Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Chapter 4
Bacchante spent the following day in the city. She re-visited the shops she had seen when she first explored Bethmora, but bought only trifles – a slice of chocolate cake, and an espresso sold by a Sphinx from Syria. When she did return to Prince Nuada's Palace, Bacchante resumed her wandering, absently searching for useful rooms. Half of her was seeking the beautiful Solarium Prince Nuada Silverlance had shown her the night before – she imagined it would look entirely different in the day; likely it would be bright, she thought, as if sun-drenched – she doubted they called it the Solarium for nothing.
Bacchante had been walking pleasantly about the Palace for nearly forty-five minutes before she came to an archway, which opened to a stairwell leading deeper into the earth. The stairway and ensuing corridor were narrower than those of the rest of the palace, and seemed somehow older... The lady descended.
Beyond the narrow hall at the base of the stairs, Bacchante heard a whisper of sound – the faint whistle of movement. It nearly made her stop, for fear of walking in on some meeting room or important political discussion – but then those doors would surely be locked.
The siren turned a final corner, and stood in breathless awe. In a large, open room, a sort of training room, she saw the Prince of Bethmora; he was practicing with a silver spear, the weapon sailing effortlessly through the air at the command of his slightest gesture. The Prince was shirtless, his muscles rippling under his golden-white skin. A thin layer of cold sweat glistened on his chest – the only evidence of any physical strain from his training.
In the moments following her intrusion, the lady waited in absolute silence. Her presence, it seemed, had gone unnoticed, for the Prince did not stop. She watched in veneration as the Ancient Royal wielded his weapon – his skill was unquestionable and wickedly enthralling, like watching a falcon catch a sparrow in flight.
It was several seconds after first seeing him that Bacchante dared to look more closely, and only then did she notice his scars. Healed wounds, perhaps inflicted by swords or daggers laced across the muscles on his back and chest, the skin that knitted over the old incisions whiter than the rest of his flesh. Seeing them surprised her, and struck her with a deeply felt pity – there were many of them… Upon realizing this, Bacchante nearly cried a moan of condolence, though she did not fully understand why; she reminded herself that he was very nearly a stranger, that he was a murderer – he had committed genocide. Yet, the thought of him in pain resonated within her, as if her heart had been bound with wire and were being torn apart.
Without warning, the siren was pulled from her musings at the sight of Prince Nuada's golden eyes fixed on her. He stood poised, almost pleased, his spear extended in his arm with its silver tip aimed at her heart.
"Come in." Pensively, after a moment's hesitation, the lady stepped into the training room. It was a chamber different from most others in the palace – all greenery had been removed from the walls, and the floor was made from interwoven strips of bamboo, soft and supple beneath her feet. Once she entered Prince Nuada withdrew his weapon, resting it jauntily across his shoulder-blades – standing like this before her, Bacchante was struck speechless by the sheer dominance and animalistic severity of his presence. She had not noticed that the Prince of Bethmora was indeed an incredibly attractive man, though his was in every aspect the dangerous grace of a predator.
"May I help you?" his question broke the silent tension. The reply it induced forced the lady to draw a full breath – before that, she had hardly been respiring at all for fear of being noticed.
"Oh, no–I–was, simply wandering the Palace. I came here quite by mistake." Her response strengthened as she spoke, though the magnitude of her voice did not exceed a whisper.
"Mistake?" his reply was silken sound, soft and commanding, "Now that you have found me, do you wish to leave?"
"I will stay, unless you wish me gone."
He laughed in answer, from somewhere deep in his throat, "Not at all. Come into my parlour." Says the spider to the fly, Bacchante added mentally, her heart racing in her chest.
Carefully, the siren stepped further into the underground room. The Ancient Royal turned from her, spear in hand; the weapon shortened at his command and he sheathed it in the same silver case the lady had seen before, glinting at his side.
"I leave for war in two days."
"How long will you be away?"
"Not long, if all goes well. I will be travelling to the mountains in the continental interior, accompanying a General of mine and his battalion. They are extremely proficient." The Prince's answer was gentle and polite, but firm with resignation.
"And what mission would require the presence of the Prince himself?"
"The target is a band of mercenaries. It is likely they have prisoners."
Bacchante breathed slowly, meeting his eyes for a moment, "The prisoners - are they Elves?"
"I couldn't tell you." He answered with a rueful smirk, finding in this detail some dark, sardonic humour.
The lady uttered an audible scoff, a mix of confusion and incredible pity, "And you would risk your life for creatures you know not of?"
"I ask nothing of my men that I would not give of myself."
"Doubtless, your intentions are noble," Bacchante began carefully, "but are you certain of their practicality?"
"I refuse to lead from a throne, sending men to die for my war in cowardice," his eyes flashed as he spoke, but his tone was placid and she knew his indignation was never meant for her, "Passive kings are assassinated and usurped. I would rather die by my people's side than live, deserving of their betrayal."
"And if you fell in battle, who would inherit your kingdom?" Bacchante persisted, stepping timidly away from him even as she spoke, "You have no heir – or am I wrong?"
"I have none." Prince Nuada paused for a moment and continued calmly, noticing the lady's apprehension, "If I perished, fair Bethmora would fall into the command of an old, old friend; a prince as it is, he has no lust for power – he would rule with a gentle hand, I'm sure of it."
"Be that as it may, with your death, your bloodline dies." Prince Nuada caught the lady's eyes for a fleeting moment, a silken smirk playing wickedly across his sharp features,
"Perhaps one day it will not be so." Bacchante attempted to scoff, but her reply came as little more than a delicate gasp. She had dared to speak to him, to question him, and he answered candidly; she wondered if he knew how much he frightened her.
Without another word, Prince Nuada walked over – to her, she thought – quickly, Bacchante back-stepped into the hallway exit leading from the training room, and he followed. Oh, she thought, chiding herself, he's leaving; of course, how ridiculous of me… Before she could think more, the Ancient Prince passed her in the corridor, and for a moment, time seemed to stop.
In the narrowness of the hall, they stood very near each other – with mere inches separating the fragile fabric of her gown from his bare chest. She didn't dare meet his eyes then, but for fear of closing them turned to his scars. Whether because of her nervousness or the sheer power of his countenance, Bacchante's pity waned slightly, subsiding to disquietude that caught in her throat and fluttered in her chest. For an instant, she felt the whisper of his breath on her hair, and the lady shivered deeply. Wildly, she wondered if he would kiss her, if he would press his smirking lips against hers, and trap her in the narrow corridor…
The moment lasted only very briefly – hardly an instant, and before she could catch her breath he had already stepped free of her.
"Wait!" she called after him, before she could stop herself. The Prince of Bethmora turned to her once again, "You said your mission… that, you would be back soon. How- how long will you be away?"
"A month. Two, perhaps."
"Two months?" The lady cried out in minor frustration; he very nearly laughed at her then, if only in endearment,
"Truly, that isn't long. Farewell, Lady Bacchante." With this final sentiment he vanished down the hall, before she found the chance to ask if she would see him again before he left her.
Author's Note: I'll try to be brief. First of all, I apologise for the formulaic structure of chapters 2-4… I think this ended up happening because I never write with chapters in mind. In any case, I don't really like these chapters anyway, so I'll probably re-work them once I've finished the story completely. Also, sorry chapter 4 is so short.
Second, this story is going to get darker, and more romantic eventually (this fic isn't rated M for nothing.) I realize I haven't exactly been writing about rainbows and kittens thus far... Honestly I've written much worse. The "darkness" warning is in advance, for later chapters...
Oh! And just to finish off on an incredibly cliché note, I wanted to thank all my lovely reviewers. I read your comments, I appreciate you, and I'm not ignoring you.