Fairy Bride Ch20: The Monster Needed (Patreon)

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L Morgan stretches her legs, extends her wings, and spreads across her little world.

As always, it’s nothing but twigs and plastic.  She doesn’t comprehend that she’s dwelling at the top of an impressive mound of suitcases, or even that the vibrations in her antennae are the massive feet of her handlers.  She can’t perceive the new town, Guy’s slight smile as he departs, or the new way Spencer looks at his recent rescuer.  No, her world is always smaller.  Just this strange windless cube and the nectar she no longer needs to hunt for.  If escape was possible, it’s beyond her capacity to consider.  Everything is always just what’s in front of her.

So she climbs that little bundle of sticks, to the very top. Curling her wings and trying to flap in the air.  She tumbles back to the floor, just like every other time.  But that’s okay.  She can always try again.

Unlike her namesake, L Morgan doesn’t worry about a day with no tomorrow.

“And this is the living room.”  The attendant flourishes as they walk in.  She’s smiling broadly, her voice a touch too chirpy, in seemingly complete ignorance of the two horrified faces behind her.

It’s a beautiful villa, to be sure. The windows are massive, displaying a majestic pool and lounge, and an awning on the roof floods everything with sunlight.  Daphne’s never seen a TV or fireplace so large, and after weeks of restaurants, the full kitchen could bring her to tears.  But it’s not the ornate master bedroom or four-car garage that she’s concerned about.  It’s the colours.

Onyx countertop, ivory chairs.  Whitewood windows, ebony doors.  Everything from the couches, to the carpets, to the flower vases and the books on display come either in black or in white - only one or the other.

The attendant waltzes off to the bathroom, stepping neatly over monochrome chequered tiles.  Even her suit is black-and-white.  Daphne uses the chance to elbow her husband - they’re arm-in-arm, like always - and points at her lips frantically when she finally gets his attention.

“Go ahead?”  He undoes the spell.

“What the Hell is going on?”  Daphne whispers.

Spencer gives her a bewildered look and shrugs.  “Don’t look at me!  Mallory picked this out!”

“Was he pulling a bloody prank?”

“Is there a problem, messieurs?”  The attendant steps back out, folding her hands.  Her eyes are sharp grey speeds.  Spencer avoids them, chuckling nervously.

“Uh, no, no!  We were just… admiring the… uh…”

“W-would it be okay if we stepped outside?”  Daphne asks.  She’s very practised at matching the attendant’s beaming smile, and doesn’t wait for permission before dragging her husband to the gleaming white patio.

It’s so bright in the sunlight that it’s almost painful to look at.  The air is hot, and tastes of sea salt.  Beyond, she can see a mass of and tight streets in the city below, joined by dozens of brightly painted villas on the mountains surrounding it.  But there’s much more pressing issues than the view.

“You have to tell her we’re not taking this,” Daphne mutters.  “I am not staying in an AirBNB designed by Tim bloody Burton!”

“Ah!”  Spencer looks wounded.  “Why me?  I drove us here, it’s your turn - ”

“Would you let me drive?”  Daphne lifts her chin.  “Are you going to unmute me for my chat with her, or should I play charades?”

“... I…”  Spencer folds his arms, clearly searching for a good counterpoint.  When he can’t find one, he just pouts more.

The door cracks open before them and the attendant steps in.  Her smile’s grown.  Spencer clears his throat and pulls Daphne a little closer.  “Mademoiselle, um… the space is certainly… luxurious…”  He nods awkwardly.  “But I believe my wife and I share the view that - ”

Something catches his eye.  Daphne follows his gaze to the TV stand, heaving an inaudible sigh as she sees his face light up.

“Wait.”  His eyes sparkle.  “Is that a Wii?”

“Oh, COME ON!  That’s bullshit!”

Spencer laughs while sipping his beer, ignoring his wife’s attempts to bludgeon him with her plastic steering wheel.  With every swing, she’s thrown an inch back, like one magnet repelling another.  “Looks like I win~!”  He grins impishly.

“Cheating!”  She jabs a finger at him, not quite getting the angle right. She’s had a few drinks herself.  “You’re cheating!  You can’t use commands!”

“Mario Kart doesn’t know.”  Spencer gestures to the leaderboard, watching his score climb to just three points below his wife’s.

In truth, he was just curious to see how much Daphne would bounce around if he ordered her to drop the controller right before the finish line. The answer, for those curious: very, very much.

“You’re just sore cuz I beat you at Smash.”  Daphne grumbles, keeping her eyes on the flashing screen.  The final stage is being announced.  “Admit it.  You’re too old to keep up with me.”

“I’m not too old, they’ve just made the games worse,” he whines.

“Compared to when?”  She smirks.  “Pac-Man?”

He gives her a scathing glance.  “You little-”

“GO!”

The cheerful voice sends them off.  At first, the two are neck and neck, whirling across the brightly-coloured track, soaring up and down its dizzying curves.  But by the third lap, all those beers start piling up.  Spencer’s struggling to not fall off the road, and Daphne’s there to laugh every time he slips.

“Maybe you should let me drive!”  She snickers, grinning, as he’s dragged back onto the course once again.  Spencer grimaces, trying to focus on the game.  There’s only a bit of circuit left to gain on her.  He punches through a mystery block, watching the different items blink on the screen.  His eyes light up.

“Ah, ma femme!”  He readies his thumb over the button.  Spencer can already imagine the look on her face when she sees the blue shell. She’s so invested, it’ll be adorable.  “Would you care for some soupe aux tortues-”

He glances to the side.

Daphne’s on the edge of the couch, her antennae bobbing with her frantic movements, leaning back and forth as she steers.  Her eyes are so… bright.  Her smile is instant, and infectious.  When was the last time he saw her so carefree?

He doesn’t think he ever has.

Spencer removes his thumb from the button, and a second later, the music soars.  Daphne rises to her feet, her wings snapping out as she cheers.  She waves her controller at him, pointing to the death grip she has on it and uttering something smug.  Spencer doesn’t really hear it.  He just smiles back, letting his shoulders relax for the first night since they came here.

The holiday’s almost over.  He thinks it’s time to give her some victories she deserves.

Daphne wrinkles her nose as she listens to the crinkling papers, joined by the morning birdsong outside.   She tries using her antennae to guess what might be in her husband’s shopping bags, but it all tastes of high-end sample perfumes.  Like everything  he puts his hands on.

“Can I open my eyes now?” she asks.

“Nope.”  Spencer giggles from somewhere near the bed.  “Are you peeking?”

She raises an eyebrow.  “You ordered me, so I literally can’t.”

“I’m just glad I got back before you woke up.  Locking you in would really spoil the surprise…”  Spencer claps and shifts off the bed.  “Okay!  You can open them… after you tell me how much-”

“Spencer.”

“Fine,” he whines, his voice doubling over.  “Countdown from three.”

Her lips move as directed.  “Three.  Two.  One…”

She opens her eyes, then blinks.  Daphne lifts her hand to cover her mouth.

“I never properly thanked you for saving my life, so…”  Spencer chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck.  “... enjoy your gift, Daphne.”

She can’t possibly be seeing what she thinks she is.

To her left are a pair of cute, brown boots, next to a jacket with a cut-off waist and short sleeves.  It’s denim.  Blue denim, glowing in the sun.  And to her right, a massive sun hat with a white bow tied at the top…

… in a beautiful shade of cream.

Daphne begins to shake.  She turns to Spencer, bewildered, but he only offers a smile.

“I’ve been sifting through my old sources lately.”   He shrugs.  “Turns out, Dryads aren’t all that strict on accessories.  So as long as you wear a white dress beneath, I -”

He’s cut off by a little whimper, and looks at her, concerned.  Daphne puts an arm over her eyes, trying to hide her sobs.

“Oh.  Daphne, no, don’t cry.”  He giggles nervously.  “I-If you don’t like them, w-we can always-”

Daphne throws her arms around him, sniffling into his suit jacket.  She feels his body turn rigid.  Her breathing hitches when she remembers that this isn’t supposed to happen, that he doesn’t deserve her tears, but…

“I’m never taking them off,” she manages.  “Thank you.  Thank you so much.”

For a moment, Spencer stares into the distance, unmoving.  But then, slowly, hesitantly, his hand lifts to her back and he pulls her in.

“Anytime, darling.”  He says quietly.  “I just want you to… feel like you belong.”

She can’t manage to do anything but shudder.  It’s pathetic, she tells herself.  They’re just clothes.

But they’re not.  They’ve never been.

After a minute, Spencer starts petting her hair, whispering lightly.  “I love you, Daphne.”

The touch sends prickles down her spine.  But this time, she ignores them.  New words are bubbling to the surface, but she can’t understand their meaning.  Is this good, or bad?  Will they help, or harm?  Perhaps, in this moment, it doesn’t matter.  Because she’s still going to say them.

Daphne inhales.  “I love you, too.”

Steam wafts from the bathroom as Spencer listens to the crickets and browses his laptop from bed.  Every tab is another headache.  That creepy attendant sent the rest of the villa’s bill; ignore.  Chloe’s sending him more headlines from London; ignore.  Shravya gave a live interview; ignore that too.

Mallory’s email includes a blank document.  It asks Spencer to write down answers for all of Kimberly’s questions, so that Daphne can start memorising.  His stomach immediately flips at the thought, so he closes the tab unanswered.  That just leaves one: the message board. He looks at his blinking cursor and the text box he has yet to reply to:

‘Qu'est-ce que vous voulez faire?’  ‘What do you want to do?’

If only the answer could ever be that easy.

Behind him, the shower faucet turns off.  He hears Daphne’s feet pad against the chequered tiles, followed by the sounds of brushing teeth.  He's surprised she’s kept the bathroom door open this time, but he supposes he’s also been better at not peering.  After all, Spencer has his promises, if he didn’t own up to those, it’d be pretty hard now to justify…

… owning her.

Spencer grimaces at the word.  It’s so absolute, so restrictive, so transactional.  Like there can’t be any space between them.  It makes him think back to the warning he received from Henri. He had dismissed those words so casually, back then. But…

After the flight…

“Who’s the friend?”  Daphne asks as she walks in, settling onto the bed.  Spencer blinks at her white bathrobe and the hair dryer she hands him; he must have checked out for a while.

“Ah…”  Spencer squints at the webpage while grabbing a tuft of Daphne’s hair.  “Alienor Lousteau.  CEO of Pylône Aéronautique, in Toulouse.  She makes planes and helicopters for Europe’s militaries.”

Daphne rolls her eyes.  “Of course you're friends with the defence contractors.”

“I only choose the best.”  Spencer winks.  Hestarts pulling the dryer through her locks.  “But actually, we only just met.  I reached out on a chatroom because…”  He hesitates, looking warily at the screen.  “... She’s a Keeper.”

Daphne blinks.  Warm bits of fluff settle on her neck.  “A human Keeper?”

He nods.

“Who’s the Kept?”

“Benezetto.  He’s Italian - or, er, he was found in Italy.  Beyond that, she doesn't say.”

“And you found her online?”  Daphne turns around, her eyes wild.  “Are there… really that many people that know about us?”

She asks it like a question, but sounds terrified of any answer.

“There’s lots of humans who call themselves fae finders.”  Spencer shrugs.  “If you know the right channels.”

“Channels my parents didn’t know about?”

His eyes grow wide.  “OH.  Oh, not… hehehehe, not THOSE channels.”  He giggles again.  “Even if your parents knew these people, they wouldn’t be a great help.”

“Why not?”

“Well, they’re a bit more…”  He struggles for the word.  “Garden variety?  These aren’t scholars of the Wilds, darling.  They’re more focused on growing toadstool rings or spotting elves.”

“Ah.  The Mums’ Groups.”  Daphne smirks.  “Have they tried selling you dowsing rods?”

“Only twice.”  Spencer smirks back.

“And why exactly is my husband seeking the Mums’ wisdom?”

Spencer pauses.  After a few seconds, he lowers the hair-dryer and starts running his hand through Daphne’s hair.  “Oh, you know.  Just looking for Kepts who could be your playmates.  Alienor was the only one who replied.”

It’s a bold lie, but one Daphne seems to take.  In truth, Alienor was the only one who was willing - more than willing - to even acknowledge the existence of the Keeping.  To have something even close to an accurate understanding of fae, though it raised the immediate ire of the Mums.  And while she was a bit heavy with the rhetoric…

She had said she’d been a Keeper for years.  Had even been to the Wilds herself.  Knew every trick, and… and maybe she could…

Spencer shakes his head of his reverie and closes the laptop screen.  He sets it on the nightstand and reaches for the lamp.  “We can talk about it tomorrow, but for now…”  The lights flick off.  “Time to sleep, Daphy-Dee.”

He shuffles himself into the covers and closes his eyes.  Only the distant sounds of partying and the ticking black clock above them fill the room.  Still, Spencer doesn’t relax.  If anything, he’s growing more stiff.

He peeks open an eye, and finds Daphne standing above him.  Still not moving.

“Daph?”  He waits a few seconds.  No reply. “Your side’s over-”

“Scooch.”

“Wha-”

“Scooch.”  She pushes into him, pulling up the covers.  “I want to try something.”

Her voice doesn’t sound as sure.

Spencer scowls, clearly ruffled, but begins sidling his way down the bed.  He reaches the end of his pillows when-

“Stop.  Right there.”  With almost mechanical movements, Daphne sets herself in the warm spot he left.  The silk of her wings rubs into his skin, and then she pulls the covers back over them.

He watches it all in bewilderment.  “Darling…?”

Daphne keeps her back turned.  “Can you try…”  A few seconds pass.  “... holding me?”

Spencer feels something twist in his gut, but dutifully obeys.  He nuzzles himself closer until his hand is over her belly, his knees are tucked against hers, and her wings press against his chest.  He hears Daphne’s breath pick up.

“We’re not going to talk about this.”  She starts speaking rapidly.  “There won’t be any jokes, you’re not saying ‘touch-starvation,’ and if you think this is anything more than - ”

“You’re allowed to sleep with your husband, Daphne.”

She exhales.  “Goodnight.”

“Sleep well.”  Spencer closes his eyes again, and tries to shift into something more comfortable without breaking her instructions.  His back is going to kill him in the morning, but he manages a smile, all the same.

At least she’s happy.

But as the seconds turn into minutes, Spencer’s smile wanes.  He keeps hearing tiny sounds from her side.  Light wheezes muffled by her pillow.  Furtive sniffles, disguised just as quickly.  Spencer grimaces and tries to ignore them both, just squeezing her a little tighter and hoping that can show her he’s here.

The entire bed shakes as Daphne begins to shudder.

He sighs through his nose.  “Darling - ”

“Quiet.”  She hisses, harshly.

Spencer speaks in soft tones.  “You’re trembling.”

A few seconds’ pause.  Then the covers fly off, and Spencer can feel the wings pull from his body. Daphne slithers to her feet, walking away from the bed and stumbling toward the corner.  He can hear her whispers, though her face is turned away.  “I can’t do this I can’t do this I can’t fucking do this -”

Spencer shifts from the bed, reaching out.  “H-hey, Daph, it’s okay - ”

“Stop looking at me!”  She whirls, eyes shining in the dark.  “I can feel it.  Do you know that?  I can feel it and I… I can’t stand it!”

His jaw opens and closes.  Daphne stands taller, clenching her fists.

“You were lying, weren’t you?  I never slept with you.  You’re always playing mind games, always telling LIES!”

“Wha-what?”  He stutters.  “Duh-Duh-Daph, I duh-don’t understand.  You nuh-need to calm-”

“NO!  You’re not silencing me!”  She screams at him.  “I shouldn’t be calm!  I don’t need a BLOODY TIME-OUT!”

“I-I nuh-never seh-seh-seh-seh - ”

“Stop stuttering!”  Daphne’s wings snap out, but pause when she sees Spencer’s face.  He’s coiled himself in the blanket, shaking with glistening eyes.  For a moment, her rage disappears.

But only to come roaring back.

“Why are you crying?”  She grits her teeth.  “You don’t get to cry.  You don’t get to act scared!”

He shrivels back.  “I - ”

“It’s not fair!”  Daphne closes her eyes.  “You’re not the victim.  I’m not some crazy child.  I’M NOT!  NONE OF THIS IS OKAY!  NONE OF THIS IS RIGHT!”

Her head snaps back against the white-painted wall, and she sinks to her knees, pushing herself as far back into the corner as she can go.

“... none of this is fucking normal.”

“Daphne.”  Spencer bites at his tongue, doing everything he can to keep down the stutter.  “You’re upset.  You’re really upset, I see that.  But… I don’t know what I’m doing wrong - ”

“Heheheheheheh.”  Daphne giggles mirthlessly, and Spencer’s stomach twists.  “You won’t even say it.  Three whole years, and you’re still hiding, still pretending.  Like you were somehow RIGHT to do it, and I’m the wrong one because I can’t move on!  WHY CAN’T YOU JUST ADMIT THAT YOU’RE A FUCKING MONSTER!”

Spencer grips the covers tightly.  “But I’m not!”

“Bullshit!”  She screams back.  “You have to be!”

Spencer covers his face with his hands, desperately hiding his expression to keep from angering Daphne more.  She climbs to her feet, lurching over the bed and dragging a blanket around herself.

“I’m sleeping on the couch,” she explains curtly.  “I need to be alone.”

“Daph… please…”  Spencer curls his knees into his chest.  “I’m bad, I know, I’m sorry. Buh-buh-puh-please, we can-”

“We can’t.”  She snaps, throwing open the door.  Daphne pauses for a moment, turning back.  Her face twists, and he can see the grief and pain and anger.  Tearing at each other, right over her shoulder.

“Don’t follow me.”

The door slams shut, leaving Spencer with nothing but the crickets, the ticking clock, and his thoughts.

He shoves a pillow over his mouth and screams.

From her balled-up position on the couch, she can see glistening fireworks through the massive glass doors.  Gold, violet, ruby, and jade, all the bright splashes of colour lacking in the house of black and white.  It makes Daphne furious.  Every roar causes her antennae to jolt; every flash brings her back to the Keeping.  On Bonfire Night, she always hides in the windowless theatre, praying for it all to end.  Nice’s fireworks don’t seem any different.

Just one more good thing Spencer’s taken from her.

She stares at her phone screen with dry, tired eyes.  Flipping through the photos of the interview stage and a map guiding her to the exit.  Guy gave her this mobile just before she left the yacht, free of all her husband’s trackers, and she’s worked hard to keep it hidden.  There are messages with the pictures, already burned into her mind.

‘Good evening, Daphne.  Hope you’re asleep.  Below you’ll find a document with all of Kimberly’s questions.  Spencer will provide you with responses, and you’d best memorise them to keep him off our trail.  But on your own time, think about them.  They’re the key to telling your story.  A story that can destroy Spencer.’

Daphne turns toward the door, still closed.  No doubt her husband is spiralling in his own panic, and it makes her stomach tighten with an infuriating guilt.  If she does this, she’ll kill him.  Maybe not literally, but he’ll lose a part of himself, just the same.  A part he’ll never get back.

But isn’t that fair, when he’s stolen so many parts from her?

‘The choice is yours, Daphne, but you have to choose soon.  London’s a great machine, and the gears have to spin.  His future, or mine?  Masks, or truth?’

Daphne laughs, mirthlessly.  The truth?  What has Mallory ever known of truth?  He’s somehow worse than her husband.  Daphne swallows, quavering.  She can be Spencer’s doll, or Mallory’s trophy.  It’s hard to even handle the concept.

‘Just tell me you’re in.’

Daphne buries her face in her hands.  How did it come to this?  How are these her only options?  Where between these two men is she supposed to find freedom?  Where is she supposed to find herself?

She lifts her eyes from her skin, and stares at the small enclosure straddling the table.  Its plastic glistens against the fireworks’ light, silhouetting the Alpine Blue.  And as she watches those tiny silk wings flap helplessly around the cage, the thought comes roaring back into her mind.

Twenty-three years.  That’s how many books are waiting in the library.  What person will be left when she’s read all of them?

With Spencer, no one.  As much as she needs to be, he oh-so-desperately needs her to not.  Without the lie, his world unravels, and so he’s placed a world-sized weight right between her shoulders.  No amount of denim jackets and Mario Karts will keep her from being crushed beneath it.

Beyond his sins, his smothering, his commands, he and her will never work.  Because Spencer needs to love, and he only loves Daphne.

But Mallory doesn’t need love.  Mallory needs nothing but a few fucks each month, and he couldn’t care who he’s fucking.  It’s a nightmare, undeniably, but it isn’t this one.  She can be something beneath him.  Something real.

When Mallory, she could walk out the door still breathing.

Only one of her monsters is willing to admit it, and maybe that truth is better than the years of lies.  Maybe it’s stronger than whatever she’d call Spencer’s ‘love.’  Maybe that kind of monster is the monster she needs.

The other girl.  The one who matters.

Outside, the show draws to a close.  The flashing lights fade into the night, and cheering crowds shuffle towards home.  Daphne sits up, with difficulty, holding the phone between trembling fingers.  But one key after another, she types:

‘I’m in.’

Then lays back down, and lets the memories take her.

Spencer wakes up on a bare mattress.  His back immediately aches.  He slept fitfully, the remaining bedsheets thrown wildly around by his tosses and turns.  Sunlight from the window forces him to blink.  He doesn’t know when he fell asleep, but it feels like he never did.

He fumbles for his glasses on the nightstand, his hand bumping against the sleek metal of the laptop beneath them.  Spencer opts to take both in hand, yawning as he perches one on his nose and opens the other.  The exhaustion evaporates as he widens his eyes.

He told Alienor everything.

He doesn’t remember doing it.  Can only guess how long it took him.  But everything’s there, staring at him in sloppy French, one massive wall of text followed by another.  He pales in shame, looking around.  Daphne’s not here, but if she read that…

To his horror, Spencer sees three little dots appear on Alienor’s side of the screen.  Oh, fuck.  He should have deleted it-

Alienor’s message pops, sliding the window all the way down to the bottom of his rant.  He reads his last message, bold letters on blue: “Tout s'effondre.  Je ne peux pas me réparer.  Pouvez-vous m'aider?

He reads the reply, and gulps.  ‘N'ai pas peur.  J’arrive.’

Do not fear.

I am coming.

“It’s already noon.”  Daphne lowers her latest book to scan Spencer’s watch.  She pulls the denim jacket tight despite the summer heat.  “When did Alienor say she was getting here?”

Spencer sighs, turning away from his laptop screen.  It shows a Word Doc he’s labelled ‘Answers for Daph-Daph :3,’ but the pages are all empty.  “Frankly, darling, I’m as dark as you are.  I’ve been telling her ‘no’ since I got coffee, but she kept ignoring my messages until just now.”

“And what did she say?”

“‘Half-hour in.  I won’t be turning around.’”

“Only a half-hour?  And you said she’s in Toulouse?”  When Spencer nods, Daphne sighs, pulling the massive sun hat over her eyes.  In the sunlight, it’s extremely obvious that it’s not cream, but Spencer’s doing his best to ignore that.  “It’s gonna take hours for her to get here.  Do you remember the traffic around Marseille?”

“Well, we could just…”  Spencer stretches out on his lounger, staring at the pool and the dozen or so parties in villas beyond.  “... enjoy the moment.”

“You can, if you want.”  Daphne opens her book with an exaggerated flourish.  “You can’t exactly order me to be upbeat.”

Spencer lowers his sunglasses, considering.  Golden sparks start shooting from his eyes.  “Daphne, give me your biggest smile.”

She starts flashing white teeth, her eyebrows wide.  There’s nothing more adorable than a big Daph grin and her utterly confused expression.  Except, of course, for the same grin with a scathing glance, which always comes right after.  “Spencer, wha-”

“Say, ‘I’m a big cute fluffball, and today’s gonna be moth-tastic!’”  Spencer giggles, smirking.  “And you have to say it very cheerfully.”

“I’m a big cute fluffball,” she repeats with high-pitched lilt.  “And today’s gonna be moth-tastic!”

Her eyes scream absolute murder.  He giggles again, showing her his hands.  “See?”  He folds them into a heart.  “You’re halfway there already.”

Before she can tell him off, their heads both tilt up, drawn by a deep, distant hum.  Daphne’s face creases.  “Is that a helicopter?”

“This far from the airport?”  Spencer shakes his head.  “We’re in the opposite direction of Monaco.”

The closer the chopper gets, the more his face falls.  It’s painted a sleek black, with a white emblazon over the doors.  Cylindrical layers, each stacked atop each other like a wedding cake.

Or a tower.

“Pylône,” he whispers, realising.  “D-Daphne, that’s them.”

“What?”  Now it’s her turn to lower her sunglasses.  The helicopter slows down as it hovers over their house, creating rings of waving grass and pulling the edges of Daphne’s sun hat.  “Ah - can they do that?  Is that legal?”

“Uh, no!”  Spencer shakes his head, chuckling nervously.  “We don’t even have a landing-”  The chopper doors slide open theatrically, revealing a half-dozen large, armoured men. “- ohhhhhhh my God.”

The armoured men part ways for an even more mountainous specimen, with olive skin and long, dark hair tied in a ponytail.  While the figure seems to sniff at the air, Spencer’s jaw drops.

His finely-pressed, windswept suit is an alluring shade of alabaster.

“That’s Benezetto?”  Daphne’s book lowers to her lap, forgotten.  “So where’s-”

As the other men wrap a harness around the Kept’s chest, he kneels down to scoop up a small woman.  Spencer’s gotten accustomed to seeing the short, dyed hair and botoxed skin that masks a wealthy older woman’s true age; but even so, her movements are surprisingly energetic.  Benezetto holds her in a bridal carry as he steps off the helicopter, cables in his back slowly rappelling them down.  The woman’s sharp Dior dress billows in the wind.

Black as midnight.

But despite their eccentric attire, or their exceedingly dramatic entrance, nothing captures Spencer and Daphne’s attention like the objects in their hands.  Benezetto, of course, is holding Alienor…

“You can’t be serious.” Daphne whispers.

… but Alienor holds a leash to the collar around Benezetto’s neck.

Hey everyone!  Thanks for joining me on another Fairy Bride chapter!

The fight between Spencer and Daphne here is easily one of my favourite scenes in the whole work.  It’s interesting how, though the trip is drawing them closer, it’s making the problems in their relationship even more apparent, and look even harder to break.  But what are your thoughts?  Is Daphne starting to change?  Is Spencer?

And what about this mysterious pair from Toulouse?  We’ll be seeing much more of Alienor and Benezetto in Chapter 21: An Open Hand, coming to you next Friday, December 1st.  I’ll see you all then!