I'm alive! I'm still here! I'm back! Eeek, sorry it's been so long (relatively). Midterm exams, you know. shudders emphatically That plus the birth of a new story of mine. Novel potential! And it's one of the first things besides this young'un that I've written that I've liked in a while, so…yeah. Shoutout time!

Sakura-chan79: Thank you again!

CompanionWanderer: Lol, I just HAD to squeeze Dallben and Coll in here somehow. Don't worry, they are recurring! Nailing the mannerisms – I don't deserve such praise, because I'm nowhere near authentic Alexanderism…but thanks!

miss mcGonagle: welcome and thank you! I know, don't their interactions with each other just scream "BACKSTORY!"? lol!

Paxwolf: Welcome aboard, and welcome back to Prydain! Ye-ha, these films totally need an awesome film adaptation – in five movies of course. I know many people think that Peter Jackson butchered Lotr, but personally: if I got the news he was doing Prydain, I'd think that I had died and gone to a VERY happy place. No Disney, nu-uh. They killed it already.

Disclaimer: Not mine. Dammit.

Black Shadow, Golden Sun

Chapter 4: Betrayal

A cold wind blew through Annuvin, rattling the iron cages and buffeting about the great birds in the air as they shrieked at the interference. Dead leaves and dust blew in wispy tendrils along the ground, creating an eerie and deadened atmosphere as troops of warriors patrolled amongst the black buildings, sentries on Dark Gate huddled together into groups while keeping keen eyes pointed towards the east.

Achren paced the throne room of the Great Hall, long blue velvety dress whirling around her as she walked. Her finely-booted feet made sharp rapping sounds on the cold stone with every step. Her pale, long-fingered hands were held in front of her, twisting swiftly within each other, occasionally lifting to steady the iron crown on top of her raven hair. She was impatient – she was furious, for Arawn had not yet left Annuvin and he had no explanation for why. Her lips lifted in a snarl, showing pointed teeth. This time, she would punish him. This time, he had gone too far.

The heavy door at the end of the dark hall suddenly began to creak open, and she turned quickly, eyes narrowing as Arawn slunk into the hall, followed by two Cauldron-born and the troop of Huntsmen he was supposed to have left with three days ago. The sight of the animalistic men wearing filthy skins did nothing to improve Achren's mood, nor did the always slightly unsettling sight of the dead eyes of the Cauldron-born.

As Arawn approached, Achren drew herself up to her full height and pointed a clawed hand, accusing finger outstretched. "What do you think you are doing, Arawn?" she hissed. "How dare you disobey my orders – why have you not left?"

Arawn looked up at her, and Achren was suddenly surprised to see that his eyes held not fear or shame, but anger and resentment. His normally anxious face was sunken in sullen lines, and his usual trembling had completely ceased. He was dressed differently as well – his raiment was rich, embroidered in silver and black, fitted perfectly to his unflattering, pudgy body. And then, sealing Achren's shock, Arawn smiled.

"Because you are no longer my mistress, Achren," he murmured as he advanced, eyelids fluttering half-closed. "From this moment forwards, I become my own master, and master of all Prydain."

Achren's mouth fell open, and her hand trembled. He meant to take her throne – he meant to take everything from her! For another moment, she stood paralyzed. Then rage overtook her – she dropped her arm and lunged forward, stopping at the base of the steps leading up to the black throne. "You have lost your wits," she shrieked, yet unable to keep a note of fear out of her voice. "I will know how to punish your disobedience!"

"I think not," Arawn murmured. He stopped walking, and so did the Cauldron-born, taking up defensive positions around him – but the Huntsmen continued towards the cornered queen, their faces skewed with vicious grins. Achren stumbled backwards, lovely face paralyzed with terror.

"What – " the leading Huntsman rushed forward and grabbed her arm painfully. She screamed and jerked backwards, and the iron crown fell off her head with a sharp clang, rolling away to come to rest at Arawn's face as he smirked.

Seeing the face of her servant so smug caused Achren's rage to flare, and as she muttered a few fierce words, the Huntsman who had seized her let go suddenly and fell backwards with a scream, his face burning with an intense heat. The other warriors paused in fear, warily regarding the queen as the hunter does a dangerous animal.

The queen drew herself up proudly, burning eyes fixed on the traitor, disregarding her disheveled hair and mussed dress. "You do not have the strength, you see," she spat. "I can defeat you all with a few words – the Cauldron-born and these creatures are mine to command."

"Oh?" Arawn said softly, jerking his hand in a sharp movement. Instantly, Achren felt as though a great weight was holding her down, suffocating her – the air pressed in around her, and she felt desperately cold. She could not move. And in the same instant, the two Cauldron-born at Arawn's side moved forward together as one, advancing towards the bewitched queen, arms outstretched as she watched in terror.

"A question," Arawn said lightly, almost jovially. "When was the last time you sent a message declaring your intentions to the Sons of Don, my lady?" Arawn's black eyes glittered as he advanced towards the throne. "When was the last time the descendants of Belin were aware of your existence?"

The breath caught in Achren's throat. Surely he did not mean to…

"Yes," Arawn laughed, reading her thoughts in her dark eyes as he loomed over her from behind, foul-smelling breath on her cheek. "It was over five generations ago, was it not?" His hand traced her trembling neck. "And it was I, I who did it all," he continued, voice gloating. "It was I stole the secrets of men for your treasure-house, I who stole the hammer from the smith Iscovan, and the shuttle from the weaver Follin. It was I who was tricked by that fool of a bard Menwy. It was I who stole the Black Crochan from the three witches. It was I."

Achren swore she could hear his smirk, hear the evil oozing from him.

"The queen Achren," he whispered into her ear, "has been dead these past one hundred years, as far as anyone can know."

Tears started in Achren's eyes, but still the heaviness bore down on her, still she could not move. She felt a greasy hand caress her shoulder for an instant, and then her arms were suddenly seized by two rotting hands, and the eyes of the Cauldron-born drilled into her. She screamed as they began to drag her towards the doors of the hall, passing by the discarded crown on the ground and hearing Arawn's mocking laugh as he followed behind her.

They hauled her out of the Great Hall, ignoring her shrieks, and towards the Dark Gate, which through hazy eyes she saw was slightly open. She tried to struggle, but even her own muscles would not obey her commands.

"I am giving you a small troop of the undead," she vaguely heard behind her. "They will have to return to me periodically to regain their strength, but they will otherwise be at your disposal." The gaze neared, and Achren felt herself falling and stumbling forward as the heaviness suddenly dissipated from her limbs. She whirled around, ankle-deep in mud as fat raindrops began to fall, but the black gate was already closed, thudding shut on her past and glory.

"Goodbye, Achren," she heard Arawn murmur through the gate under her frenzied cries. "Now, I must take leave of you. I have two foxes and a young wolf to hunt."

Well, there ya got it. Gah, this one was hard to write, so much history needing to be resolved. Waaah, and it's short. Sorry, I'll do better next time – it's just getting interesting! Remember, Reviews are addictive! …speaking of which, I need to spend more time writing this and less time on other obsessions. Like opera binges. >snorts Yeah. Right. >runs off to watch Così Fan Tutte for the umpteenth time