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capsensislagamoprh · 2 months

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Christophe Giacometti was a fey of spring. As he walked a lovely breeze backed by the every illusory images of slowly growing plants blooming artfully behind him when he smiled enchanted and beguiled. He could hear his mentor's voice echoing lightly in his ear, a whisper of understanding that had haunted him when he was young.

"Anything that’s flawless is false. We are beautiful, my dear, not because we have no scars. We are beautiful because we refuse to be defined by them."

And that, Christoph thought, was the problem. Victor had no scars. Non on his heart, non on his body, even his head was an easily repairable lace, every hole simply a new pattern of frost and elegance. But Christoph knew better. Somewhere inside his friend was a longing. Something he was slowly becoming more jealous of. Which might explain why he'd done what he did.

Everyone knew you did not take Samhain away from Beltane.

Yet he'd found a way. Victor found a way. And now everything was moving off kilter. The dance, the song, they were devouring the Dream, taking to much and giving to little. Christoph needed to know what he could do. Frankly, he was inclined to figure out what actually fueled the Ice King's ambition and art; that which turned his mere survival into living; but he knew that it would not be in the land of Dreams. They'd lived there to long, explored to many forbidden places for it to be missed by there vigilant eyes.

Sighing, Christoph pulled out his emerald stick pin, it's cut allowing the gem to sparkle as if haloed. Once it was placed in his grey suit neatly pinstriped in a delicate pink, he looked about. Seeming to bend to flick dust off his fashionable, highly polished shoes, Christoph looked around. No one was near by. Good. Standing, he slipped thrugh the door that didn't really exist in a wall that had no reason to be so mundane when it contained something so fancy.

The chancery flickered into existence, its elegance coming from simplicity and warmth of wood. There were splashes of color, flowers in constant bloom out of season, fires blooming in small braziers, there sparks illuminating a glowing joy. As Christoph moved thrugh the great room, the baelfire blazing with sparks of pink, green, and summer blue, feed glamour into the room. His presence caused it to blaze a little higher, the scent of melting snow and fresh breezes filling the room more than before.

"Ah, there you are!" Emil smiled, his arms wide for a hug. "I heard you were back in the real! What brings you this time?"

Christoph returned the embrace, taking in the softness of the autumn sidhe shirt and earthy summer smells. "I came to help the Ice King," he said in lilted English.

"Oh? Well, that's interesting. I think I'll need the full story. Come on. I have some Estonian delicacies here. You have to try the this new braze. We put the pork in an apple cider, soak it in the favors, then spice it before it is prepared. Little potato, little bread. Marvelous!"

"Kail?"

Emil looked aghast, "As if I would not have such at my table!"

Christoph followed Emil to the private chambers, feeling some sort of tension leave him as a tankard was put in his hand. Admiring the fine crystal after several long droughts, Christoph lowered himself into a plush, fur draped chair. He watched as Emil served him up a hearty portion, then sat back considering the spring sidhe. "You look younger than last time. Care to tell me what took away your years?"

Christoph looked away, then sighed deeply, letting his posture laps into something of a draped recline. "His dream is starting to crack." Emil was silent, listening. The lack of judgment or harsh questions was one of the reasons it was so easy to talk to this autumn noble. The material realm had grounded him in a way those from the dreaming could never manage. It was like the Hero's quiet understanding. He never knew how important that was until he felt the silence wait for him, gentle and nonjudgmental.

After another swallow of his drink, he continued. "The issue is to deep for me to handle alone. I've been seeing the signs for some time. I just didn't think it would cause such a disaster."

Emil sipped his kail, watching with his world worn eyes. The sparkle in them was subtle, the dream holding him steady, in the background. "May I ask..?" He stopped, waiting for Christoph's nod before he continued. "Dose this have to do with why the power didn't transfer on Samhain?"

Christoph grimaced. "Probably. I'd say chances are high."

"That's a big issue. The world suffers from the constant drive to create. Resources are not unlimited here. Soon they will pull from the dream directly to continue making. This world needs rest. It needs to reset."

Christoph groaned, throwing a leg over the arm of his seat. "There is no way to sugar coat it." Pausing, hoping a held breath would make it the words appear with out his having to put voice to them, he pouted a frown. There was no use. He'd have to say the words. "Yuri is missing. Before you say 'send the Hero', he's missing too."

Emil set his glass down carefully. "Explain 'missing'."

"I think Victor's dream lured him to the real. The part of him that's missing - we looked for it everywhere. I thought it might be some nymph, or some other fey. A plant even. But it wasn't. We couldn't find it. And he couldn't go to the material world on his own - " "Naturally," Emil nodded.

"Naturally," Christoph echoed. "None of the fey kings can open the Hedge Gates." He could see Emil understand.

"Except on Beltane and Samhain."

"And as it was not yet those times, he took the Hero with him, used his connection as The Unseelie to open them, and Victor being Victor..."

"He got full of the wonder of winter? Made some foolish choices like a kid on fresh ice?"

"He didn't even check to see if it was thin. Just went thrugh. Before he could be stuck on the other side, the Hero did what he does, and -"

"He got stuck here. In the Real?"

Christoph nodded, his pout taking on the real curves of a frown.

"If you are also missing Yuri, is it possible he went looking? Drawn to the dance?"

"No. He... immolated."

Emil blinked. Looking about, he reached for the pitcher and refilled their glasses, wondering if he'd need something stronger. "So, you have him?"

"He... didn't reappear in the Dream."

Emil sat his untouched glass down. "What sacrifice did the Hero make? Where? Was he near dream, or was he ... still in the Real?"

Christoph rubbed his face, moving the youthful flesh in swirls. "I think ... I fear he was in the real." A sharp intake of breath told him Emil understood the import of those words. He'd expected no less. As one of the rare sidhe who survived the sundering in the material realm, he was uniquely qualified to understand the danger the Dream was in. A sidhe of any sort tormented by the real, dead in the real, could very well be unmade to the point of never having been.

The Dream would not tolerate that vacancy. It would replace him, and it would not care who it chose. The most Unseelie of them all would take the position. The last Unseelie was a horrid monster made of nightmares and torture. It was born of torment and depravity that sent shock waves thrugh the realms. There was no way to stave it off until an entire existence was wiped out. That had been the when the Hero had taken his true form. He'd always been there, a quiet presence, saving with out reward, chivalric to a fault. Everyone had assumed he was seelie, sluagh, and a fool. In truth, he'd been scheming to take down the Devourer, that self righteous poison who ruled Samhain.

Emil had been a young thing back then. He'd not known what it had all meant when the Hero sunk his sword into the dark king's neck, ripping out his heart with his own brutal grip. When the Dream shattered the corps, spreading it's ash thrugh its lands, the dreams seemed to settle, regain color. They grew anew, and sprang forth growth as the Hero took the heart and buried it in the Farmer's Field. From it a single bloom began to grow, to glow with the first rays of spring sun.

The Hero turned to go, expecting no reward. Emil had wondered what house he belonged to. He would like to be so noble too. But the Hero had no house. He simply respected death, knowing it was part of who he was. He would not run from it. He would not pretend that the cost of living was to be reborn. And as the flower bloomed into the beauty of Beltane, Samhain settled on his shoulders like a mantel. He froze in place - really all of the Dream seemed to freeze - as the pale, slender hand reached up from its cover of dirt, touching his own dark skin. When he turned, Emil swears he could feel something click into place. The keepers of the Gates had changed, and with it the Dream.

If they didn't get the Hero back, the balance that was there, delicate as Beltane appeared outside and the insides of Samhain actually were, would be at risk. They already were. "Do any of the Arcadian sidhe know where the oracle is?"

"Only myself."

"You, my dear Lord Giacometti, are more here than you are there. Don't denigh what you know in your heart."

Christoph's lips twisted into a small smile. "Until this is fixed, one way or another, I belong no where. None of us do."

"Well then," Emil smiled, "Let's see the oracle, shall we?" Rising, he held out his hand, helping the spring fey up before leading him down the winding paths of mirrors to the hidden profit.

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9, part 10, part 11, part 12, part 13, part 14, part 15, part 16, part 17, part 18

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