Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Chapter 3
Prince Nuada Silverlance arrived at the Bethmora Palace war-room, preceded by the men of General Erised's battalion. The General himself was a calculating and proficient man – he accepted only the most elite warriors, and led them with a mechanized coldness that earned him a reputation for being one of the very best at the game of war.
"I trust there were no casualties," the Elven Royal mentioned, addressing the entire chamber, "else would I have been informed of them."
"None, your Majesty," an officer stated, kneeling before his Lord as he spoke. Nuada smiled wryly,
"I would expect no less from you, General."
"The targets have been silenced, as was planned," General Erised explained. "However, our intelligence officers have reported a small sect of mercenaries, operating from Yellowhead Pass–" General Erised strode over to the table, using a long pointer to indicate a Rocky Mountain valley illustrated on the topographic map. "We believe they may have prisoners." Nuada Silverlance answered first with a short silence, resting his hands on the edges of the map table.
"Tell the commanding officers to send their men home to rest. All ranking officials remain here. A strategy for a raid shall be devised – we leave for war as soon as possible."
Bacchante spent the remainder of the day wandering the halls of Bethmora Palace, and exploring Prince Nuada's city. Around noon, she returned to her room to find the petulant maid had left her a meagre brunch of fruit and half of an open-faced sandwich, comically served on grandiose, elegant, and much-too-large silver plates. Bacchante ate gratefully, albeit with the sinking feeling that she had been unwittingly put on some sort of diet…
The siren went out again, secretly hoping to see the Prince – to speak with him, or even simply stand under the spell of his countenance; but the lady did not see him again that day. Rather, Bacchante returned to her room and retired early, sinking in to the decadent frills of her daybed and dreaming of nightingales.
When Bacchante awoke the next morning, a silver tray with her breakfast had been placed on the vanity; on it (to her dual disappointment and suspicion) was a single, solitary blueberry scone. A medium-sized teapot, all in silver, was provided with two small tea sachets resting in their own tray. Quickly, the siren stepped over to the teapot – the water inside was still very hot. She lifted the tea sachets gently to her nose, the rich, bold, vaguely musky scent of earl grey assailing her pleasantly. Bacchante dropped the sachets into the steaming water, her attention flicking to a large book placed next to her breakfast.
It was a massive tome, bound in burgundy leather with gold leafing, though the elegant trim had faded slightly with years of use. In large, embossed letters, the title "Luminescent Alchemy" was printed across the smooth, supple cover. Bacchante opened the text on her vanity; inside the front cover was tucked a plain, unmarked white envelope – the siren absently set it aside and flipped through the book's pages. It was a moderately advance text - understandable only with her foreknowledge of the topic. Several sections in the reference book had been marked – the first was an article entitled "Luciferin Fluorescence"; it went on for twenty pages, explaining in painstaking detail the process of creating the light vials that hung from the city ceiling, and graced her bedroom even now.
Bacchante smiled amusedly – she had expected Prince Nuada to procure some information for her, but she hadn't been certain how he would accomplish it. As she closed the tome, the siren noticed a small leather pouch, closed with a drawstring, lying next to her breakfast tray. The lady took it in her hands and opened it – inside were perhaps 50 gold pieces – the standard currency of the Netherworld, when bartering was deemed inappropriate. The amount of money provided was substantial without proving ostentatious – the equivalent of no more than 500 dollars.
Once she was certain she had accounted for all her gifts, Bacchante regarded the letter that accompanied them. Though it had no markings, it was sealed with crimson wax and stamped with the royal seal. She broke it gently and removed the paper inside; it was high quality stationary, smooth and crisp in her fingertips; it read:
I hope you find this volume sufficient to quell your curiosity. Do not perceive its simplicity as an insult to you – I am told it is the most thorough available, as well as the most relevant. Enjoy the city.
Though the note was unsigned, Bacchante had little doubt as to who had sent it. Prince Nuada's handwriting was sharp and elegant, though it appeared rushed in this instance, as though the note had been written quickly, perhaps while he was standing. Content, she replaced the note in its envelope and tucked it into a drawer in her vanity.
Engrossed in the book Prince Nuada had given her, Bacchante did not leave her chambers until well passed sunset, and only then to drink in the city of Bethmora at night. Gently, she opened her bedroom door and closed it behind her, softly padding down the long, dim Palace hallway. The siren thought perhaps she would go to the Palace foyer, a small pavilion with an excellent view of the city of Bethmora…
It was then, that night that Bacchante saw Prince Nuada Silverlance again. He was walking quickly the opposite way, as if with a destination in mind – Bacchante stopped when she saw him, pressing herself gently against the wall to let him pass. She was half surprised when he stopped before her.
"Your Highness," she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper in the stillness of the corridor-balcony. Bacchante dipped into a low curtsy.
"I believe I've told you once already, you owe me no hollow formalities – do not force me to remind you again." His reply was intended to be light and nonchalant, but the power of his countenance lent his words an unintended severity. Surely, Bacchante would have been frightened, were his speech not also laced with fatigue… When she looked up at him properly, she could see why. He was dressed in the same clothes she'd seen him in the morning of yesterday; he looked as if he hadn't slept at all since then, his golden skin pale and eyes dark. She answered him carefully,
"I thought, if someone were to see… it would be… inappropriate." Prince Nuada arched an elegant eyebrow,
"I see no one." His reply was calm and silky, exuding dominance and control – the Ancient Prince's words played tirelessly on the fluttering of Bacchante's heart, a warm flush rushing through her body, making her weak.
"Thank you for the Alchemy volume," the siren managed after a small silence. The Prince smiled,
"You liked it? Good." She hummed in agreement,
"I used to be very much interested in Arcane Chemistry; I had dozens of books of my own." The lady paused, "It was… unnecessary of you, but, very kind. How ever did you have the time to procure it?"
"It was no trouble at all." He glanced at her carefully after his words, drinking in her presence. "Would you like to come with me to the Solarium?" Bacchante lifted her eyes from his,
"I couldn't possibly! You- you look as though you haven't slept since last I saw you. I shouldn't keep you from your rest." The Royal half-scoffed in response,
"I confess, I haven't. There was a situation brought to my attention that required immediate military action – such things demand my absolute involvement." He continued, less gravely, "However, at least for now, my time is mine to do with as I please – I insist you indulge me." Bacchante imagined, accurately so, that Prince Nuada of the Silverlance had spent more than 36 hours in the Palace war room, plotting the destruction of some unlucky target – from what little she knew of this Ancient Royal, she could see that this was his nature: a tireless, selfless pursuit of what he believed in, and an absolute devotion to his birthright.
"You leave me no choice but to accept."
At her word, the Prince of Bethmora led Bacchante to the Palace pavilion, and down a short, stone stairway she had not thought to take while exploring the city. It led to a small courtyard, positioned in the very, very center of Bethmora Palace.
The Solarium was a fantastic indoor garden with foliage more dense than that of the rest of the city, and air far more temperate. A glass dome ceiling, constructed of elaborate ironwork closed the Solarium from above, allowing in light from several dimmed luminescent vials hanging on the other side of the glass, as if to simulate the night sky.
Upon entering however, Bacchante was not drawn to the garden itself, but rather to a magnificent, elaborate fountain standing in the very center of the courtyard. The water-feature was imposing and altogether far too large for the small Solarium: four tiers of cascading water stood taller than she, perhaps ten feet from the floor. Bacchante stepped over toward the massive fountain, her fingers lightly grazing the limestone; she noticed that sigils, alchemic symbols had been cut into it, covering almost every inch of the fountain's surface… Before she could take a closer look, Prince Nuada clasped his hand over her wrist, pulling her gently from the water feature.
He guided her through the Solarium to a large, semi-circular stone bench tucked away deep in the dense foliage. He sat down first, immediately breathing a long, fatigued sigh; the Prince reclined, almost languidly, throwing his head back to gaze up at the chemical underground sky. To Bacchante, seeing him this way was at once strange and disconcerting, like watching a dragon dreaming.
She joined him quickly, sitting with perhaps two feet between them – as acquaintances, she thought.
"I come here when I need… stillness." Prince Nuada spoke, breaking the silence of the Solarium. It was only upon hearing his words that Bacchante realized how long they had sat together without speaking; it had been a comfortable serenity; natural, and somehow appropriate. The siren looked at him with empathy – she had not realized, or even imagined the burden he bore... She wondered if it was regret; if the conviction that drove him to slaughter six billion humans was failing him…
"Tranquility clings to you," he began once more, without looking at the lady of whom he was speaking, "your presence quells my rage." Bacchante stirred at his comment,
"Is your indignation truly so complete that you fight to conquer it?"
"It is."
"Then for your rage, I pity you." Bacchante lifted her eyes to him, Prince still reclining in his darkened garden. He flashed his eyes to hers, meeting them for only an instant,
"Pity those who inspire it." The Ancient Prince's reply was saturated with pride and laced with a dangerous wrath – for a moment, Bacchante's heart skipped, and beat harder within her.
"And who provokes your rage?" the siren could see his eyes narrow slightly, though his gaze was once more transfixed on the alchemic stars.
"The wicked, and the hollow." Prince Silverlance's voice rang with loathing – a hatred that comes only from experience, and witnessing that of which he spoke. Her question filled him suddenly with a desire, and almost desperate, impulsive need to protect the lady, to slaughter those who had wronged her and forever shield her from the cruelty of the depraved. The feeling flooded his soul, uncontrollable and almost carnal; the rage he had for those who abused her and the empathy, a sort of tenderness, he felt for the siren herself clashed within him in bitter resolution. Bacchante watched his eyes in the moments after he spoke, and they frightened her.
The Prince of Bethmora could taste her terror; he wished, wildly, that he could allay it – that he could protect her from the world he had created…
Quickly, almost impulsively, Prince Nuada rose from the bench, standing for a moment before Bacchante, deciding what to say. He couldn't be here – he would reveal too much; he would speak something in exhaustion that she would interpret as… and any trust she had for him would vanish.
"Thank you for enduring me," the Prince of Bethmora mentioned finally, bowing his head to the lady in politeness. "It is late."
"It was a pleasure," Bacchante countered quickly, mildly confused by his sudden aloofness, "but you are correct." She sighed; he did not offer to walk her to her room, or provide any cordial exodus. He merely turned from her and left the Solarium, dotted with Luciferin lamps and filled with the murmur of the rushing fountain.