Chrysalis Ch19: Kept Women (pt2) (Patreon)

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          tik
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          Deirdre can feel her heartbeat.
          It's slow, weak… but steady. She's caught in the space between waking and sleeping, ignorance and awareness. She's floating, or resting, or… just drifting. But she can still feel her heartbeat, and in this place, that's a comfort.
          It's the only thing she can feel. Her body is numb, like a limb that's gone to sleep. She’s terrified to even bother waking it. What would be the point, when her efforts would just bring more pain? Better not to test it. Better to just focus on her heart. The little beat pounding in time with the clocks.
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          It doesn’t last. As if summoned by her wayward thoughts, Deirdre’s fingers start to tingle. Little pinprick sensations dancing over her skin, digging in, gnawing at her consciousness. Her face pulls back in a grimace, though she barely feels it move. It's like something is biting at her, something tiny, like a mosquito. Hard enough to apply pressure, on the cusp of drawing blood. She lies there while it scurries over her hand, testing her, waiting to see if she'll resist.
          Or if she's too far gone for even that token effort.
          tik
          She's not.
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          She's not.
          Deirdre's arm swings weakly, swatting at the phantom sensation. Her hand knocks against a curved ceramic surface, though she barely registers it. It feels like she's pushing through thick jelly. Every movement is an effort.
          But the sensation doesn’t disappear. It only spreads further, crawling up her wrists. That jolts the rest of the body. Her eyes flutter open, the room around her swirling as she forces it into focus.
          Through her heavy eyelids, Deirdre sees the sea of gears and glass that have orbited her for... days? Weeks? Despite the constant march of the clock beat, it’s impossible to tell. Her eyes returned to the little piece of history Alastor O'Reilly had seemingly cut into this world. To her surprise, that little piece has changed.
          The floor was tile now, slowly lurching downward, like frozen tree sap, into the nebulous void below. There was no cheap wallpaper, or even walls. The dressers, the boudoir, the vanity; all of it was stacked against nothingness, perfectly placed at the precipice. The furniture was worn down, blurry mahogany, with clear engravings and brass handles that gave the space a luxury the ‘kitchen’ never enjoyed.
          Deirdre looks at the silk hanging over her bed, held aloft by ornate bedposts. The covers were plump, rough, antiquated. It looked like a grandmother’s bedroom, not upgraded since the Blitz.
          Her focus again breaks as the sensation continues to pierce her. Right. Deirdre's thoughts wade through the murk of her mind, like she was traipsing the bogs of her old home. With great effort, she finally puts a word to the feeling.
Insects. Hundreds of little legs and mandibles and incisors.
          All crawling along her hand.
          With a wordless, horrified croak, Deirdre swings her arm harder. She's more awake now, alert enough to move half-responsive muscles. Her knuckles crack again along the surface, and she can feel the ceramic wobble. Another crack, and the blue-glazed bowl topples. It shatters on the tiles with an obscenely loud noise. Dried sprigs of St. John's Wort spills across the floor, tangling in the shards.
          "Hrgh." Deirdre is startled by a grunt, just a few feet away. She can tell it’s his voice before her eyes can focus on his large figure.
          Alastor's face is only visible through the reflection of a vanity mirror, half of his stone cut jaw covered in shaving cream. A red welt oozes along his chin, flecks of blood collecting on the edge of the razor he holds. The razor’s a relic, too: straight-edge, flecks of rust lingering near a handle of ivory. Alastor's cold eyes meet her own in the mirror, and he chuckles softly as he covers his wound with a rag.
          "Apologies for the fright. I shouldn't be so easily startled, Deirdre," he winces into a smile. The silence of his pause is punctuated by the ominous clock beat. "After all, you woke up exactly on time."
          Deirdre's hand falls back to the covers, sinking into the thick fabric as she struggles to watch him without sprouting a migraine. Her hand still tingles, but the crawling sensation is already fading away.
          "... Ye..." She looks down, confused. Her arms are hidden behind a wide, snow-white sleeve. These aren’t her clothes. Worse, something is tucked within it, trailing away, a line that vanishes over the side of the mattress, thin as a wire. In IV drip, perhaps? She hasn’t had anything to eat or drink, but… shouldn’t it be clear? Wider.
          Her ears pulse with the ever-present ticking. Was it even her heartbeat she had woken to?
          Even if she can’t focus, she can tell that Alastor is watching patiently. Like a man hunting for sport.
          "... Well, was wondering what ye’d do with my dignity. Yer a petty little bastard, aren't ye?" she whispers, struggling to push herself up. Her arms won't cooperate; they fold the instant any weight is applied to them.
          “Hardly.” A moment passes before Alastor removes the now red-stained rag, dropping it in a washbasin. He swipes back the razor and leans into the mirror, shaving as he speaks. You were in such a deep slumber that I wasn’t sure what would wake you. Would you fault me for taking the most certain route?”
          “I would. Among other things,” Deirdre snarls.
          Alastor chuckles, though his chest remains still. “Remember what I said about becoming a ‘reflection of my enemy’? The wort was fae trickey, fae magic, remember. Surely, you must be used to it at this point.”
          The cold in her chest redoubles, causing her to shudder. Deirdre reaches up, pawing weakly at the round shape of the emerald. It won't move, not a fraction of an inch. It might as well be fused into place - perhaps it was. The only answer the gem itself provides is a disquieting, pulling sensation.
          Alastor’s eyes glisten, just slightly, as the light of the emerald glances off the mirror. "I wouldn't toy around with that, if I were you."
          "Why not?" Deirdre rasps, her hand flopping back to the mattress. Even in her weakness, she enjoys the viciousness in her tongue. "Afraid it'll… k-kill me before yer ready?"
          Alastor doesn’t respond. The scrape of the razor across his flesh is metronomic, every swipe timed to the clocks.
          Deirdre draws in a shaky breath, trying to regather her strength. If anything, she feels weaker for her rest. She tugs at the blankets, trying to crawl her way from beneath the covers. Her clothes shift and move oddly as she does, catching against the blankets. No. Not her clothes. His. Whatever he put her in.
          She can feel more of the tiny wires as she squirms, snagging on the covers and, occasionally, each other. And they’re not just from her sleeves; Deirdre can feel coils on her legs, torso, even her neck. They’re barely perceptible in the paltry excuse for lighting this emptiness of shadow provides, but each new appearance sends another surge of fright down her spine.
          "...I'll not just lie here and wait," Deirdre forces out. She shouldn’t have to - however the laws of hospitality had bound her before, they can't possibly still hold sway. She can behave as she pleases. She can fight him. She can leave…
          In theory.
          In practice, however, Deirdre can see the thickness of Alastor's muscles in the mirror, pulsing as he squints over his shave job. Even at her normal strength, it wouldn’t be a match.
          "But if you were wise, you would,” his eyes narrow in annoyance. “Think about the bed, Deirdre. Nice, warm, soft. We have a long day ahead of us. If I were in your shoes, I'd take what creature comforts I could."
"Choke on yer comforts!" Deirdre spits, the rush of words nearly lifting her from the bed with their force. Nearly.
          He smiles at her through the mirror. "Aww. You seem so determined to prove a point. Well, clock's ticking," he wraps his razor against the glass. "Get out of the bed. Prove to me how strong you are, how capable."
          The taunt does nothing to discourage her. Deirdre clings to the blankets and surges out, moving through spite alone. Minding the wire she sees spindling along the ground, she swings a leg onto the floor. He has changed her clothes. They're all white, now, some sort of embroidered tunic. It’s the same shade as the robes used in the Market, and that symbolism is hardly lost on her.
          Deirdre grits her teeth, planting her other hoof on the ground. When her leg quivers, she hears the wires shake. She catches another one looped around her ankle. If there are so many, why do they feel so weightless? Is she just seeing things?
          She pushes herself from the bed.
          And her legs give out. Deirdre falls to the floor, catching herself on her palms with a grunt of pain. As she struggles, she hears the clatter of steel and the sharp crunch of heavy boots. Alastor wipes the remaining flecks of cream from his jaw, eyes set on the glastaig lying prostrate before him.
          "Oohhh,” he frowns in mock-pity. “So close, but it seems you're still in need of my hospitality." He digs his hand into the pocket of his jacket, filling the room with the sound of ruffled leather.
          “Ye can cram yer hospitality up yer arse,” Deirdre wheezes. She’s about to sneer again, when she feels her leg being pulled. It’s not like the gem, some ethereal tug at the margins of consciousness. This is raw, physical, a tremor, and as she looks down to investigate her breath is stolen.
          The leg is floating in the air, twitching with every gentle tug as the wires looped around it twitch in the light. Soon, she can feel an arm rising to join it, digging ever-so-slightly into her flesh with each nick of force. Deirdre’s eyes widen in terror, and her breath begins to quicken in pace before a yelp erupts from her lips. The rest of her body lifts from the ground, hoisted on tiny cords that twang from the sudden weight.
          Her brow is matted with sweat as she pushes her exhausted muscles to break free of the twine, to wriggle her way back to the tiles below. The cords simply sway with her movements, leaving her swinging as she thrashes. Only from here can she see the full extent of the binds around her - hundreds of little wires, vibrating in the air and slithering on the ground. Suddenly, her thrashing stops - not for lack of effort, but because her body becomes sharp and rigid. Deirdre nearly bites her tongue off when she sees her arm jolt outward, like it had received an electric shock, and watches helplessly as each limb follows in turn.
          “Deirdre, only a rude guest refuses hospitality.” The glastaig gasps, twisting her head to follow Alastor’s voice. His eyes are level to hers, his grin a playful, vicious snarl. He’s holding something odd in his hands - a device made of sliding sticks of wood, each rubbing against the next with every precise stroke of his fingers. It takes Deirdre a moment to notice that each little movement sends a corresponding twitch through her own nerves. Slowly, her eyes follow the thin cords looped around her to their source… Alastor’s hands.
          The second she realises, Alastor releases the device, sending her crumpling to the floor.
          Deirdre’s head spins, more from shock than the actual impact. What on Earth is that? If this was some ‘fae trickery,’ she’s never seen it before. She tries to lift herself, hoping to leap onto some leverage to grab or even hide beneath the bed. Her body is still too weak, barely managing to lift itself halfway. The glastaig can’t unsee all the wires feeding into her, the hundreds of little tendrils he’s using to play her like a marionette.
          Another swipe from Alastor’s hand, and she’s jolting back up into the air, before going limp in an upright position. Deirdre continues to wriggle as she watches her leg firmly plant itself into the tiles, then the other, and then she’s lurching forward again. The device in Alastor’s hand clicks.
          And the twitching stops. She’s standing before him, ramrod-straight, legs still and steady. Every trace of her earlier weakness disappears beneath the strings pull… but so does her own control of her body. Deirdre grits her teeth, desperate to shrug off the wires, but she cannot see a hint of movement.
          Alastor’s smile is so wide, it reopens his cut. “But, despite that rudeness… I think I’ll help you to your feet. I just can’t resist being a good host.”
          Deirdre’s breath hitches. The emerald’s light glitters against the wires, shining malevolently in the mirror behind Alastor. She averts her eyes from it, desperate to avoid the terror and shame.
          "... And ye call me the monster," she whispers bitterly.
          "Still you’re ungrateful?” He sighs. “Come on, Deirdre, I know the fae can be polite.”
          “I know the fae can tear yer face off!” she shouts back, eyes growing wet.
          “You’re open to try.” He raises his arms in mock-surrender, pulling her body across the tiles with a screech. He lets the air fill with her helpless, strained bleats for a moment before moving the device again. “In the meantime, though, you really ought to be a bit more..."
          Deirdre gasps as her legs press at an awkward angle, her arms forced into the hems of her jacket. She glowers at Alastor as her face drops lower, biting back the sobs she won’t let him hear.
          She's being forced to curtsy.
          "... Courteous.” That heat in his eyes has returned. Hatred. Arrogance. Fierce, unbridled rage. “Especially today. This day is always one of my favourites. This is the day where we can finally start being honest with each other."
          "Honest!? Ye want honesty!?" Deirdre's voice cracks as she holds the curtsy, her head tilting to bow before him. Hot tears spill down her cheeks. She’s lost feeling in her fingers. "Ye think yer fighting some war? Yer a feckin’ joke! A cruel boy pulling the w-wings off of f-flies! Yer a fecking madman, a-and a coward who won't even let me stand on my feet in front of him, and… a-and… "
          Deirdre's face twists in anguish. She hasn't moved a muscle. The tears sprinkle onto the tiles. "LET ME STAND UP!"
          "No." Alastor scowls as he pushes his thumb up a twig of wood. Deirdre feels her jaw press upward until her mouth is snapped shut. "You're not a fly, Deirdre. We've been over this: you're a monster. A bedtime story told to frighten my people's young.”
          He chuckles. “Or, well… hopefully not too young. Can't forget what’s in those stories, can we? Would you mind repeating them, since you know them so well yet hate them so much."
          She tries to pull her lips apart, to curl her tongue, to scream obscenities at the bastard who’d call her a whore over stupid folklore. But the best she can manage is staring at the floor, her face growing blush as her anger turns to shame. It would be easier to sprint a marathon than move with these strings attached to her.
          Alastor walks back and forth, continuing his lecture. "But… it’s so easy to forget what you really are, eh? That’s intentional - your kind cloaks its monstrosity with deceit. Fae society could not function without lies. Your tricks masquerade how you leech us. And, before you say it..." Alastor pauses, grinning at Deirdre's frozen body. She hopes he can see the scowl, even if it’s marred by new tears.
          "... I know you haven't hurt anyone. Not deliberately. Poor, rude little Deirdre would never pull the wings of flies.” Alastor licks his lips as he shakes the wood, just a little, to force Deirdre’s frozen legs to wobble, threatening to crash her back into the ground. Honestly, she’d take twisting into the tiles over his speech anyday.
          “But all lies hurt. They’re intended to, once the liar is safe and away from his consequences. Lies make it easy to ignore that pain, to stuff your head in the sand! That’s why you fae do it so freely!” A bit of spittle escapes his mouth. “Well, today I pull your head back out. Today you realise how much your lies hurt! Not just the humans you rob and feed from, no. Just the same, they-"
          He slashes his hand through the air.
          "-Hurt YOU as well!"
          A sharp, stinging pain blossoms across Deirdre's cheek, cutting through the numbness. Her head jolts to the side. It takes a moment for her to realise what’s hit her.
          It’s not Alastor.
It’s her.
          Her hand dangles from the string, palm open and twisted. Deirdre hadn't even felt its backhand. If she concentrates, she can sense a dull throb on her skin, an echo of the blow to her own face. But she can't cry out. She can't even look up. She just stands there, suspended and silent, her cheek reddening.
          Alastor’s voice rings in pleasure. "You hurt yourself by forgetting what you truly are. If there's anything I pity about the Fae, it's how quickly they lose touch with their own realities." As abruptly as before, Deirdre is snapped back into an upright position. The trickling tears alter course.
          She can finally see his eyes again. They’re a menagerie of chaos, burning in zealous fire. "Today, I'm going to extract the honest Deirdre, the real Deirdre. The Deirdre beneath all the cloaks you've put her in. I'll warn you; it won't be easy, it won't be fun. As my kind likes to say, the truth hurts. But with this, you have a chance of fathoming your place in this war. And, with this-"
          Deirdre's arms shoot up into the air, twisting painfully, before rocketing back down to her sides. "- I will make it clear that lying always hurts more."
          Alastor shifts his thumb, and Deirdre’s jaw unslackens. She can’t stop the sob that escapes her.
          "It's a simple game,” Alastor ignores the whimpers, still fidgeting with the wood, shaking random parts of her body. “I will ask you a question. You will answer. Speak honestly? We move on. If not?"
          Alastor turns the device sharply upward, craning Deirdre’s neck until she can only see the spinning gears and floating mirrors. "... I think you can guess.” Just as quickly, she’s twisted into form, bobbing like a doll. “Ready?"
          Deirdre works her jaw. Miraculously, it responds. "If yer going to h-hurt me, just do it. S-stop acting like it's doing me a favour." She closes her eyes, clenching her teeth, trying to brace herself for the expected blow.
           tik
          She keeps waiting.
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          "I'm not hurting you at all," Alastor beams. "I am metres away. And besides, I can't force lies from your throat. If you get hurt, you have only yourself to blame.”
          Deirdre doesn’t relax her jaw, instead biting down the torrent of abuse she wants to hurl at him.
          “If it makes you feel better,” he continues. “I'm not doing this with any altruistic intent. But... we can return to that point when we’re honest, can’t we? You seem ready. First question: Do you consider yourself a part of London?"
          Deirdre cracks her eyes open. "Do I… what?" she blinks, focusing on his joyful, hateful smile. "What k-kind of a question is that?"
          She bleats at the open palm that smacks into her head.
          "I asked for an answer, not a commentary," Alastor scowls. His fingers occasionally twitch on the wood, toying with it. "You don’t inhabit one of the fae’s little worlds, nor do you dwell in that hive of leeches we can jokingly call the Market. You’ve crossed the river.” He speaks with emphasis, as if the very phrase would shower enlightenment onto Deirdre’s frozen body.
          Deirdre blinks. It’s not.
          “Do you like living among humans?” Alastor elaborates. “Do you find yourself... caring about them?"
          "Of course I do!" Deirdre bites the words out. Her body twitches as he plays with the handle, each movement sending a new fear of more pain. A tic in her cheek here, a twitch of her arm there. "Why shouldn't I care about humans? They're just people."
          For a moment, her body stills. She smiles as Alastor stares at her, pondering.
          Then swipes his hand through the air.
          Deirdre's other hand lashes out, curling into a fist that slams into her eye socket. She barks in pain, outrage flashing across her face. "I'm not lying!" she yells, her wounded eye throbbing.
          "You are," Alastor speaks through gritted teeth. "Don't play coy. I've seen you among your neighbours. Sure, you're polite, respectful. I'm even willing to believe you don't hate them."
          “Of course I don’t!”
          "But you don't care!” he shouts over her. “You don't know their names, their faces, their lives! How many years have you lived with them!? Five? Ten? You see them as bodies who live next door, not a community where you belong." He pulls on the strings, bringing her hands back to her sides. Deirdre can already feel her eye blacken, helpless to handle the bruise.
          "Like every other fae,” he continues, his breaths frantic, a strange hurt leaking into his voice. Deirdre gasps as her body is yanked across the room, nearly colliding with the boudoir before she’s pulled back. Alastor is flailing his arms wildly as he speaks, tugging her hapless body along. “They’re either food or nothing! That’s why you fae will never belong! That’s why you should never cross the river!”
          She stops in the dead centre of the room, the whiplash making her head spin. Alastor is still, but his breaths are quick and shaky. “I shouldn’t talk about the river. Not yet, you’re not ready for that! You’re not the real Deirdre, you wouldn’t understand.”
          Deirdre watches in silent horror, terrified that any statement could spark further outrage.
          “Today is about honesty," another twitch from Deirdre’s body as Alastor pumps himself up. As quickly as it left, his serious tone returns. "Next question. You work quite hard on those odd jobs. You’re very determined to help keep your parents and their bodega afloat. I respect that diligence. It’s commendable, it’s very human."
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          There's silence in the air. Deirdre blinks - is he waiting on her? Does she dare venture to try?
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          “Th-thank you…?”
          “Yes,” he nods curtly, pacing once again. "But… It's circumstance, isn’t it? The glastaigs despise hard work, historically they never earn what they can thieve. Are your parents the same?” Deirdre’s face turns frigid at their mention. “Do you think your diligence is rewarded? Do you feel your efforts are appreciated, reciprocated? Is your family pulling the same weight?”
"Yes!" Deirdre snaps, tears stinging her eyes. "Don't fucking talk about my family-” The breath is stolen from her lungs as her head slams into the tile with a sharp crack. She sees stars. Despite the collision, her body continues moving, legs slowly tilting upward. She watches him slowly twist the wood upside down.
          Alastor sighs. He almost sounds weary. "You know that’s a lie. It’s not cloaked. I've overheard the thoughts you’ve shared with Tiernan. Frustration and bitterness cutting your love. They didn’t deserve you, Deirdre. Hopefully they’ve realised.”
          Deirdre jerks her head as much as she can. Had he been following them? The tears are trickling over her forehead now. She wishes she could move, to have some outlet for the rage and pain building inside her.
          She gasps again as she’s swept into the air, feet planting onto the ground. “But I admire your loyalty,” Alastor smiles. “That’s another human quality.”
          “They must’ve been rubbing off on me,” Deirdre hisses bitterly.
          Alastor’s face brightens. Apparently, he’s in full agreement. “A shame it works both ways. But… honesty. Today is about honesty. I apologise, Deirdre, I’m usually more organised than this. I’ve been very occupied of late."
          Deirdre can only scoff as her body flicks with his wild movements. This madman would be humorous if his cruelties weren’t so real.
          "Easier question; we’ll return to London. Do you enjoy life in the city? Is it more filling than what you knew before?"
          "It - " She starts to answer reflexively, then stops, halting before the sentence can begin. Her hand hovers nearby, waiting for Alastor's command. "N… no."
          Deirdre looks away. "No, i-it isn't. I miss Ireland. I miss the woods."
          A part of her cringes, waiting for the blow to come, for another mark to grow on her face. All she can feel, however, is the chilled air of this strange space, the constant ticking of the clocks.
          "See?” Why does he sound relieved? “This doesn't have to be hard." Deirdre heaves a sigh as Alastor considers his next question. The strings vibrate with every nervous step as he begins to pace around her, holding the wood even.
          Deirdre tries to keep him in her sight as he walks around her, her body sliding on the tiles with the scrape of hooves. As she waits, immobile, she wonders.
          Did he… actually believe what he was saying? If this was just an excuse to him, wouldn't he have called that a lie, as well?
No. She can't question his motives, not like this. They aren't sane, they aren't reasonable. He's already decided what the 'truth' is. He’s not allowing room for anything else. All she can do is guess along.
          His feet stop. Deirdre watches a playful grin crawl across his face. The fire returns, even as his voice stays calm. "... Are you a whore, Deirdre?"
          Deirdre bares her teeth at him. "No."
          Her movements are timed to the clock beat. She’s thrown to the ground, forced to kneel. Her hands seize her antlers, pull them as far back as her strained spine will allow. They slam her head back into the tile, so hard her ears ring. She can feel something splurge from her skin. He’s finally drawn blood.
          Alastor furrows his brow as he pulls her antlers back to the sky. His voice is as sharp as his razor. "Are you a whore?"
"NO!" Deirdre shouts, her voice breaking. The stars in her vision are green, miniature emeralds nibbling at the margins of her vision. Tiny versions of the gem he’s slammed into her chest. Her face is a blaze of pain.
          Bits of tile fly from the force of the crashing antlers. The sounds of her collision echo through the room, bouncing into the nothingness beyond. He doesn’t pull her upright. Blood begins to clot in her hair.
          Alastor speaks in short spurts, his teeth gnashed together, his voice rising. "STOP LYING, Deirdre!” He slams her into the ground with every word. “Are. You. A. WHORE!?"
          The entire world is tinged green. Deirdre's head lolls with the force of the blows. She whimpers, breathing as slowly as she can. Preparing herself.
          It doesn't matter what she says. She knows the truth. He's made up his mind.
          It doesn't matter.
          "Y… yes," she whispers, sniffling.
          For the first time, she screams, wailing as she sails over the ground, colliding full-force into the bedframe. She hears the wood crack.
          "Deirdre, Deirdre, Deirdre! My foolish, rude, silly little Deirdre!" Alastor shouts, his open hand twisted into a bare white knuckle. His voice sounds desperate, like he’s holding back tears. "...You still don't believe it."
          "I said it! I-I said it!" Deirdre shouts as the cords slide her back towards the centre, bumping over broken tiles. "What else can ye feckin’ want!?"
          "You don't get it!" he shouts, her body flinging through the room as he claws and pulls at himself. She slams into the boudoir, the bedpost, the vanity, the mirror. "You aren't supposed to tell me what I want to hear! That's what liars do!”
          The room spins around her. It takes her a moment to realise that her head's turning back and forth, the only part of her body she's able to move. It’s searching for a way out.
          “I want the honest Deirdre, the real Deirdre, the Deirdre who's taken her fucking mask off!” Angry tears begin to fall from his face as she’s finally lulled to the centre, rigid-straight again. He is clutching his hair with his free hand, struggling to control his breath. “Clearly… we aren't there yet."
          If she was able to move, she'd shrink away. The expression on Alastor's face is terrifying. Unhinged in its intensity. Cold chills run down the back of Deirdre's neck. "Yer not making sense!” The hurt rings in her voice. “I-I’m being honest-”
          “Shut! Up!” Her arms are pulled tight, stretched taut like an insect pinned in place. He pauses, heaving from heavy, exhausted breaths.
tik
          “We’re marching too quickly. Your mask is sewn on. I can’t just pull it off! I have to be careful. Slow. Cut it away, string by string.”
          The only sound from Deirdre is the hurried beat of her heart.
          “How about Tiernan?” Alastor’s voice calms rapidly, putting on the serious airs of before. “Look within yourself, Deirdre, find the truth you’ve tucked away. Did you love him as much as he loved you?"
          She blinks, her tongue twisting over her answer. “How - how would I know?" The glare that appears in Alastor’s eye frightens her into a flurry of rushed words. "We-we-we c-care for each other, sure, of course, yes, but I'm not a mind reader!"
          The glare disappears. He speaks as if he’s inviting her to tea again. "Well, there are pretty simple ways of figuring that out. I’ve observed many things, little Deirdre. And true love, good love… that exists in both of our kinds. Even if yours quite despises the notion. Not that… heh, not that it’s really my scene.”
          True love? Deirdre’s eyes dart around to the different clocks. How much time does he spend in this empty world? How far has his mind fallen?
          “Love is an investment, a flame to be tended. Tended with care… and time. Dates, social calls, what have you.” Alastor smiles. "Were you offering him the same time he seemed to offer you?"
          Deirdre hesitates, memories flashing through her mind. Cancelled plans, last-minute changes to her schedule. Long nights stocking shelves or making deliveries. How often had she had to tell Tiernan she'd make a lost day up to him?
          She exhales. She’s taken too long to even try to lie, at this point. "N… no." Deirdre swallows. "I… couldn't."
          "A hard truth to bear,” Alastor nods, an odd, pitying smile on his face. “But, we’re all busy now. There are other means to invest. What about gifts? Everyone and their Nan knows that Fae adore gifts. I know you never asked for them, you were... very adamant in making sure I knew. But he still offered. Again. And again. And again. Did you do the same? Did you... even try to match that affection?"
          "I tried." Deirdre's voice is ragged with shame and anger. "Ye have to know I tried. Ye have to." Tiernan had always been pleased with what she could offer.
          Or… had that been it? Had he just been kind?
          "You tried. But you didn't match, and you know it." Alastor paused for a moment. "But even I, monster that you think I am, understand that’s unfair. It was a material matter. You simply couldn't reciprocate in that way, and there's nothing wrong with that.”
          “Yes,” Deirdre nods softly, her face red. “Yes.”
          “As long as you compensate in some other manner. As long as you establish that connection through another channel,” Alastor took careful steps forward. Deirdre was relieved that the wood stayed relaxed in his palm.
          "For instance… both our kinds value families, even if yours always seem a bit… uneven.” Alastor leans forward. “Tiernan invited you to the Suites several times. Invited you to meet his family. Did you ever try to establish that same connection? Did you think of it? Or was his impression of your parents only to come from the drunken rants you voiced in the Glade?”
          "N-no. I… I would h-have," Deirdre whispers, her head hanging lower. "When… when things were more s-settled with us, of course I..." The emerald pulses in the mirror, in time with the pain in her cheek. In time with her heartbeat. In time with the clocks.
tik
          "So. You aren't giving him the same time. You aren’t giving him the same gifts.You aren’t giving him the same space. In every way, he's bringing more than you are." Alastor’s voice is soft, nearing something akin to comfort. "To repeat: Did he love you more than you loved him?"
          "... Yes." Deirdre's voice has gone hollow. As thin as one of the threads holding her in place. As empty as the void circling the bedroom.
          "Correct," Alastor smiled softly. "We're pulling the mask off, Deirdre. I’m proud. But there's farther yet to go."
          She didn’t bother to look up from the floor.
          "You loved him less, but at no point did you find this... wrong? Unfair? Perhaps, in a sense, manipulative?"
          "Please." Deirdre pulls her head in against her shoulders. Somehow, the gentleness in his smile hurts more than his rage. "Please, just stop."
          “No. I told you, Deirdre. The truth hurts. You have to answer the question.”
          "... I didn't." It hurts to think about. She wouldn't do that to someone. She wouldn't do that to Tiernan. "I… don't… I don't think I did. Not… not on purpose-"
          The slap on her cheek is light, and not very painful. "It doesn't matter if you meant to or not,” Alastor’s voice is soft, quiet. “Sometimes we manipulate people without thinking. Especially when we have so many cloaks to hide."
          The hand stays pressed against Deirdre’s warm cheek. “I…”
          "One more time,” Alastor slowly nods. “Did you lead him along? Did you take his love, knowing you could not, would not give it back? Were you manipulating him?"
          Deirdre's mouth moves soundlessly. She swallows, staring at the floor. "... Yes."
          "Correct." The edge in his voice is gone. "There's another word for a person who manipulates others, Deirdre. Can you tell me what that word is?"
          "... A liar,” she sniffles. “I'm… a liar."
          "You are. I'm so glad you can finally admit it." Alastor sighs. "I’m sorry that it doesn’t end there. We have to return to the material.”
          Deirdre's eyes are glassy and unfocused.
          “Because even if you were manipulating him, lying to him, you still took so much from him.”
          Her head sways as she tries to lift it.
          “You took his gifts, always better than yours. You took all the free drinks he gave you at the Glade, drinks worth a day of your pay.”
          The only hint of colour in her face comes from the deepening bruises on her cheeks.
          “And, even when you refused, you always pictured yourself up there, in the Spectral Suites, by his side. All that money and power and importance in your little hands."
          She barely looks alive.
          "You took, and took, and took. You used his love to take.” Alastor, on the other hand, seems twice as bright. “What do we call that kind of person, Deirdre? Say it loudly. I want to make sure you hear it."
          "Please." Deirdre's throat aches. She shakes her head. "Please, don't make me.”
          "You already know it's true. Just say it. Take. The mask. Off."
          "I'm a whore."
          Deirdre's breath hitches. The words had just spilled out. The ache in her throat is growing worse. "And… and a liar." Her expression crumples. She shudders, starting to sob.
          "You are. It scares you, because it brings you shame. But it's in your nature, Deirdre. It's what being a glastaig means." His voice is still sweet as honey, his words still as noxious as venom. "All glastaigs lie. All glastaigs whore. Repeat it: 'I'm a liar and a whore.'"
          Deirdre shakes her head, the tiniest gesture of denial squeezing between her tears. Her hand rises viciously fast, striking her across the face, leaving a sharp pain where nails claw her cheek and force splits her lip.
          "Repeat it." Alastor's voice echoes in her ears. She cringes down, tasting blood.
          "I-I'm a liar a-and a whore," Deirdre whispers. Her hand moves again, this time gripping her antler, pulling her head upright.
          Alastor's eyes glitter in the dark. His words come in time with the tick of the clock. "Louder!"
          "I'm a liar and a whore!" Deirdre wails. "Just - just stop! Please! What do I have to do to make this stop!?"
          Alastor's body remains statuesque for a moment, the wood lingering perilously in his hand. “... Well…” He sets his instrument on the vanity, leaving Deirdre rigid in place.
          tik
          She’s a sobbing heap of a woman in any other way.
          tik
          "There is an… alternative," he says slowly, walking in straight steps. "Since you've taken your mask off.”
          tik
          “Since you’re the real Deirdre. Since you now understand what you are."
           tik
          "Please," Deirdre whispers. Her antler shakes in her hand. Her eyes are hot and dry. "Anything."
          tik
          She whimpers when Alastor gets close, grasping her chin with one of his massive hands. He presses her cheeks together, moving his thumb along the wet drops he finds.
          tik
          His other hand slowly travels up her thigh. Adding an ounce of warmth to an otherwise stone-cold body.
           tik
          The emerald glitters in his eyes.
           tik
          "We can embrace your nature."


continue reading ->

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We hope you enjoyed our special Holloweeny Chrysalis post!
Poor Deirdre.   And she still has so many chapters ahead T^T

The first part of Chapter 20: Kept Women is set to post  Friday November 11th as

Until then, thanks for reading!
And thanks for stopping by!