunt to finish their business, the two of them were walking the inevitable path towards their doom.
She thought of the goddess' savior. Would Dearil walk into the depths of Hell and face down the Queen in her domain to save someone she didn't know? Would she do it knowing the curse that would stain her to forever be alone and without home? And what blessings might she receive at the end in return?
'Let us walk this cursed existence together, however long the path before us may stretch. Or however short it may not.'
And so the descent into the Underworld stood before them.
Chapter title: 'This City' by Sam Fischer