cailisairgid | { scene } how quickly the glamour fades

She should not have traversed the trod-paths this night. There was a feeling all through the day, a hushed stillness, a 'waiting' that caused nerves to draw taunt and tails to twitch. She could feel it, and it was for certain that the others could. It was in the sudden sharp of look of wariness in their eyes, the too-quick snapping of a retort. So, despite her own misgivings, she chooses to go to the wellspring and call up the gate there. Just to get away from the others, just for a little while.

The mist is dark, far darker than any she's ever seen, and the circling lights do not wander lazily but flash on and off, tiny strobes to blind the eyes and dazzle the mind. So it is a good thing that she can walk the path blindfolded from one wellspring to the next as - wait. The path, her path! It was, wait! Where did it go?

Voices are calling out in the fog of the other-world, unearthly cries that speak no language she knows. Do not go off the path, she learned this as a young child. 'Do not go off the path' she had cautioned others. But what to do when the path itself chooses to disappear? Stooping low, Amarante begins to search in the gloom, finding at last more of a deer's trail than a true path. Ancient, unused, it had been grown over by vines and brambles.

And this path is now the one she follows, finally arriving at a crumbling, half-shattered gate. With a silent prayer to the Lady, Amarante hesitates only until the howl of a great beast in the fog behind her propels her to cross over the standing stones and out into a unfamiliar forest dark and deep.

And only yards away from a man who is riding straight toward her on a quick moving horse.

At the last moment, the Duke wheels his horse around, reining in on the side of the path as he realizes that the block in his path is not scenery to be cleared but a woman - a young woman, to his eye. His first thought is not assistance, but suspicion; trickery is not beyond Alia Althane and a great deal could be at stake if this hidden pathway is compromised.

"Where did you come from?" he demands briskly, his restless mount shifting in place as he places a gentling hand on the horse's neck, watching her. After this pause he dismounts smoothly, wary of either allowing a spy to slip out of his grasp or mistaking one of the Deepmoor fae for the same.

(He's under no illusions that Nuada is fond enough of him to forgive that kind of mistake.)

Edited 2010-04-22 14:09 (UTC)

Silent she simply stares at him for a moment. Could he not see that this was sacred land, as only on sacred land can a gate be used? Didn't he understand that - but wait. Slowly she looks from the man sliding off the horse to the ground around her. Where is the marker? There are no tell-tale marks to be seen. No green growing grass ring, no stones of note, and behind her? No gate of mist to guide her back to the other-world, upon the trod-path back home.

"I came from," I should not be here, she thinks, her eyes darting around, focusing only a moment upon the strangeness of the man's dress, the trappings of his steed. "I should not be here" She mouth's silently as she slowly turns around, and around again.

"It's gone. The gate is gone and, and I shouldn't be here." And now as he moves toward her, she matches him step by step, going backward. Keeping distance between them as she tries to think, to figure out where she is and what in Danu's name she is going to do.

"Where am I?"

"No," he agrees, grimly, "you shouldn't. This is a warzone, little girl; you're in the Deepmoor." A mere stone's throw from the holdings of the stewards, and with no good explanation for her presence.

The instinct to simply be rid of a complication is one that he quells; if he were going to play that kind of a game, he could easily do it in Althun and not worry about the aspirations of idealists with armies. He admires the idealists - especially since they have armies - and his conscience is a beast that needs soothing. He cocks his head at her instead.

"Be still. Tell me your name, and from where you came. I don't want to hurt you."

It's not quite the urbanity that he usually indulges, but there's a time and a place for everything.

His voice has that ring of authority that she knows, has known from childhood. And the horse at his side seems not unharmed by bridle of whip or spur, so there must be some gentility in the man, she hopes. And in the end, worse come to worse? He would not believe her and think her mad; and will either leave her alone or aid her in finding other help. Some way out of this war zone as he calls it.

"I am" She takes a breath and lets it slowly out. He asked her name, and history. And so she would tell the truth of it.

"My name Monsieur, is Amarante LeGarde, and I am Lady-in-Waiting to, and protege of the Lady of the Fortunate Isles. I was traveling the over-world on the path, and I went through the gate as normal. I had meant to follow the path from the wellspring to the island, and I don't understand this" She gestures with an arm, taking in the woodland around them. "I mean that I was on the trod-path but it disappeared from" Oh wait, she's starting to sound nervous, even to her own ears.

"I was traveling on a path through the over-world, and it disappeared. I... lost my way." She finishes lamely.

"And I've never even heard of Deepmoor before or of this war you speak of. Can you not simply show me the way to the next circle of stones or the next Faery mound, s'il vous plait? There should be a gate close by."

Edited 2010-04-22 14:48 (UTC)

...well, he doesn't look like he thinks she's mad, but he does look slightly consternated by this explanation. "I can simply not," he says, a little dryly. "The Deepmoor isn't currently taking world-wanderers," with a few rare exceptions, "and I suspect the Princess is going to be very interested in meeting you first."

The part he leaves out is that he can't because he doesn't know precisely what half the things she describes are; she doesn't need to know that.

"I'd very much like to just let you go on your way, but under the circumstances..."

"I'd very much like to go on my way as well, Monsieur. However, I am not quite sure of where my way is, precisely."

Her fingers fold together and she clasps one hand over the other to hide her nervousness. Looking around one last time, hoping that something will simply appear to help her home (and of course nothing does because her luck simply doesn't run that way) Amarante breathes in and out, looking at the man, his horse, and him again.

"Perhaps your princess knows of a gate I may use?" She finishes the comment, having it sound more a question, because his reply will hopefully give her some hint as to what said princess is like.

"Under the circumstances, and if you'll pardon my boldness, since I am to accompany you back to where your majesty waits, might I have the pleasure of knowing the name of my escort?"

Resolutely she now takes steps forward, where she once took them backward. After all, going somewhere with someone is better than getting nowhere alone.

"Lord Kethaigne, Duke of Althun. Right now, my dear, I'm in the service of Princess Nuala and Prince Nuada, Lord and Lady of the Deepmoor. The lady is expecting my report from- you'll tag along." He offers her his hands to help her up onto the horse, and his manner as he relaxes (minutely) is more polished, more refined...but all the same there'll be guards trained around her until Nuala says otherwise.

He's not a trusting soul.

She is nervous; he is after all, a man. An unknown man, and one that acts like he could take care of himself quite easily. And most likely her as well, if she acts up. Lucky for her, she isn't the type to act up.

Accepting his hand as she gets on the horse, she blesses her good luck in wearing loose skirts. As it wasn't a sidesaddle, there is nothing she can do about her skirt rising up a bit, but at least it isn't tightly uncomfortable or risque.

"Merci ah, thank you Lord Kethaigne." Something tells her that if she's never heard of Deepmoor, then Deepmore has never heard of the French language. So it would be useless to speak it here, for all that she forgets herself on occasion.

Up and as comfortable as she can get, she holds out her hand for him to climb up behind her. It is the polite thing, for all that she's really not thrilled with the idea. And the quicker they get where they are going? The quicker she can get gone, she hopes.

The rest of the ride is quiet - a little tense, presumably on both sides, but quiet. The path doesn't lead directly up to the bridge into the fort, but rather far below it into the series of caves. The place where Kethaigne ties his roan and dismounts, bringing Amarante down with him, seems to be often used for this purpose even if it isn't a proper stable, and he leads her up through the caverns to where they connect with the castle itself.

(This involves passing the main chamber where Draco slumbers; Kethaigne pauses at the opening to see if he's awake and if he should stop and pay his respects first, but the great dragon appears to be fast asleep and he continues without comment. It's astounding what a person can get used to.)

Once inside, he sends a runner to inform the Princess of his arrival and adds the suggestion that Lonán attend his audience with her.

She follows him along through the caves, around, down and up. The journey into rock and stone doesn't bother him. Traveling in the relative darkness doesn't seem to bother her.

What does bother her, or at least halts her where she stands? Involves looking through the doorway at a large, lit room through which a great beast is slumbering. Her steps falter and she has to reach out and grab the wall with a hand as she stares with wide, rounded eyes at the - non, it cannot be! But it is!

And it's not just Danu she's praying to anymore as she suddenly realizes that Lord Kethaigne has himself stopped and is waiting for her to continue. Amarante wants to say something, she wants to ask; but what in heaven's name could she say? There are just no words.

As she waits on the princess's pleasure, Amarante slides her sweating palms down the sides of her hips, drying them on the cloth. And suddenly she wishes she had something more than the loose dress she is wearing. Shoes! Shoes might be a good star!. Or a ribbon to tie back her unruly hair. Something. Anything.

After considering Kethaigne's cryptic advice, Nuala opted not to receive him - as was her usual wont - in the throne room, but rather a discreet anteroom where she waits with her centaur guardian only a few paces away. She might be the very image of a child's fairy story as she sits with her hands folded in her lap and the deep purple and gold skirts of her gown arranged in flattering folds, long enough to begin to pool at the floor.

Her eyes widen slightly when she realizes her agent's reasoning; a girl (fae? Nuala thinks so), unfamiliar and not belonging to this land.

"My lord," she says, mildly reproachful.

"I promise I'm not foisting one of my mistresses on you, Princess," he says, grinning briefly; if they were alone, he'd sprawl on the couch opposite in studied contrast to her primness, but they're not and the familiarity tends to annoy her attendants, their new guest notwithstanding. "She tells me her name is Amarante LeGarde, of the 'Fortunate Isles', a lady-in-waiting, and she seems to have misplaced herself entirely."

Nuala's gold eyes spark recognition where Kethaigne's didn't as he mentions where Amarante comes from.

He has walked ahead of her, and of course she's been to court before. Not this court, true; but enough of them that she knows the proper behavior. Still, she takes a hint from this lord in front of her, keeping her eyes forward and slightly lowered, watching the man move and not looking up to take note of the hall or any witnesses. Her back is straight, her steps smooth. Three, perhaps four paces behind him when he stops she does as well, dropping into a low curtsy, her head bowed and the tips of her hair sweeping the floor.

Again she realizes how raggety she looks in comparison to the shining floor at her feet, and the rich, dark material or a gown or cloak that she sees at the edge of her peripheral vision. A slight sound draws her eyes to the side, and she sees - hoofs? What sort of princess keeps their horse with them in the visiting chambers? How peculiar.

Mara has been taught well, she can remain in this position for a considerable amount of time. It's just that - of course she's not his mistress! The very idea causes a blush, which simply complicates the image of the well put-together look she wants to give, and can't quite pull off.

A pause follows, and when Nuala chooses the language of her birth it's partly a test to see if Amarante understands; an untrained ear would suspect, perhaps, some dialect of Gaeilge. They'd be close to the truth. «Rise, Amarante, let me look at you.»

There is a moment's stillness as Amarante translates a language that is part of her childhood and part of her schooling; and yet unknown to all but a select few who know her. The real her.

Then, as smoothly as she dipped low to show respect, she now raises herself up, her eyes not wandering at all, not going anywhere except to the one who's voice has summoned her up from the floor. And who she sees stikes her nearly speachless.

She should have known by the sleeping behemoth down in the caves below. Should have known something by his presence if nothing else. And she should have known something by the itch, the tingling in her skin that she has been ignoring, calling it nervousness. It wasn't nerves, it is something far, far different. But she never could have dreamed something like this before.

«As you wish, your majesty.»

Amarante finds herself before a being the likes of which she'd only heard of spoken in legends or hushed whispers, and history scrolls. Unless there is some sorcery, some unknown glamoury at work? Then she, Amarante is now standing before a ruling member of the Children of the Earth, the Lost Tribe. 'Brighid's children'.

And as it was whispered in some places, 'Brighid's Sorrow.'

And no one, no matter how long lived they might be among her own people; not one person the Amarante knows can claim to ever having seen one before. Until now.

No glamour is at play here; the natural gold of Nuala glints in the candlelight and the sense of her presence is no mistake. She examines the girl before her with a thoughtful air, but after a long moment she spares Kethaigne her attention.

"My lord, do I have urgent need of your news?"

"My lady?"

"Can it wait, Kethaigne?"

He casts a speculative look at Amarante - she'd struck him as unremarkable, but the princess's understated reaction suggests something more at play than what he can see. That's not a first for this human in the fae court, but it always gives him pause. "It can wait."

"Then by all means investigate the newest offerings of my library. We'll speak later."

He dips his head respectfully - amused, perhaps, at how far Nuala's come since they first met - and withdraws. Her dismissal was not a suggestion.

«Be seated,» she invites, when they're alone but for the centaur at her back. «I'd be very grateful if you'd tell me how you came to be here- and who you are.»

There is a weight to that that wasn't there when Kethaigne asked the same questions.

She speaks with her lord, the Duke. And this gives Amarante time to study her, the slender build, the long, elegant hands and high cheekbones, the snow-white delicacy of the skin stretched over muscle and bone. And the hair. They got the hair wrong in the pictures! It isn't all white at all, but rather a platinum type that slowly lengthens and mellows to a rich gold. Realizing she's staring she chooses that moment to look up from the seated figure before her.

And takes a half-step back in unfeigned alarm. Not a horse, not a horse. How could she have ever even mis-thought such thing. It, no he, not an it, it's a he, her mind thinks over and over as Amarante's small gasp is heard. He can see her staring! Aiee! She ducks her head again, scrunching her eyes tight for a moment and breathing deep. He caught her staring. But wait, he wouldn't have if he wasn't already looking at her first!

«Thank you Majesty.» Carefully she comes closer, stopping a number of feet away, and eases herself down on the couch opposite both the princess and her armed and armored ah, guardian.

Name first, of course. Amarante folds her hands primly in her lap and begins. «My name is Amarante Leticia Ni Leigheas Talamh LeGarde, and I am lady-in-waiting to her majesty the lady Frances Moira McKay Ni Gan Ceanach de Rochefort of the Fortunate Isles, and Chatelaine of her majesty's holdings on the Sunset Lands. And how I came to be here is a bit of a mystery, even to me; if you will pardon my saying so.»

She smooths out the material of her skirt for a moment before clasping her hands together and continues. « I was in the other-world, walking a trodpath between my wellspring and another when the path simply seemed to disappear. I know my way, majesty. I did not get lost. The path truly was gone. And after searching, I found another. Unused, overgrown. More of a trail really. And it led me to where your Lord found me. But there was no wellspring here. Not even a sacred circle, or holy stone. I don't know how to get home.»

That's as much as she'll say for now. She's not going to go asking favors of ruling monarchs; especially one's she's just met. That would be a breach of courtesy.

Lonán is accustomed to similar responses - and sometimes he finds it sort of entertaining, although now is not one of them - and he merely folds his arms and observes with solid tranquility. He gives every impression that he will remain a statue until such time as he's required.

«I am sure that my lord the Duke has already made you aware that the Deepmoor is in a state of war,» Nuala begins, her voice evenly quiet and her manner that of a woman carefully choosing her way. «We are accustomed here to passers-by of other worlds - I think, perhaps,» now she is more gentle, watching Amarante for a reaction, «that you may have guessed my brother and I do not belong to the Moor by our birth. It's my doing that the ways in out of our land are precious few, for now.»

The gaps she'd left had been deliberate - break glass cast spell in case of emergency - but she hadn't anticipated strange fae stumbling across it.

« He did indeed, Majesty.» is her soft spoken reply. She finds it hard to raise her head and keep eye contact, something in the gaze of the other; something in the mind-blowing knowledge that she's actually even speaking to this woman.

But this? This she raises her eyes for. For this she looks, she has to look the other in the eyes.«I know who and what you are, highness. And no, it is not from this place. I know well the stories told of the Children of the Earth, the Lost Children of Bethmoora they call you. I learned them as a young child. Legends you are, and more than legend to our people. A puzzle and a mystery. You, your people were gone long before even the birth of our eldest.»

She bows her head again, the weight of what she speaks too heavy for her to remain upright with the telling. «I know, and am greatly honored, Brighid's daughter.»

Edited 2010-04-23 15:06 (UTC)

Nuala struggles for several moments with a decision - she knows where the last of her people hide even now, aided and abetted by those who are favoured with permission to be loyal, but her desire to have some means of sending them aid or even knowing how they fare after the death of their King and both of those who would've succeeded him, well. It wars with an instinct to secrecy, to protecting what few are left even as she fears that they will inevitably pass the way so many believe they already have...in the end, she knows too little to be so trusting.

«It's been a long time since there were many who knew me for who as well as what I am,» she says instead, and her tone is a little wry. Even without that recognition, she has a knack for straightening spines when she walks into a room and she's well aware of it. The responsibilities of ruling and guarding as opposed to sitting merely at her father's side are beginning to finally draw her out of the adolescence that's lasted thousands of years.

«I will ask that you be discreet about this honour when I return you to your home, Amarante.» This is not a question so much as a politely framed command, and one she plainly expects to be obeyed. The impression that Nuala is generally accustomed to being obeyed isn't inaccurate. «With my blessing convey my regards to your lady, but I- I'm no longer in a position to make the decisions for my people that remain and my brother and I cannot return, so I honour my father's will. I feel certain she will understand.»

The secrecy, she implies, was wholly deliberate.

Edited 2010-04-23 15:43 (UTC)

It hasn't even crossed Amarante's mind yet to say something, to tell the others of this tribe once lost, now found. It is more than enough just to find them. However, this ruling princess' words strike deep and she can only nod in agreement. Of course, had she time to think of it now, she would realize that there very well could be an actual reason as to why the Lost Children were lost in the first place; no matter how many different hypothesis' were put forth.

«Pardons, Lady; Should I have kept silent and not said something?» Was this a test? A test of political adroitness over honesty?

She draws in a breath, more excited than she should let on, perhaps. «Of course. If that is your request, of course I shall honor such, and tell no one but my lady. You can return me to my home, Majesty?»

«Your father's will?» It's Amarante's turn to look slightly perplexed. « Pardon my ignorance of your world, Lady but, surely after so many generations have come and gone? I would have thought that whatever may... »

There are no words to convey the confusion she is feeling, and she's got this nagging sensation that she's overstepped her bounds again, somehow she just knows it. She's just not sure how.

«I apologize, Majesty. I speak out of turn, and without true knowledge of what has transpired here since Bethmooras' Children have been lost. I am sorry.»

Edited 2010-04-24 02:36 (UTC)

The puzzlement in Amarante is mirrored by her hostess, and Nuala examines her frankly in silence as she tries to be sure wherein lies the misunderstanding. Generations...

...she laughs very softly, not unkind but not entirely mirthful, either. «I am Nuala,» she says, clearly, «daughter of Balor and Brighid and twin to Nuada. My father's reign came to an end little more than a year ago; though there have been generations, they were not of our family. I did not marry, and neither did my brother.»

This is not the last scion of a diluted bloodline. This is living and breathing history; a demi-goddess kneeling at the bottom of her own pedestal.

Whatever color had been in Amarante's face at the beginning of the conversation has rapidly drained from her cheeks now, leaving her pale and breathless. Daughter of - she's the daughter of... «Blessed Goddess... » The words are formed in Amarante's own throat and barely whispered in the silence of the antichamber. It is a statement said in times of trouble, a plea or a prayer perhaps. And now? To the French fae's blown-away mind? It is simply a statement of fact, or a deity in the guise of the mother of the one before her.

Her iris's grow large as the shock of knowledge hits her body, and there is a roaring in her ears, a distant roaring as if from a massive ocean far away. Impulsively she clenches her fingers into the fabric at her lap, fingers gripping tight as she hangs on to her reality in the suddenly over-warm room.

And though she does not sink to the floor to kneel at the feet of this living, breathing link to divinity? Still she bows her head her head once more in acknowledgment to the others' words. Amarante remains there with eyes closed, telling herself to breathe, just keep breathing.

Oh man. Faux pas. Big, massive faux pas and then some. How does one tell a child of the gods that you had them confused with your concept of their descendant, born a thousand plus years in the future?

Edited 2010-04-24 03:15 (UTC)

The sheer honesty of Amarante's response is what decides for Nuala that the much, much younger fae woman is trustworthy; she believes in her sincerity, that her presence here is a mere accident of fate, that she will be as silent as she's asked to be when she leaves. It also makes her an item of curiosity, and although it's a simple matter for Nuala to place Amarante on the path back to her own land- she decides to wait.

«You will stay a while,» she says aloud of her decision. It's a small and selfish thing; she's not unfamiliar with the stories that circulated throughout the ages, those that the fae told each other and those that trickled to humanity through superstition and disbelief in equal parts. Once she told a friend she would have words for the writers of such tales, but perhaps it would be simpler to tell the story to someone herself. «You cannot be blamed for not knowing what you couldn't have been told, Amarante. So I will tell you.»

Of course, she's not entirely thoughtless- «But not today.»

The poor thing has more than enough to absorb.

"Oui Majesté, je comprends, merci". No, no that's not right. That's not right at all.

«Yes, of course your majesty. I understand. And thank you.» She bobs her head, a slight jerk up and down as she slowly breathes out before raising her up her face once more.

Her mind is a babble of words and sentences, nothing making much sense anymore. Questions, there are so many questions! But not a single one comes to mind at the moment. Not without sounding like a babbling imbecile. So Amarante does what she always does in times of confusion and chaos. She keeps her mouth shut, and her ears open.

«I await your pleasure, Majesty.»

She can't bring herself to call this one by name. Perhaps she could have once, back when she thought that the princess - but no. There is a disconnect; she simply cannot seem to form the word. Majesty will work. Majesty, your highness. But to call her by name, Princess Nuala? That's beyond her ability to say today. That's going to take time, oh yes it will. Time.

The simplest and most tempting option is simply to touch Amarante's mind with her own - but she suspects that in her current state, the girl would be too easily overwhelmed by her and it'd ultimately do her more harm than good. She sets that aside for the time being (though perhaps it will suit her better when she's calmer, when she's had time to process the shocks of the day), debating what's to be done with her new guest in the meantime.

A little mystery that doesn't involve the conflict that Alia has draw them into is a welcome distraction, she concedes privately - she credits their preparation and her brother's skill for the fact that she's even willing to entertain distractions. The last time Nuada fought while she waited for him, long ago and before they were lost, Nuala had been able to think of little else and their situation had been far more desperate. It isn't to say that she doesn't take this seriously- merely that they have more breathing room.

She wishes it'd end, but she never doubts that it will.

«I will hear the Duke's report,» she says, slowly, thinking briefly that Kethaigne will be grateful if she deals with him sooner rather than later so he can stop waiting for her and go find Doul for the drink she's certain he wants, «and in the meantime my handmaiden will see to a room for you. Perhaps near the children yet to find homes; do you care much for children?»

This is partly thoughtful and partly because they kept the nursery out of the way, the true nature of the 'orphans' concealed from many.

(They are fae, now, but they weren't always. Their parents had badly miscalculated, and they were punished.)

«I have none of my own; but yes, the room sounds wonderful. And I would help with them, the children that is, if I may?»

Children yet to find homes? ah, orphans, orphans of the war? It has to be. So terribly sad how death seems to take the strong and leave the weak to live or die. It's a good thing that the reigning rulers of this land take such personal interest in all within their boundaries. At least that's the idea that goes through the mind of this newcomer to Darkmoor.

The interview, conversation? No, interview is over, she's been dismissed. Amarante raises from the couch, sinking again into a low curtsy and raising up once more to await the arrival of her majesty's handmaiden to show her the way. Without meaning to, her eyes slip upward once more to view the face and body of Nuala's guard.

This time her face doesn't change, this time she does stumble back or move away. Amarante simply inclines her head, acknowledging him for who he is, what he is. He is her majesty's bodyguard, yes? And therefore deserves to be recognized as such.

And then silently the lost french Fae waits for the door to open and for her guide to bring her to her room, where ever it may be in this place.

«Yes, you may,» Nuala decides, her hand on the bell-pull to summon the maid. «I will see that the arrangements are made, and we will speak again- perhaps later, or tomorrow.»

In the meanwhile, Lonán's response to that acknowledgement is a simple, brief, barely-there nod of his own - approving, almost, of her regained composure. Moments later, Mór appears in the doorway.

«Yes, my lady?»

«Show my guest to one of the rooms nearer the nursery. I will inform you of the further arrangements.»

{ scene } how quickly the glamour fades

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