3.12 & 3.13

-12-

             Iladrul awoke to find a letter posted to the outside of his bedchamber door which advised him that he was to forgo his training lessons for the morning.  Rather, the note advised him, he was to dress in his formal attire and make his way to the small apartment across the hallway from the rooms that would become his once he had passed his manhood test.  He had a visitor there, it would seem, and it was in that room that his father had commanded his visitor to wait for him.

            “Queer.”  Iladrul muttered under his breath as he threw the note aside and retreated back into his bedchamber.

            But no matter the strangeness of the order.  Iladrul did as he was bid and donned his princely robes before stepping before the mirror to set his delicately made crown over his brow. 

            His crown was a pretty thing, in Iladrul’s opinion.  It was made of gold and looped in delicate patterns around his head.  At the center of his forehead it swooped downward and curled into a tear drop.  Within the tear drop a light of brilliant white pulsed whenever he laid the crown upon his head. 

            Once, when Iladrul was young and the weight of the world wasn’t consuming him, he had asked his dearest friend—a stable boy named Gregor who he had been forbidden to play with due to his lowly status—to to put  the crown on his own head to see if his forehead would make the light pulse.  It hadn’t.  Nor had it when he had asked the friend that he was allowed to play with, Faunus, to don the bauble.

            Looking at himself in the reflecting glass, Iladrul thought of Gregor now.

            Gregor had been one of the few boys who had ever treated him as just another boy.  With Gregor, Iladrul could romp and play.  Not a swords or at politics as he was forced to do with Faunus and the others.  But by wrestling in the hay together or riding horses bare back through the forest. 

            Even though their friendship had ever been forbidden, Gregor’s father, a joyful angel named Zander, had always welcomed Iladrul into the stables to play with Gregor on the occasions when Iladrul came to call.  Until, that was, about ten years ago.

            On a very lazy summer afternoon, Iladrul had left his other friends in their play in search of more lighthearted fun.  He had gone to the stables in search of Gregor and Zander had eagerly let him in.  Earlier that day, Gregor had convinced Zander to tie a swinging rope to the rafters of the barn.  While he had been doing so, Gregor had gathered the unbound straw that was kept in the cellar and piled a goodly amount of it in a soft pile into which he could fly from the rafters and fall.

            When Iladrul had arrived, Zander had been very stern in the fact that Iladrul should not put himself at risk by engaging in this kind of play.  So Iladrul had contented himself to sit on the edge of the rafters, cheering Gregor on as he took a running leap to the rope, swung wildly through the air, up into the sky where he would let go and then fall, laughing, into the soft mound of straw below.

            Iladrul, of course, could bear the watching of such frivolity for only so long before he found himself taking Gregor’s lead.  It had been as he was hoisted as high in the air as gravity could possibly allow him to go with his limbs flailing as he fell that one of Baelon’s soldiers had come to stable his horse. 

            In the typical, over reactive fashion of Iladrul’s father, Zander—who hadn’t even realized that Iladrul had disobeyed his order not to play on the rope with Gregor—had been dragged to the throne room to be berated for allowing Iladrul his moment of unprincely play.   As his punishment Zander’s wings had been severed from his body and nailed to the entry of the stable wall, where the bones of them still hung as a grisly reminder to all as to what would happen to those who disobeyed the set social boundaries between the classes.

            “Bygone days.”  Iladrul told his reflection as he curled a lock of his copper hair around his finger.

            When he was satisfied that he was presentable, Iladrul made his way out of his apartment to the room across the hall.  Knowing that these rooms would one day belong to his doxies, he didn’t bother to give whomever was within the courtesy of a knock.  Rather, he opened the door and stepped in, stopping short as his gaze fell upon the corpse of the vampire, Paul.

            Paul was laying flat on the sofa with his hands clasped together over his chest.  His body was stiff and unmoving and his mouth was slightly agape.  His eyes, which should have been closed, were wide open and covered with a film of white that muted the generally preternaturally green vibrancy of his irises.

            “Paul . . .” Iladrul’s voice was small to his own ears.  “Are you alright?”

            Paul gave no response. 

            Iladrul swallowed and began stepping, ever so slowly, in Paul’s direction.  When he reached the sofa he held his fingers tentatively forward, stretching toward Paul’s arm.  He pushed at, shivering at its unyielding firmness.

            “Prince Paul?”  He said a little louder.

            Still no response.

            Terrified, Iladrul reached for Paul’s shoulders and began violently shaking them.  Earning no reaction, he was ready to throw Paul’s body aside and seek out his father when the film over Paul’s eyes flashed away and his hands moved lightening quick around Iladrul’s neck.  His mouth snarled open, baring his monstrous teeth as he let out a wet, catlike hiss that reminded Iladrul of a wild cougar protecting her cubs.

            “Paul!”  He cried out, his voice shaking as he tried to push himself out of Paul’s grip.  “Let me go!”

            Paul began to stand, holding Iladrul by his neck with his strong hands, flinging Iladrul’s body from side to side.  Iladrul, grasping desperately for his fingers, began to kick at Paul with his feet.  Not meaning to do so—but grateful that he had—Iladrul felt his heel crash violently against Paul’s groin.

            Paul let out a guttural scream and flung Iladrul across the room so that he could bend over himself and onto his knees on the floor.

            Iladrul scrambled backward, his heart racing and his body shivering with his fear.

            “Gods . . .damn . . .boy . . .”  Paul growled from where he sat writhing on the floor.  “Next time . . . just slap . . . my face . . .”

            Iladrul, swallowing, forced himself to his feet.  “Prince Paul?”

            Paul looked upward, his head cocked strangely to the side, with one eye closed and his generally handsome face curled into an ugly grimace.  When he spoke, the saucy tone that Iladrul had first heard in his voice upon their meeting danced upon his tongue and around his pain.  “Smart thinking.”

            “You attacked me!” Iladrul cried at him. 

            Paul’s other eye opened.  His expression was one of utter disbelief.  “Didn’t your father ever tell you not to approach a sleeping vampire?”

            “No!”  Iladrul cried.  “You’re the first vampire I’ve ever actually seen!”  Then, angry.  “I thought you were dead.”

            “For all intents and purposes.”  Paul grinned.  He seemed to be coming back to himself.  Iladrul was grateful for that.  “But for future reference,” He said, his tone softening, “If I were really dead I’d be a pile of ashes on your floor.  Not a fucking corpse.”

            “What are you doing here anyway?”  Ishitar asked him, not wanting to admit that his quips were making Iladrul feel better about what had just passed between them.  “You have no business—“

            “I know.”  Paul said, sitting up and holding his hands in supplication to Iladrul.  Iladrul found this unspoken fealty passing odd.  “I came to speak with your father at the behest of Lord Jamiason and I wanted to grant you the courtesy of my visit before I left.”

            Iladrul was uncertain as to how he should respond.  Here stood a man who had threatened to take Iladrul and his people away from their homeland so that his race could use the elves as livestock from which to feed.  Iladrul had little and less use for his courtesy and found it offensive that he would find it appropriate to meet with Wisterian without Iladrul being present.

            Understanding politics for what they must be, however, he said, “Do tell Lord Jamiason that I wish him good health.”

            “I shall do so.”  Paul replied with an amused grin.  “As I am sure that he wishes you good health as well.”

            Iladrul gave him a curt nod.  “Will there be anything else that you require of me?”

            “No.”  The corner of Paul’s lips twitched. 

            What a laughing fool you are.

            “Then I wish you good health as well.”  Iladrul replied, “But I must leave you.  As you know, there is a war brewing.  And I have little and less time to prepare for the fight.”

            “As you say.”  Paul replied.  “And I am very tired.”

            Iladrul nodded and turned away.  He had more important things with which to while away his day.

                       

-13-

            “How is he?”

            Paul chose not to respond to the desperate question.  He, himself, was not well at all.  Somehow he had lost the charm that he had worn around his neck during his visit to Wisterian. 

            “Paul?”

            “Fine.”  Paul muttered, not able to meet Jamiason’s gaze.  The charm had been a gift from Aiken.  When James found out that Paul had lost it he would be livid.  The charm had been given to Paul by Aiken as a gift when James had made the determination to make Paul his heir.  James had considered the gift an honor, especially given the fact that he hadn’t been present when Aiken had gifted it to Paul. “He’s a boy.  He’s fine.”

            “Good.”  James sighed and fell back in his chair.  “Have you fed?”

            “No.”  Paul shook his head.  “But I’m tired.  Not hungry.  I’ll see you tomorrow.”

            “Paul?”  James asked, finally concerned about something other than the Gods be damned elf.  “You need to eat.”

            Stop it.  He admonished himself.  It isn’t the boy’s fault that James is obsessed with him.

            Maybe not.  But as the level of obsession rose, Paul was becoming more and more troubled by it. 

            As was the level of distaste that Paul was beginning to feel toward the boy.

            Damn it.  It wasn’t like Paul not to like young people.  That he was starting to not like the elf troubled him.  It’s not Iladrul’s fault that you lost your gods be damn Talisman!

            Loathing himself for the turn of his thoughts, Paul waved his hand at James. 

“I’ll go to the roof before I bed down for the day.”  He muttered.  “See to the business of your flowers.”

            Jamiason didn’t respond to that.  He never did.  What he did say was, “You need to eat.”

            “After I take a nap.”  Paul met his gaze, trying to keep his personal discontentment out of this.  “I promise.”

            “Very well.” James replied, his preternaturally blue eyes dancing over Paul’s face.  “I won’t mother you.”

            “There’s a first.”  It was a lame joke.  Paul knew it the minute it was out of his mouth.  He forced a smile.  “Really, I’ll be fine.  I just need to sleep.”

            James gave him a smile that was so calming and beautiful that Paul suddenly felt like little more than a steaming pile of shit for his thoughts about James and the elf.  “Take your nap then.  And if you want to feed from me when you awaken, you know where to find me.”

            Though Paul loved James, he loathed waking James up during the day to feed from him.  Whenever he did, James felt as if Paul owed him the courtesy of James’ coupling.  He could hide from the act while it was taking place as he sated his hunger, but the pain that he felt for a day or two after reminded him—with great humiliation—of the price that he had paid for having craved the taste of Jamiason’s powerful blood.

            “I do.”  Is how he responded.

            But he had other things to worry about just now. 

            Dreading what Aiken would say when he learned that Paul had lost the Talisman that he had gifted him, he climbed the stairs to the roof.  He was less than surprised to see that Aiken was sitting on the chimney with his long legs crossed, waiting for him.  He gave Aiken a guarded smile and the bow that he knew the God deserved.  “Aiken.”

            “You lost the pretty that I gave you.”  Aiken accused, his violet eyes dancing over Paul’s face.  “And in the very home of the elf.”

            “He needs it more than I do.”  Paul muttered his lie as he stepped toward Aiken and took the flowers that were meant for James from his hand.  “And Jamiason would rather he have it than me.”

            “If I would have rather the child has it than you then I would have given it to him myself.” Aiken replied to that.

            Paul rolled his eyes closed.  There would be no recovering from this.  He would be punished.  And he deserved it if he was.

            What he said was, “That may be, my Lord.  But the child is defenseless against my people.  There is no way that he or his race can win this war without your help.”

            Aiken’s eyes danced over Paul’s face as Aiken appraised him.  When he spoke, his voice was reverent.  “That answer . . . surprises me.”

            Paul smiled tightly.  Very little surprised Aiken, he knew.  “It was a difficult thing not to return to retrieve it.”  He shook his head at his own lie and forced himself let out a tired laugh.  He hadn’t known exactly where he had lost the Talisman.  And he would have returned had he known that it had been in the home of the elf.  “My people could very definitely use your help as well.”

            “Perhaps.”  Aiken sighed.  “But if anything happened to that boy before he was ready to take his place as the God of his people, James would be devastated.  The child would never survive the binds of servitude as an angel or demon.”

            “He’s years away from being ready to act in the capacity of a King.”  Paul snorted.  Loki’s beard, but I am beginning to loathe that Gods be damned elf!  “Let alone a God.”

            Aiken smiled at him.  “Then it’s a good thing for us all that elves live unnaturally long mortal lives.”

            Paul felt his brow furrow at that.  “Can they be killed, Lord Aiken?”

            He was genuinely curious about this point.   If they could be killed, then perhaps Paul’s people might prevail in this war.

            He didn’t—yet—know how he felt about that given his lately come distaste for Jamiason’s obsession for the elf.

             “They can be killed.”  Aiken nodded.  “They will not grow old.  And they cannot catch sick.  But they can be wounded or poisoned.”

            “My race really did get the raw end of things.”  Paul replied, thinking of the many weaknesses of his people.

            “I wouldn’t say that.”  Aiken smiled at him.  “Yes, the sun kills you.  As does fire.  But other than that the only way that you will perish is if you are staked in the heart or if you lose your head.” 

            Paul found himself chuckling at that.  These may be the only manners in which a vampire could die, but there were many ways of slowing them down.  Silver for one.  “I suppose that you’re right.”

            “I must take my leave of you.”  Aiken said, standing.  “It’s my night to mind Ishitar.”

            Paul lowered his gaze.  “He’s . . .”

            “Yes.”  Aiken laughed, reading the turn of Paul’s thoughts.  “He is.”   Then hesitantly.  “You won’t tell anyone that you’ve seen him will you?”

            “No.”  Paul shook his head and met Aiken’s gaze.  “Lord Lucias was very clear on the point that I mustn’t.”

            “Good.”  Aiken sighed.  “I’d rather your little friend knows nothing about him.” 

             “My little friend will figure it out the minute that he puts his teeth to my neck.”  Paul replied.  James knew everything that Paul knew when he was feeding from him.  The only reason that had hadn’t known about just how powerful Aiken’s talisman had been was because the talisman didn’t want him to know.

            “I don’t think so.”  Aiken replied.  “Evan knew of Ishitar because when he was taking care of Zadkiel after Zadkiel was at the center of one of Lord Lucias’ blasts the poor bastard raved about the boy.  If Jami didn’t see images of Ishitar whilst drinking of Evan, he won’t see images of him whilst drinking of you.”

            “The difference being that Evanbourough knew about him through ravings and I know about him because I looked upon his face.”  Paul corrected him.  “And it’s such a face that I shall never forget it.”  Then as an afterthought, “How do you know that I saw him?”

            “Because he told me.”  Aiken shrugged. 

            “Oh.”

            “My flowers are wilting.”  Aiken advised Paul.  “Go and put them in water.”

            Paul’s smile at that was wry as the God vanished.