Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Chapter 2
The Palace-Metropolis of Bethmora was an underground labyrinth, a city of lights built into a granite cavern created by roots of an enormous tree that died when humanity came into creation. Vast networks of stone bridges connected interweaving paths and walkways, linking homes with businesses and shops, and if the people so desired, the outside world. This last fantastic Elven metropolis was constructed centuries ago deep, deep below the earth, safe now from nuclear fallout. At various times in Bethmora's existence, Forest Elementals came there to parish, imparting their dying gift of vegetation and life unto the barren, underground cityscape. For want of sunlight, many plants died, but the darker greenery, mosses and ferns, remained, growing from the city walls and even buildings to create a dark, subterranean oasis. The city of Bethmora paled in comparison to the beauty of Lothlorien and Mirkwood, but then, those places were destroyed long ago by this: Prince Silverlance's greatest war.
The Prince entered his Palace foyer, bearing this world's last siren in his arms. Only two sirens were ever created, the children of the Sea God Phorcys: Bacchante, and her sister, Lorelei. The daughter of the second was fathered by some messenger of the Gods; Bacchante had never mothered a child – no, she had never so much as taken a lover. True, the sirens lured men to their doom, but none of the creatures' victims ever claimed ascendancy over them. Nuada could feel it in her memory and taste it in her shame; her captor, her kidnapper had taken her innocence, when it had not been his to take. Remembering what was done to the creature in his arms, this child of the Gods, renewed the Prince's rage and spurred his indignation at all humanity.
Silently, the Royal placed the siren in a daybed, in one of his home's lavish, unoccupied suites.
"See that she is cared for," Prince Nuada directed a Palace maid, who had followed him from the hall. She curtsied,
"Of course, your Majesty."
The Prince sighed deeply, turning from Bacchante's door to walk down the halls of his home. He remembered almost fondly when his sister would wander these corridors; now, she was little more than a memory... In the months of nuclear winter following the fateful 14th month of war, Princess Nuala became uncontrollable with frustration and despair; in deep dejection bordering on madness she grew irrational; she protested almost violently against being confined to the underground city, and constantly ventured to the surface to 'see the sun'… In those early weeks following the nuclear holocaust, such action was entirely futile – the sky was completely blackened with fallout, and fire. Still, the Princess left the safety of her brother's kingdom, the poisoned air only driving her to greater illness… In a fit of sickness and depression not a month later, Princess Nuala attempted suicide, and in so doing forced her brother's hand. Truly, he could not kill her without killing himself, so as a substitute he confined her alive to a tomb in an antechamber, under a fountain in the center of his Palace in the last place anyone who should not know would ever suspect. Prince Nuada had not thought of her in months, perhaps longer… almost six years had passed since then.
Purging his mind of the memories of his old treachery toward his once-beloved sister, the Prince stepped through the halls of his palace, down to the war room a floor beneath its entrance.
Prince Nuada's hall for battle strategy and forethought was a massive citadel, chiselled from stone and ever well-lit. Curved benches, like those of an amphitheatre encircled a central stage – the location of a long, large table, with a double-sided surface that could be rotated as needed. On the current side was a topographical map of the world, amended carefully and accurately to take into account the destruction wrought in the last seven years – what lay before the Ancient Prince was not the image of the world he once knew, or even of the world after the humans had ravaged it. What he saw now was a wasteland of grey dust and poisoned lakes; a world of death and decay.
With a hard, heavy stroke Nuada flipped the table to reveal its other side; the surface was as that of a mirror or reflecting pool, cool and silver, spanning the length of the table flawlessly. The flip-side of the Bethmora war-room table was a mirrormask – a reflecting pool that gave vision to thoughts. It was excellent for creating and amending battle strategies quickly and effectively; it was at this table that Prince Nuada and his generals plotted the destruction of the human race, reducing the population of the Earth, within the span of seven years, to just under the population of what was once New York.
For several minutes, the Elven Prince waited, his hands resting on the edges of the mirrormask, his head bowed below his shoulders. He had called a meeting upon his arrival at Bethmora – only one general and his battalion, as only one could be spared. For the mission the Prince had in mind, only a small number of warriors were necessary.
The men Nuada requested arrived quickly, at once, preceded by their commanding officer,
"Your Highness," their general greeted formally, descending to one knee before the Prince of Bethmora, his hand over his heart, head bowed.
"General Aereborne." Prince Nuada touched his hand to the glass table, willing images from his memory to appear there – they were the visages of the men who had taken the siren Bacchante, and the rest of her doomed kin. "They are pirates," the Prince explained briefly, "do whatever is necessary to find them, and after you've hunted them down," his golden eyes flashed with rage, "bring them to me alive."
Bacchante awoke to the stillness of her bedroom in Bethmora Palace the night that Prince Nuada had brought her there, from 12 hours of dreamless sleep. The room was dark as it was, and had been further dimmed for night. Her new chambers were relatively small – furnished only with the daybed on which Bacchante had slept and a small vanity, tucked into the opposite corner nearest the door. The walls were made from stone, from what the lady could tell, through they were covered almost entirely with moss and small ferns, growing out from cracks in the façade. The daybed was large and intoxicatingly comfortable, draped in white linen sheets and a down duvet – her entire body seemed to rest on pillows; there must have been a dozen adorning the bed. Lying still for a moment, Bacchante remembered well her rescue, and clearer yet the torment that preceded it; the days of utter agony that she refused to block out of her mind – the days that had made her afraid of the dark.
Silently and with quiet resignation, the siren lifted the heavy duvet from her and brought her feet down to the floor. She had been redressed, since she arrived – her skin and hair had been washed and were clean, and she had been provided with a white nightgown of something softer than cotton. Bacchante rose, gazing up at the ceiling of her bedroom – from it hung dozens of tiny, elaborate bottles, like glass orbs that shone white light down to the floor. Carefully, the siren reached up for one; taking it in the tips of her fingers, she noticed quickly that the light came from a liquid inside that fluoresced…
Bacchante's attention flicked quickly from her musings to the sound of the door to her room opening – a woman, a Palace maid stepped inside, carrying an ornate silver water pitcher on a tray.
"You're awake." The lady stated placidly, resting the tray with the pitcher on the room's vanity. "It's almost dawn. You should get dressed." The maid offered her hand to the siren – her skin was paler than Bacchante's, and almost golden; she was an Elf, like Prince Nuada… Quickly, Bacchante took the lady's hand and the maid guided her across the room.
"Are there no windows?" The siren remarked, finding her voice after a week of silence. The maid shook her head,
"We are underground; you are in the Palace-City of Bethmora." The servant led the siren to a door – not the door to the hall, but another, smaller entryway, placed beside the vanity. This opened to reveal a washroom, much larger than the bedroom she had come from – a large, porcelain claw-foot bath stood against a wall; smooth, flawless marble countertops and an ornately carved stone pedestal sink graced the suite. Ferns, vines and dozens more of the small vial-lights hung from the ceiling, making the room feel like a dark rainforest, or a garden.
The maid stepped over to a large cherry wood wardrobe and pulled open the massive doors – behind them were all manner of dresses and apparel, each crafted in gorgeous detail."This one ought to fit," The maid declared, pulling a conservative day-gown from the armoire. The servant glanced the siren up and down, before adding with a touch of cynicism, "well, one can only hope. Most Elves are thinner than you." Though slightly taken aback by the servant's rudeness, Bacchante chose simply to ignore her and admire the article of clothing she suggested. It was a gown of deep, dark green that shone copper in the light. Hundreds of tiny, dark brown beads and rhinestones dotted the dress' skirt, which billowed out voluminously, in a style long forgotten and abandoned by the human world.
"This way," the maid directed her to a private dressing area behind a standing screen. Admittedly, the gown was tighter than Bacchante would've liked and uncomfortable because of it; fortunately, a brief glance at her reflection in a standing mirror revealed that the poor fit of the garment was only evident to the wearer.
"There are brushes for your hair there-" the servant gestured before moving toward the door. "Do step outside quickly – you shan't want to miss the dawn." The siren paused a moment, stepping over to the intricate, ancient mirror the maid had indicated.
"Dawn? I thought Bethmora was underground."
"You'll see."
After only a minute following the servant's departure, Bacchante opened the door to her suite and stepped into the palace hall. The corridor was in fact a sort of balcony, open on the opposite side to a view of the entire subterranean city. Silently and softly, Bacchante padded along the hall beside a banister of carved stone that swept into solid, ornate columns, almost Victorian, holding up the roof above her.
In the still night-time serenity of the dimmed Palace hall, his presence struck her with a poignancy that was almost physical. There, standing before the balcony, his eyes on his city, was Prince Nuada Silverlance, of Bethmora. He stood, almost poised, his forearms resting on the balustrade; he was dressed for war, in red and black with his silver spear sheathed at his side, its gilded case glistening from out the darkness. His skin was a flawless pale, and almost shone – his hair a deep blonde, cascading effortlessly past his shoulders. The man's countenance was intimidating, almost frightening – his features were sharp and harsh; even from a distance, his golden eyes seemed to hold in them a coldness, and a ruthlessness like frost.
Bacchante stood for a moment in his presence, nearly breathless, her heart fluttering in her chest. Wordlessly and as quietly as possible she neared him: he who had murdered millions, who had initiated the holocaust of man, and who had shown her such kindness…
"I wanted to thank you," the Siren spoke, her voice just above a whisper. Immediately, she fell into a deep curtsy, under the gaze of his golden eyes. He exhaled audibly, almost in a scoff at her show of respect. Gently, he raised two fingers to the soft skin under her jaw and lifted her head, meeting her eyes of impossible blue with his own.
"Your deprecation is unnecessary," he answered her action, nearing the space between them. He had felt uneasy, restless - and somehow she calmed him, stilled the beating of his heart with her whispered praise. "Look," he spoke curtly, breaking a short silence.
Above them, hundreds of thousands of leaves, or blossoms unfurled from the city ceiling, dropping threads holding the same vials of light that graced her room. These were far, far brighter however, and by their luminescence Bacchante could see the city of Bethmora in all its dark beauty.
The city itself looked like the inside of a gothic cathedral, overrun by a rainforest. Massive pillars of stone, carved into intricate designs held a ceiling draped with long vines and ancient ivy, so thick that one could not see what lay above it. From her spot on the Palace gallery, the siren could see thousands upon thousands of houses and shop-fronts, all etched from the self-same stone and covered in varying degrees of vegetation, lights flickering on inside them as the city came to life. On the city floor a hundred feet below rushed a quick, clear underground river, its cadence of crashing water filling the air. Slowly the thick, sick-sweet scent of pollen descended from the ceiling, released by the flowers that freed the morning, filling the city with their peasant, dusty musk.
"It's beautiful," Bacchante breathed, leaning over the balustrade to drink in the city of Bethmora.
"It always was the darkest city," Nuada explained, his voice only slightly stronger than her own. "Now there is none other like it." Their silence was broken by the fluttering of wings, and the song of a bird as a small flock descended from their rooftop nests, to perch among the ivy and sip lightly from the city's stream.
"A nightingale?" the siren asked, her elation outweighing her fear of the Elven Royal. "I had thought they all perished, when the humans dropped their bombs." The Prince almost smiled,
"We managed to save a few. These are all that's left, of course." Lost in thought and her own pleasant awe, Bacchante recalled something she had once known, reminded of it…
When leaves have fallen and skies turn to grey
The night keeps on closing in on the day
The nightingale sings his song of farewell…
She stopped abruptly, realizing that she had been humming it softly. The man's eyes fixed on her, almost lost in her melody.
"I'm… I… I'm sorry," she hurried, covering her mouth with her hand. The Ancient Prince laughed softly in his throat,
"I've heard you sing before, through your memory." Bacchante breathed out slowly,
"Men have gone mad, listening to me sing; they lose themselves that way." Nuada Silverlance hummed softly, from deep in his chest,
"Perhaps it was never your singing, at all." Bacchante almost stepped back in surprise. His compliment had struck her as an arrow, and whether from the sudden praise or fear of her flatterer, the lady's heart beat wildly, as a sparrow trapped in her chest.
"Forgive me," the Prince of Bethmora uttered, his head turned from her, to his kingdom-city, "I was thoughtless."
The siren Bacchante stood silent for a moment, frozen in fear and a strange sort of empathy. She knew why he had amended his words, why he had apologized for his forward statement: he had seen her memories… He was not one of her assailants – a murderer, ruthless, merciless to his enemies, but never dishonourable. The lady almost scoffed at herself – she had known him, what? An hour, and yet she was defending him, playing Libra to his morality. And still, within him was something so entirely different, however dangerous… Slowly, Bacchante brought her hand down to his arm – her fingertips only just grazed the ebony fabric before she withdrew, startled by her own actions. She had paused long enough, however, for the Prince to notice her gesture, his golden eyes catching her with bemusement, surprise and lingering guilt.
"I was curious," the siren spoke carefully, breaking the tension, "the lights, they're everywhere in the city – I was wondering what they were; the liquid inside, how it could fluoresce quite so brightly." The Ancient Prince blinked slowly in response, as if momentarily confused by the strangeness of her inquiry,
"The alchemy behind it, you mean?" he furrowed his brow, half-smirking as he gazed up at the thousands of brilliant glass vials lighting Bethmora's sky. "I truly haven't the faintest idea," he admitted, almost blushing at his own ignorance. "You should ask one of our alchemists – they would be delighted to tell you, I'm sure." For a moment, the pair stood in fixed silence, drinking in the sight of daylight underground.
"I shall find out for you, I think." Prince Nuada stated finally, turning his head to Bacchante. She had time enough only to smile faintly in response before another arrived – a military officer, judging by his dress. He knelt briefly facing the Prince before he spoke,
"Your Highness, General Erised and his command have returned from the mountains." The man paused, his eyes never leaving his commander, "They report victory." The Ancient Royal stirred, pleased,
"Good – I shall join them in the war-room shortly." The officer bowed deeply before making his exodus,
"Yes, my Lord."
For several moments after his man left, Prince Nuada stood very still by the side of Bacchante, gazing out at his city. He breathing in the stillness that emanated from her, the peace that accompanied her countenance – if only for a time, before he descended deeper into the earth to plot murder and pain.
"Good day, Siren Bacchante." He said finally, his voice solemn with formality as he turned to leave for his birthright's obligation.