part i.
Character name: Nuala ní Balor, Airgetsnáithe, Princess of Bethmoora.
Fandom: Hellboy II: The Golden Army
Species: Fae demi-goddess.
Character powers:

General fae powers and an extraordinarily long life-span - here are some details:
❖ Powerful, accomplished psychic. The short version is that she can play a mind like an instrument or smash it like a rockstar's guitar.
❖ Gifted enchantress. She specializes in spinning silver into enchanted threads, which are then used for sewing or weaving spells into fabric, etc.
❖ Fae glamour.
❖ Teleportation / shadow travel / traveling between planes etc.
❖ Accelerated healing.
❖ MYTHIC BOSSINESS. Not an actual power, but the Bethmoora clan are an important, nigh on mythic (within their own contexts) race and they are accustomed to commanding a certain level of inherent respect and obedience.
❖ Immune to extreme temperatures.
❖ Old school political acumen is not a power, but it should be.
❖ Psychic, spiritual and physical connection to her brother; this is also something of a weakness, since harming one harms the other.
❖ Her mother was the goddess Brighid and she is the granddaughter of the Dagda; Nuala can be particularly associated with her mother's association with fire and poetry, having something of an affinity for both in various ways.
❖ That does make her sort of a demi-goddess, yes, which is cool.
❖ Only plain wrought iron weapons will scar her.

( fairies are crazy, a series )

Nuala is patient.

The simple fact that the Deepmoor repels each attack as though it were of no particular consequence hasn't yet ended the war; Nuala calls it a child's wounded pride and she is patient, sitting at her spinning wheel while she listens to reports and makes the decisions about day to day governance that are coming easier.

Kethaigne is not patient.

The twin stewards of the Deepmoor have given him an opportunity to pay (perhaps in blood) for the blood he spilled on his way to the ducal throne, but while he is loyal, he doesn't quite share in the kind of single-minded purpose that these gods and monsters are capable of. His trips in and out, sometimes carrying the Princess's dispatches, tend to be nervous ones, and this time is no real exception.

It takes a certain kind of man to throw his lot in behind people who look bitterly on his entire species. A confident man. A worldly man.

A man who is not anticipating the interruption on the out of the way track he's currently cantering down on horseback as he makes for Dún Fómhar.

Deep within the Deepmoor's autumn castle, Nuala sleeps and dreams; separated from her brother by battlefields and duties, even her dreams aren't untouched by the clash of steel and fire in their blood, and her slumber is restlessly disturbed. In the morning she will have so much to do, and in the meantime she shares in Nuada's aches and somewhere in her dozing mind she wishes he would sleep more. Their shared fatigue concerns her, sometimes, and she is ever grateful for the loyalty of his command who will ensure that not all of his hours are devoted to ruthlessly crushing their opposition.

(As proud as she is of him.)

Something, though, something is...off. Nuala is already stirring before the feeling can properly form and take root, there in the half-shell bed where she lies suspended from the high ceiling in her cushions and soft blankets; now might be the time to be very careful about startling her, though, considering the tension that doesn't go out of the air even when stealing sleep and her slightly wrecked nerves.

Outside the walls, Nuala could hear her world burning.

As their armies were driven back again and again, their villages and towns destroyed and their warriors cut down, she was poignantly aware (moreso than her attendants, whose hope she fostered and held in her hands as if it were something very precious) that they were failing. It seemed to be only a matter of time before the palace was breached and the injuries that she tended mostly alone would no longer be echoes of the battlefield - yet for now it was a solemn hold out where a strained normalcy held her in its suffocating grip. Her father watched her sway with a fatigue not her own and bade her rest; she slept and dreamed of fire and the fallen through eyes she trusted to watch after her safety.

(And she woke alone, afraid, lost for a moment deciphering the sounds in her mind and those outside the shuttered window.)

The heat of battle had Nuada's blood singing in her veins and she shut her eyes over her teacup, struggling to master herself; she was dimly aware of the cup breaking, felt the sword slip in his suddenly bloody hands and willed him not to falter in her weakness. Later, she slept, she slept so many of those hours, laying cocooned in soft fabrics with her hands wrapped and hoping that her idleness would keep him safe, that her stillness would be no distraction, that his mind would be sharp and his hands would be swift.

In the suspended moments between, they sat with their heads bent together and their hands clasped and made of themselves something untouched and inaccessible. Something of the way Nuala's fingers curled around her brother's war-forged hands carried with it a thread of desperation; she didn't cling to him but held him in her moment, breathing one breath and whispering without words I am you are we are don't leave me. His eyes had changed and Nuala never looked in the mirror any more to see that hers had, too.

She spent nights at his bedside when he was there in the palace, watching him sleep as he'd watched over her when they were younger and their world was beautiful and their friends had human names and spoke human tongues and would never bring arms against them. She watched over him and reassured herself that this way he couldn't leave without her seeing (but sometimes she'd wake upon the divan and he'd be already gone, leaving only a faint sense of regret, and the rage of grief burning in her chest that wasn't her own). The very last time, she struck him when he returned and he held her wrists until her eyes softened. Neither of them spoke an apology, but he woke her in the morning and she accepted that.

Her arms held mourners, while her heart kept time with the drums calling her brother to battle and promising her his safety, and she felt selfish and ashamed and the tears she wept with them were bitter.

«Let it end,» she begged, and so it did.

'Informal' isn't a way that Nuala can typically be described, and by anyone else's standards she still isn't - but her gown and traveling coat make a slimmer silhouette than the elaborate skirts she usually favours, and her hair is pulled low in a chignon to be finished with her plain circlet in lieu of the bejewelled alternatives under lock in her chambers. In short, it's a low-key outing (albeit one that required significant advance notice to find the time and make her arrangements), and though she stops at the nursery before she leaves, she doesn't waste the time she's allowed for.

It's been some time since she saw Doul last, but she'd thought of him when Belani wrote to invite the twins to Armada and been pleasantly surprised to be contacted before she had the time to make anything of her thoughts. With her even-tempered escort in tow, she makes her way through the nexus to where she gathers he's been living lately.

Smooth as the pull of satin Nuala trades places with her brother, letting the nursery's door fall softly shut behind her. She sees it fall to her to ensure that they're kept away from prying eyes until enchantments and nature can do its work and let these little children grow into the earth like they'd been born to it and not stolen, and while she does she attends to them with her own steady hands and melodious voice. Let them remember the honour and novelty of lullabies from a princess, she thinks, carrying the smallest of them against her shoulder to stand where the drapes have been opened to the afternoon's light. Let them be blessed.

Let their human kin know better than to stay, she prays under songs half-forgotten from her own childhood, and she doesn't hide it from her brother; she is not ashamed.

The nursery was nestled safely into their keep where Nuala wouldn't have thought to look for it at all had she not begun to notice the work unfolding. It was her curiosity that drew her, the first time and each time after that; she hadn't asked for this and so it must have been Nuada, but he was silent and she hesitated to ask. Such a thing would be necessary in due time (if perhaps her brother took a wife, or she a husband), but so soon?

Something, therefore, was afoot.

Nuala knew that her brother wasn't telling her something, and out of some modicum of respect for his judgement - if she never did trust it, then she never could - she minded that and let it be, not stealing the knowledge from him where she might have. His silence continued and so did hers; he knew, she was certain, that she'd noticed. The cosy addition to Dún Fómhar began to bear the telling marks of her hand, in the moon-lamps set into its high, sloping walls and the low, cushioned seat hidden by the grand window's drapes. The soft rugs would be kind to small feet and she was pleased when she first saw the beds and bassinets, exquisitely carved and filled with down.

The number of them, not to mention the size of the room, was puzzling.

Toys were fashioned and placed in cupboards (waiting), and in slower moments while she listened to the endless litany of words that had become so much a part of her life Nuala would stitch silver threads into delicate blankets and quilts, weaving children's blessings and her own influence into fabric that would guard against a stone castle's chill. Little shoes and shirts filled wardrobes and drawers, and tapestries adorned the walls in warm colours. Her conversations with Amunet began sometimes turning towards what mothers knew and Nuala did not, the best ways to keep children safe in their homes at rest or otherwise. While Zari echoed her numbers dutifully (they counted toes, and Nuala's own golden nails were of endless fascination), she wondered if Amunet's daughter mightn't do better with playmates besides a princess who'd long since left behind childhood to occupy some of her hours.

With the nursery now completed (there were storybooks, too, and glittering baubles) and no explanation yet forthcoming, Nuala's attention drifted to other matters and upon her brother's return from the human village (a month had passed and she needed no spirit bond to see in the very set of his shoulders that they hadn't been heeded) her thoughts had turned to the lands and leaders beyond their borders. She was cloistered with her own advisors when Nuada met with the captain at his arrival, and she waited to go to him until they had a moment's peace to themselves.

When she did, she met his eyes and understood.

In Dún Fómhar, there is always more to be done. As the twins adjust to their new duties here, Nuala has slowly begun to let her vice-grip on the minutiae slip a little - to delegate more, where she has preferred to micromanage as much as she could physically manage. Nevertheless, even when she passes work off to others and lets them do it without unnecessary interference, Nuala has been busy and expects to remain that way. It's better if she is, she thinks, better to be occupied than alone in idleness with her thoughts and sometimes her brother's.

For now, it's the court magi who command her attention: the throne room has finally been completed, enchantments and all. Nuala turns under the falling golden leaves, pleased by their success and taking the time to better acquaint herself with everything else that's been done, while the magi wait by and by for her final approval. This is not something she would have delegated, this small touch of Bethmoora in a holding so far from it as to truly be another world entirely. When she gathers her skirts in her hands to step up the dais, she isn't expecting the painful sensation that follows - a blow to the back of Nuada's leg, somewhere, drives them both to their knees. She'll (they'll) bruise from where her knees and shins hit the hard edges of the stairs, but she throws up her hand to hold off the rush forward of concern.

She waits, and waits a moment longer, and then unsteadily begins to rise.

For the past month - perhaps even more - the Deepmoor's Lady has been positively reclusive in her nature. Dedicating herself to Amunet's recovery has been in and of itself something of an intense experience as it will no doubt continue to be, and yet it would never cross her mind not to have begun, not to see it through. She spends her evenings by the fire with the two of them, teaching them Gaelic when she's not simply there to keep company, when she's not on some errand to their betterment. She speaks quietly with the healers, and lets herself be distracted when she reads the letters that Kethaigne sends, telling her of news beyond their borders that she'll carry to her brother.

(And when she is small and weary and weak, Nuada holds her and she remembers that once that was all she needed to feel safe, she curls her hands into fists with the force of holding the memory in her heart.)

However she has neglected her responsibilities to those outside her lands - it pains her, but her own must be first if they are to one day be more than this - she can't regret it, even as she finally begins to move and amend. There are letters to be written, perhaps gifts to be sent, even apologies made.

She stands at her balcony and watches the water a long while before she withdraws to her study.

( To Uther Doul. )

The other letters can wait a little longer.

Much as she might prefer it at the moment, not all of her hours are spent with Amunet and Zari. (She teaches them her own native tongue, refreshing her own more-than-rusty Arabic in the process; they have no real need for English and she has no particular desire to teach it.) No, there are still duties she must attend to and promises she has to keep - she plays chess with Kethaigne in the mornings after breakfast (he takes her prickly and distracted demeanour in stride), attends to the requirements of her station, and certainly cannot be said to neglect her brother.

Still, even as she smiles on cue and never once drops a thread, behind it is a jaggedly sharp edge and she withdraws into the sanctuary of her own thoughts. She doesn't push it away, only layers years of experience in veiling herself over the top and turns her attention to her work, presently meeting with the court magi to be appraised of their progress.

The Brucolac is due tonight, isn't he? She hopes to see him better than the last time.

The arrival of Ankhenaten and his family throws Nuala into brief disarray. A watch is set at her request, and when that's done she leaves long enough to handpick a pair of suitable maids to attend the chambers. From there, one of the healers is informed she's to consider any requirements of the naga guests her highest priority, while the rest of the castle - save its Lord, naturally - must understand that entering their chambers without the Lady's express permission will be punished severely.

Amunet had best decide for herself when she's ready to venture further; for now, Nuala sets the boundaries clearly and the consequences for anyone else crossing them.

"You are a remarkably difficult woman to pin down, Princess."

Nuala presses her hand to her heart, straightening and turning away from her desk. "My lord, you startled me."

"I beg your forgiveness," Kethaigne says amiably, staying by the door to her study. "May I interrupt?"

"If you must. I would have sent a word - I'm afraid we shall have to postpone our game until tomorrow or the next day, after all."

"I rather thought so. Bad news from your benefactress?" He must be coming to be very used to that particular look from Nuala - always trying to discern what he isn't saying as well as what he is. She tends to find his sincerity as suspect as anything else, searching for the strings, the flaw.

"A family matter," she settles on. "If we're to offer a sanctuary, it will require my attention for some time. You'll have to forgive me - and I'm afraid I have to draw your interruption to an end." Nuala smiles tightly, clasping the pile of paper to her chest and moving toward the door.

"Of course. Goodnight, my lady."

"Goodnight, Lord Kethaigne. I'm sure we'll have much to discuss tomorrow."

She will think about it later, she resolves, brushing past him and his hands in mock-surrender to return to the apartment she'd allotted the naga and her place by the fire. (There is tea, and she sits by Ankhenaten, ink drying under her hands when she stops to watch him and worry.)

The Shadow,

I have always had a noted fondness for correspondence. It is, among other things, a pleasant way to end days that may not have been so pleasantly occupied - though there are days I spend so many hours at my desk I shouldn't like to see another blank sheet of paper for so long as I live.

Human mortalit Your peace with mortality is something many of your kind must envy, I'm sure, but perhaps not your work ethic if it is even half what I suspect. Each time I sit to arrange my schedule, I find a half dozen more things I must make time for, and I'm afraid it's rather put off the thought of meetings in the nexus. Perhaps next week? There is a very charming tea room of sorts where I like to spend afternoons beneath the forest canopy.

Faithfully,

( To Arlen Arkenstone. )

( To The Shadow. )

( To Lyla Tzigano. )

( To the Brucolac. )

( Enclosed within the above, for Uther Doul. )