A/N: Thanks to Mrskroy, rachel olsen-williams, and every single reader.

I'm slowly easing back into writing now that my future husband has a job again. So hopefully there won't be anymore unexpected, two-month breaks. Fingers crossed!

"You can sacrifice and not love.

But you cannot love and not sacrifice."

― Kris Vallotton

xXxXxXxXx Present Day xXxXxXxXx

Adele Stackhouse stood in front of her off-white porcelain console sink – her eyes glassy and unfocused – as she absentmindedly wiped hard-water spots off of her green, hobnail tumbler. The set of six had been her mother's before becoming hers, a part of her family for generations. It was one of the few heirlooms she still allowed herself to use from time to time, but especially when she was feeling particularly low.

It was destined to be an unquestionably hard day.

Fintan had been missing for months – MONTHS! – with no whispered reassurances or secretly noted placations following his absence. He had previously gone incognito before, disappearing without even the courtesy of a goodbye, for disconcerting amounts of time during in their lengthy relationship – without any obvious correspondence between them. But in nearly two decades, he had never missed this anniversary. The day was still young but this time it felt… different.

This time, everything felt wrong.

Like something inexplicably bad was about to happen.

Adele swiped the lightly embroidered towel at already removed spots, her mind on auto-drive, as she ruminated on her foreboding feelings.

She had felt differently following his absence – strange in ways she could not explain. Adele worried she was blaming magic for what could have easily been a product of stress, or simply indigestion. But still she could not help but wonder if it – the inalienable feeling constantly contracting and retracting within her bubbling gut – was in fact an artefact of the magical tie between them.

A byproduct, and an unwitting result, of creating the cluviel dor.

Gosh, she hoped it was.

Adele did not understand – not really – the magicks that Fintan had employed, had called upon to create the magical object that essentially controlled their fates. But from what she understood, it tied their souls together, spun their essences tight like braided threads – rendering them unable to unspool themselves for all of eternity. Not that she would ever even consider a life without Fintan. They had always been lost to each other, veritably drowning – gasping for air – as they doggy-paddled in the sea of love between them.

But now he was gone.

And Adele was left wading in the deep, murky waters of everlasting love, and more recently doubt, all on her own.

Outwardly, even as she smoothed her cotton towel over the pebbled sides of the emerald-colored glass for what may have been the hundredth time, she was calm and collected, the epitome of ageless grace and poise. Her mother had certainly raised her well, taught her how to be a lighthouse shining through a dark and rain-pelting storm. But inwardly, she was a jumbled mess of nerves – her anxieties at an almost intolerable level – her mind conjuring disturbing thoughts, birthing new, more troublesome worries with each passing second.

In short, Adele Stackhouse was not far from her wit's end.

She was practically waving it hello.

Often, she wondered if her life could have been different. Would her life's path have been set on another trajectory if she hadn't dissolved her union with Earl and trudged on as the single mother of an illegitimate son, in hopes that Fintan would return to her side? Would anything be the same if she had chosen to ignore the supernatural world instead of embracing it? Would Sookie Adele be sleeping in the room next to her brother Jason?

If not, would she have at least survived the inexplicable malady that had claimed her?

Or had her death always been tightly woven into God's plan?

Fintan had openly shared with her that his father was fighting a cause embroiled around the existence of half-fairy, half-human beings, had warned her that their own descendants could become the object of the opposition's attentions. Adele had feared the birth of her son, finding reprieve when Fintan assured her that he carried fairy genes only latently. It had been the same with her daughter, Linda. When her own children married, began to have children of their own, Adele became anxious again.

Jason's birth – her own son's firstborn – had dissolved all concerns.

Human, he was completely and utterly human.

It seemed, at least to Adele, that the fairy bloodline did not persist as strongly as Fintan had previously surmised – that perhaps it dissipated with each generation when mixed with human blood. Lost its inherent potency. He insisted it did not, but what did he know of human genetics? Of breeding with humans? Fintan was ageless, his race without regard to science and its ways; he could certainly have made assumptions based on biases, on his presumptive fears.

He had to be wrong – he just had to be…

"Mama, don't worry he'll be here. Everything'll be okay."

Corbett interrupted his mother calmly, ripping Adele from the unmerciful clutches of her heavy thoughts, as he placed his hands over hers under the now scalding water and pulled them out.

Gently, he removed the emerald glass from her hands to place it upside down on the kitchen towel next to the deep sink. She looked up at her first-born, her only son, through tear-filled blue eyes, giving him a gratuitous, if not only slightly pained smile. After shaking away the excess moisture, she dried her angry-red hands against her patterned apron, taking care to avoid the intricately embroidered hummingbird Michelle – her precious daughter-in-law – had carefully sewn into the fabric.

"I know, baby," Adele agreed with a sigh after a few moments, cupping her hand against her son's jaw before patting him reassuringly on the cheek, "I know."

Of course, she didn't know if everything would be okay, not for sure.

But that had never stopped her from holding out hope before, and she was not about to let it start now.

"Jason. Corbett. Stackhouse!"

Michelle Stackhouse scolded reproachfully, as she walked with him out to his truck, using her best mom voice and her son's full name to convey her deep disappointment that he'd forgotten something so important.

"You know why tonight of all nights you need to come on home after work instead of hangin' out with your frat brothers. You know this is the annive… our family night."

She said the last bit slowly, as if the cadence of her words would serve to spark his memory, praying that he would not make this conversation any harder than it needed to be.

That she wouldn't have to spell it out more plainly for him.

Because, truth be told, she was barely keeping herself together.

It had been eighteen years to the day since Michelle Stackhouse had lost her second child – Sookie Adele. Her beautiful baby girl who'd been born with a small mop of golden blonde hair and fathomless oceanic blues. Despite having only seen them briefly, her daughter's curious and wide eyes haunted her occasional dreams, and every single one of her nightmares. Although Michelle knew those memories had to be fabricated by her post-partum mind – because her child had been stillborn – she often wondered how a recollection so vivid and intense could be anything but real.

Why were the things she knew so different from those she recalled?

It all made her feel crazier than a loon.

Because Michelle remembered cradling her pink-skinned newborn daughter in her arms, cooing delightfully as sleepy eyelids exposed a startling sapphire gaze. She remembered hugging her close, playing with ten fingers and toes, for just a paltry number of minutes before the nurse had whisked her baby away for screenings and tests. She remembered craning her neck uneasily to watch her softly fussing child slip from view mere seconds before she had succumbed to exhaustion with a wide smile painted on her glistening face.

Had she known then that those precious moments would be fleeting, she would have tried to hold onto them – onto her – for much longer.

In fact, she likely would have never let her go.

"Oh shit, Ma! I'm sorry!"

Jason all but hollered out, smacking his head with his open palm before moving to his mother's side to embrace her comfortingly – a gesture she returned in kind.

"No harm done, Jase-cakes. You just lost track of your days – happens to the best of us," Michelle soothed sweetly, stepping out of the hug to thumb away the bit of moisture that had collected in the corners of her eyes, "So I can count on you to be home by dinner? Gran's making her famous chicken and sausage gumbo – your favorite."

"Yes, ma'am! Wouldn't miss it for the world!"

Jason grinned brightly, undeniably excited about his grandmother's cooking – swallowing his resurfacing sympathetic grief – and nodded furiously before he jumped into his dusty blue Ford pick-up to reverse it down the unpaved drive.

Michelle waved him goodbye and then slowly sauntered back towards the house, smiling as she saw her mother-in-law waiting on the weathered porch with two tumblers full of what was assuredly sweet tea.

"Where's Jason off to? I thought he was on break from his college studies until August?"

Adele asked politely after Michelle transcended the few wooden stairs, wordlessly offering her the untouched turquoise glass – having already taken several satisfying sips from her own.

"Thank you, Mama Stackhouse."

Michelle enthused gratefully, politely humming her appreciation as she took a small, but thirst-quenching drink – the midday heat impossible to ignore.

"Jason's gonna cover the hardware store for a few hours so Hoyt can run Mrs. Fortenberry into town for her doctor's appointment. But then he's comin' on back home. Even if today wasn't…" she couldn't bring herself to finish that sentence, and skipped ahead instead,"…you know he'd never pass up the chance to inhale a cup of the tastiest gumbo in all of Louisiana."

Both women laughed amusedly, each picturing one of the many times Jason had proven that the need to satiate his voracious appetite always outweighed over his ability to be mannerly at the table.

"When do you expect Fintan?"

Michelle asked several minutes later, breaking the easy silence that had fallen between them – both having been listening almost meditatively to the wind's quiet serenade.

The airstream continued to whip across the dried, crunchy grass – sprinkler systems a luxury the Stackhouse family could not afford – as Adele contemplated her response. She was well aware that her daughter-in-law would never press her for an answer – she wouldn't even dream of being so impolite – still she felt obligated to give one. But it wasn't just that Adele didn't know when Fintan would arrive – or if he would show up at all – she feared that if she even mentioned him that her other fears might come tumbling out too.

"He'll probably be along after sunset."

She lied guiltily, asking God for forgiveness even as the false statement slipped past her sunscreen-balmed lips – the Louisiana sun beating down mercilessly, as it always did midday during the months of summer.

Maybe he would show up tonight, or maybe he wouldn't.

Either way, Adele had a nagging feeling that something was about to go terribly wrong.

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

For the life of him, Breandan couldn't do it.

Every time he parted his lips to give the order, his resolve built-up and sufficiently firm, words failed him. Quite literally. His throat would constrict painfully, practically close, as if he was being garroted by an invisible force. He had learned that relief was only granted once he relented, admitted – if only to himself – that he just couldn't do it. No matter how much he wanted to.

Was this what guilt felt like?

Having never subscribed to the emotion before, Breandan simply did not know.

"Fuck…"

He sighed resignedly – a scowl etched into his darkened countenance – as he flicked his wrist dismissively, sending his faithful guards away after yet another unsuccessful attempt. He acknowledged their deferential bows with a slight nod. Finally left to his own devices, he sank down onto his throne to mull over his most recent disappointment while thumbing at his taut neck to find the muscles retracting quickly, almost as if in silent victory.

His weakness, his affection for his cousin called brother – for Fintan – had fucking softened him once again.

It made him want to gut someone like a fish that much more.

His cells did house other prisoners – ones Breandan imagined he could order the torture of without impunity, or the threat of physical repercussions. The thought of which brought a knowing and devious smile to his dry, chapped lips. Yes, he still wanted Fintan's blood, yearned to feel it coagulate and brown in his hands – to spill it unequivocally and without restraint – but he could, would settle for retribution against one of the few dissenters who had risen up since he'd seized the crown.

"LOCHLAN! NEAVE!"

Breandan sat up and roared dominantly, demanding the presence of his most cold-blooded and ruthless enforcers, with a maliciously murderous glint in his eyes.

The beckoned fairies popped into the room almost instantly, vibrating with practically abandoned glee – their silvered teeth peeking out expectantly from behind Cheshire cat grins.

So eager, those two.

"That's right, my friends," Breandan mused aloud, clapping his hands together as he lifted to his feet before descending the few stairs, "Tonight… we are going to play!"

Perhaps, he'd make another show of it, a public spectacle.

Yes, Breandan thought to himself, that is exactly what I'm going to fucking do.

Meridian moved blithely about her new apartment-sized space, flicking her wrist lightly to magically place her tchotchkes into different spots until she found each its perfect space.

Stepping backwards, until she was almost flush with the far wall, she took a moment to admire her work.

It'd be just a small undertaking overall, uprooting her dull and placid existence to relocate it permanently into Breandan's palatial home, but despite her meager exertions she praised herself effusively anyways.

She'd given up so much to make things work with him.

She deserved this win, no matter how small it may have been in the scope of things.

In fact, Meridian had surrendered everything she'd once held dear – even her sense of self – to support Breandan and his Purist cause. No other self-respecting faery woman would have ever readily debased herself for him like she had, would have willingly sacrificed her own moral integrities to satiate Breandan's extremely dark predilections exuberantly and without question. It had been a trying task, striving to hold his attentions, but it had all been worth it in the end.

She was finally realizing the fruits of her earlier and undignified efforts.

Now she intended to devote all of her energies on converting her arduously earned title of consort to queen.

"LOCHLAN! NEAVE!"

Meridian heard her hopefully future fiancé bellow from the Faery Court down the hall, wondering idly why her despotic companion relied so heavily on the subservient machinations of those two faery twins in particular. Lochlan and Neave were known for being crazed and bloodthirsty – they were demented and cruel – and yet Breandan trusted them more ardently than all others. Including herself.

It was a sticking point in their otherwise candid relationship.

And it irked her – obnoxiously and to no end.

She was not too proud to admit, at least to herself, that she hated any being who stood between herself and complete complacency – her financial security. After growing up on the cusp of poverty, fostered with her brother by one of the first couples struck by the infertility brought on by the halfling scum, Meridian feared instability above all else, letting even the prospect of it consume all her anxious thoughts. In the years since her rocky and unstable childhood, she had been searching for it, struggling to find it.

And now – finally – it was just beyond her fingertips.

Almost within her reach.

Meridian had wrongly assumed, as a starry-eyed and rather jejune young faery, that her brother Darick's position as guard to Prince Niall would have vaulted them from the dregs of lower society to the pinnacle of its upper echelon. She'd believed she could ride her sibling's coattails to a better life. But the sobering reality that Darick was little more than a peon – entirely expendable to the faery people's fickle sovereign – had been quite difficult for Meridian to accept. Instead, she'd continued to cling tightly to her naïve ideals, despite the fact they'd slowly begun crumbling into dirt clod heaps around her, practically reduced to ashy cinders.

Meridian was nothing if not an eternal optimist.

She refused to give up her unwavering belief that she had been destined for greatness – born for it.

Her brother on the other hand…

"Meridian!"

Darick enthused brightly – affectionately – even as he stumbled and stubbed his toe, nearly dropping the cardboard box stuffed past its brim with belongings his sister did not need, but cherished owning.

He had been glad to gift them to her, to see her broad and joyous smile as she greedily ripped the wrapping off her solicited treasures one by one – to spoil her rotten, as the human idiom went.

Although he worried – silently, as always – that rotten was exactly what she had become.

He hated to think of her that way, but Meridian had noticeably changed since she had committed herself to the Realm's newest leader, Breandan. As far as he was concerned, his dearest sister had fallen prey to the insurgent usurping faery's charismatic wiles. Unfortunately, she had succumbed, like the majority of the faery populace, to his hypnotizing rhetoric and recently undivided attentions.

She was even moving in with him.

Into the East Wing on the other side of the palace from his bedrooms, but still…

As much as he disagreed with her choice to trust Breandan – so blindly and without regard for her own safety – Darick kept his, most likely traitorous, concerns to himself. She was his sister, and above all he wanted to campaign for her happiness, not seek to rob her of it. Plus, despite being an outwardly vicious and unabashedly bloodthirsty tyrant, Breandan appeared – even to Darick's own critical and judging eyes – to genuinely care for Meridian, to make her exceptionally happy.

Although conversely over the last couple of weeks, she had become increasingly less contented with him.

"Have you made your decision yet, brother?"

Meridian prodded him inquisitively – the barest hint of irritation recognizable in her otherwise melodic tone – as she glided through the sea of unopened and partially opened boxes to locate an empty spot.

Darick hesitated to answer, trembling instead as he gently set the heavy carton down in the indicated space – his mind drifting back to the aforementioned exchange.

Of course, she would bring that up now, especially since her words had only just slipped his thoughts.

Truly, until moments ago, her unsettling proviso had been plaguing him for days.

"You love her!"

Meridian accused her brother spitefully, using one hand like a visor to obviate the glare of the midday sun as she waggled her manicured finger in his face – a judging scowl painted across her countenance.

"Who?"

Darick rejoined hesitantly – horrified to discover he'd been followed through one of the former Prince's secret portals to the Human Realm – knowing all too well that his sister would not only notice he was playing dumb, but call him on it.

Which of course she did.

"You. Know. Who."

She spat out, grabbing his bicep – her nails sinking into his skin – in an attempt to gain his attention before she gestured wildly towards the now distant, red-bricked house tucked away in the rural outskirts of Dallas proper.

This place was the epitome of remote.

"She means nothing to me – NOTHING!"

He hissed back automatically, surprising not only himself but his sister with the ferocity of his denial – his face softened as he registered the momentary shock she donned in response to his harsh tone.

Even as the words had spilled from his mouth, he'd spied the falseness in them.

His sister had heard it too.

"LIAR! I saw how you looked at that human!"

Meridian whisper-yelled, releasing her brother's arm to stomp away from him, thinking of the adoration she'd seen in his eyes as he peered through the kitchen window at the blonde-haired blue-eyed girl.

Darick thought better of correcting his sister.

The Princess definitely wasn't human anymore – not that she ever really had been.

"You love her! WORSE YET, you love her more than me!"

Was love what he felt for Prince Brigant's great granddaughter?

It was possible; he'd never really considered his feelings for the Princess. Yes, he had been following her her entire childhood, had kept tabs on her even after her adopted family had moved halfway across the state of Texas. In fact, he'd always felt strangely compelled to watch over her, to make sure that she was safely hidden from Breandan – an inclination that hadn't stopped even after he'd ensured she became one of the walking dead.

Did that mean he loved her?

Truly, he had no frame of reference – having never been a slave to love once during his four hundred years of existence. But if he appeared to love her, according to his older sister, whom he trusted with his life… then yes, it must have meant that he did. The weight of his admittance, the force of his emotional breakthrough, instantly bore down on him, reducing his already markedly low self-worth to the equivalent of tiny wooden shards.

Because it didn't matter one way or another that he loved the Princess.

He certainly didn't deserve her.

"I could never love anyone more than I love you, my dear sister."

Darick insisted forcefully, stepping forwards to pull his petite sibling into a warm embrace, chuckling lightly as her short, curly red hair tickled his nostrils.

He also loved his sister – he always had – unconditionally.

But, he was beginning to think it wasn't enough for her, and he suspected it never would be.

"So… you do love her then. That's why you sneak away to the Human Realm…" Meridian murmured quietly, clinging to Darick tighter when he began to stiffen in her arms – guessing her purpose, "It is okay, my dear brother, I won't tell Breandan about your human…"

Darick waited with bated breath, knowing the other shoe would drop momentarily, so to speak – his sister never gave him anything without strings.

She did not believe one bit in charity.

Or in mercy for that matter.

"…IF you tell me what I want to know about Brigant. I'll give you some time to think about it, but you are going to have to decide, brother – what's more important to you? Whatever Niall was hiding or the girl?"

Darick stifled the urge to groan, as he often did when he found himself faced with an impossible task, mumbling his intent to mull over her entreaty instead.

He literally couldn't pick one over the other.

Because those two particular things were one in the same.

"Well? What is your decision, brother? My patience is wearing thin."

Meridian demanded again, ripping Darick forcefully out of his memories and back into the present to spy his sister standing in front of him – her brows arched and hands pressed firmly against her hips.

She was glowering openly, visibly displeased.

Darick offered her a meek and timid smile as he righted his hunched bearing to a horizontal stance, hoping his unabashed display of trepidation would answer her question without words.

Of course, he hadn't made a decision between the two.

Because he couldn't – not that his sister was privy to that more than minor detail.

Meridian crossed her arms and tapped her foot against the White Oak flooring expectantly. Did her brother really think he could continue to delay the inevitable? That she wouldn't follow-through on her threat? His silence spoke volumes, told her that's exactly what he was betting on. Perhaps, she was to blame for his smugness; she'd already given him too long to consider it, she supposed. Of course, he'd gotten complacent, assuming that she was much too soft to actually cause his human harm.

Well, Meridian huffed internally, if that's what he thinks, then I'll show him.

But what could she really do to display her resolve?

In truth, she didn't give two shits about the little blonde her brother was keeping back in the Human Realm – why should she? The woman was nothing more than leverage in her quest to get Brigant's secrets. Despite her threats otherwise, she wasn't interested at all in killing the human. Of course not! She had some semblance of propriety. Gods, even Lochlan and Neave, bloodthirsty little savages they were, wouldn't dare to harm someone wholly disconnected from their world. But… Darick didn't know the twins had some scruples; luckily for her, those three weren't necessarily friends. She could – no, she would, she decided – exploit that minor factoid to her advantage, and fully.

After all, she figured her brother just needed a push in the right direction – a scare.

Maybe then he'd finally break.

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

Lochlan and Neave were practically bouncing out of their respective skins with excitement – each high off of surging adrenaline – as they teleported through Breandan's open portal to the Human Realm.

It had been too long since the pair had gotten to slaughter a halfling.

Too damn fucking long.

Popping near a small remote red-bricked house – the exact spot identified by the scrying stone – they each inhaled deeply, sure one or the other would catch a whiff of the tell-tale the faery scent – a cloying and pellucid smell.

"Lochlan…"

Neave hissed lowly, exchanging a look of frustration with her twin as she realized there was no fucking scent to be found, not even a whiff of sugary sweetness wafting through the wind.

Which meant there was no fucking halfing.

"Neave…"

Lochlan rejoined similarly, growling in agreement as he stalked further away from the house – silently bidding her to follow – noting the faint odor of death that actually did perfume the air.

A vampire had recently been here.

Who the fuck would've risked their lives like this?!

"Meridian."

Both snarled in unison, gearing themselves up to face an angry Breandan – not that his ire would ever be directed at them.

The only fucking thing Breandan hated more than halflings was traitors.

That little red-headed social-climber didn't stand a chance.

Fuck! Now they couldn't wait to get back! Each started to fidget impatiently, shifting from foot to foot before jumping up and down instead.

"She popped! She popped!"

Neave whisper-yelled excitedly, ceasing her celebration to point emphatically at a purple-clad woman off the distance – her usually vacant eyes alight with glee.

Only faeries could pop! They had found a halfling!

She couldn't fucking believe it!

"She popped! She popped!"

Lochlan chanted back, before grabbing his sister and sinking them both into a crouch, cloaking both their scents and forms when he spied the tall pale man with her – the vampire.

"Please come back to the house…"

They heard the fucking halfling plead, while trembling in anticipation for the slaughter about to come – her blood-whoring nature only making the prospect of her death that much more delightful.

"I promise I'll stop crawling up your ass – cross my heart and hope to die, stick a needle in my eye…at least for the night."

But apparently, the bloodsucker didn't want what she was offering.

Because in the blink of an eye, he was gone.

"NOW!"

Lochlan and Neave mouthed silently to one another, their silvered-teeth glinting in the moonlight, before popping across the field.

Then…

They pounced.

As two unidentified beings descended upon Godric's child, an undetected dark-haired lurker tucked an absconded birthday invite back into his pocket and quickly disappeared into the night.

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

"IT WAS… A FUCKING TRAP!"

Breandan shouted at an ungodly decibel as he launched out of his throne to his feet, exceedingly livid to discover that not only had his two closest compatriots been savagely drained by vampires, but that their deaths had been in vain.

Their trip to the Human Realm had been all for naught.

He should've fucking suspected as much earlier – when the scry had suddenly sprung to life after months of inactivity – but he'd be too amped up, already primed and readied for a kill. Fuck! Of course, it'd been a trap, and he'd sent Lochlan and Neave right into it! Why the fuck had he let his bloodlust dull his usually keen senses?! Magic had been rife in the air of the Faery Court – he'd smelled it, even tasted it as it curled about his tongue – when the stone stood up onto its point and turned slowly, etching a hole into one particular spot. He should've questioned the scry's sudden steadiness, considering it had only flickered twice in the past ten years, but he hadn't.

No, like a fucking dumbass, he'd failed to recognize the subterfuge playing out in front of his eyes, and that failure had cost him almost everything.

Thank the Gods, he still had Meridian by his side.

Scared out of her wits, afraid he'd realize she'd inadvertently laid the trap, Meridian watched fearfully as Breandan's gaze flitted from faery to faery – filling with fire as it landed on her brother. He thought that her idiot brother Darick would have done something so devious and cunning? Really? Okay, she could work with that. In fact, she could definitely use it to her advantage, put her original plan back into motion, and hopefully force her brother's hand.

She'd figure out who exactly to pin this whole thing on later.

"B-brother…you didn't do this, d-did you? You would NEVER do something like this to us, would you?"

Meridian sputtered out, animatedly clasping Breandan's hand for support as the other flew dramatically to rest on the spot over her heart, feigning not only innocence but incredulity as she hurtled the veiled accusation in Darick's direction.

Her reproachful words – in addition to the whole scene – startled Darick, though he did not show it, and vaulted his otherwise placid thoughts into a frenzy like none other he'd ever experienced – forcing him to face truths he'd long since ignored.

His sister didn't love him the way he loved her.

He wondered if she ever had.

"PROVE THAT YOU WOULD NEVER BETRAY US LIKE THIS!"

Meridian screamed demandingly, trying to cover her own impetuous folly by delivering yet another, albeit more severe ultimatum.

Of course, he knew there was only one thing that she desperately wanted from him.

Finally, Darick realized – the truth hitting him like mallet across his chestbone, veritably stealing the air from his burning lungs – that as long as he was still alive this particular scene was likely to play on repeat, over and over until the Princess got swallowed up in the mess of it. His sister, enterprising as she was, was never going to end her quest to expose the Prince's most cherished secrets, to deepen the alliance between herself and Breandan. He would always be her stringed puppet – subject to her machinations – while his comings and goings would be watched closely, catalogued by her devious mind for future exploitations.

The Princess would live in constant danger.

"Who else would it have been?! OF COURSE, it was me!"

He bellowed loudly, throwing himself on the figurative grenade that had been tossed by his sister – knowing that his declaration would also serve to cover her misgivings.

But he hadn't done it for Meridian.

No, he was exchanging his meager and pitiful existence for the Princess'.

Breandan grinned wildly and dropped Meridian's hand to clap his own together, no doubt excited to kill the Prince Brigant's last, and possibly most, loyal servant – his usefulness having finally run its course.

Meridian kept silent as she watched her brother sacrifice himself for her blunder, digging her fingernails into her palms, unsure of how to proceed – really what could she do?

She definitely didn't want to die, and if her brother wanted to protect her like this…

Well, who was she to stop him?

Darick silently swallowed the nervous gulp that threatened to erupt from his throat, instead steeling himself for what would expectedly be a heinous demise – stock-still and impassive like the good guard he'd always been. He watched with bated breath as Breandan stalked slowly towards him, the faery's normally hollowed and vacant eyes alight and full of excitement. His executioner looked positively evil, and was visibly giddy at the prospect of painting his hands red with warm, sticky blood.

Darick's blood, to be precise.

"Do not worry, traitor," Breandan hissed insidiously, silently dismissing the room's other occupants with a wave of his hand, before he grabbed Darick's plate armor at its open shoulders and wrenched him forwards, "I will spare your sister the embarrassment of a public display."

Darick stifled the urge to snort, not wanting to anger the usurping despot any further.

His duplicitous sibling's comfort was the furthest thing from his mind.

Instead he thought of the Princess, allowing her image to consume his mind, to calm his quickly fraying nerves. He pictured her standing before him, cupping his jaw tenderly – her soft forefinger lazily tracing its round curvature. Her sapphire blue eyes were bright, glistening with unshed tears – appreciative of his sacrifice, but sad too. When he tried to open his mouth, to offer heartfelt apologies for all the trespasses he had committed against her, she shushed him, shaking her head slowly before offering him a small, but understanding smile.

"It will only hurt for a minute."

She whispered quietly, her hot breath brushing against the hollow of his ear – her normally pleasing and honeyed voice strangely deep and very nearly baritone.

Darick tensed only slightly as he felt Breandan's serrated blade sink past the seam of his armor and into his side. Ripping the knife harshly from the wound, Breandan plunged the forged metal into his flank once more and up before releasing him. The pain was excruciating, and brought fat stinging tears to his eyes, but the Princess had been right – it only hurt for a minute. Slumping to the floor, his veins rapidly filled with ice – his body convulsing in a futile attempt to offset the sweeping and sudden cold.

This was it; the end was here.

With his dying breaths Darick thought that – for once in his long and subservient existence – he'd finally managed to do something right.

Knowledge of the prophecy had lived, and would now die with him.

As long as the Princess kept herself off Breandan's radar, she'd be free of his clutches forever.

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

Michelle Stackhouse couldn't help but submit to her yearly ritual, after being roused from a fitful sleep – the nightmares that had plagued her for eighteen years resurging with almost a vengeance given the date.

Noiselessly, she inched the comforter down, stopping momentarily – sucking in a short breath that she held with her hand clasped over her mouth – as her husband snorted and murmured before falling back into a deep sleep. This day had been hard on Corbett as well, but he'd dealt with his demons much differently – imbibing more than his fair share of alcohol at dinner. Michelle didn't mind – he wasn't a habitual drinker – but she wished she could also take the easy way out, and drown her sorrowful feelings with a liquor-laced beverage.

But the grain never made her feel anything but hollow.

So despite her overwhelming urge to embrace that darkness, she'd never partook.

Thinking wistful thoughts about her husband's tranquil slumber, Michelle exhaled slowly through her nose, closing her eyes as her previously inflamed anxieties eased. She deftly pushed the rest of the covers off her body, pausing once again as Corbett shifted restlessly and turned onto his back. She wondered if perhaps, even in his drunken haze, his demons continued to wrest with him. Gosh, she really hoped not; she didn't want any of the Stackhouses to agonize over Sookie's death the way she still did – least of all her husband.

It was why she had never shared with him the unsettling contents of her dreams.

Or told him that she remembered seeing their newborn daughter alive.

After delivering a gentle kiss to his brow, Michelle carefully slung one leg over the edge of the bed, and then the other, her socked toes sinking into the carpeted floor as she awkwardly maneuvered herself to a standing position. Her shaky nerves were already on high alert as she slowly crept out of the room – every unexpected sound causing goose pimples to momentarily erupt down the expanse of her skin. Since the door was not sunk fully into the jamb, she swiftly pulled it back – knowing it would creak otherwise – before slipping to the other side and returning it to its former spot.

Michelle hated that this evasive behavior had almost become second nature to her.

That she'd learned to silently disappear from her husband's side with ease.

Through the cloak of darkness, she tip-toed down the wooden stairs, holding onto the rail for dear life as tears began to pool in her sea blue eyes, blurring her already obscured vision – the only luminosity coming from glow of the porchlight. Mama Stackhouse had likely left it on, probably hoping that Fintan might wander home long after the family had gone to bed. But he hadn't shown up at all; unfortunately, he'd missed everything. Earlier that night, Michelle had shrugged off his nonattendance – Linda, Corbett's sister, and her family had missed their yearly gathering too – but now she found his absence jarring.

She felt a strange sense of dread, like something awful had happened.

Michelle couldn't pinpoint why, but she'd been unable shake the uneasy feeling all the same.

As she reached the bottom stair, she sank down to her knees, kneeling at the stoop to grasp the edge of the stair where the slat was closest to the wall. With a short creaking pop, it relented to her deft ministrations, revealing an ornately carved cherry-wood box – the one that had been gifted to her by Fintan on the day when she'd wed Corbett, her hope chest for Sookie Adele. Tracing the artful design with the tip of her pointer finger, Michelle took a moment to admire and appreciate the expert craftsmanship that had surely gone into the one of a kind piece.

Without a doubt, it was one of the most precious things she owned.

Which was the exact reason why she used it to house all her unrealized hopes and dreams.

With the care she would have put into holding her newborn daughter had she survived, Michelle nimbly lifted the container from its previously secreted position, cradling it securely in her arms before she pushed the vaulted slat back down – just in case. She tensed and froze momentarily, hearing an errant snort come from Adele's downstairs bedroom. While her mother-in-law was well aware of her sleep troubles, Michelle had never told any member of the Stackhouse clan about her hope chest, and she definitely did not feel up to explaining it now. When Mama Stackhouse's snores became even once again, Michelle relaxed, moving quietly from the foyer to the dining room – the space farthest from the house's occupied rooms – and set the wooden box atop the lacquered table.

It was taunting her unabashedly.

Just like it had every other year prior.

Her shoulders slumped involuntarily as she sank into the chair she'd left pulled out – her entire body soon mimicking the same motion in kind. Gently, she opened the lid, treating the object and its obviated contents with the reverence they deserved, despite her despondency. Using the tips of her fingers, wishing she had remembered to bring her flat-tip tweezers downstairs, Michelle removed the few precious items contained within one by one, meticulously positioning them in front of her on the reclaimed wood table.

Silent tears slipped down her cheeks as she apprised them slowly, reverently gliding her hand across each piece one by one to honor them.

There was the pink blanket – gifted to her by Mama Stackhouse, one of the few surviving relics from her own childhood – which, despite being lightly faded, Michelle still adored. She thumbed the thin fabric between her fingers, reveling in its softness, bringing it to her cheek like she'd done every other year before. The cloth was already too thin – from wear and tear, from age – and she knew extra handling would only make it weaker so, despite her inclinations to do otherwise, she abstained from touching it any more.

Carefully she slipped it back into the box, affectionately patting it one last time before turning her attentions to the other items she'd laid out before her.

There were random and small trinkets – gifted to her by friends and family – none larger than the size of her palm, all of them completely inappropriate for a newborn, including a charm shaped like a pair of wings. Fintan had given that one to her, insisting to a very pregnant Michelle that when her daughter was of age that present would be spectacularly significant, would help her child to embrace her fairy heritage. At the time – and even now – she didn't understand his purpose, and believed the whole thing to be inexplicably foolish.

His kind had been actively destroying any and all human beings blessed with fairy genes.

Why would he want to celebrate that?

Shaking off her increasingly dark thoughts, Michelle carefully and methodically placed the small items back into the ornate box. She positioned them adeptly – in the proscribed arrangement she had established over the years – on top of Adele's blanket in such a way to ensure their continued safety, tarrying only momentarily when she came to the tiny wings. It was a beautiful piece of jewelry, she had to admit, and expertly fashioned – perhaps not one of a kind, but created with love all the same.

As a silent yawn escaped her throat, Michelle begrudgingly admitted to herself that exhaustion had begun to creep in.

Whether she liked it or not, she was going to have to submit to its ministrations.

With a sigh, she started to pick up the remaining items, carefully depositing them back into her hope chest. One by one, the last of her secret treasures physically disappeared from sight. Michelle paused briefly as she lifted the penultimate item off of the dining room table, unconsciously thumbing at the well-worn and hand-designed cover.

The true origin of the gift had always evaded her.

One year it was just there amidst her other keepsakes.

She'd never mentioned it to anyone – and especially not to Fintan. In fact, she'd felt almost compelled to keep its existence to herself, to act as its guard. So like her other hidden treasures, she'd done her best to try to protect it. Surprisingly, the pages hadn't yellowed, not even slightly – age and the Louisiana humidity having apparently no effect on them, as both usually did to all books – and the watercolor pictures were as crisp as ever. Impossibly, it looked just as it had the day she found it.

The box Fintan had made was obviously charmed.

Though Michelle had had her doubts before, the book's pristine condition over the years had certainly given her the answer.

"The Princess and the Prophecy."

Michelle enthused softly, remembering how much she liked the heroic tale as she read the title out loud to herself before slipping it, and then the last of the items, into the box.

Silently she rose from her seated position, arranging her hands around the sides of her hope chest to gently lift it from the dining room table. Quiet as a church mouse, Michelle placed one socked foot in front of the other, seeking to limit the amount of noise she might make, as she crept across the hardwood floors towards the foyer. Once she reached the staircase, with an incomparable deftness and ease, she slowly lowered herself onto her knees and returned the box to its hidden compartment beneath the bottom step. Her treasures securely hidden, she headed back towards the room she shared with her husband, pausing only briefly to flick one last tear away.

The anniversary of her daughter's birth, and her death, had been expectedly hard on her.

Thankfully, tomorrow would be another day.