A/N: Dear readers, please note that Prelude will only show on the recently updated list of Underworld stories if you change your filter to show Mature content (it shows K to T by default). Thank you for noticing this, Love in Halsey!
Chapter XC: An Insurmountable Disaster
Fifteen minutes later.
Naturally for those watching from afar, hell was a place of angelic serenity. A kind of dance occurring as the Northerners and Southerners returned to their table, brimming with unspent energy. A great deal of whispering and beckoning. Like tightrope walkers attempting to pass one another while crossing a lake of fire. Lucian and his council nowhere to be seen…but a missive delivered to Lord Erling, who rose sullenly from his seat, appearing to have words with one of his advisors before retiring from the hall…
…and for Reinette, it truly felt both angelic and serene without Erling the heir at her side. Like her lungs were no longer in a vice. But her relief short-lived, for he returned soon after, his face now hidden by a different mask. Barren and without the scars. The change soon followed by the lycan-master and his Council associates, who returned to their seats. Relaxed. Their ease of conversation seeming uncomfortably loud at first. Until the sound began to spread. Giving license then for the merriment to continue. That all should be joyful for the blessings that came when dining in the Great Hall.
A place where all was right in the world…
…because the Council had deemed it so. And so it became right. Every lesson from Rena holding her upright. Stiff…and guarded. Willing herself to feel as little as possible so she might be done with it. The hours that stood between dinner and the final gong. The moment when she could breathe…and bathe…and rid herself of his presence. Her cranium blissfully off Erling's list of topics for the evening. But the subject of his conversation having switched without mercy onto new targets. Like he had been watching them for weeks, preparing for this moment. First Sabine…and then Rena. Brazenly picking at them like wounds, while keeping within the boundaries of political discourse.
For it was all…officially…above board.
His confusion regarding the recent closure of the docks. His concern over how such illicit activities could have occurred in a green zone…and whether there had been an incident of some kind. The vague responses enough to shift him away like a wasp, only for the boy to settle on another topic…
…this time his pride in how quickly his sister, Freyja, had finished her studies. Followed by a casual inquiry into whether Sabine had chosen a particular subject for her thesis…and then oh no, his apologies upon realising he had misunderstood the situation. How unfortunate it was that Sabine's offer to resume her studies at the University of Edinburgh, let alone any lycan-affiliated institution, had been rescinded in the past year.
How awful.
He then turned in his seat, expressing curiosity now as to where exactly Benoit had originated. Vendée, he said, as though trying to place the locale. Was there not a massacre in that area some centuries ago? And she herself was unaware of the connection, for it was surprising even to her when the wasp turned, looking towards where Rena was standing and asked if Rena—who originated in France, did they say—had also some connection to Vendée…
…and this was the only point when a barrier was raised. Lucian, seeming oblivious to the insults, but for once—in that horrific conversation—immediately shutting down the query before it could go further. As though there were lines…and then there were lines. And this one…was a very…specific line. Something he would not allow anyone to cross.
His tactic subtle but effective.
Completely ignoring Erling, the lycan-master asked Benoit if he'd caught anything during the last hunt. And by the casual nature of his tone, it was an engaging subject, not just for Benoit, but an entire line of men who—apparently—had been having some difficulty hunting over the past week. Like hearing boys argue amongst themselves, determining that the problem had nothing to do with their abilities, but rather the unfair environment in which they'd found themselves. And where most had been listening to Erling, a majority were now discussing the antics of this creature they were all trying to track. Not a stag as one would assume, but a smaller thing.
A white mountain-hare.
Lycan hunting culture, particularly among the upperclass, often marking and releasing a hapless creature into the wild, so the first hunter to catch it would receive the spoils. All of them seeming to have had some difficulty in sighting this particular hare, making her wonder if the thing even existed. But the change in topic allowing everyone a moment's respite. Until the boy quick in his rejoinder, turned towards her and asked if she was technically allowed to be on the hunt. For it was a public thing, was it not?
To which she had no answer.
But Weylan did.
Erling continuing to discuss the matter with the guest he was talking to—masked as a goat and sounding shockingly like Weylan—who confirmed that she was not allowed on the hunt due to her status as a Council resource. The topic then moving onto how a Council resource—for she was a Council resource, was she not—could be guarded by one whose wages were partially supplemented by public taxes…
…or in other words…
She…and her cranium…were a target again, thought Reinette, finding herself staring at the boy's hands. Realising how clean they were. Scrubbed. At times feeling her gaze drift.
Like she was there, yet not there.
Eventually resigning herself to the feeling and rather than following it, she did as Rena had taught and buried herself in observation. Taking time to examine the crystal bowl they'd set on her plate. Approximately the size of an egg. Its contents comprising of exactly ten millilitres of blood, so they could space out a single meal across twelve courses. Wondering if perhaps the cook had indeed thrown in her towel, for whoever was sending out these courses had no idea how to cook for bloods.
Or lycans, it seemed.
Sabine not even pretending to pick at her food, but rather staring at Reinette, her eyes seeming to beg for them to leave. But none of them were leaving, she realised dimly, setting her spoon down so an attendant could remove her plate. Not with five courses left…
…and the sound of cutlery.
Knife…
…after knife.
After knife…
…until there was nothing left to cut.
Causing her to wonder then if this had been Erling's plan all along. Not the mask, but its aftermath. For in the wrappings of her solitude, she saw the rest of the hall begin to mill. Whispering and murmuring. The tension sharp as the youth of their society began to turn towards their parents…and were quickly hushed.
Uncomfortably so.
And the parents trying to compensate. Sounding…too…joyous now. Like a chorus of marionettes too terrified to dance without their strings. Their faces stretched in porcelain smiles. The enjoyment…too much. So that after so many years, she knew when lycans were nervous. Pretending to be fine while a battle waged around them. A layer of scent that was impossible for her to distinguish. Only that most had started to draw back from the head table. Wary of protecting themselves from falling fragments and residue.
And yet it never came.
It could not.
So they sat in hell…
…and the boy remained.
Seated at the table of Hades.
Untouchable.
Slicing his way into the fish now—a fermented herring that the rest of the table, even Magnus, had chosen to ignore. But the heir of the North seeming to relish every slice. Raising his glass, filled with the sweet taste of diplomatic immunity, to each of the Council members as he dined, his breath no longer smelling of cat blood…
…but rotting fish.
And though she despised Erling for his ill-nature, she ought to have seen the warning signs in that moment. Thinking that it would be the rotting fish…and the cat blood…that would cause all seventy millilitres of blood to leave her stomach. When it was Lucian who dealt the final blow to her confidence. For he was no longer paying heed to Erling, but instead speaking to the rose at his side. Who blushed suddenly. As though she could command it, the warmth that only existed when there were those to witness it. All grace and innocence as she smiled…
…and nodded.
Giving leave then for all to whisper and wonder as he stood, raising a hand for the silence that followed. From a sea of murmuring masks. All of them seeming to know what was to occur like steps from a sixteenth-century dance. One she could not follow, realised Reinette, keeping her eye like steel on the spectacle. Refusing to look away as it happened.
Like she was sinking into the floor. Unable to move…yet sinking…as she watched. Trying to understand why Lucian was taking his knife…her knife…and holding it up for all to see…before cutting a lock from his hair…and she from her own. Solemnly placing each lock in a stone bowl that had been brought forward. And the two of them placing their hands around the bowl and then together, dropping a small flame—a wick of life…into the depths…and holding it up.
Together.
And its effect immediate. Like a war had been won. A roaring cascade of jubilant cheering, raw and unabashed, close to shaking the hall to its foundations. As though finally their spirits could let loose. No longer bound by the rules of polite society, but able to breathe again. Laughing and crying. People standing for their joy, raising their glasses in acclamation. While Sabine gauntly looked on, seeming bleak before forcing her own smile.
But for Reinette...
...she could not do it.
The joy too much.
Too vivid.
Like the colours had burnt themselves onto her eye. Seeping across her vision. Blinding her to the world. To the skin-crawling sensation of Erling touching her back, leaning forward to whisper, so quietly by her ear. That once the lycan-master started fucking his sister, perhaps she would reconsider his offer. Smiling unctuously as he said it. His teeth wide in contrast to the mask she'd formed around herself. Thinking it would be the contrast that would overwhelm her. The deafening roar of hands that would pull her from shore…
…but it was the look that broke her.
Making her wonder at what point Lucian had looked at her…
…and she at him.
For it was a look formed out of mutual solitude.
Suddenly frozen in his gaze, seeing through the farce as he saw it.
All the eyes on his back and hers, revelling in celebration.
When none of it mattered.
She was safe.
And it was night…
…just as any other. A night from the years when he still needed her. When he would visit her quarters for that hour of warmth…and companionship. Together by a fire, waxing late into the night. Hearing the clock tick on their mantlepiece. The chimes. The scratching of ink. As though the world had stilled around them. Joy...and sorrow...occurring in that moment and the space between that moment. Reminding her of a hundred different nights when he reached out. When she was quiet for too long. When too many days had gone without her leaving the house…
...and she saw that he was there. That he was still there…and had never left.
Only now he could read her. All the sorrow she was carrying. So easily that it was done before she could blink. His gaze already removed. And its memory passing quickly like steps before a rising sun. Leaving her with a flower around her neck…and a hole in her hands. An emptiness. Foolishly thinking that had been the moment. That she could have swayed him with a look. Tempting him to her side. Wishing…and begging that fate would give her fortune.
When in the end…
…it did not.
o…o…o
A gong striking instead…
…two hours later amid a scattering of applause.
For it was time.
Finally.
The meal ended.
And all parties raising their glasses, jubilant as they left their chairs and tables behind. Eagerly taking the cigars, coffees, and teas being handed out by the serving staff. Refreshing themselves for the dance to come. Each of the draped windows drawn back, revealing arrangements of flowers, bright against the winter's darkness.
Like a dance in itself, each servant lifting tables with clockwork synchronisation until there was room for dancing. A string quartet paired with a jazz band of all things. Instruments that seemed to confuse half the attendees, those who appeared young, but were clearly too old to comprehend why all this change was necessary for the fabric of their society.
But there was a compromise.
The Lady Allegra raising two fingers, the gilded crescents of lycan pomp and circumstance, signalling to the quartet who bowed in her direction. All of them wearing masks as well, but the most flamboyant, a towering parrot walking to the centre of the hall…
…flying high on the wings of their anticipation. A bard from a different age. One who was able to command silence as quickly as a king for the merriment he might bring.
"My lords and ladies," he called out.
And all turned to the centre…
…where he allowed his right leg to draw back as he bowed. Turning in a wide circle, raising a graceful arm and allowing his lilting voice to carry high and strong to all who were in the court.
"…a quadrille."
And immediately, the music began.
A distant sound.
Woven not by strings, but a drum.
An instrument of war used in times of peace.
Its beat drawing them in…
…the six dancers whose lot had been chosen. The three beasts dressed in white and the colourful flowers standing at their side. Sabine looking as though she were going to be sick. But it would not have mattered for all eyes were on the last couple. The two who had not joined…a couple that all had been watching…for all of that evening.
Lucian who stood now, waiting by the clock, giving some insight into his demons. The ones who would not move until midnight, the precise time when the quadrille was scheduled to start, thereby making him right and the rest of the hall wrong. Continuing to ignore his duties…unlike his lady, the rose, who waited so patiently at his side.
Waiting.
And waiting.
Until from her place in hell, Reinette could see now what it meant. How absolute his power was that musicians and dancers would wait, endlessly playing the same eight bars of music…
…entirely at his pleasure. For the quadrille would not begin until he willed it. And desired it. The murmurs and whispering beginning to sound. Wondering if their gambles were about to pay off. The few who chose poorly starting to look towards the Lady Allegra, but all remaining still like statues. Until the hour of midnight struck. The chimes sounding exactly twelve times, and Lucian frozen in his step, waiting for all of them to sound…
…for it was the clock, she realised later. The clock that he'd been waiting for. Glancing once then at Magnus who nodded. And the leader of their world, the great lycan-master of the horde, taking the information in like another missive. Hearing the last chime…and immediately stepping forward. In time. To the music. Leading his lady towards the circle of six.
Where relief began to build.
For all of them.
As the joy of it…the idea of Lucian himself…dancing…started to spread through the crowd. Like a seductive charm drawing them close. Making them sway like the marionettes that they were, desperate for his good regard. And the steps drawn out on paper…
…perfectly in tune with his voice.
Still in her head.
Because she believed him now.
That he could dance.
Properly.
Starting with the bow…
…and the curtsey.
His eyes never leaving Freyja as she stepped to the left…
…and he to the right. Turning once. Meeting her in the centre, right hand to right hand.
Only his diagram failed to capture this nuance of lycan culture.
That it was not simply a courtly dance between lovers.
But a hunt.
A wild quality. Sensual and dangerous.
For it started to move faster. Perfectly in time…but faster and faster…until the lycan-master—who never danced—made a misstep, passing behind Freyja and in the same motion, stepping too far to the right. Removing his mask, so the boy could see what was about to happen.
And fear it.
Reinette immediately stepping back.
Able to read him as well as he could read her.
Yet nearly forced to remain in place as Erling's hand tightened painfully on her wrist.
Trying to shove her in front of the blade…
…but too late.
It happened.
So quickly.
Like an avalanche passing between them. A vengeful force of nature. The laughter dying away and the sea of onlookers suddenly wider. Darker. The lights no longer warm, but harsh. And the dance, the quadrille of the century, faltering to a stop…as all who were close, backed away in horror.
Except Sabine…
…who seemed curious rather than shocked.
As though she were watching a play.
Erling shrieking in pain.
And beside him…
…Lucian…crouching in blood, now idly turning his mourning knife in a hand. That which had been on Freyja's belt at the start of the dance. But had mysteriously wandered. The hilt now red, after having been shoved down the length of Erling's forearm...before being pulled up. A ghastly length of bone and sinew revealed beneath the skin, its veins torn and spilling out like entrails. And his actions calm, seeming to come like a counterpoint to the shrieks. The horror of those around as the lycan-master, spattered in blood, serenely removed a glass vial from his tail coat…and opened it, allowing some of the blood to drip…drip…drip…from the knife to the vial until it was full. Stoppering the vial, pocketing it, and pointing his knife…almost pleasantly…at the boy.
Just shy of his neck.
"You are going to leave now," he said. Easily. Like the hour had struck and their business was done…
…and it reminded her of someone.
Like her years of dreaming in the North had seeped onto the floor.
Only there would be no negotiation in this deal.
Though it was painful to watch.
Not just the physical anguish, but the astonishment on the boy's face.
As though he could not believe…that they were at Hangrove…
…and his arm was now…in…pieces. "How can you have…" There seemed to be a final straw breaking as the boy snatched off the mask he'd been wearing and threw it at the man's feet. "…it was just…a…mask… Are you…insane…"
"Guards."
"Wait…" Erling was folded over his arm, straining to hold it in one piece. But he raised the other. Straining to get the words out from between his teeth. "Wait, you… cannot…do this…"
The knife flicked to the side.
A clear answer.
"But I…"
The boy was breathing hard.
Looking for his way out.
Quickly before any guard could take him by the arms.
"…I have immunity," he ground out.
As though he dared them to deny it.
And they could not.
None of them.
For it was…
…a disaster.
An insurmountable disaster that the heir of Gottfrid should be attacked in that hall. Not just for Hangrove, but for all of them. A merge in tatters. The Northern and Southern advisors looking as though they were ready now to throw themselves in the lake of fire after all. For it would be better than the hell they would soon be facing. The accountant from the Lycan Merchant's Bank looking as though he were already writing his will. Knowing the stock exchange would already be falling…
…along with any support from the Lycan council. Those in attendance looking on with varying levels of shock and horror. Morrigan surrounded by a reflective wall of her decoys…and Magnus surprisingly at her side. Flanked by Raze who knew better than to go anywhere near his wife, the Lady Allegra who had frozen. Her shock apparent for she'd been rendered speechless. Like an immaculate Grecian statue who'd spilled the entirety of her tea down the front of her dress.
Gottfrid.
The investors.
All of their shares leaking onto the floor with Erling's blood. And yet it did not resonate for their lord—their mad…impetuous lord—who might have doomed them into another financial crisis. Perhaps even civil war. Freyja already drawn back from the floor, surrounded now by her own court, the ladies in waiting who came with her from the North. While in the South…
…no one dared step forward.
For he looked insane.
Unmoved by the wretched sight of his victim. The excruciating grunts of pain. Instead staring dimly at the knife in his hands. Appearing tired of his surroundings, yet deep in contemplation…
…like he could see them.
All the words this boy had said.
Hanging like dried flowers in the air.
Beautiful…
…and soon to be discarded, she realised.
A portion of her soul revelling in it. How afraid his people were. Of the silver pupils…and the blood spatter. Like a cautionary tale for the children of the hundred souls now caught in the abject terror of the Great Hall. That he could be so calm, reaching down for his wolf mask, so he could study its countenance. A simple man staring into a broken reflection…
…before giving up on his introspection. The suggestion that this mask could be anything but a childish parody of the real thing. The monster that led them. The scent that even now was likely pervading the hall. Warning those in attendance to back away if they valued their lives.
"You have immunity in the South," he said. Clearly and concisely, using the mask to indicate the walls. "…but this is now a fourth day of feasting. Which means one of us…" He pointed at himself. "…just accosted an heir of the North…with a knife…in a place of Gathering. Therefore under the rules of both our people, I have just endangered the peace of the Horde…and you are in need of a safe-house. Therefore…in short…" He dropped the knife, letting it fall point down between the man's legs. "…gather your things…and get the fuck out of my den."
Erling was looking aghast at him…
…his eyes moving desperately to the head table as though he expected something to happen.
Followed by a splutter from the floor. "We've not been feasting for four days…"
"Tea is a feast," said Lucian, snapping his fingers for the guards to proceed. Four of them immediately stepping forward to surround Erling…
…who had been left out in the cold. Magnus not moving. Freyja looking unexpectedly serene…and a few Northern dignitaries now forced to make a choice, but only a few stumbling forward to assist. One of them helping Erling to his feet. Forcing him to move even as his words trailed after him. Pained and spitting with rage. "My father will hear of this," the boy yelled over his shoulder.
"Count on it," said Lucian. Letting his mask fall to the stone floor. The silver fading from his eyes as he seemed to breathe again, turning to look at her. Seeming to forget where they were.
The blood on his knife. And yet his expression one of concern. Reaching out to give her a hand, as though they were still in the upper house and she'd just stumbled on a staircase.
"Are you…"
She shifted away from his hand.
And it stopped him.
The crease in his brow deepening. Staring at the first mask he'd been holding. Seeing what she saw and now wishing it could be different, that Erling had not taken it as far as he did. The bruise on her wrist—the place where he had shoved her in front of the knife—already healed, yet his hand still reaching forward. "Can I at least…"
She got to her feet, backing away from him. Feeling a need to…get away from it. The hundreds of eyes staring at them…and a truth starting to form as she remembered. The dreadful mask that Erling had first worn. Formed out of papier-mâché. And yet it was so…specific. Made with an exacting eye that had made not just a mockery…but an exact copy of each scar. Something Erling would have taken less care with…
…which meant the person who made the mask probably knew it. Very well. And all one had to do to make certain of a spectacle…was to put the right pieces in the hands of a horrible person. Erling parading her like a whore before the den, thinking he was so clever…when it was someone else who thought of the idea first. Even warning her the night before…that he would do something…odd. And that it would be for the best…
…but knowing now that regardless of what Erling did that evening, Lucian would have done nothing…for the best…until that chime rang out.
Until the hour was right.
"May I go now," she asked. Aware of where they were standing…that she was in public, and therefore a piece on his chessboard. And she could see him trying to make her trust him again. The dance over. But his purpose the same. Like a hunter facing a deer…only this time, it was slow and careful. Keeping himself back. Glancing at the mask, knowing her scent. Knowing what she was thinking. And wishing she would just look at him…
…but she could not.
Not without smelling the cat blood. Realising that she was tired of it. All the games and intrigue in his den. Instead, she picked up her own mask where it had fallen. Wiping the blood from her arm and waiting at his pleasure.
And he understood.
Finally.
As though they were alone.
With a hundred eyes watching.
Reinette staring straight ahead…
…until he nodded.
And she left the hall.
Rena…and then Sabine quickly following after. Their steps the last sound in a hall that had been rendered silent. No one daring to move or speak. Only Lucian, watching until the last step had faded. Only then turning to face his audience, the hundreds of eyes that had not blinked. Raze and Allegra. Morrigan. Magnus. Freyja. His last words something that would be on the front page of the Line Rumour, as well as twelve of the next telegrams that were about to leave the house in precisely six minutes.
"Ladies and gentlemen, my sincerest apologies," he said, bending down to retrieve his knife. "…but for the sake of the peace, it would seem I am now banned from Hangrove," he finished. Raising a magnanimous hand as he spoke, turning to regard them all…
… before bowing once.
Tiredly.
And without another word, he wiped the blood-stained mourning knife like a sword on the arm of his tail coat, dropped it again with a resounding clatter, and immediately stalked from the hall.
Like a glacier falling into the sea.
Freyja staring after him…
…before gracefully stepping forward.
Retrieving the knife…
…and sheathing it.
In her belt.
A/N: Thank you to any and all who are still reading, particularly given the lack of email notifications. On we go! As always, feel free to read and review.
Guest: This review gave me great delight in its existence. To get even one review these days is immensely meaningful.
Regarding Sabas: As I have mentioned on Tumblr, for every reader who is disappointed about not seeing Sabas, please let me state for the record that I am currently fanning myself with chapters I have already written but cannot post yet.
Regarding expectations: As to your suggestion that (a) I be "careful with the expectations created" simply because you wanted something to happen in the last chapter and it did not happen and (b) your belief that "some expectations need to be met due to the time the story has been written and the long pauses and low attention given to your fandom", please have it noted (for the record):
I respectfully decline.
I do not write for your expectations. On occasion, those expectations will align with the story, but regardless of whether this fandom is dying, I feel compelled to write the story in the manner that I see it happening in my brain. Not because I think it will get me more readers. (And who doesn't want more readers?) But that is how writing works.
[Update: That is how writing works for me, I should have said.]
You may decide at this point that you do not wish to continue given the long pauses and low attention to the fandom, but as neither of us should be taking these comments to heart apparently (although let's be honest, of course we do), I hope you will continue reading.
Regarding content warnings: Your suggestion to provide a warning before chapter 88 was excellent. I have added it.
On that note, thank you for continuing to read and I hope you will have patience for things to come.
A/N #2: Apologies. Prelude will be on hiatus until I can get my mental health state back in order. Guest Reviewer #800's response to my author's note above pushed things a step too far for me. I hope to continue someday. But mental health first.