Forbear
by Lara
March
2006
Do not archive, translate or otherwise use this fic without permission. You are welcome to link to this page.
All publicly recognizable characters, settings, plot, etc. are the property of C. S. Friedman. The original characters, settings and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with C. S. Friedman and no copyright infringement is intended. This work is an amateur fan effort and no profit is being made.
He made no effort to be quiet. Rather, the echo of his steps on the stone floor was deliberate as it echoed in the empty room, reflected by blank walls. There had been furniture here, before. He could remember the shelves along one wall, the cabinet on the other. The dining table, massive black wood with century-old scratches in the surface. The chairs, as imposing as they had been uncomfortable. All gone. He spared a brief thought to speculating whether they had been turned into firewood or money, and felt no pity whatsoever at the knowledge of such a necessity.
"At least you are punctual," the old man spoke from where he was standing at the window.
He moved carefully. There was no fire lit in the fireplace – inability or disregard, it did not matter, since the currents illuminated the room as they had always done. The flows were still the same, only he could read them much better now. It was strange to see his own unhappiness and despair imprinted on the walls.
"I was not aware that we had an appointment," he said coldly.
"Don't think me stupid," the equally cold reply came. "Do you think I do not know what you have done? Why I had to bury my last son today?"
Five years. Eight True Nights. Eight brothers. Eight instances of vengeance. He felt a dark satisfaction at the thought.
"Answer me."
The voice cut through his resolve and into his soul, pain that had been almost forgotten. He felt young and small at a sudden, remembered the times when he had stood in this place, when he had watched the figure of his father standing at this very window. Hoping against hope that he would be forgiven, that it would be understood that he hadn't done it on purpose, that he couldn't' help it. That it was the fae, not him.
He did not answer.
Silence stretched, uncomfortable and suffocating with tension. The currents reacted to it, and the first tendrils of the dark fae crept out of the corners. Such beautiful, fragile wisps of pure dark power. He could feel them wind around his legs like uncats, sweet promise of strength and a reminder that he had nothing to fear anymore.
"If you will not speak, then leave and don't come back," his father said sharply. "I forbade you from entering this house ever again."
"You forbade your son," he corrected. "I believe you also renounced my right to call myself such."
It was a fight to stand still and not respond to the urgings of the fae. So tempting to reach for it, to let it coil around him and lash out, the way he had wanted to do for so long.
"I had eight sons. The ninth I should have strangled in the cradle."
It was a slap in the face, even though he had heard that sentiment ever since he could remember.
"But you did not," he said, each word a struggle for calm. "You let me live instead."
He had wondered about it sometimes. It would have been much safer for the family if he had been given to the flames instead. But apparently his father's pride and the refusal to acknowledge that he might have sired a bewitched child had been too strong to allow it.
"And look how you repaid me." Hatred, and in the past he would have flinched but now the dark emotion fed his nature.
"I have not even begun to repay you, Father."
He felt the spike of anger, laced with fear. How strange to find that the most terrifying figure in his life could be scared.
"You let me live," he said icily. "That is the only reason why you will survive this night. Sixteen years of misery under your rule. I promise you the same."