Chrysalis Ch23: The Rite of Keeping (pt2) (Patreon)

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          Blackness.
          L's skull throbs, like it's being squeezed in a vice. Her lips are dry, her antennae limp. They can taste the faint traces of tears, still lingering on her cheeks.
          Her wings ache.   She tries to pull them towards herself, but they feel too heavy to move.   She knows she’s on the ground.   She tries to sit up but she’s met with resistence.
          Her eyes flutter open.
          She’s lying on a soft upholstered table. Tight leather straps wrap around her wings, her arms, her legs.  She tries to move, jolt, bob, anything. She fails. Everything is spread out, full-mast, her wings extended posed for take-off.
Pinned in place.
          L hardly dares to breathe as she takes in the rest of the space.  Overhead, large speakers, wiry scaffolding, velvet red curtains. A… theatre, maybe? Is Spencer putting on a show? The mere mention of his name sends dread through her stomach.  Nearby, an object glitters on a small table.  Her breath hitches when she spots a bronze knife, its blade curved and serrated.
          Panicked, L tries to pull free again.  Bashes her head back, desperate. Cushioned by the padding.
          In the audience her antennae sense faint movements.
beep
          L’s world is flooded by an intense, blinding light. Her pale skin glows against the heat of a spotlight. Helpless, her antennae writhe, and stars cloud her vision. Gentle music floods the space: rolling brass, gliding bows, plucked strings, all to a walking tempo. A flush, tenor voice reaches her ears and prickles her skin.
          She spots him.   Spencer.   He sits behind rows of velvet seats, in front of a bar of polished black marble as the lyrics flood her mind.

          “Panis angelicus,
Fit panis hominum.”

          The Fireside remote glistens in one hand as the other lifts to the song’s crescendo. He rises with the music, circling behind the bar.

          “Dat panis cœlicus,
Figuris terminum.”

          He looks different. The fine-tailored suits, the designer scarves - all vanished. His blonde hair dishevelled.  Large, wide-rimmed glasses perched on his nose.  A long, midnight black robe rails behind him as he moves.  An all consuming darkness.  The fabric ripples in a way that makes it look alive.
          He kneels behind the counter, and a gilded light spills over him.  It’s mesmerizing.   And when he withdraws, L can see the source of the light:
          An ornate wine glass with a hissing, sputtering golden liquid.

          “O res mirabilis!
Manducat Dominum,”

          Spencer descends the aisle and ascends the stage.

“Pauper, pauper, servus et humilis.”

          He stops before her, closing his eyes and savouring the final notes as the music drifts to its conclusion.  Then, abruptly, his eyes snap open. Bright and intense and blue, they match his enthusiastic smile.
          “Sorry, darling, I know no human voice can compare with yours! ‘Panis Angelicus’ Franck, Romantic era.  ‘Thus angel’s bread is made the bread of all men today. May the poor and lowly, upon their master, feed.’ Fitting, don’t you think?”
          She isn’t thinking about the lyrics though.  Her eyes are on the liquid bubbling from the glass he’s holding. Something pulls from the margins of her memory, fragments melding together. That glow. L knows it.
          The same shade as her hair.
          The same shade as the pool she bathed in.
          The same colour as the waters Neith said would change her.
          L bucks in her seat, straining on the leather binds.
          Spencer’s face curls in frustration.  “Darling, no! What are you doing? Stop it!”
          “I’m not drinking that!” she croaks out, pushing against the chair with her wings, wincing in pain for her effort. She bites back a cry. “Let me go! I don’t want-”
          "Shhh, shhh, shhh, don’t…" The MP lifts his hands, forming a rectangle with his fingers, framing her in the center. His words are soft, clearly intended to comfort. "Don’t move, don’t struggle! You’re already so perfectly placed. As perfect as you always are…"
          He clicks his tongue, ‘takes the shot.’
          “... Daphne.”
          Her eyes grow wide. "D… Daph...?" She can’t finish the word. The world spins.
          "Yes, Daphne! I-" His words are lost in white noise. L’s face sinks into her clothes. Still a flimsy white dress, still a butterfly brooch, but she knows they aren’t the same. They should be layered in wine, sweat, blood.
          She watches Spencer with horror. His gleeful smile collapses into a blur. He changed her clothes.
          The spinning sensation only gets worse.
          “We’re going to take things slow from now on,” he coos. L's antennae squirm away, burrowing back in her hair. “Easy breaths, gentle thoughts. No more chases and thrills and games-”
          "W-what the fuck is this? Who- " L tries to swallow, but her mouth is so dry. Her face twists in horror. "Wh-Who’s Daphne?"
          Spencer smiles warmly. “Heheheh, still being silly, I see? It’s you, darling. I chose ‘Daphne’ for your new name.”
          “No,” she barely whispers. Her breathing grows unsteady, and she digs her fingers into the chair’s padding, pulling on the restraints.  “No, no, no-”
          “The traditions are quite clear. A fresh name for a fresh-” He cuts off when he sees her. “Daphne, darling, hey! Stop doing that, you’ll get hurt!”
          “I have to get out,” L stammers. “You n-need to let me go right now, Spencer! It's - this is not a game, okay?”
“Heh.” His chuckle makes her recoil. “Of course it’s not a game, Daphne! We stopped playing hours ago! I won, remember?”
          “You won?”  She starts, flabbergasted.   Recalibrates.  “R-right, you… you won.  Of course.”
          She needs to get out.
          “It’s just… see I need to run back to my place to grab my things.” L strains, her mind races for words that might reach him. Desperately searching for a hint of empathy. “Just for a moment! I’ll be off and back. I’m not running away, I promise, I s-swear-”
          “Darling, you don’t have to run away anymore.” Spencer grabs the glass, letting the glittering contents swirl in his hand. Her eyes, her terror, fix on it. She is not drinking, no matter what he does.
          “I’m your Keeper now! All your needs will be taken care of!” Spencer continues. “Just a few hours, Daphne, and all of yesterday’s worries-”
          “Stop calling me that!”
          Spencer stops for a moment, shaking his head. “Darling, the fussiness was cute at first, but I’m getting a little annoyed by-”
          “That’s not my name!” She tries to keep the tears from her eyes.
          “From where?” L already knows the answer, twisting in her stomach and screaming in her mind. But until he says it, she can refuse to believe. It won’t be real.
          “Where do you think? The contract will be here shortly. Heh, you act like this isn’t common knowledge.” Spencer’s face shifts as he sees her terror. There’s a flash of concern, regret, real human emotion, but it’s quickly replaced by an annoyed scoff. “Oh, darling, don’t give me that look. I couldn’t marry an ‘L!’ My peers, my father, they’d think I dragged you in from a strip club!”
          “... Strip club?” she asks, utterly shocked.
          “It’s just too simple, too short. ‘L’ couldn’t get you through a club bouncer, much less Customs if we holiday!” Spencer chuckles, turning away to avoid her eyes. “‘Daphne’ is fantastic. Eloquent, unique, a touch thematic. And best of all, traditional.”
          L stares at him in disbelief. Still grinning widely, Spencer pushes his glasses up his nose, and lifts the gilded liquid towards her, as if to toast.
          “... I’m sure you’ll come around to it.”
          Several long, silent seconds pass.
          L bursts into laughter.
          She doesn’t intend to. She's not even sure why she does. The giggle just bubbles out, a half-hysterical, half-exhausted rasp that's more spasm than sound. Growing louder and louder, until it drowns over the music…
          … and reaches Spencer’s ears. He grimaces, eye twitching. “D-Daphne-”
          “Ahahahahahahahah!”
          “D-Daphne!” His stutter pops in, cheeks turning red. “St-st-stop laughing!”
          “HAHAHAHAHA! O-oh, i-it's - it's too short?” L repeats, gasping for air. "I'm t-terribly sorry, I'll - I’ll have to think about that the next time I sell my bloody name! Hahahahahahahah!”
          “D-Daphne, we’re t-t-trying to have a serious c-c-c-”
          “Tell you what, next time, I’ll put it through Parliament! Would you like that, or… heheh, d-do I have to buy you a bottle first? Ahahahahahah!”
          Spencer starts wringing his hands, his body folding inward. “P-p-p-please…”
          L's head lolls back as she convulses, shuddering. It takes her a minute to regain her composure. “D-Did you think to ask if I liked it? Should I offer my… heheheh, my professional nymph review?”
          “D-Daphne, i-it’s n-not a joke-”
          “It sounds awful,” L answers candidly. Her lips twist into a bitter smirk. “Too short. Would you like to buy my old name back? I used to be L - L - "
          L's throat spasms. The sensation brings her back to senseless laughter.
          “I can’t even say it,” she blinks back tears, giggling all the while. “What a fucking joke. All of this is such a fucking joke-”
          “It’s not!” he pleads. She looks at him, watching the way he fidgets, head buried in his hands. “St-stop doing this! You’re acting like everyone else! T-treating me like some k-kind of freak, saying all these lies-”
          “What am I supposed to fucking say!?” she snaps. L knows it’s dangerous to fight him like this, but it’s the only way she’s ever gotten near breaking his delusions before. And if what he’s planning is real, what’s there to lose? “You won’t let me leave! You’ve strapped me to a bloody chair!”
          “You’re supposed to understand!” Spencer shouts back. “I’m n-not hurting you! I’m… I’m just tr-trying to help-”
          “Helpful people don’t kidnap-”
          “I’m not k-kidnapping!” His breaths are ragged, his voice fleeting. “I kn-know it might be a shock, b-but we both know you-”
          “I. Don’t. Want this!”
          “St-stop talking!” It’s not a command. There’s no power or authority behind it. Just a panicked cry for mercy, as if Spencer was a wounded animal. Spencer starts walking in small circles, whispering to himself. “... Spence, Spence, it’s still fine. She wants you, she wants you, she wants you-”
          “Spencer, please, listen, I want to go home-”
          “It’s all just a test, Spence, just a test! She’s testing your c-commitment, testing if you’re ready t-to take care of her-”
          “It’s not a test!” L shouts, pleading. “Spencer, God, you know you’re lying-”
          “She’s a Kept!” Spencer raises his voice to overshadow her words, covering his ears. “Kepts don’t run away. Kepts listen, Kepts understand. Kepts d-don’t laugh in your face and c-call you mean things! They want to be loved! They want to be happy! And if you c-complete the Rite…”
          “The Rite!?” L recoils, curling back to the liquid. “Spencer, if that glass goes anywhere near my mouth, I’m spitting it on your fancy fucking carpet--”
          “... you’ll soar. We will soar. Together.” Spencer bounces back up, clears his throat, stares directly at her. “Daphne, I know you’re confused about this. I know you’re worried that a human can’t meet your needs. But I promise, with everything I have, that I will treat you right. That this is exactly where you belong!”
          L takes a deep breath, drawing back into the seat. She can't reason with him, can’t appeal to his morals or even basic reality. He just burrows into himself, talks himself back into it.
Damn it, she’s running out of options, she needs to do something, anything.
          Maybe… maybe it’s not talking about it, but around it. He’s convinced himself that she wants this because she’s a nymph, so if…
Wait. Yes. YES! She could-
          A prickle of terror runs down her neck. Is it worth the risk? What if he doesn’t care? What if he does, and she gets hurt?
          NO.  She has to act.  She has to stop hesitating.   She should have just asked the cop for help.  L swallows, pushing up against the seat and raising her voice. “Spencer! I’m not-”
          Her thought is cut off midway as a chirp echoes through the theater. It catches Spencer’s attention, too, but L focuses on tightening her fists, steadying her breath.
          “One moment, darling!” His eyes dart towards the bar behind them. He skips towards it, revealing his bare feet. “I think that’s the guest of honour~”
          Her antennae tremor in terror. “Guest of honour?”
          “Tradition, darling! How often must I say? Of course, a Potentate would normally be the officiator-”
          “Did you bring someone here!?” L can feel a fleeting hope in her heart. Someone could see her. Stop Spencer, put an end to this nightmare. “Someone from the Market?”
          “Of course! Heheheh, can I conjure up magic contracts from thin air!?”
          “You utter fool,” L whispers, her face brightening. Joyful tears trail down her face, clear with flecks of gold. Yes. This is her chance. “You really haven’t been listening, have you? Don’t you know who I’m a retainer of?”
          “Yes! You mentioned something about skulls on shelves!” Spencer pipes up, gliding to the music. L can feel herself spring up, her breaths suddenly light and easy. He offers a grin to match her own, and winks. “No worries. Already taken care of.”
          Her smile breaks. “Wh-what? N-no, Spencer, you don’t understand-”
          “Pfft, Daphne, please! Leave politics to the professionals!” Spencer spins around, brandishing the Fireside remote. “I would’ve thought, after everything I’ve shown you…”
          “You can’t-” her stomach twists when she hears the remote beep.
          “... that I always plan ahead!”
          The bar bursts into bright, neon light. She picks up the gentle sounds of fur plodding on metal. From the bar’s sleek edge, awash in heated reds and cool blues, climbs a small, thin tabby. Black spots speckling its orange fur, and its eyes glow an emerald green. A calico.  L feels her heart jump as the cat clambers through the shelves with an authority she could never forget…
          … and relaxes into Spencer’s waiting hand.
          "No." L’s breath quickens, her eyes sting. She shakes her head, horrified. “NO!”
          She can see the thin strip of golden parchment dangling from the cat’s maw.
          “After all…” Spencer digs into his pocket, beaming at his captive as he clicks open a ballpoint pen. “... Who do you think our guest of honour is?”
          The King of the Market… or at least, one of her amalgam… stares right back into the nymph’s desperate eyes, stretching her claws beneath Spencer’s soothing fingers. Her expression is detached, distant, and just the tiniest bit amused. L feels tears flow freely down her cheeks as realisation pierces through.
          The Market approved this.
          “You weren’t wrong to fear provoking her, Daphne. Not wrong to say she can’t be bought with champagne.” Spencer leans down, muttering encouragement as he rubs the King’s belly. “But I have so much more than champagne to offer.”
          He moves his fingers back to her spine. L’s ears ring with white noise, her world collapsing in front of her.
          “We’ve been partners for years now! Not publicly, of course, not with her line of work. Wouldn’t want London in mass hysteria! But to keep that work smooth, to keep that hysteria silent, our feline friend needs someone in government. Someone with connections and influence she can use to protect her interests. I can offer those services…” Spencer giggles, scratching the King’s ears. “... but not for free.”
          “Stop,” L whispers. The King can’t be here, she makes this real. “Stop it, stop it, please, this can’t be happening-”
          “I scratch her back, she scratches mine, but you’ve gotten yourself quite a deficit, haven’t you scrumptious?” Spencer coos, laughing at the King’s purrs. The parchment falls from the King’s mouth, spreading full on the table with the invisible tendrils of magic. “A few too many Unseelie raids gone sour, a few too many Market goods showing up in our markets…”
          L starts to collect herself, regrouping for her final defence, the only words she knows might break through to him.
          “And then I hear of a man murdered by bizarre snakes, and… that just won’t do.” Spencer smiles mirthlessly, lifting his hand from the King’s fur. “I didn’t get into politics to cover up murders, Daphne. I actually considered ending our little arrangement right there. But with the police on the Spectral Suites’ door, the King needs me now more than ever. To pay me back, she offered any price.”
          A voice in the back of her mind screams that this isn’t safe, that this is the last time, place, and person she should ever think to have this conversation with.
          “And I picked you.”
          But nothing about this situation is safe. She’s running out of chances.
          “If it’s any consolation, darling, she is still taking care of you, in her own way,” Spencer’s eyes scan the parchment’s tiny, spider-like handwriting. his smile grows with every word. “She knows how badly Shorn nymphs need-”
          “I’M NOT A FUCKING NYMPH!” L’s voice cracks, echoing through the theatre. She forces herself straight; the contract is right there, she can’t afford to watch him sign.
          Spencer’s smile freezes. He looks up from the paper, fixing his glasses to give her a better scowl. “What?”
          “You want a nymph, right?! That’s what all of this is about!?” L smiles purple spots glowing in her eyes. “I’m… I-I’m not what you want!”
          The choir singing through the speakers only makes the silence more poignant.
          Spencer sets the pen down, turning to the King with confusion. He gets only a vacant stare. “Uh, heheheh, D-Daphne, I know you’re not from Gwyllion. The finer details don’t concern me-”
          “Not just the ‘finer details,’ Spencer, ALL OF THEM! I’M NOT A NYMPH!”
          Spencer takes off his glasses. “Daphne, this is a really bad time for jokes-”
          “STOP CALLING ME DAPHNE! I’m so, so sick of other people choosing my bloody name! The Rite won’t work! I’m not joking, it’s-” She hesitates, teetering on the precipice. There's no way back.
          “Darling, you very much are! Is she always like this, Your Highness?” Spencer tries to play off his nervousness with a chuckle. “I know she’s young, but-”
          “Look at me, Spencer! Not the cat, not the Fireside, right! At! Me!” L finds herself staring into deep blue eyes. “It won’t work. Not because I’m from London, but because I’m… I was born human! Do you understand? Do you hear a word that I’m saying?”
          The tabby couldn’t care; she’s boredly playing with a drink coaster. Spencer’s skin turns pale, and the brightness in his eyes vanishes. L can see the gears in his mind spinning, his mouth hanging agape. Yes. It’s working. She’s gotten him to think.
          “You’re a… changeling?” He tilts his head, putting his glasses back on. “N-no, th-they steal children, they d-don’t… they aren’t-”
          “I was human. A human boy! It’s - there’s this dryad, a-and she…” L’s voice wavers. Her stomach feels empty. “Please. It’s been the most complicated month in my fucking life and I-”
          Spencer turns, staring at the parchment, eyes wide. L’s body grows animated, she can see him sink. He’s listening. He’s believing. “A… boy…?”
          “You can bloody ask her, Spencer! She knows!” L nods to the King. “Whatever you’ve read about f-fairies or nymphs, Spence, it won’t work on me!”
          “But…” Spencer leans into the table. His face grows redder by the second. “If… if you’re not…”
          “Yes, exactly!” Tears are still falling, but no longer in grief. “I'm not a nymph, I'm not really a girl, so I can go home, right!? Please!?"
          “But the n-nest, the h-hospitality…” Spencer’s hands return to his forehead. “I-if you aren’t a Nymph, then why-”
          “I don’t want any of it! You’re forcing me to stay here!” She watches the way his body withers beneath her words. “Spencer, you know what this looks like to a human…”
          “No,” Spencer starts shaking. “N-no…”
          “You built a stalker shrine,” L keeps going. “You hid me from the police-”
          “I-I wouldn’t-” He sinks into the table. “B-but you w-wanted it…”
          “You chased me around with a gun, Spencer, that’s a crime. You hurt me.”
          “I’d n-n-n-” He can’t finish the word. His face slams into the wood, his body sinking. “Oh no. Oh G-God, no, no, no! Fuck, no, fuck, fuck! You’re gonna run away-”
          “Spencer, please, stop fretting about that!” L strains forward in her chair. She can’t let him slide down that spiral. “You know this is wrong, Spencer. You can’t do this to humans.”
          “You’re n-n-not supposed to be like them!”
          “But I am!” She shouts. “You’re not bad, Spencer, I know it! Remember what you told me at the gala? You’re tired of that box where people are nasty! You’re tired of doing the wrong thing!”
          Spencer whimpers loudly. The King of the Market finally returns to her senses, plodding gently towards the contract.
          “I…” he sniffles, his entire large frame quivering. “I-I…”
          “Spencer… if you do this, you’re going into the box. You’re not going to soar!” L starts speaking faster. She’s finally breaking through. “You’re the only one who can free me, Spence, you’re the only one who can do the right thing. I need you, please!”
          The song ends, the speakers crackling silent. For a long time, Spencer struggles to speak, to even breathe, but forces himself up by a barstool, staring into the tabby cat’s waiting face. His eyes glow with a wild terror.
          “Harcourt, you try Our patience,” the tabby speaks, her voice weak and hollow, like a distant radio signal. “We must pay the debt. Sign the contract.”
          “Curse you!” L screams, gritting her teeth. “How could you let him do this?!”
          “Reciprocity. Our amusement alone kept you free. You were supposed to distract your Dryad, torment her yes but keep her under control.” The King clambers over Spencer’s outstretched arm, staring at the nymph with two and ten thousand eyes. “Our clock tower is dust, and We are not amused. But you please another-”
          “This isn’t about what pleases me. Is what she says… he says… were they born human? ” Spencer presses into the granite bar, scowling at the King. “Is that why she’s still Shorn? Were you going to tell me!?”
          “It doesn’t matter,” the King replies. “The debt must be paid.”
          The bluntness sends shivers down L’s spine. Her’s and Spencer’s.
          “I c-can’t K-Keep a human! Are you mad?” Spencer hyperventilates. “N-No, she’ll never understand-”
          “She follows Our laws. Her body is bound by Our magic.”
          “I’m not letting you pay off one brutality with another-”
          “It doesn’t matter,” the King repeats. Her tail swishes the air as she walks back across Spencer’s body. “Harcourt, listen. The origin is irrelevant. She can still be yours.”
          Spencer blinks once. Twice. A hundred times. And with every beat, with every shutter, L realises he’s bending back. His eyes start to blaze with awe, amazement.
          Wonder.
          “No.” L strains against the chair. “Spencer, NO!”
          “No one will come. Nobody knows. The consequences are non-existent,” the King twists back and forth, showing her claws.
          “But I love her! I don’t want her hurt-”
          “How could your love possibly hurt her?” the King asks. L swears she smiles.
          “Don’t listen!” L screams from her perch. “If you love me, you’d let me choose!”
          “L won’t choose you,” the King presses closer to him. “L will squander the better life you offer, like all the others. She will reject your love, like all the rest.”
          Spencer stares at the King in silence, his body no longer shaking. Has the King been feeding him this?
          “I… I won’t!” Even she can hear the lie, but L’s desperate. It’s all unravelling before her eyes. “I’ll stay, I’ll love you, I promise-”
          “But Daphne,” the King purrs with the name. “Is she not kind, not beautiful? Is Daphne not everything you’ve ever wanted?”
          The world freezes. The theatre lights glare. Sweat trickles down Spencer’s brow.
          “Someone to love, and give the love back.” The King hisses. “Right there, for the taking. You only need the courage to grasp.”
          Spencer Harcourt inhales a shaky breath and turns around. L looks pleadingly into his thin, weak smile.
          “Spencer…” L twists beneath the straps, her face forlorn. “... please.”
          But his eyes are vacant. “... Sorry, Daphne. You’ll understand, I promise.”
          In a single fluid motion, Spencer takes the pen.
          “We’ll soar together.”
          “NO! SPENCER!” L watches in terror as the King bends away, and Spencer pulls the parchment towards his hand. “I’M NOT DAPHNE! I’LL NEVER BE DAPHNE!”
          The King stares at her, eyes dull with boredom. Just another transaction. Just another of the Market’s happy, paying customers.
          “I’M L! MY NAME IS L!”
          He ignores her screams, pushes away her shouts. Letter by letter, a perfectly-practised signature fills the page.
          “It’s L! L! L-”
          His hand lifts from the page.
          “-aphne.” There's a brief, awful moment of silence as the name leaves her tongue. The nymph raises her head, fresh horror dancing in her eyes. "N-no, it's - it's D-Daphne - it's - it’s- "
          “And now the debt’s repaid.” The King plods slowly off the counter, to the shadows from whence she came. She smiles into Spencer’s empty face, watches his ink-stained fingers put the contract in his pocket. “Enjoy her, Keeper. You know what you must do.”
          "NO!” She collapses again, screaming in anguish. "It's n-not D… it's Daphne!"
          Spencer turns, his eyes glinting off the bubbling gold liquid.
          “I’m not…” Daphne shudders, tears flowing from her face. “Please, no, this can’t be happening.”
          “It can. It is.” Spencer’s voice barely rises above a whisper. “You’re really going to stay. You’re really going to give me a chance-”
          Daphne screams. A high-pitched, keening wail, despairing and furious. The crystalline chimes of her voice shatter into sharp-edged splinters.
          "D-Daphne!" Spencer's eye starts twitching as he drops the pen and runs to the stage, “St-stop c-crying, no! I-I’m not mad at all! I d-d-don’t c-care that you were a b-boy, you’re still lovely, I p-p-promise!”
          Daphne thrashes, her wrists reddening as she twists them with new pressure. The spotlight is too bright, the room too hot, everything too stuffy for her to breathe.
          “I-I c-couldn’t even tell, I swear, and you’re a singer, that’s marvellous! I still love you, I still want to help, the m-m-magic will work, no m-matter our imperfections!” He reaches the stage, bolts to the table, his face twisting as her scream only gets louder. “P-P-PLEASE! Just stop crying!”
          Daphne forces herself to watch him, her body a mess of tremors. He takes an item from the table: an odd looking instrument. Large, heavy, plastic.
Pliers. Or something like them.  They had two half spheres making a mesh cage attached at the one end.  She shakes her restraints in vain. They’re not iron either.  Which can only mean one thing.
They’re for her.
          "Daphne, c-calm down! I’m not hurting you!”
          "Get away!" Daphne tries to snap her legs out as he nears her. He barely slows down. Panic starts to fog over her
          “STOP!” Spencer pounces onto her.  “Shit, shit, shit! Open your mouth, Daphne! I don’t want to hurt you!”
          “I’m not gonna fucking help you!” Daphne feels his chest press against hers. He pushes on her legs, tries to slam the pliers into her rapidly moving face. Her antennae flick in his face as she growls. Could she tip the chair over?
          “St-stop making this hard! You’re supposed t-t-to be d-d-docile!” He doesn’t sound angry. Just flighty, terrified. Like a boy pulling the wings off flies, utterly flabbergasted when the flies start fighting back.
          "HELP!" she manages, shouting to no one but perhaps herself. "Somebody help!”
          “SHUT UP!” Spencer’s face is beet-red, his blue eyes flickering. They briefly fall on the golden glow held in his palm. “I… I c-c-can’t-”
          Images flicker through her mind. Mantises with their limbs pinned, frozen and dead. Swirls of butterflies with flights forever stilled. The torn wing. Cabinets lying broken, their contents spilled. Forgotten and discarded in the wake of the chase.
          She’s not going like them. She’s not.
"I won't be quiet!” She screams into his ear. “And I won’t be your bride! You FUCKING MONSTER-"
          Her shout becomes a grunt as he wedges the tool end of the device into her mouth. It was the exact opportunity he needed. The taste of plastic is overwhelming as he cranks it… and her mouth… open.  He locks the device in place.
          “I’m not a monster! I’m not!” Spencer pushes himself off her. “You heard her, Daphne, you know the truth! Monsters don’t love.”
          Her skin prickles, and her antennae wilt back, shrivelling before the gilded glow. Daphne screams again. It's garbled, distorted. Not the quiet murmur of her old voice, or the chimes of her new. Not even the shattered-glass of her earlier panic.
          It’s trapped, hollow, hopeless. It makes Spencer wince as he raises the glass.
          “I have to do this,” he mutters. “I have to do this, I have to do- oh, fuck it!”
          He swallows the contents whole.
          For a while, nothing happens. Spencer blinks a few times, confused by the veil of coloured steam rising from his lips. It’s enough to stop Daphne’s screams. She stares at him with the same horrified expression he wears.
          His skin begins to wave and bubble.
          The MP yelps, as Daphne hears a hundred different sizzles. His veins pop, sweat pours down in droves, and an abrupt cough sends specks of blood flying across the floor. Spencer nearly collapses, grimacing. Eventually, the smoke from his mouth curls into a scream.
          Daphne watches something shift. Suddenly, his oesophagus is visible, a shadow wobbling against golden, glowing flesh. Perspiration glitters, and his skin blazes like sunlight while his arteries turn gold. It looks like he might explode from pain.
          Until everything stops.
          His body no longer trembles, his veins no longer thrash. He stands up fully, radiant, and opens his eyes right on her. The piercing blue has doubled over. More bright and more intense than any blue she's ever seen.
          Coloured flames shoot from his irises like solar flares.
          He doesn’t look like Spencer. Not the jovial playboy she met in the Glade, or the politician she danced the night away with. His teeth are sharper, his face more angular, his hair weaving through the sterile air like tendrils.
          He looks like a Dryad.
          Daphne feels a shiver run through her. She crouches down, doing her best to stay away from whatever thing the MP has become. She knows he can sense her fear. It’s no different from his own.
          The glass shatters against the floor, crystals flying in all directions. Staring at his hands, Spencer kneels down and grabs the knife, watching his reflection through the bronze. “Heh. There. Does this look a bit more familiar?”
          She tries to peel away from him, but its pointless. He adjusts the pliers, her jaw extending as far as her bones will go.
          “I told you I could replicate it,” he whispers, smiling nervously. “Everything will be exactly as it’s supposed to be. Perfect, just like you!”
          Her eyes grow wide as he steps over her, the blade hanging above her chest. Daphne realises his intent a moment too late, and desperately jerks to the side.
          “You can do this,” Spencer tells himself, sliding a finger across the edge. “The Rite’s easy. An exchange of flesh and blood. Blood and flesh. Y-you have the b-blood n-now.  All y-you have to  do is offer it to her…” he utters, steeling his resolve.
          Daphne’s eyes brighten with horror, utterly helpless.
          “Ehn!” With a wince, Spencer slices across his wrist. Golden liquid still whirrs through his veins, steaming where the skin ruptures. Searing blood courses down his glowing skin.
          Tears fill her eyes.
          “D-Daphne…” He begins, forcing her chin up, trying to not look into her pain. ”W-with this offering of my blood, I open the rite of keeping Between us.  With my blood our souls unite. With this…”
          He lifts his wrist over her face.
          “... you and I become one.”
          And lets the the blood fall in her mouth.
          It's nothing like the seeds Astraea made her consume. There's no sense of struggle, no fight. Just a brief, heated flash, as the warm liquid touches her tongue.
          Heat becomes light. The world disappears, washed away in a red-gold blaze. Daphne tries to yell again, but the sound is muffled by the thunder in her ears. It's her heartbeat. Her pulse. The rhythm of her body, warped and heightened, crackles with each thump as the magic works through her veins. Her limbs stiffen. Her head snaps back, her antennae jitter and thrash. She can taste ancient wood and blossoming leaves and sweet, warm, all-enveloping light.
          A light she has never and always known.
          The world returns. Daphne returns, falling back into herself. She's shaking, wheezing, her eyes unfocused. She stares up at Spencer, at his strange black robe and frantic smile, at the blood still dripping down his hand.
          The pliers tremble as she starts to sob.
          “It… it worked. It f-fucking worked.” His lips barely move with the words, his eyes bright in awe. The Fireside flicks from his pocket, and when he presses a button, the leather tightly coiled around her disappears.
          Daphne wastes no time forcing the pliers from her mouth. Her vision gets blurry. She can't catch her breath. The sobs come too quickly. All she can think to do is huddle into herself, and let her strained and sore wings cover her. Protect her.
          What else could?
          “It fucking worked! Ahahahah!” Spencer loses himself in his laughter, leaping into the air, spinning around with glee. “Yes, yes, YES!”
          Her vision slowly returns, focusing on the pliers in her hand. Daphne squints; there’s something on her wrist, exactly where Spencer had cut his. At first she thinks it merely a smear, but as he hollers and cheers, new horrors fill her.
          “I fucking knew it! This is perfect! This is everything I need!”
          Shadowy black circles ring around her wrist, interlinking like chains. They appear to be a tattoo, at first, but start to billow and spill as her arm trembles. Through the tears, she can read the strange glyphs of the fae language, words she shouldn’t but instinctively knows.
‘Daphne, Kept of Spencer.’
          “Now, I’ll have time to explain. You can understand. And when you’ve calmed down-” Spencer stops, blinking in confusion as he sees her stumble past him. “D-Daphne?”
          She half jumps, half tumbles off the stage. Her body is weak and shaky, the impact knocking her into a seat.
          “No! Stop! You d-don’t have to be scared!” Spencer’s voice is pleading. His entire body starts to wither in panic “We’ve s-started the Rite, you’re f-fine now!”
          Daphne bolts for the exit. Her antennae weave behind her, her dress stained with blood and tears.
          “Why? Why? Why? Stop! You… you c-c-can’t-”
          Her legs scream in agony. Her chest seems ready to pull itself from her body. But Daphne keeps moving. Moving, moving, moving. She has to get out, get away.
          “D-Daphne I… I forbid you from running away!”
          His voice doubles over with the words. In that same instant, Daphne falls forward, arms flailing. Catching herself on the red carpeting.
          She looks back at her legs. They’re frozen, unresponsive.  Dead weight holding her to the floor.
          Her eyes grow wide as her heart sinks. “What… NO!” She shakes her head violently, staring at her paralysed limbs in disbelief. “What have you done to me!?”
          “Our wills are united!” Spencer’s smile returns. Nervous, quivering, but a smile all the same. “The K-Kept always follows their Keeper! You can be happy, Daph-”
          “MY NAME’S NOT DAPHNE!” The name ends in another sob.
          “You can stop playing the Shorn, heheheh,” Spencer clutches his robe, his eyes glowing as his voice builds again. “Look, see? I command you to say your name!”
          Daphne clamps her mouth shut, trying to push back against whatever magic he’s instilled. It doesn’t work; there isn’t even a struggle. Her grit merely relaxes, her lips part, and her tongue bends all on its own.
"Daphne!" She yells, curling into herself.
          “Exactly! You get it! I command you to come back!”
          Daphne’s body moves on it’s own, and she can only watch as it pushes itself up, puts one foot in front of the other.  Moves in cold mechanical rhythm, like a tin soldier.   She walks as the weight of inevitability pulls her back to the stage.
          Spencer grins at her as she stops at the foot of the stage, right below him.   “Once the Rite’s sealed, darling, you won’t have to run anymore! We can be exactly what you want! What you need!”
          Daphne screams into the theatre until her voice cracks. She presses her hands to her face, and feels the tears on her skin.
          “No, no, no! Why are you crying!? ” Spencer’s body turns rigid, shrinking back with her shriek. “I-I’m not hurting you! I’m t-t-trying my best! STOP IT!”
          Daphne breaks into heaving, gutteral sobs.  Spencer digs his hands into his face, fingers pulling at his hair.
          “Please, just be happy!” Spencer shouts at her, tears pouring down his own eyes. “I c-can’t, I’m n-not… I order you to stop c-c-crying!”
          Just like that, as if a switch has been turned in her soul, she stops. Daphne’s face smooths out. Her breathing steadies. Her eyes quickly brighten as the final tears evaporate from her skin. Even her antennae go still. The only evidence left behind is the bloodshot look in her eyes.
          “W-what did you do?” Daphne whispers. She presses a hand against her heart, feeling its even pulse. Her chest aches, like there's an enormous force pushing against her ribs. Something packed in, with no way to release it. “What did you do to me!?”
          “I’m helping!” Spencer exhales, relieved. “See, see!? Y-you were c-c-crying and… and now you’re not! That’s good, right!? That’s better!?”
          “You forced me to stop crying! That’s it! That’s all!” Daphne feels like she should be hyperventilating, but her lungs refuse to rise. She just breathes in and out, slowly. As if everything were normal. “Th-that’s not better Spencer.  I don’t feel better!”
          “No, no, it is! I’m taking care of you, like a Keeper should!” Spencer lowers himself from the stage and goes to Daphne. Her legs are stiff, rigidly straight. “Daphne, w-we c-c-can’t have you crying on my watch! That’s not what you need!”
          “What I need?  This is what you need!” She tries to shout, the scream dying in her throat. Why is her breathing so calm? “This isn’t about me at all! You just don’t want to fucking see it!”
          "No!" He grabs her shoulder, voice pleading. "Daphne, please, I want you to be happy! I want what you want!”
          “Then why am I here? Why are you doing this!?” Her voice rises, hoarse - but steady. Unable to break.
          “N-No, st-stop, I… I c-c-can’t…”
          "If this was what I wanted, I wouldn't be screaming my head off, would I!? Stop pretending like I want to be your slave and fix-”
          “I ORDER YOU TO STOP TALKING!"
          Daphne's mouth slams shut. She flinches, her gaze furious and terrified.
          Spencer’s relaxes. “I… heheh, g-good. Th-thank you, Daphne, I needed tha- Daphne!”
          Her eyes roll listlessly into the back of her head as she collapses to the floor below.   She’s blacking out. Her wings throb in pain. She doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter.
          Nothing seems to matter anymore.
          “Daphne, no, no, shhh shhhh-” Spencer kneels to the ground, scooping her up. As she comes to, sees his face, she panics.   Claws to break free.  Tries to slash or bite or struggle to get loose.
          But each time she tries, she can’t.
          She can’t hurt him, no matter how hard she tries.
          “Daphne, st-st-stop, I… I order you to stop moving!”
          Her arms go limp, and her body sinks into his arms. Spencer pulls her into himself from her shoulders and knees, rocking her slightly.
          “There. See? N-n-nothing to be afraid of. I’m t-tr-treating you right.” Slowly, his fingers move to her antennae.  They feel stiff as dry leaves. His fingers create an overwhelming sensation of blood, sweat, and cologne. It makes her want to heave.
          But she can’t heave. Or gag, or vomit. She can’t do anything her Keeper hasn’t ordered her to do.
          Spencer feels the trembling of her arm, and his hand jolts back from it. Another hurried breath rushes through him. “I order you to stop shaking! Please, p-please, just for a minute.”
          She goes still, like a butterfly under glass. Still because her Keeper has ordered her to be still. Her mind repeats it, over and over, some mindless, numbing voice that ignores any desperate cry to move or scream or run. Daphne can be still, and silent, and nothing else.
          He looks into her face, offering a shaky grin.  Whipes back her hair, carefully lays a thumb on her cheek. "Can I... I order you to smile, too. That'd be nice."
          Silently, Daphne smiles.
          A smile that never reaches her eyes.
          "Heheheh," Spencer loses himself in a bout of giggles, starting again every time he sees her gentle smile. “Yes, yes, yes. Perfect.”
          Blue eyes thrum with foreign heat. Still glowing that strange, Dryad gold, Spencer leans into her and kisses her. Long, and deep, and hollow.  A kiss she can only receive, but not reciprocate.
          Spencer pulls away and bursts into a fit of giggles.  "See? Don’t you understand? This is what we'll be like. Exactly like this.” Spencer presses a thumb over her lips, tracing their curvature.  “You won’t be like the others. You’ll understand. You’ll see how good I am. You'll be happy and free and mine."
          Something scratches at the edges of Daphne’s thoughts. A whisper, shuddering, weak, and afraid. Rising from the darkness, but too quiet to hear.
          "Free and happy and mine, forever.”


continue reading ->


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Hi, everyone! Hark here again! This definitely isn’t how any of the characters planned for the night to go, even if everyone’s smiling about it. Maybe ‘safety first’ isn’t such a bad motto all the time…especially when the fae run up against politics.   

What does Spencer think about his seeming victory? Is there any way for…Daphne to escape his clutches? And if she can find one in time, what might it cost?   

Please join us on Friday, March 17th for the first half of Chapter 24: Different Worlds as we explore these answers!