Chrysalis Ch24: Different Worlds (pt1) (Patreon)

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          Chopin trails through the speakers of Spencer’s living room, filling the space with gentle music, begging Daphne to nestle deeper into the luxury surrounding her. The Member of Parliament has placed her on his plush leather couch and buried her in a nest of pillows and cashmere. She’s starting to get a little hot beneath the full weight of them.
          Not that there’s anything to be done about it. Her wings may be sore, her arms bruised. Spencer may be right on top of her. But most importantly Daphne literally, physically,  can’t move.
          She was commanded to sit still.
          She clutches the mug of steaming tea instead. Beneath all the warmth and softness, Daphne still wears the same dull smile he put on her earlier. Clearly vacant to anyone except maybe the man applying purple-coloured lipstick to her lips.
          “Heh, hold still, Daphne,” Spencer giggles at his own joke, capping the lipstick. She can see its strange shade in the corner of her unmoving eyes, where it’s stained Spencer’s bandaged hand. Of course he has fae makeup. Of course putting it on her was the first bloody thing he thought to do. He’s probably been planning to decorate her like this from the start, to treat her like some pretty posed doll he-
          The thoughts abruptly cease in her head. Her breathing is slow, delicate, perfect. She’s relaxed.  Her hand is so still. Impossibly still. There isn’t even a tremor along the liquid’s surface.
          Spencer tilts her chin, inspecting his artistry. Satisfied, he retreats a step, grabbing a tea cup of his own. “Doesn’t this feel lovely, Daphne? Don’t you feel happy?”
          She stares at him, knowing he’s not expecting an answer.
          “See? You have no reason to scream, no reason to fuss. We can just be. We can just sit…”
          Spencer reaches over and clinks their tea cups.
          “... and relax.”
          Quite unlike hers, Spencer’s hand is shaking.
          He beams, clapping twice. “Go on, go on, take a sip!  It should be cool enough by now.  It won’t burn.”
          Daphne’s arm lifts - gliding mechanically. She takes a drag, and her stomach roils. The herbal scent wreathes her aching antennae. Lavender. Its scent mingles with the iron from the windows’ bars. Lavender.
          She wishes it was peppermint. Her mum always made peppermint tea when she burned herself. Back when she wasn’t alone, back when there was someone to soothe her, back when she wasn’t trapped in this nightmare she couldn’t wake from-
          The scream that bubbles inside her never reaches her throat. Thoughts repeat maddeningly in her mind. She can’t scream. Or cry. She can relax. She can relax and drink her tea and that’s it.
          Spencer weaves his hand to Chopin’s gentle keys, giddy and bouncing. “Oh. You like it? That makes me glad. So very, very glad, Daphne. I just want you to be happy.”
          His smile is sweet, caring even. Those bright blue eyes just as inviting as the day they met. Somehow, it only makes her feel worse.
          Spencer sets down his cup on the coffeetable and withdraws another tube layered in strange runes - mascara, and leans forward.  He envelopes her until all she can feel is the brush curl along her lashes.
          “You’ve been on the run for so long,” he whispers. “Trapped in a life of fear and longing. I’m not mad that you responded with that same fear, darling, but it’s in the past. Ready? Deep breaths.”
          Daphne can feel her lungs expand and contract, moving obediently in slow, deep breaths. Her wings adjust themselves beneath the blankets.
          “You won’t need those instincts anymore, and we’ll keep having these sessions until they fade. You have a new voice to follow, now. A voice that loves you. A voice that will never betray you.”
          He pulls away. Daphne lifts the cup to and stares into the swirling liquid. At least now she doesn’t have to gaze into his eyes, still glowing their strange gold.
          “Heh, what are you doing, darling? Are we being a little shy today?”
          She keeps breathing. She hates it, it’s unnecessary. She’s as relaxed as she can possibly be, what will deep breathing do? If she smashes the cup against the table, it might startle him. Give her time to grab a shard and pounce before he can command her to stop. Heh, Spencer probably thinks his words calm her thoughts as well, but he’ll choke on that mistake before he-
          … Daphne’s violent thoughts evaporate even as they’re half formed. There’s no panic to the violent impulse, none of the desperate fear that’s becoming her normal. This is calculated, weighted.
          Spencer giggles. “Heheheheh. My silly little nymph. My silly little bride.”
          Maybe she’s past fear. Maybe she really is letting her tension go. Maybe it’s-
          A gentle ring echoes from the sleek Fireside remote, stirring Spencer. He peers at his watch, eyes wide. “Wow, an hour already! Time really flies! Alright, Daphne, you’ve had your time-out.”
          Another giggle, presumably at her lack of a reply.
          “Just remember - no games!” he coos. “Silly Spence and Silly Daph have to go away for a while.  I need you to be in a better place before we seal the rite, okay?”
          She wishes she could cry.
          His eyes surge in colour, the blues forming strange, criss-cross patterns. “I allow you to speak freely again.”
          Her eyes flutter, and she touches her throat.
          “Oh.  Thanks.”
          She tests it out, resisting adding a hint of disdain. She’s not sure how far she can push it, but if she doesn’t try he might as well keep the spell over her.
          “How are you feeling?” he asks. “Politely, please! I was hoping, going forward, we could be a bit more civil.”
          She doesn’t feel any different, apart from a growing exhaustion. Her muscles yearn for motion, her cheeks ache from constant smiling.
          But at least he’s letting her speak.
          Daphne clears her throat. “would it be civil To say I hope you get hit by a lorry?”
          Spencer Harcourt’s facade snaps. A frown grows, his eyes lose their brightness, and his laughter dies in his throat.
          “Hypothetically, I mean.” Daphne’s smile grows the tiniest bit more genuine. “Wouldn’t want to be inhospitable.”
          “Heh. Heheheh. N-no, d-darling,” he pouts. “Th-that wouldn’t be civil at all.”
          “Oh.” Daphne wants to scream the words out at him, but they always come out evenly. “I suppose I should just kidnap you, then. Apparently, that’s much more hospitable behaviour-”
          “I forbid you from saying ‘kidnap’.”
          Daphne blinks. She didn’t even have time to watch the patterns. Spencer sinks deeper into his seat, frowning. “Y-you only use that word to hurt me.”
          Oh, she wouldn’t want that, would she? Daphne takes a calm, perfectly even sip.
          Spencer eventually forces out a grin. “I-I suppose I should expect a bit of t-teasing from a fae. N-no worries. I’ve… handled worse.”
          “So far.” She likes watching his face twist like this. It’s the only way that doesn’t make her want to wretch.
          “Y-You’re supposed to be relaxing,” he says, standing up. He collects the makeup scattered over the coffee table into an ornate, silk bag. “M-Maybe you’d like something to help with that? Anything I can get you?”
 Let her go.  That’s what Daphne wants to say, has said, will continue to say in any way she can.  But she already knows the answer. Part of her wants to ask it anyway, but he’d never hear the words, and she’ll just be muted all over again.
          “You could let me stop smiling,” she offers instead.
          He makes a little mock-pout. “Oh, but darling, you look so adorable. Let’s give it a few more minutes, you might change your mind.”
          “It’s been an hour.” She tries to put more pressure on the words, “I think I’d know by now if I-”
          “Daphne, your cup’s nearly full! You need to drink more tea!”
          “It’s half-empty, Spencer. Stop trying to-”
          “I order you to drink your tea.”
          That’s the end of the debate. Daphne’s helpless against her own muscles as they spring to life, bringing the warm liquid directly into her lips, filling her mouth. She doesn’t regain control until she swallows.
          “Alright. Anything more, heh, important? Makeup?” Spencer rattles his bag. “It’s all from Iltani, great craftsmen of the Wilds! If you liked it, there’s a lot more where-”
          "Tell me why you’re doing this.“

“W-why I’m… D-Daphne we’ve been over this.”

She doesn’t respond.  Might as well let the silence work in her favor for once.
          A long sigh. “... I'm K-Keeping you because I love you. I want you to understand that love, so I’m loving you that way a Dryad would. The way nymphs are used to.”
          “But you’re human. Why would you want-”
          “It’s not about what I want, darling, it’s about what you n-n-need.” He recoils at her sharp intake of breath.
          “But I don’t need it.”
          “D-Daphne, c-calm d-down, you’re g-getting scared again-”
          “Why can’t you hear me?” Daphne looks at him desperately. “It’s. Not. Working.”
          She chirps through her smile. The barrage of constant, forced good cheer feels like nails scraping against her spine. She wants to claw her way up the wall, to find somewhere dark and safe to hide.
          “D-Daphne, I asked you to stop being silly!” Spencer buries his face in his hands, struggling to control his breath. “We c-c-can both see that the magic’s working. It’s… it’s b-because you’re not calm. I know that if we g-give it time-”
          “But you don’t. You have no idea what you’re doing, just… just making it up as you go along.” Yes. Hide. She could climb the walls and tuck away, somewhere high up, where she can watch him. Where she can wait for her chance to…
          To…

           the thought is slippery. It's… it’s hard to concentrate, and not because of the Keeping. If she could just-
          “D-Daphne, c-c-could you just… st-stop with the insults!” He cuts her thoughts off. “I get it, okay? There were a few slip-ups. Forgetting the chase, that’s my bad. And… and maybe my nest wasn’t g-good enough-”
          “Yes. The nest offended me. That’s why I’m mad, great work.” More deep breaths. Daphne's chest rises and falls. At least she’s getting more out of him then when she was screaming. “You keep saying you love me, but everything you do tells me that you just want a shiny new nymph for your bug collection.”
          “D-Daphne, I’m not putting you in a box!” Spencer stammers. I want to be partners. Chums, pals! Spouses, when you’re ready!”
          “If you want to be my partner, how can you do this? Y-you don’t live in Downton Abbey, right? You know you have to ask your partner? You know that you can’t just kid-”
          The word freezes up in her throat. Her tongue refuses to move. God dammit.
          “I d-did ask, a thousand times, and you said ‘yes’ a thousand more! This is how fae partnerships work. It’s your culture-”
          “But it’s not my culture,” she insists.
          “You’re b-biology, then!” Spencer gestures wildly. “Nymphs are wired for this-”
          “For slavery?”
          “Okay, it’s not slavery. Now you’re just being unfair-”
          “Because you sound crazy. You’ve-” the word won’t leave her mouth. Daphne passes over it.
          Spencer stops, hand raised. “Look, if you would trust me-”
          “I DID. That’s how I ended up like THIS. Why on Earth would I ever trust you again?”
          “Because I’d n-never want to hurt you!” Spencer digs his nails into his forehead. “Just… please, please, listen. I’m trying, as hard as I c-can. I-I want you to be happy-”
          “Then why am I still here?”
          “Stop…” Spencer pulls his legs to his chest. “D-D-Daph… I… I c-c-can’t-”
          “Have I ever, at any point through this, looked like I was enjoying myself? Have you actually, seriously convinced yourself that all my screaming and crying was just-”
          “SHUT UP!”
          It’s not a command, but Daphne stops all the same.  After a moment Daphne sets her tea cup down and quietly watches Spencer rock. The room fills with the sounds of Spencer’s wheezing.
          “Spencer,” she says. “That wasn’t very civil.”
          She’s too furious for compassion.
          He looks up at her, fuming. At first, his face is red with fury, but he starts mumbling to himself, quieter than she can hear, until his face returns to a normal shade.
          “... I think I know what the problem is, Daphne. These q-questions… aren’t helping. They’re not happy questions,” he shakes his head, clawing at the Fireside. “But you d-don’t care. You don’t want to relax. You’re not going to be d-docile until you get your answers.”
          Daphne blinks, flabbergasted. “... Yes. Sure. If that’s how you need to hear it.”
          Still better than not getting any answers at all.
          Spencer sighs, rubbing his forehead. “... Fine. We’ll have it your way. C-C-Come on! I c-command you to get up! If you won’t believe what I say, m-maybe you’ll believe what I c-can show.”
          “Spencer!” Daphne shoots to her feet so quickly that her tea cup is knocked askew, spilling warm liquid all over the table. Her wings unfurl as they slough off the blankets. The nervous excitement coming off Spencer is almost palpable, like standing next to a live, fallen power line. “Be careful with-”
          She stops. Spencer slides something from his pocket: a bronze choker, with serrated edges that curl up around where one’s ears go.  An amethyst of swirling indigo entwines at the base. Her eyes go wide as realisation hits her.
          “Spencer,” she asks, voice quivering. “Th-that’s not a… that’s a mask, innit?   Wh-what are you -”
          “Something I don’t want to do.” He holds it up, flicking a switch. A chorus of whirring gears fills the room. Sheets shaped like leaves begin linking atop each other, forming little wings that cover…
          … where her mouth should go.
          “This could have been a nice, relaxing evening, you know. I had hoped tea and biscuits would calm you down, but your attitude is just…”
          “My attitude?” She tries to step back, but her body doesn’t move. She can’t even get her muscles to shake. “S-Spencer, you are not putting that on me.”
          “Why not? You’re the one having a temper tantrum,” he huffs. “I thought that the Dryad method of taming nymphs was harsh, but maybe I’m starting to see their wisdom.”
          Daphne stares down at the gleaming bronze. He's taken good care of it - or maybe it just remains that way, untarnished and shining. It wouldn't do to have a dull mask on a…
          … a Kept.
          “You don’t want to relax? You don’t want love, and joy, and all the things that I offer? Fine,” Spencer starts walking briskly towards her. “Maybe some time with the Wilds’ c-cruelty and malice will help you find a bit of g-grratitude…”
          The spray of leaves looks unsettlingly familiar. The shape of the blades, the patterns of the etched veins and stems, they look like the leaves Astraea used.
          “Y-you’re-” Daphne looks deep into the amethyst, her words failing her. There's a faint shape in the depths, a silhouette, looking back at her. Her own reflection, watching as she's backed into a corner. Forced to act the ō̷͉b̸̲̄e̵̘͂d̷̻̎i̵͖̇ę̴̊n̴̩̎ț̴̛ ̸̯͛ṋ̸̂y̶̨̐m̷̀ͅp̶̘͂h̶̟͌ for him.
          Daphne swallows the strange, twisting sensation in the back of her mind. No, it's not just the shape of the leaves. The whole mask is giving her déjà vu.
          … Déjà vu?
          Spencer clicks the switch back. The leaves vanish once more, and the bronze choker clicks open leaving a space to slip around her neck. Her smile is empty, her wings still, her face is pristine and perfect and utterly incapable of betraying her sudden, horrified realisation of why she’s getting memories. Who those memories belong to.
          And what that twitching, scratching sensation in her thoughts might actually be.
          “Spencer,” her voice turns weak. “W-w-wait, I-”
          She feels cold metal press against her skin.
          “You can apologise after you’ve calmed down, darling.” With a twist of his fingers, Spencer turns the switch again. The leaves spray out, pressing tight and folding around her cheeks.  A moment later there is a slight hum, and something warm and static snaps over her lips.

Daphne stands. Helpless, as bronze branches conceal the lower half of her face. She tries to convey her terror through her eyes.
          As usual, Spencer never notices.
          “Alright, darling,” His fingers strum along the metal of her mask. “Are you ready for a walk through history?”
          He giggles at the lack of an answer, pulling her into a hug.
          “Just give me a moment to set up!” Spencer pecks her forehead with a kiss. “I promise, I won’t be long! After all, we’ve still got a Rite to finish!”
          He lets a finger loop through her revealing dress before retreating back into the sprawl of his mansion. There’s a skip in his step as he leaves her alone.
          Alone, with nothing but h̷̘̕e̸͑ͅr̶̯̈́ ̵̢̉ṫ̴̠h̸̦͂ǫ̶͠u̸̼̽g̵̭̽ẖ̷̐ṭ̵͗s̷̟͋.

+++

          The house is so large. Spencer brings her to a hallway she hasn’t seen before. He’s tucked her closely beneath his shoulder, chatting endlessly about all the fun she’ll have locked within these walls.
          Daphne feels as smothered as she was beneath the blankets. Since Spencer returned, his skin has barely left hers, and he constantly barrages her with pets, hugs, and scratches. He drags her along, unnecessarily - even if he did let go, his command would force her to trudge along at his side, perfectly matching his place. She only knows because he was very excited to demonstrate.
          She can't even flinch away from his hand. Her footsteps are soft and silent on the rich carpet, her wings trailing behind her like a cloak. She can’t run from him… or the voice behind her eyes, rustling from the dark.
Why is… she… back now?
          They stop in a gilded room with thick lace curtains, emblazoned crests, and richly painted walls. Each of the dozen long windows show gorgeous stained glass, glittering beneath chandeliers. Beyond them, Daphne spots finely trimmed hedges, well-tended gardens… and more wrought iron fences.
          "This was always my mother’s favourite room. She used to hold balls here." Spencer presses on the remote, and the gentle hum of machinery fills the room. “We’ll have to get you some ball gowns too, won’t we? White, of course. Wouldn’t want to, heh, break tradition.”
          Absently, he presses the Fireside. Long, plastic projector screens fill over the windows, springing to life. Daphne squints in the sudden sunlight; the screens display the same backyard outside, but during a bright, cloudless day.
          "Oh, shit, wait.” Spencer stops, lifting her chin until she’s staring into his glowing irises. “You don’t have a problem with digital copies, right? Some people get fussy about authentics.”
          Goosebumps prickle along her neck. The metal shrouds her face, leaving her expressionless against his glare. The artificial sun makes the golden liquid in his blood all the more visible. She can see it in his skin, travelling through his, flowing to his eyes. Was it that glow that brought Lyra back to the surface? The ornaments, the clothes, the familiarity? Or did the Rite wake her, just as Astraea’s magic had?
          He sees a nod she never gives, and turns back around, tugging her by the hand. As they walk deeper into the ballroom, Daphne’s thoughts return to her visitor.  Is she going to black out again and wake up in that terrifying nest? She wouldn’t even need to build it this…
          … no. Is that why she’s back? Had the rituals… had she sensed Spencer’s control? Had Astraea been her Keeper, and… and now…
          Lights flash and flicker across the curtains, projecting walls of colour. Daphne hears more rustling, more whispers. As images come to life in twenty-feet displays above her, the nymph can’t help but wonder…
          … was Spencer… right about nymphs? Was he about to summon Lyra?
          As they approach the first projector, her silvery skin lights up in ambers, roses, and jades. Daphne turns to look, and feels her breath hitch. She doesn’t need the mask to be speechless.
          The image could only be a photograph. The swirling silver branches, the leaves. The otherworldly luminescence of mosses that glow turquoise - they all seem too real to be made with brush or pen. But it cannot be real, because she knows that there is nothing like it on earth

The camera’s blinding light captures everything in a chunk of forest: ashen soil, glowing fungi, tracks leading into what she knows is endless night.
          “I don't know how this picture got taken, but it's the best document I could find.” Spencer smiles softly, his voice soothing and lyrical. “Daphne, this place is called-"
Fhásach Dorcha. Gwyllion. A dozen names sound through her mind before he speaks, each a different melody for the brilliance beyond the darks. Daphne doesn't recognise a single one, but they all resound within her deeply, as concrete as her beating heart.
          The only name that feels incorrect is the one Spencer gives it.
          "-The Ebony Wilds.”
          She's been here before. It's the landscape from her d̵͙̔r̴̗͝e̷̢͌a̶̢̓m̵̪̐s̸͓͘.
          “It’s not your home, but it is your homeland. The Darkness From Which You Come and To Which You Shall Return. I am told every fae knows its call, deep inside them.” There's no humour in his voice. No jokes, no smiles. “Every human culture gives it a different name. The Black Desert. The Land of Golden Apples. The Earth That No Sun Reaches.”
          Her eyes fix on the photograph’s starkness. The light seems wrong there, concealing more than it shows, turning trees into grasping skeletons and the grasses into knives. It should be dark. She knows this, even without Spencer's explanation, even without Lyra's stirrings beneath the surface.
          This wasn’t a world made for light.

y̴̳̿ò̴͉u̵̠̅ ̸͉̄ũ̸͓n̸̜̽ḓ̷̈́e̴̮̕r̷̙̋s̷̼̓t̶̪͂ȧ̸̯n̷̫͆d̸̖͘

          Daphne stares at the image, relentlessly focusing on it. Anything to blot out her thoughts.

L̴̙̏i̷̗̓s̴̛̻ť̸͍ẻ̶̟n̷͕̓

          “It’s another world, Daphne. Brought to ours through powers none know. A world where the sky is darkest black. A world where the sun gives no light.”

ļ̶̛ḯ̴͉ș̴͝t̴͇̒ẻ̷͜n̸̛̙ ̶̞̓t̵͚͘ő̷̼ ̵̢̚m̸͉̕ë̷͙

          She's pushed away. From the photograph. From the voice. From the wrongness of the light and the rightness of the dark.
          "Oh, I love this one!" Spencer leaps back to Daphne's shoulder, pointing excitedly. "The Pools of Xenobia. Prattani era, leamhan airgid oil on cured Jackal hide, maybe, erm, second century AD.”
          Her eyes focus on the swirling canvas. The painting shows a massive lake of liquid gold; brilliant, sizzling waters that reflect off silver-barked trees and yellow, clay rocks. In the distance, drawn with tiny, intricate detail, are bits of machinery. A watermill here, bronze pipework there. Canals that stretch farther than the artist’s touch, carrying the golden glow with them.
          Spencer rambles about the artist, the locale, the auction price, but Daphne doesn’t listen. Her eyes follow shores of ashen sand, a woman, sitting atop a barge of velvety cushions. Her golden hair weaves above her like a lion’s mane. Her eyes thrum a deep, intoxicating purple.
          Her skin glows like Astraea’s.
          Beneath her, adorned in helms of bronze and beneath handles of bright-red wood on their shoulders, flap the wings of a dozen insects. Some Daphn’es’s heard of, some she hasn’t. Their antennae are thin brushstrokes, their skin painted with light oils.
          Nymphs.
          They're carrying the Dryad, hoisting her above the sand with their flights, far above the grit and sweat and grime. The lake’s glow brightens her face, but shrouds each of them in shadow. The artist’s made their faces indistinguishable.
          “See the gold, Daphne? We used it for the Rite. It’s called aether, and In the Wilds, it’s… everything.” Another giggle as Spencer pets her hair. “The fuel for their machines. The mortar for their homes. The mixture for their medicines. But, most of all, aether is light. True light. A light they need, and a light they can wield.”

ẏ̵̧ỏ̷̫u̷͚͐ ̸̭͛h̴̭̓ă̸̗v̵̺͊ë̵̠ ̶̥͆t̶͖̿o̵̱͐ ̴͕̐l̸͓̀i̸̳͂s̷̰̋t̴̞͊ȩ̵͗ǹ̶͓

          Daphne would clench her fists, dig her nails into her palms, bite at the metal leaves, anything to blot out the voice. But she… she can’t. She has lost control of so much, she does not want to lose what little she has left.
          "The Dryads cracked the code. Everyone knew aether was magic, in some regard, but the Dryads were the first to master it. There were costs, heavy costs. The rituals they used bound them to the Laws: Hospitality, Charity, you know better than I. Restrictive, yes, but all agreed the prize was well worth the pain.

          “p̷̩̀l̶̘͛e̷͍͠a̶͂͜s̸̖͝e̷̢͗

          Her antennae twitch in surprise, caught off-guard, as Spencer pulls her along. The thoughts fall silent, leaving only a lingering dread. He points at the next painting with the remote. “And that prize… is right there. The Groves.”
          She cranes her neck very far up.
          A bone-white, glowing tree, stretching up and up into the shrouded sky. The artist depicts it from the roots, each large enough to wrap around a bus. Gnarled and twisted, they sprout over and under and through arches of worked stone
          "Nobody can give me a straight number for how many dot the Wilds," Spencer almost sounds meditative. "But from them, the Dryads created a home. Something to stand against the endless night, the whirling storms, and all the great beasts of the Wilds.”
          Between the arches, she can spot hallways and bedrooms, staircases and balconies, fountains and courtyards and hanging gardens that travel up the trunk and across the tree’s colossal branches.
          “And from that home, the Dryads created more. Music, and literature. Strategy, philosophy, and law. Science and magic and all the tools of war. All of fae history and culture was cradled by the glowing trees, cities and civilisations maintained by the Gilded Ones and their spells alone."
          It all weaves together, organic and artificial, stone and wood, light and shadow entwined.
          "And for that, each of them lives as monarchs in their kingdoms of sap and wood. They demand fealty from those fae who would join their community, their shelter, their culture.”
          Along the paths move tiny figures, too small to be more than smudges on the canvas. Daphne remembers her ant farm, a thousand lifetimes ago. She always wondered what it would look like from the ant’s perspective.
          “That's what the Rite is, Daphne. The ultimate expression of loyalty. A union boundless, ceaseless… perfect.”
          Her eyes flick nervously to the next painting. He lists details that she’ll never remember, dates and names and paints and leathers she’s never heard of before. It becomes a haze of information, far beyond her frazzled, panicked mind’s comprehension. She watches the image instead.
          A gilded pool of glowing, living light.   What she knows is blinding white aether.  Warm and soothing and pleasant and safe.   Smothering and invasive and crushing control.
          Attending the pool are two figures: faces smothered by masks and bodies shrouded in alabaster robes.  The one on the right drinks from the pool, the one on the left offers a lotus on her lap.   Each is adorned with resplendant butterfly wings, framing the figure standing over them -

p̸̤̎ḻ̶̿ẽ̴̡a̶͓͑s̷̮͊é̸̝ ̸̞̿y̵̲̍o̶̭͛ǔ̶͔ ̸͔́ĥ̷͔ḁ̸̚v̵̝͌e̵̱̾ ̵͕̽t̶͉̓o̶̬͗ ̸̫͝L̵̖̈́I̸̟͝S̸̺͠T̴̩͗E̴̠͂N̶̟̂ I̷̺̎ ̶̲̕ḍ̶͝o̶̢͌ṇ̶̐'̷̼̎t̵̨̿

          The thought comes roaring in, a jerky rhythm pulsing inside her head. The reddish spots in Daphne's eyes swirl, her mind lost beneath frantic impulses. She can't turn away as her eyes trace up higher and higher.
          Above the nymphs, above the silhouette of the black forest, shines a single hand. Sliced open with dagger of bronze, a single streak of red sizzles from the palm as it fills the pool from which the nymphs drink.  Clothed in robes of clear night sky, starlight glittering in his countenance, platinum hair that cascades around him like a roaring waterfall.   His face is youthful but his eyes are wizened.  A halo surrounds him, filling the otherwise void of endless sky.   Crowned with a stone of blood red -
          Her breath stops. Her world freezes. Her Keeper’s voice only just cuts through, speaking a name she somehow remembers.

"- Evander -"

S̷̖̤̿̃t̸̩́̋̿ŏ̶̢̯̏̉̚p̴̣̦̽͘͝ ̷̰̞̫̻̒̓̎t̵̨̡͂͜h̶̩͉̟͗̂̕í̸̯̻͈̓́s̶̛̖̕ s̶̟͛̀t̵̯̼͊͐ơ̸͙̦͝p̸̤͇͂̃ ̷̡̐t̶̯̝̎h̵͔̊i̶͔͍͑̔ṡ̵̜͆͜ Ṣ̵͂Ṫ̸̞O̷̦͊P̶̨̌ ̸̮͗T̷̖͐H̷̤̑I̷̱͂S̷̛ͅ

          Daphne blinks. The painting is gone. She’s at the end of the hall, bronze leaves still encasing her lips. She stares into the MP’s glowing eyes.
          "-To seal the rite.  That makes sense, right?" he asks, hungry for affirmation.
          She blinks. Did Lyra take her? What was it about that name that-
          “Nymphs are paired to Dryads, just like other Kept species have paired Keepers of their own.”
          Behind is another picture, beautiful and twisted and horrid as all the rest. A Dryad woman, smiling wide, lounges on a lace-sheeted bed with a dozen nymphs. Each body lays randomly on the cushions like thin, pale pillows.
          Beyond a blinding bronze mask, none are wearing clothes.
          “It’s in your blood.”
          Her hands cup their breasts. Their mouths kiss her exposed body. She alone enjoys the pleasure, biting her lip and fondling them while the nymphs lay limp and doll-like, waiting to be used. She can see the silver manacle that wraps around their ankles, glittering in the lantern light. A great many locks and weights dot the floor.
          “It’s in your genes.”
          She looks beyond. Two more nymphs guard the room, curtains behind their backs, mouths coated in bronze leaves no different from hers. Their eyes are vacant, empty, glassy. They barely wear clothes - fabric bunches at their wrists, shoulders, and ankles, but everything from the heart to the thigh is bare for the Keeper’s pleasure. Beyond them, more curtains, each illuminated by a different Dryad’s glow. There must be dozens of them. Hundreds. Lights as bright as this Dryad’s glow burst forth, in the dozens and hundreds.
          How many beds are in this hall? How many nymphs are chained to them?
          Spencer’s voice is calm, collected, oh so perfectly, precisely relaxed. His words make something within her scream.
          “Breeding is in your nature.”
          The whisper urges her to recoil from the golden woman, to bare her teeth and flee from her blissful face.
          “I’m just trying to help. Trying to recreate what you’d have.”
This is what he wants for her. This is what he says she wants from him.
          “- I’ll make sure I love you the way a nymph should be loved. I’ll make sure you love me the way nymph knows to love.”
          The painted nymphs stare at her with smothered eyes and broken souls. Push her away with hands they cannot move, scream at her with muffled voices.
No. NO. Daphne’s own panic rises to meet the intrusive sensation. Her antennae tremble. Spencer's words dissolve into nothingness.
          “We’ll take it slow. We’ll move at your pace, Daphne. But this is how we’ll leave our hoodies and binders aside.”
I won't I won't I won't
          “This is how we become what we were made to be.”
          What is she supposed to do? He doesn't care. He never listens. She can't stop him. She can’t stop him.
          “This is how we’ll soar.”
I̷̺̎ ̶̲̕ḍ̶͝o̶̢͌ṇ̶̐'̷̼̎t̵̨̿ I don't I d̶͇̎ó̶͉n̷̒͜'̸͓͒t̶̥̓ want ṭ̶̾ȟ̵̢i̴͎̒s̵͈̿ I̵̱̒ DON'T W̶͐ANT THIS
          Daphne gasps. For a single moment, her deep, steady breathing stumbles. Hardly enough to notice. Her eyes move to Spencer, tremble against the thumb on her cheek, writhe against the hand in her hair.
          But he commanded her to not move. He commanded her to relax. He wants her calm and ready for sealing of the rite.
          “Keeper and Kept. Taker and taken. United single, perfect union.”
          He leans closer, closer, preparing for a kiss she doesn't want. An embrace she cannot bear. Daphne can't move away. She can't even speak, her mouth sealed shut by sheets of bronze. She has to stand there, eyes shining and wings still, waiting and attentive while his lips press against the mask, and a hand glides down to her thigh.

help help h̴̹̑ė̵̺l̶̜̉p̷̟̋ help h̴̹̑ė̵̺l̶̜̉p̷̟̋ Î̶̡ ̷̮̈c̶̣̓å̸̳n̷͉̾ ̵̤͝ḥ̵̽e̶͖͑l̶̪͒p̷̞̅

          Her antennae stir, just once Daphne's mouth goes dry as the whispers grow louder.

p̴͇̒l̷̬̋e̵̩̽a̵̖͋s̷̩̆ê̷̲

          Beneath the metal, she’s still smiling.

l̷̰̈è̷̳ţ̶̅ ̴̀͜m̴̥͝ë̷̘́ ̴̠̕h̸̏͜ẹ̴̈l̸̼̆p̴̘͆

          He moves from the bronze, kissing up her cheek, her forehead. Once for each ear and twice for her neck. But, eventually, he pulls away, holding her by the mask. "So, how’d I do? Do you think I gave a good lesson?”
          The rustling grows still. A hush falls over Daphne's mind as the rustling grows still. Her head feels lighter, but the mask grows heavy.
          “I’m glad the mask was such a help to you, darling.” Spencer smiles, bright and wide. "You seem much calmer now.”
          Lyra’s disappearance is almost more confusing than her pleas. Help how? What is she offering? How is Daphne supposed to trust her?
          Spencer takes her hand, squeezing it. “Alright,” he says before a long, deep sigh. “Are you ready, Daphne?”
          Daphne blinks rapidly, trying to refocus her vision. Spencer's horrible grin follows her wherever she looks. The knot in her stomach twists again.
          "I have made my offering.  It’s time for your offering. For a nymph’s Rite, she must perform her duty to her Keeper, for the very first time." Daphne looks briefly to the painted Dryad and the pillows she’s made of her slaves. The Keeper’s eyes are open as she dines on their bodies. Bold, bright, piercing blue. The same shade as the eyes staring back at her.
          "It's time to seal our pact,” he grins. “It's time to finish the Rite."

continue reading ->

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Hi everyone, Heart here!   

I decided to really go all out with the illustrations this time.   We've been dreaming about what the Ebony Wilds... and the Dryadic courts... would be like for a while.   I couldn't resist going all in!  At least I didn't decide to do the Rococo style harem scene. =P

As if things weren't already dire enough, Spencer intends to 'seal the rite'.  Remember , that thing that Nymphs are really good at?  The thing Madeline kept hinting at but SO UNHELPFULLY didn't elaborate on?   Although maybe making jokes about nymphs all being sex workers isn't the best move either.  T^T

Hold on for a little longer!   Next post we jump back to our would be rescuers.   Can our unlikely trio get their shit together in time?  Find out on Friday March 31st when we unveil Chapter 24: Different Worlds part 2!

Thanks for reading
... and thanks for stopping by!