Chrysalis Ch25: A Perfect Union (pt2) (Patreon)

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            Rain beats relentlessly against the facade of the Harcourt estate, coursing down the veins of the brickwork, pooling at its threshold and overtaking the pavers, the mosses and the toadstools. The hum of crickets has gone silent in the sudden downpour. The birds vacant. Even the distant sound of traffic is drowned in the deluge.

          Everything gone silent in the crushing wave of white noise.

          Everything, except the rustle of leaves and creaking of branches in one of the massive birch trees dotting the iron fenceline of the estate, as it bends low to deposit the last of its three travelers on the estate grounds. Astraea lowers her hand as she is set, gently, on the thick well tended lawn. Moving in tandem, the birch tree releases her, and returns to its prior business of being a tree.
          Ian tries to breathe, his stomach queasy until the branch no longer coils around him. He makes a mental note to never blindly trust a Dryad’s plans again. While he recuperates, the Dryad runs ahead, eyes set on the iron bars that decorate every window. Her skin fizzles, her hair glows, and it’s very hard for him to not reimagine the fate of that clock tower.
          Or why Spencer Harcourt put those iron bars up in the first place.
          Kensington is unlike anything he's ever seen: The homes here are the size of department stores, the sidewalks are clean, the street lights don’t flicker.  The serenity makes him uneasy, like he’s walked into a world divorced from his own.
Again.
          He squints through the rain. Oddly quiet. No blaring sirens or barking dogs. Are they in the clear?
          He’s nudged forward, hard. Neith shoulders him in the side, her eyes just as searching. She stops long enough to smirk back at him. “Bit queasy, butterscotch? Would you have preferred we knock?"
          “Cram it,” he scoffs back. “It’s been a long bloody-”
          And she’s gone already. Light on her feet, Neith’s boots splash across the sodden grounds, gracefully dodging every toadstool peeping through the grass.
          He shakes his head and runs after the two women racing ahead. In his mind, Ian’s always picturing himself slamming that creep Spencer through a table, scooping up his friend like some fairy tale hero. But he doesn't know what he’s doing, and he knows it’s better to just follow the Fae’s lead. They both seem to have much more experience with murder.
          Astraea stops suddenly, kneeling into the ground. By the time the others reach her, she’s pulling back to show the mud on her gilded fingers.
          “Tracks. Large tracks.” she says bluntly. “What… what beast is this?”
          Neith squints. “Not a beast. A car.” Her eyes thrum with colour, and she sniffs the air. “Air still reeks of fumes. Someone left recently.”
          She points further down, her finger following the trail of mud through the grass. “And in quite a hurry.”
          Ian follows her finger to a garage the size of his flat. The door’s still open, a slot’s still empty. He feels his stomach twist.
          “... Ah, fack me!” He curses. “No, no, no! We’re too fackin’ late!”
          “Ian?” Astraea looks up, but he’s already pacing in small circles, a dozen demons tightening around his chest.
          “Shite, piss, bitch, fack!” He can feel hot tears run through his fingers. “‘Ey fackin’ dragged ‘er out, took ‘er… fuck! Dammit, dammit, dammit-”
          “Dinner mint!” Neith’s snarl is so harsh, it snaps Ian from his thoughts. He looks into her scowl. “Stop. We don’t know if they left.  Panicking won’t help.”
          “We don’t know?” Ian points to the garage. “Why the fack would they stay?”
          “Why the fuck would they leave?” Neith replies. “They don’t know we’re coming, and this place is built like a fortress. Security here’s gotta be better than-”
          “Then who left in such a rush?”
          “Great question” Neith snaps her fingers until Astraea looks at her, then points to the garage. “C’mon. We let’s have a look.”
          The three make their way to the garage.  Neith scanning around.  Neith whistles.
          “Look at all these rakes, shovels, shears. You see the size of this place? Harcourt’s probably got an army of small people keeping things neat. Metaphorically.” Neith answers before Astraea can even lift her finger to ask. “And Ian? Keep an eye out for generators, circuit breakers, the like. He might have moved his power grid here, and if he’s got any electronics, we can bust them before he ever-”
          “‘Ow you know so much about posh twats and their ‘ouses?” he asks as they reach the driveway.
          “I’ve spent a lot of time in their servant’s quarters.”
          “Doin’ what?”
          Neith stops for a moment, turning around. There’s a difference in her posture, something dim in her eyes. She starts to speak, hesitates, pulls her jacket a little tighter so he can see the patch. “... Work.”
          She ducks into the garage quickly, leaving his next question unanswered.
          The garage makes Ian feel uncomfortable, too. Five gleaming luxury cars fill the space, impossibly pristine. They look like something his mum would watch on TMZ, not anything real. But he can’t dwell on it, not when there’s something he can use here, something heavy. So while Astraea sniffs at the cars, Ian weaves between them, inspecting all the tools that hang from the walls.
          He tries to keep from jumping when he hears Neith’s voice behind him. “What if lolly took the car, already on her way home? Be just like her to waste our time.”
          “She don’t drive,” Ian replies brusquely. He refuses to look at her smirk.
          “Oh.” At first, Ian thinks that’s all, and she’ll leave him alone, but she just presses near his shoulder, smelling like sweets. “Guess that knocks them off as ‘I’m Very Sorry’ gift ideas. Thinking of settling for a card?”
          It takes effort to ignore her, but he knows she’s just searching for a rise. Instead, he scans the garage, lingering on a collection of iron rods sticking from a polymer bag. Ian grins.
          Of course the bastard plays golf.
          He pulls out the driver, turns around to give himself space. He can spot Astraea on the other side of the room, meshing her fingers through then nets and sticking her face into designer coats. Ian shifts his stance, readying himself for a practice swing, but Neith swoops in front of him with a blur, folding her arms.
          “Move outta the way, Neith. I don’t wanna hit you.” Not yet, anyway.
          She just smirks.
          He furrows his brow and swings; sure enough, the Leanan Sídhe slides out of the way with the same dizzying speed. Ian grimaces; the weight feels off.
          As he turns to try a new club, he can feel another swirl of motion, then Neith’s breath lingering on his neck. “Oh, sorry, am I keeping you? Got a few more taunts lined up?”
          “You haven’t answered my question,” Neith answers with false innocence.
          With a twist, Ian withdraws a sand wedge, and lets it whish through the air. Better, but it feels so light. “Fink doin that to Blondie’s face will be a gift enough.”
          She smiles and bites her lip, showing fang. "Oh, but what if she doesn't want you to bash Blondie? Lolly's such a soft sort, and nymphs…”  she leans into his chest, “... they’re so flighty.”
          “Hah, clever,” Ian pushes her back. He scans all the different clubs, trying to find the middle ground.   
          “If she starts crying when you swing that at him, what'll you do then?" Neith folds her hands together, face curled in a mock pout. “She’s a Kept now, cream egg. Not uncommon for them to immediately get attached.”
          Ian’s grip on the wedge tightens. “He fackin’ kidnapped her.”
          “And maybe that’s her thing, yeah? You wouldn’t know.” Neith places her fingers along his back, letting them slowly trail down. “You never saw how red her face got in that little Market cage-”
          Ian shoves the sand wedge and a pair of white gloves into Neith’s hcest. “‘Ere. ‘At’s yours. And put these on, before you get more finger burns.”
          Neith takes the gloves, only to shove the sand wedge back. “I don’t need this.”
          “Oh, but it’s short, see?” Ian points to it, grinning. “Just like yerself.”
          Neith hisses. “Look, toffee bit, I already-”
          “‘Toffee bit?’ Naw, I’m supposed to be ‘dinner mint.’ Or, wazzit ‘butterscotch?’ ‘Gumdrop?’ Wait, wait… gummy bear!” He sees that she’s holding the club out for him, and turns around without taking it. “What’s wiff the candy names? Can fairies audition to be Oompah Loompahs?”
          She chuckles. “There’s some stiff competition.”
          “Ya keep switchin’ mine, is all.” Finally, he lifts a club whose weight feels right. ‘Lolly’ is always ‘lolly,’ so why don’t I get that?”
          “Maybe you’re just not memorable,” Neith scoffs. “Something to work on, pepper-”
          She gasps. He’s settled the iron golf club right on her shoulder. The engraved ‘9’ is only an inch from her cheek.
          “My name’s Ian,” he chuckles. “Pretty easy to remember.”
          Neith sputters for a moment, trying to squirm her out from the club. Seeing the amusement on his face, she growls. “... You…”
          “Your cheeks look pretty red, Neith,” he grins. “Is this your thing?”
          Her face grows pale, and her eyes spark with aether. But before she can speak, Astraea’s excited shouting interrupts them.
          “Ian, Ian!” Astraea pops into view, hugging a thick booklet in her hands. “I-I found a box with lightning bolt symbols. Is that what we are looking for.”
          “Shit, yeah,” Ian pulls back the club, walking forward. “Thanks, Astraea. Glad one of us was able to stay on task-”
          “I have a question.” She holds out her hands and lets the papers unfurl through her fingers. “This was pinned to the wall, but it confuses me. All these women are sitting on their cars. Why? It does not look comfortable.”
          “What, on? Fack you talkin’-” Ian stops himself short when Astraea settles on one of the pictures. His eyes grow wide.
          She’s holding a Playboy calendar.
          “Is this a uniform?” She points to a scantily-clad model, reclined over a Ferrari’s hood. “Is she performing some sort of ritual? Some ceremony? Does your mother do this?”
          “My- my mum!? No!” Ian sputters, and Neith slinks away with a laugh. “She… I… Astraea, they’re… sunbathing.”
          Silence. Astraea’s mouth hangs open, and she flips the calendar over to stare deeply at it. Her eyes glow with wonder, and her voice fills with mystery and awe. “... sunbathing…”
          He leaves Astraea to her rumination, and joins Neith near the metal box in the corner.
          “See, told you. Circuit breaker,” Neith smiles as he approaches. She’s right; the flashing lights, dozens of switches, it’s not too different from the one he’s spent years beating into submission. “Be a dear and open it?”
          “Oh, no worries,” Ian replies, swinging his club through the air. “I can do ya better.”
          “Better?” Neith asks, before her eyes go wide. “No, wait-”
          But he’s already set on giving this breaker a whole different sort of beating.
          Sparks fly. Metal bends. Loud, jarring noises fill the room as he slams the club three, five, eight times in. When he stops to catch his breath, the dented iron is barely recognisable. He tries to picture a human skull bending the same way. Tries even harder to push down the pang in his gut that follows.
          “I meant flip them, gumdrop,” Neith sighs as the lights above them grow dim. “Next time-”
          She blinks. The lights pop back to life, even brighter than before. Ian studies them, confused. “What the bloody ‘ell-”
          “Shit, there’s a backup generator,” Neith slinks off the wall, beckoning them to follow her outside. “Come on, we’re wasting time out here.”
          “Wait, wait, how we gettin’ in?” Ian follows, pulling the club tight against him. “Ya see the size of ‘at door? The iron bars on all the windows?”
          “We’ve got ways through the door,” she replies, shoving her hand into her pocket.
          “How?” He raises the club. “It’s not like I can bash that.”
          “Don’t worry, Ian.” Neith puts venom in the word as she pulls her hand free. Ian can see the round, orange sweet tucked between her fingers. With a wink, she gives it a shake. Golden spiral patterns fizz around the wrapper, glowing in the rain.
          “He’s a lot less messy.”

++++

          Bach’s 1st Cello Suite echoes through the hazy orange lights and distant downpour, adding a relaxing presence to the foyer. The whole place is calm, and tranquil.
          Until a thunderous crash breaks the peace as easily as the entire door bursts from its hinges.
          A massive, gilded serpent slithers through the splintered remnants of the oak before coursing over the polished floors, causing them to creak beneath its weight. Neith follows behind, smiling broadly at the human fuming beside her.
          "What about that wasn’t bloody fackin’ messy?”
          “Oh, hush, look around.” Neith gestures to the wide, empty hall. “Nobody heard us.”
          Not even a second passes before her words are followed by shrill beeping. Piercing alarms stab through the music, causing Ian’s beleaguered ears to tremble. As he and Astraea writhe, Neith’s smile never breaks.
          “Oh. Oops.”
          “Well there goes the fackin’ element of surprise,” Ian growls, covering his ears. “God, can we turn this shite off?”
          “I can replace the door!” Astraea offers, her hands swirling with gilded light. “Would that help?”
          “Not as much as finding the generator. Citrine!” Neith snaps her fingers, and her new, candied pet slides to her heel. “I’d leave him with you, but he might eat lolly. We're all still a little cross about what she did to the others.”
          “Leave?” Ian asks. “Wait, we’re splittin’? In here?”
          “I move faster alone. And if we’re gonna fight Harcourt, we best do it in the dark. You humans are weak like that.” Neith stretches out and grabs Astraea by the shoulder before the Dryad can wander off. “My Lady, stay with the boy. Harcourt won’t out and show himself, but we can’t let him bolt. Search, but be careful. No dark rooms, no unchecked corners. Are we clear?”
          Astraea nods, her face vacant.
          “Don’t worry. I’ll be back before you can say ‘truffles,’” Neith pats her shoulder, turns to Ian. “Keep her safe.”
          “Aye.” He nods. And with that, the leanan sídhe and her serpent bolt, malice in their eyes. Only snake scales show that they’re gone.
          Leaving Ian alone with the woman who ruined his friend’s life.
          He sighs, trying to calm his nerves. “So… she’s going ‘at way. Fink we outta-”
          He turns around. Heedless of Neith’s orders, Astraea has already wandered into an adjacent living room, eyes glued to the carpet.
          “Right,” Ian nods, dismayed. “Yeah, sure, I’ll follow your lead. Thanks for asking.”
          The living room is bizarrely normal, Ian notes. Upper crust, sure. But when he thinks about Spencer, and what he’s done, he’s not really expecting someplace so domestic.   A plush leather couch.  A fleece blanket messily left.   A few mugs of cold tea.
          “The colour is wrong here. Sticky.” Astraea stamps her feet into the carpet, studying the wine rack. “They must have spilled.”
          She makes way for Ian, leaning on the wall. He studies the thick, purple stain, kneeling into it. “More than a fackin’ spill-”
          “Ah!” Astraea stumbles, holding her stomach.  She looks like she’s going to be ill.
          “What, what!?” Ian rears up, searching the room. He can feel the Dryad shiver against him.
          Astraea pulls back, collecting herself. “It’s… it’s the windows. There’s… so much iron, and… I can’t stop… feeling it…”
          “What, never seen iron before?” Neith seems to handle it just fine.
          Astraea turns to look at him, the answer plain on her face.
          “Oh. Well, stick close to the walls. Safer.”
          Astraea moves inward with careful steps, hugging herself. “His home is surrounded by it. Others, too. Why? Are they trying to keep us out?”
          Ian thinks on it while he scans the room. There’s a mark in the wall, but otherwise… “Heh, don’t think so. But would you blame ‘em?”
          “What do you mean?” She follows him as he approaches the mark, watching his flakes. He sticks a hand in. Flakes of paint, bits of plaster… a small hole…
          “I mean, heh, folks knew what was goin’ on in the Market, iron bars would be the least of your troubles-”
          “It… It’s not all fae. Some of us do not… we do not want that.”
          Ian sighs. “... Sure, yeah, but would you expect these folk to tell the difference?”
          She starts replying in that wistful, birch-like voice, but they fall deaf on Ian’s ears as he reaches in. The tip of his finger brushes it, just barely, but enough to know. Enough to shake every excuse and alternative that could possibly roar in his head.
          “Oh.” He says.  Astraea stops when she hears him, sees the way his face turns pale. “...No. No, no, no.”
          “Ian? What… what is it?”
          “A bullet,” he whispers, the words sounding unreal. “A… bullet from a gun.”
          Astraea takes a step back, eyes wide, and searches the room with new vigour. Evidently, she’s heard of that.
          “Why?” Astraea asks, her voice shaky. “Why is he doing this? Humans… Annwyn… this world is supposed to be kind.”
          “We need to move. Now.” Ian rises to his feet, takes Astraea by the arm. Every creak stirs his stomach, every corner puts paranoia in his head. His eyes are focused on the ground, the ceiling, the hallway that seems to endlessly expand. They’re here, they’re not imagining things, they’re not envisioning what kind of horrors Spencer might be doing to her.
          Astraea asks again. “Why would a human-”
          “Why do you think?” he hisses, panic clouding his better judgement. “The same reason as your lot, the same reason as anyone! He has the power, he has the means, and so he’s gonna fackin’ take.”
          Her skin glows, lighting the steps ahead of them. They’re in another room now, but he has no idea which or where. He just needs to be moving. “B-but humans want to make choices, they want to live freely.”
          “This isn’t one of your books, Astraea. Please, quiet.” He can’t let himself get distracted. “You just… you won’t understand.”
          He’s in a long, darkened room, with large windows and a thick velvet carpet. He notices the projectors, beams of colour shooting on screens. He needs to focus on the room, on Spencer, armed and dangerous, and his body feels so, so tight… urgh, he needs to focus and-
          He stops. He’s feeling resistance in his grip, a weight pulling from behind. The air he breathes shifts, grows more heated. Eventually, he can drag her no further, and meets her eyes.
          They’re flooded with the image of a firmly-built man wielding a bronze knife.
          He turns to study the painting, the way his wrist cuts open, and his blood turns gold as it seeps into the pond. It puts him ill-at-ease, for reasons he cannot place. When Astraea speaks, her voice is airy and distant, like her soul has left the world.
          “... how…?”
          “Is ‘at a bloody Fae?” he asks, bewildered. When she doesn’t respond, Ian presses again. “What, you know him?”
          “How could I not?” Her hair begins to lose colour, copper locks mingling with honey. “He is Evander of Xylia, the Potentate of my clan. Autarch. Sovereign. His will moves the world. His eyes see everything, his voice dictates all. Everything you are, were, and will be..”
          “Potentate?”  Ian echoes her, turning the image and the word over in his head.
          “You do not really have a word for it. Its very meaning would profane your kind.” Her brows furrow, and she clutches her arm. “But the closest I can think of is ‘Father.’”
          Ian looks at the portrait again. The stern expression, the firm grip on the knife, the silent and shadowed nymphs that kneel beneath his gaze. He shudders, but not nearly as much as her.
          “Well… come on,” he beckons Astraea forward, marching carefully through the hall. “We don’t ‘ave time to stop and think about our bleedin’ dads. You can-” He moves past the next image, rising as high as the ceiling. A brilliant tree, shooting forward, laced with stonework, bridges and carpentry. He allows himself a moment to look.
          But a moment is all that he needs for his breath to be stolen away.

The sound of clanging metal. Astraea pulls back, frightened, until she realises that it’s just the golf club. She watches Ian approach the painting in soft, sullen steps. His mouth hangs open, and his grow wide. When he speaks, his voice trails, like a wanderer.
          “Astraea… what is this?”
          Astraea stands tall, forces down a calming breath. “It’s… Iltani. A Grove, stark and unyielding.”
          “It’s beautiful.” The longer he stares, the lighter he feels. It feels alive.  The figures glide across the canvas.  It is beautiful. More beautiful than anything he has ever or will ever see.
          Ian touches the screen, feels the pull to step through into another world.
          “This may look beautiful, but it is a prison.” Astraea says bitterly. “In a grove, everyone’s role, everyone’s purpose… it is predetermined.   Everything is fixed and rigid.  Like this painting.”   Astraea steps forward and touches the wall where the image is projected.   “Like a corpse.”
          Her eyes lose all life.  “In a Grove you have no choice.  You can only be and belong.”
Its place… its purpose… nothing but to be and belong…
          A smile grows on his face. The world melts away. Astraea and Neith. Spencer and L. Mum and Stephen. All of them… slipping… fading…
          “Like fire it is… all consuming.” Astraea whispers from what feels very far away.
          Thoughts and feelings drain away. Worries and doubts. Rage and fears. A single tear slides from his eyes.
          Eyes filled with awe, amazement, and wonder.
          He’s there. Enveloped and whole. He can smell the air, feel the wind, touch the stone and listen to the wood. It calls to him, the entire world, with a voice he can’t hear, and a language he can’t speak. Pulling him closer, deeper, tighter…
          But Astraea’s words pull him back. Burn in his mind for the rest of time.

          “…you are fortunate that you were born human.”

          He stops. His hand falls. His eyes dim. The call fades as he turns around and stares at her, bewildered. Her words repeat over and over in his mind.
          “F-fortunate?” He struggles for words, his breath growing in pace. “Me?  Fortunate?  For what, the privilege of bein human??”
          Astraea nods. “Humans get to decide their own life.”
          He turns back to the painting, listening to its siren song. So much higher than the top shelf. So much more than a warm body.
          “No,” he whispers. “It’s not like that.”
          Astraea moves closer, her hair still dark. “Ian, do you not see it? What Lyra and I always worked for?”
          A beep resounds from deep within the mansion. Slowly, the grid collapses. He can hear the speakers fade, the lights dwindle and die. The projected paintings vanish, one by one, until he can only see her, a Dryad, glowing with a light he’s always wanted.
          “Ian… for years, decades, a lifetime…” Astraea looks to the ground, but a sad smile grows on her face. “ You were born with all Lyra and I ever wanted.  All we ever hoped for.”

          “... living the human dream.”

          “The human dream? You mean… you  want to be human?” Ian chuckles, bewildered. “But you have everything.”
          “Evander has everything.” Astraea says quietly
          Emergency lights flicker on, bathing them in red light.
          “Are you kiddin’? You’ve got wealth, power, privilege.”
          “My wealth and power are his-“
          “Bullshit,” he raises his voice, against his better judgement. “You can take whatever ya like. You can get away with everything, no matter what you’ve done.”
          His anger is rising. He can feel his muscles clench and head thrum with stinging pain. It’s becoming harder and harder to think about Harcourt, to even consider the room around them. Astraea is wrong. So wrong it hurts.
          Astraea stares at him, confused. Slowly, she walks forward, hands folded over heart.
          “I can do whatever I choose, as long as that choice is in accordance with Evander’s will. I am free to take a kept, but not to respect her as my equal. I am free to be worshipped, no matter how uncomfortable that makes me. Wealth?  Power?  What does any of that matter without freedom?”
          She gazes back towards the space that held Evander.  “In a way, I am no less a slave to Evander than any Kept of Xylia.”
          A pang grows in his gut, to join the ringing in his ears. She looks so sincere, so genuine, but her words are so maddening.
          “You think you’re the one without choices? You think you’re the one wearing chains?”
          “Now it is you who does not understand…” Astraea says wistfully.  “Chains of gold or iron, both are binding.  In my world, there is no Law but Evander.  For us, love is possession.  As you might love a human trinket, we are instructed to love our nymphs. It is all so, so, suffocating.”
          She brightens, turning to him.  “But you humans have proven them wrong! You have shown us the light, if only we would look and listen!”
          He remembers the tree. Gilded. Glowing. Beautiful. “What bleedin’ human light are you talkin’ ‘bout?”
          “‘Forward, Together.’ ‘For the many, not the few.’” She’s almost reached him now, her voice wistful and wondrous. “The humans have created a world where all have a voice, where leaders are kind, where we serve those who choose to serve us. Your world is not built by slaves, Ian. It is not ruled with fear. Husband and wife exist as equals, rich and poor stand side-by-side. Here, there is nothing to stop you, nothing to hold you back! From finding your own meaning and deciding your own future.  It is perfect,” she says, her eyes sparking. “You have created something perfect. How could I not envy you?”
          He takes a step back. “… You’re wrong.” He watches her face wilt in confusion, but it only makes him madder. “You don’t even know ‘ow bloody wrong you are.”
          “That’s… that is what the elders always tell me,” Astaea starts glowing brighter as her hesitation returns to confidence. “But I have studied your language, I have read your books. The elders’ are unaware of-”
          “I’m not talkin’ ‘bout the fackin’ elders! You’re not describin’ the real human world, Astraea. Yer tellin’ me a… heh, a fairy tale, a fantasy!  It’s NOT REAL.”
          She stops, face bent in frustration. “... No. I-”
          “You’ve been to London, aye? Seen ordinary people, tryin’ to scrape by? Did anyone there look like they’ve ‘found meaning?’ Did you get the bleedin’ impression that ‘ey’ve ‘chosen’ their futures?”
          “I…” Astraea scratches her head, glances to the side. “Parts of human culture still do not make sense to me-”
          “I can tell ya right fackin’ now, ask any person on the street if they’d give up every freedom for a fraction of your money, your control, and ‘ey’d take it in a fackin’ heartbeat.”
          “NO!” Astraea clenches her fist. “They would never. They do not need to. In your world, humans control their life. They can choose station, if they so like-”
          “If they LIKE!?” He abandons any caution he might have had, her words tightening against skull. “Somebody shoulda fackin’ told me! Somebody shoulda fackin’ told my ancestors. Wanna hear the story ‘bout how they got here!?”
          Astraea is shaken, takes a step back.  Tries again, hesitantly.  “The humans were not always perfect, they had to improve. Just like the Groves can, that is what I am trying to-”
          “Improve? We have never fackin’ improved!” He gets in her face, lets her feel the heat in his breath. “Humans are greedy. Humans are violent. Humans step on each other as quickly as you fackin’ fae!”
          “They wouldn’t!” Astraea’s hair bolts up like a coil, snapping at the air.
          “FACKIN’ LOOK AROUND YOU!” Ian gestures through the hall, long corridors drenched in shadows never pierced by the red. “Do you know what a fackin’ MP is? This is one of the humans’ ‘kind fackin’ leaders,’ and the second he learned what a Keeping was, he chose to exploit it! All while you’re standin’ in his home, singing his bloody praises!”
          Astraea stops, silent.
          “He has money, he has power, and he uses them to be a tyrant. Just like Evander…” Ian scowls, deeply. “... just like you.”
          “What?” Astraea’s skin starts burning white. Her hair returns to its platinum blonde. “N-... no. I…”
          “Choices, freedoms. You only want them for yerself.” Ian repeats. “You claim to be a slave, but I don’t see some hired thug forcing you in a cage! You claim to wear chains, but I’ve only ever seen them on my friend’s fackin’ ankles!”
          Astraea pulls back, her face twitching. Every nervous movement shoots out another spark. “She… she left me no alternative, offered no explanation! I needed to make her see, I was going to let her choose-”
          “Of course. But always later, innit?” Ian hisses, grinning mirthlessly. “And only if they choose right.”
          “It is complicated! You are not being fair!” Astraea’s voice grows strained, her body thrumming with heat. Her words start to double over. “I… I did not do this. I did not take anything!
          “You did! You took it all! She’s only here because of you!” Ian swipes at the air. “My friend, he was human. He could make choices, he was free. A shitty fackin’ freedom, but a freedom you still dream of. And you stole it! Snatched him away and dragged him back to ‘at world you say you hate!”
          “I do hate it! That’s why I need them!” Another surge. He can see something burn beneath her skin, travelling over her veins, quicker with each word.  “I… I only came for Lyra. I did not need the boy. He would have been free to return, mark my word, once he agreed-”
          “To give her up? To lose a part of himself he’s always had?”
          “It was not a part he wanted! I was going to fix it! I was going to get her back!”
          “And what if she didn’t want that!” Ian barks. “What if she refused!”
          “She never would. Our love was real. Our love was true. Our love was built on fairness, our love gave us both freedom-”
          “Until you decided to change that,” Ian grins mirthlessly. “Until you decided her freedom could only ever be with you.”
          Astraea blinks, his words stunning her. The fire burning across her body starts to dim. “I… I do not… understand…”
          “I think you do,” Ian repeats, his voice growing soft. “You claim to help us. Offer us gifts, come to our aid. But you’re not telling us everything. There’s a reason Lyra fled the Market. There’s a reason she placed herself in a human baby. And it’s the same reason you hired a killer to come and take her from the world she chose.”
          Astraea’s eyes turn vacant, her arms fall limply to her sides. She looks at Ian with desperation, her voice barely rising above the rain. “... no…”
          “You never wanted her to have choices, did you, Astraea? All you wanted was for her to choose you.” With a frown, Ian kneels down, scooping the 9-iron from it’s spot on the floor. He hoists it over his shoulder and starts walking down the hall. “And ‘at hasn’t changed. Not one fackin’ bit.”
          Astraea doesn’t move behind him, staring at the empty projector that once showed her home. She clutches her wrists and pulls herself inward, struggling to keep back her tears.
          Ian approaches one of the corridors, lost beneath shadows. He taps the club on the carpet, speaking in a soft tones. “C’mon, Neith, get out.”
          An increasingly normal blur of motion whizzes by his face. Neith offers a toothy grin, her eyes thrumming with purple hues. There’s a canvas bag slung over her shoulder, sagging with weight and glowing through the fabric. “How did you know?”
          Ian points to the bag. “Ya pulled the generator, right? Issat it? Looks rather small for a house this size.”
          “It is rather small. Should be about a room larger, and probably not reeking with aether.” Citrine slithers from a corner, coiling around his mistress’ legs.
          Ian squints. “So what issit?”
          “No idea, but certainly not something he should be playing with. It’s not fae make, but…” she growls, clutching the bag tighter. “Later. You two done hashing out? I didn’t catch much of it.”
          “... Yeah, sure. Just had a reality check.” Ian turns around, watching the distraught Dryad cautiously. “... Heh. Seems like there’s tyrants in every world.”
          For a moment, he feels a surge of guilt, but he swallows it down. He needs to focus on the present. The now.
          He shakes his head. “We didn’t find Spencer, but he’s armed-”
          “I figured, yeah. Odd wall decor,” Neith taps his shoulder, beckoning him. “Grab the Lady, and follow me. I found a lead, but some wanker put a bar over the door. Need someone who can shift iron.”
          “I’m your man,” Ian nods. “But what’s the lead? Did you see anyone in there? Smell ‘em?”
          “Smell? No.” He expects a quip, but when he sees her face, she only seems sombre. “Only thing I smelled in there was blood.”


continue reading ->

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Heart here!

Astraea has been and continues to be one of my favorite characters because she's so darn well meaning.   It's just too bad she was raised in a slave state.   Ian's being a bit unfair here, but he's not wrong in saying that Astraea is er... looking at humanity with some rose tinted glasses.

I dunno.  What do YA'LL think?   Is Ian more in the right?  Or Astraea?  Or are they both in the wrong??

As a special we will be posting THE NEXT PART NEXT FRIDAY.   Be sure to check in for "Perfect Union" part 3 Friday May 5th!

And thanks for stopping by!