Fairy Bride Ch26: The Sins of the World (Patreon)

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Somewhere close, and still very far away

“Deep night, star’s light, burns bright in me…”

Her voice echoes across the spacious hall, mingling with the neon and fog. Through the spotlights, she can see thousands of eyes.  Glastaigs and púca, brownies and goblins.  All watching her.  Waiting for a performance her life depends on.

And it’s not even her behind the voice.

“Devouring, forever flowering.  Inferno she calls me.”

The song comes from a spell on her wrist.

“Take to this wick and from cold, ignite. Binds to be held and warmed by my light.”

Still, she’s floundering.  Her nerves are too much, she’s never been seen like this.

“So she tells me, but does she see…”

And then when her eyes settle on him.

“... who I am.”

He’s human, like she once thought she was.  The only human, bar Ian, in the hall.  He’s clad in a designer scarf and rich-looking coat, his hair matted gold and his eyes a piercing blue.

He watches her with them, his jaw slightly open.  They sparkle and brighten with awe, amazement, wonder.  He’s stunned by her. Entranced by her.  Just like everyone else in the room.

And that gives L Morgan a feeling, a confidence, that she’s never felt before.

The lyrics rush forward, each more powerful and encompassing than the last. The crowd rises with her, bends with her, and she’s awed by her own control.

“Aching to stake in a want I’ve known, better to try than die all alone…

And be wanted, or ever haunted, here I am.”

As the song concludes, the audience cheers, dozens of different beings applauding her.  But the human rises first, and claps loudest.  His whistle catches her ears.

And it’s that very moment when L Morgan decides that she has to learn his name.

“Your drink, Mr. Harcourt.”  She sets the first glass down.

Spencer Harcourt looks up from his phone, to the hissing, fizzly pink liquid bouncing in L’s hand.  He notes that the other glass contains much the same.  “You say ‘Harcourt’ like it’s a big deal.”

“You don’t think being a Member of Parliament is a big deal?”

He chuckles.  “What does Parliament ever get done?”

L flutters her grey-green wings chirpily, belatedly catching the way his eyes follow them.  There’s almost a hitch in his breath.  How…

Interesting.

Spencer swipes his glass and sips.  “Listen.  In the Market, I’m nothing, and it’s the last place on Earth where I can be nothing.  No special treatment, no expectations.  Just another customer, come to see if the Glade’s new nymph is as beautiful as the posters make her.”

“And how’s that working out?”  She slides into the booth across from him, smirking.

He smirks back.  “They don’t do her justice.”

Something tingles down L’s spine, and her heart flutters.  She’s only been a girl for… what?  Two weeks?  Three?  There’s still something strange about being… complimented.  Admired for it.

“Well, I’m glad you think so, Mr. Harcourt.”  She gives an awkward laugh.  “Because that was my first time singing up there, and I have no idea how - ”

“L,” Spencer lingers on the name.  “I’ve been crammed into theatres and opera houses all my life, and I can tell you, that voice would shatter an industry.  That performance was majestic.  Beyond words… a bit like you.”

L feels herself blush.  She’s not used to… playing sultry like this, either, but the excitement of the stage, how boldly he watches her.  It’s such a rush.  She can’t help but waggle her antennae, just to see him grin.

“Mmm.”  Spencer hides his face with the drink.  “Spirited.  Interesting flavour.  But I believe I asked the barkeep for something a little more nostalgic.”

“The pearly blues, yeah.  I switched them out.”  She rests her hands on her chin, betraying her black fingernails.  “I thought with these, we could have some fun.”

His eyes widen before he smiles.  “Then don’t call me Mr. Harcourt, L, because I can do fun.”

The tingling’s back, even more intense.  L sips deeply from her glass, if only to hide it.  “Alright, Spence.  Your game.”

“Spence?”  He chuckles at the nickname.  Slowly, his fingers drum the table, before he claps and points accusingly.  “Modest sphinx!”

“What?”  Her antennae jolt.

“Your wings.  Pachysphinx modesta.  North American, right?”

L’s eyes grow wide.  “It took me days to look that up.  Did you just…pull it out of your head?”

“Sure.  What else would I be doing, my job?”  He’s very quick to laughter, she notes, but this one has a nervous edge.  “Though… heheh, luh-look, i-it’s just a hobby, okay?  I-I-I’m not trying to creep you out, Iiiii… shih-shit, why did I bring up bugs?”

L’s brows furrow.  He seems genuinely upset.  “Hey, Spence, you’re fine-”

“Why does this always happen?  Every time, Spence, every time!”  His face slides into his hands.  “Suh-sorry, I-I’m sorry.  I-if you want to leave now, that’s okay.  W-w-we don’t have to get the buh-bug collection before you run-”

“You have a bug collection!?”  L leans into the table suddenly, raising an eyebrow.

Spencer stops, one eye peeking out through his hand.  “Yuh-Yeah?”

No freaking way.

L’s antennae flit back and forth, and she drops her voice conspiratorially, smiling as if sharing a secret.  “... I had an ant farm.”

Spencer blinks, his panic forgotten.  “What?”

“Ant farm.  Like, a big one.  Really, unreasonably huge, all across my bedroom.  It was so cool.”  She nods, warming to the memory.  “Like watching a whole world through your wall!”

“Yes, yes!”  Spencer leans in, too.  “All these… beautiful displays of colour, they just leave you so filled.  Like-”

“- you don’t have to hide,” she finishes for him.  His eyes flash with the words.  “You could be whoever, whatever, but the ants would never mind.  Not if you had wings - ”

“- o-or a stutter,” he continues.  “Or not many friends -”

“Because at least with them, you could be free!  You could be you!”

“Exactly!  Oh, God, how long have I waited for someone to…”  Spencer leans back, giggling for a moment.  “... Is that why you started singing, L?  To feel free?”

She chuckles, rubbing her head.  “Maybe.  It’s a bit more complicated than that.  Lots of big changes, recently.”

He sips his drink.  “Like what?”

“Like this.”  L frowns, gesturing to the room.  “Nymphs and songs and fae drinks.  I’ve spent a lot of my life hiding.  Not in glamours, or anything fancy like that, just… hoodies and binders.  ‘Safety first,’ that’s what we always said.  Didn’t want people to see my wings.”

“You’re from the human world?”  Spencer asks.  She nods.  “But not anymore?”

“No.  Not anymore.  And…”  L hesitates.  “I think I’m glad for it.  I didn’t choose the Glade, but I’m happy here.”

“Good.”  Spencer sets his drink down.  “Because the idea that you’ve ever been forced to hide… it breaks my heart.  You deserve to own that stage.  To be… the most beautiful person you can possibly be.”

“You don’t have to lean so hard into flattery.”

“But I’m not.  Just speaking the truth.  Seen too many people hide away in the human world.  Don’t want to see it in my fairy tales, either.”  Spencer takes a moment to look at his watch, before climbing out of the booth.  “Alright, darling.  It’s been fun.”

“Going already?”

“My collection won't add to itself.”  He laughs, placing a white card on the table.  “But if you ever want to see it, God forbid, just dial me up.”

She squints at the white square. Kensington.  That fancy neighbourhood across the river.  He’s already a few steps away when she calls out.  “Spence!”

He turns.

“You’re right.  I feel free.  And I want more.  I never want to hide again.”

Her breath hitches.  The world around them starts to change.  The Glade’s fog rises, gripping her skin.  Lavender floods her nostrils, mixed with fresh wood and lemon balm.  Another sound roars above her head.  Louder and louder and louder.

“Then call me, L Morgan,” Spencer says amidst the rain.  “Because there’s more to this world than the Market, and I’d love to help spread your wings.”

“ - hic -”

Her eyes open.  Sweat layers her body, the blankets are on the floor, and her stomach writhes in pain.  Daphne desperately needs water, but her arms and legs won’t move to reach it.

She’s frozen until the storm has passed.  Unmoving, as she was that night.  Even though he’s not here, nobody’s touched her, and the curtains have been pulled to show a bright and cloudless day.

Nice, France
Late August, 2021

Her body feels it, in a way words can’t describe.  But it’s only in the shower that she realises the day.

It’s the anniversary.

He probably doesn’t know, or he wouldn’t have picked tonight.  But there’s no going back now, for either of them.  The plane comes tomorrow, they’ve stalled for too long, and the Tower, their future, simply cannot wait.

Daphne scrubs her body intensely, trying to wash off all the imaginary filth.  The shower tiles are chequered, just like the walls, or her pillows.  She wants to see him.  He wasn’t in bed when she woke up, and Kepts should always be at their Keeper’s sides. Her nerves will be fritzed until that’s secure, but she swallows it down and scrubs even harder.  She has to be clean, like he wants.  Her needs aren’t important.

Not quite like Spencer’s.

Turning off the faucet, Daphne steps outside.  Exhaustion finally hits her as she’s brushing her teeth.  She got a few hours of sleep, at best.  It’s the nightmares.  This marks the fifth night of them in a row.

Still, she gets ready.  Pulls an ivory dress over herself and fits the wings through.  Daphne can’t let distractions come before duty.  She repeats the same mantra she’s been practising all week.  It won’t be bad.  He’ll be gentle.

“I’m going to enjoy it,” she whispers.  “And it’s not going to hurt.”

Daphne gathers up all her cosmetics in a small bag, knowing he’ll want to decorate her, and reaches the bedroom door.  The sight makes her stop; there’s a full-body mirror, casting a reflection of a pale face and bright blue wings.  She clutches her hair, studies.  It’s silver like moonlight, and trailing well past her shoulders.

So close to the proper length.

Daphne looks older, now.  Her face is sharper, her skin less smooth, and her hair has lost most of its fluff.  She peers into her eyes, and sees how they’ve dimmed.  The dress presses tightly on her chest and bottom, revealing more… mature curves.

Not like the girl in her dream, but a woman.

A wife.

A mother.

The voice from the interview comes creeping back, and something in her gut screams.  What if it does hurt?  What if it goes exactly how she knows it will go? What if she’s just desperately flailing at his final, greatest delusion?  What if she dies?

Daphne breathes in, and closes her eyes.  No.  She isn’t going to die, and Spencer isn’t going to kill her.  A piece might be lost, here or there, but he’ll love and cherish whatever parts are left.  And their child…

…

… it’s better than losing the whole.

Daphne opens her eyes with a start, and briefly flexes her wings.  She sighs in relief.  Of course.  That’s why she was feeling so off: she forgot her chains.  Laughing to herself, Daphne waltzes to her husband’s trunk, pushes her way through the masks until her fingers settle on thin bronze links.  Straining to connect and put them on is always a chore, but she loves seeing her Keeper’s smile whenever she does it.

There.  All nice and bound.  Daphne returns to the mirror, her wings sagging with their new weight.  She stretches her lips into a grin and steps out the door.

To Spencer.

He opens the plexi-glass carefully, wary that the slightest movement might disturb the butterfly’s serene world.  The sun sparkles brilliantly on the enclosure, the wind catching in his hair.  As he sets the apple core down and returns to the large pile of envelopes on the table, he smiles.

Watching him from the patio door, hands folded together, Daphne does the same.

He’s handsome, in his own way.  His age adds a certain lustre to his face, and those muscles.  How many husbands would work out just to please their wives?  From this light, with that hair, maybe she could imagine him as a dryad.  That should appeal to her, right?  Nymphs are supposed to like them.

“Morning, Spence.”  She waves away the questions with her words,

She walks towards her Keeper on even, mechanical steps.  Just as Alienor had insisted.

Spencer turns around, beaming, and her breathing calms. He’s happy. “Afternoon, Daph,” he corrects.

She bows slightly forward, her antennae tilted towards him.  “I’m ready to serve.”

His hand cups her cheek, pulling her face up, and she nuzzles into it automatically.

“Sorry I slept in,” Daphne says lightly. “I-I know you probably don’t mind, but I-”

He interrupts her with a kiss.  Long and passionate and deep.  Daphne closes her eyes, feels the heat in her face, and doesn’t pull away.  Instead, her fingers travel to the back of his neck, tingling his spine.  Helping.

She could have had an ugly Keeper, or a cruel Keeper, but instead, she can kiss him.  She’s so lucky, Daphne reminds herself.  She’s.  So.  Lucky.

When they part, Spencer keeps her chin lifted.  “I let my Kept sleep in because she’s earned the rest.  Just like she’s earned the tea I’ve put on the kettle.  Lavender.  Your favourite.”

Her smile grows.  Maybe one day it will be.  “You’re always taking care of me, Keeper.”

“I am.”  He kisses her forehead.  “Now go lay your makeup out on the table. I’ll be right back.”

He leaves her to settle into a patio chair.  Those strange sensations from that balcony in London come back, but Daphne doesn’t fight them.  There has to be a better word for them than what she’s thinking.

How about pleasure?

Daphne starts distributing her make-up vials in neat, orderly stacks.  By size, type, and colour.  It’s a nymph thing, she’s been told, and it always makes Spencer laugh.  In the corner of her eye, she spots a pair of antennae, pressing against glass.  They’re much smaller than her own.

“Afternoon, L,” she smiles.  “Are you keeping me company?”

The little butterfly flexes her wings.  Daphne takes that as a ‘yes.’

“I hope you don’t mind that I fed her already.”  Daphne jolts as Spencer walks up to her.  Setting the tea mugs aside, he lifts his hand.

“Not at all,” Daphne dutifully rises, her chin tilted up.  Standing perfectly still as he starts applying foundation.  “Um, may I offer my opinion?”

“Go ahead.”

“Who better than a Keeper to take care of her?”

Spencer laughs.  That caught him off-guard.  “G-good point, Daphne.  Who better?”

Daphne lets him work in silence.  Mascara, blush, some glitter. He even draws an intricate design for her eye-shadow, mimicking Grove fashion.  It’s not until the cherry lip gloss that he speaks again.  “Does this ever feel ridiculous?”

She doesn’t unpucker her lips.  “Mmm?”

“Me putting on your makeup.  Isn’t it a bit… redundant?”  He presses some sunscreen into his hand.  “Before, I was worried you’d sabotage it, but… now I’m embarrassing you for… no reason…”

Spencer’s smile fades as he applies what’s probably an excessive amount of lotion to her face.  Not that it’s her place to say.  “I’m confused, Keeper.  Are you asking for my opinion?”

Another pause.  Spencer blinks a few times before shaking his head.  “... no.  I’m not.  Sorry, I like doing it this way, I just… wanted to fill the air.”

“Of course, Spence.”  Daphne watches him step back.  “How do I look?”

She hears the catch in his breath as he admires her.  His eyes surge as his hand twirls in a gesture.  “Spin for me, Daphne.  Let me see the dress.”

Blushing, Daphne makes space and spins around and around, until she becomes dizzy.  When she stops, wobbling, her Keeper’s jaw is half-open.

“Wow,” he sighs.  “Stunning.”

Daphne performs a soft curtsy.  “It’s your dress, Spence.”

“But you’ve never looked so good in it.”  He takes a few steps closer.  “I didn’t realise white was your colour…”

He’s making her so bashful.  “Keeper, I - ”

Her breath hitches.  He’s coiled a hand around her arm.  Firmly.  There’s a soft, blank smile on his face.  Her chest starts to tighten, and distantly, she hears rain.

Daphne focuses on stillness.  The white patio boards, the black pool, things that aren’t moving that she can emulate.  His fingers trail down her bare skin, massaging her elbow, her forearm, settling on her wrist.  He pinches the skin, watching it go from pale to pink to pale back again.

“You’re not shaking,” he whispers.  “You’re really not shaking.”

She nods distantly, her eyes set on the distance, her face frozen in a smile.

Spencer releases her hand, and gestures to the chair.  “Sit down, Daphne.”  He reaches for the envelopes.  “There’s something you need to see.”

“Hi, Daphne.  My name is Elizabeth and I am ten years old.  I go to school in Surrey, and I’m like you.  I hated being a boy.”

Some of the characters on the page are tiny, others large.  Poor drawings of flowers and sunrises litter the letter’s margins.

“Sometimes people give me looks, or my friends parents whisper when I’m around.  It makes me feel sad.  I don’t like being the only one.  Mum says there are more like me, but I never see them.  Until you came on TV.”

Daphne puts a hand over her mouth.

“There are weird hairs growing on my face, and I don’t want them.  I want to look pretty like you.  Pa says there’s a way, but the govurnment won’t let me.  Your husband works there, so I wanted to ask you.  Do you think they could make an ekcepshun for me?”

She reads the letter again, then a third time.  Behind her, Spencer beams.  “The box came from Chloe this morning, and another two are waiting at home.  Apparently, the letters were spilling off my desk.”

Daphne looks at the pile by L Morgan’s cage.  There have to be hundreds.  “Are they all…?”

“For you?”  He nods.  “A few wrote in support of my bill, but I couldn’t capture these people.  Not like you have.”

She looks at the letter again.  The paper shakes in her hands.  “And… they’re all like this?”

“I wish they were, but no.  Chloe sent us everything,” Spencer rubs the back of his neck.  “There’s the hate mail we expected.  I sifted those out for you.  Same with the… ‘admirers’ who thought you should try dating them instead of a ‘beta cuck’ like me.  They tended to use slurs.  My personal favourite is the one clever bloke who took photos of his TV and kept circling your jawline in red.  ‘Proof you can’t alter God’s creation.’”

“We should tell whoever made the glamour.”  Daphne chuckles, rolling her eyes.  “So the reception’s been a bit mixed?”

“Pay the talking heads no mind,” Spencer waves a hand.  “They’re only after sensation and ratings.  Why else would they work with Mallory?  And with the media so out of touch, I can’t tell what the larger public thinks.  Not until my polls, but…”

He taps the pile.

“... Daphne, I’ve never received so many letters.  And I can’t remember a time when the letters I received were good.”

Stunned, Daphne grabs another envelope.

“Hey there.  Name’s Taylor, and me and my mates from Blackpool saw you on the telly.  I don’t normally write to rich Londoners like you. You said you worked at Cro-Mart, but you don’t get it.

See, up North, we’re different.  Folks are open, so there’s more of our people.  But it don’t mean shit.  Doctor still won’t give me meds, school still won’t use my name.  And we could get together and whine, or cry, or paint our faces and march around like you Pride pricks, but the government won’t listen. They’d have to walk into Blackpool first.  You know they’d rather rant about us on TV all day.

Dreadful, innit?  Always being the topic of the dinner table, but never getting a seat.  That’s how I thought it’d always be.  I was starting to lose hope.  But when you came along and kicked the hornet’s nest… you’re the hottest topic in Britain, ‘trans’ is on everyone’s lips, and I’m noticing that the words they use are different.  One of us is in their circle now.  It’s forcing them to ask questions.  It’s pushing them to change.

So thank you, Daphne Harcourt.  You might be a privileged arse, but you made us feel heard.”

Something stirs in Daphne’s chest.  It’s an old feeling, a forgotten feeling.  One she hasn’t known since she last sang at the Glade.

Spencer’s hand rests on her shoulder.  “Daphne, I’m proud.”

She smiles shyly.  “I just did what I was told.”

“I couldn’t command something like that,” Spencer squeezes.  “You walked into a lion’s den and left roaring.  Now you have an image, an influence, a following.  Which is why I wanted to offer you something.”

He pulls out another chair and sits down, meeting her eyes.

“These people don’t have your money.  Or your support, or fairy tale magic to help their transitions along.  But they need help, more than anyone.  So, if you were interested, I could put you through my networks, platform your policies in the Commons-”

“Spencer,” she interrupts him, stunned.  “You want me to join you?”

“I don’t want anything,” he replies.  “But you could be the voice these people have never had.”

Daphne hesitates.  They’re following a ghost.  Something that’s not real.

“I’d be there to help, every step of the way.  Parliament will stay my mess.  But… Daphne, this could get you out of the house.  You can meet people, make friends, make real differences instead of reading the days away.  Think about it, please.  This could be a future-”

“I-I’m a Kept,” she mumbles.  “It sh-shouldn’t be my-”

“I’ll only make this happen if you say the word,” Spencer nods.  “It has to be your choice, darling.  I need the answer from your lips.”

Daphne looks back to the envelopes.  After so many years of losing, she couldn’t conceive all these victories, stacked in that little pile.

This is part of his plan.  The voice comes back.  Every time you step outside, smile at a camera, shake a hand, you become Daphne.  You become his.

But what about Taylor?  Or Elizabeth?  They were hurting.  Trapped in their own bodies.  Daphne knew that feeling well.  So did L.  So did Lloyd.  But unlike those long lost names, she could save these girls, she could free them.

In ways nobody had ever freed her.

Daphne turns back to her husband, and takes his hand.  “Spencer, this…this is what the Tower is supposed to look like.  It’s as much a part of our future…”

She slowly presses his palm to her belly.

“... as this will one day be.”

His fingers settle on the warmth, eyes sparkling with that deep, alluring blue.  And then he laughs, like ice breaking off a glacier.

“Smile.  This is a good thing.”

Daphne whispers those words, but she doesn’t know to whom.

Smoke glistens into the sunset from Spencer’s cigarette.  L Morgan climbs her bundle of sticks, ready for another futile flight.  Daphne sifts through letters near her, arranging envelopes into three neat piles.  Beneath her grin, a heart racing-

“I never understood how you could keep doing that,” Spencer calls.

She jolts, more than she should.  “What!?”

“Reading.”  He looks warily at her frightened face.  “How you sit in silence for hours, silly.  What did you think I was going to say?”

“N-nothing, Keeper.”  She tries to chuckle it off.  “Just nerves.”

He doesn’t inquire, and Daphne knows it’s because he’s feeling them, too.  The further the sun dips, the more their anxiety grows.  They’re waiting for the moment.  Killing time.

“Well, personally, the only thing I think is spoiling today is the lack of proper stereo.”  Spencer tosses his cigarette butt into the wind.  “This view breathes Mahler, but I suppose five thousand quid a week wasn’t enough for the Tim Burton people to invest in some bloody speakers.”

Daphne’s antennae wilt, and she nervously folds her hands.  She finds herself getting more antsy whenever Spencer is displeased.  “I-I’m sorry, Keeper.  Is there anything I can do to help?”

“No, don’t worry, it’s…”  He pauses, looking out to the distant waves.  “... actually, yes.  There is something you can do.”

Daphne watches him turn around, a wide smile on his lips.  She tries to return it in vain.  There’s a fire in his eyes that stokes her fear.

“Would you like to sing for me?”

Daphne gulps, her eyes flitting from place to place.  “K-Keeper, I-I’m sorry, but I… couldn’t.  I-I’m not very good-”

“Nonsense.  I’ve heard you before.”  Spencer walks closer.

“Th-that wasn’t real.  That w-was a spell, I-I don’t know - ”

“I could order you,” Spencer replies.  “I mean, if you’ve heard the lyrics, a command should handle it.  It’s no big issue, Daphne.”

His voice is focused.  Firm.  Heavy.  She has no idea where it’s coming from, or why he’s saying these things.

Daphne sucks in a breath, clutching her chair.  “Sp-Spencer, Spence, I… I don’t know…”

“You don’t want to, do you?”  He finally reaches her, his shadow towering.  “After all, you promised you’d never sing for me.”

Her lips twitch, utterly terrified of anything she could say.

“Daphne.  Look at me.”  He waits until her head tilts.  “When do your feelings matter?”

She bites her lip.  “I… I…”

“When I say they matter.  You know that, Daphne.  You told me yourself, you don’t know all your feelings.  You want to be guided.”

Shame and fear make her face red.  She nods quickly.  “Yes.”

“So you’re going to do whatever I want.  Because I’m guiding you, and… I own you.”

Spencer stops himself, pulling back and watching the clouds.  “I own you.”  He repeats the words more slowly, testing them.  “I.  Own.  You.”

Daphne quavers, putting more into her smile with each passing second.  “I-”

“Did I say you could speak?”

Daphne closes her lips, swallowing.  Spencer turns back.

“Let’s try this again.  Sing for me, Daphne.”

“Of course, Spence.  I’d love to sing for you.”

“There we go!  You silly Diphle-Daph.”  He pets her head.  “Go by the pool’s edge.  That can be your stage.”

Daphne rushes to the pool, and Spencer occupies her former seat.  He studies the butterfly enclosure as she turns to face him.  “Stand tall and straight, darling.  Big smile, hands behind your back like… there, perfect!  No moving!”

Spencer smiles as her body rigidly obeys the commands.  All that comes back to her brain is paralysed tingling.

“Have I ever told you what song got me so obsessed with classical music?”  He doesn’t wait for her answer.  “It wasn’t Mozart or Beethoven, shockingly, but a TV programme I saw as a boy.  Andrew Lloyd Webber was performing a requiem for his late father, and it just stunned the whole country.  Literally topped the charts with… choirs and strings! It was the most…”

He pauses, looking at her before lifting his hands.  “Bring those wings all the way up!  As wide as you can.  I want to see those chains!”

Daphne slowly lifts her wings forward, the cold bronze bouncing against the silk.  Perfect and posed and exactly how he wants.

Spencer smiles.  “You’re so beautiful, Daphne.  And you’re all mine.”

Her eyes flare anxiously above the dull smile as Spence lifts L Morgan’s cage.  Holding it over his face, until his wife seems trapped in the glass.

“We’re bound together in ways nobody in this world could ever be.  Your body, your thoughts, your voice, your name.  I can pick and choose them.  And you’ll accept it all.  Without complaint.”

Daphne watches him, putting all she can into her smile.

“You’re standing here.  Everything you are, ripe for the taking.”  His free hand clenches into a fist.  “So long as I have the strength to take it.”

A few terrified seconds pass, before he bursts into laughter and sets the cage down.  “Okay, okay, that’s enough games.  Heheheheh, sorry!  I’m practising a new ‘Sexy Keeper’ act for tonight.  Did that get you all excited?”

That’s not the exact words she’d use to describe how she feels, but she nods anyway.

“Splendid!  Well, let’s not waste any time. Webber’s requiem is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard, so I can’t think of anything better for you.”  Spencer’s eyes spark gold.  “Daphne, I command you to sing ‘Pie Jesu.’”

Daphne gasps, and her diaphragm tightens, forcibly taking all the air she’ll need.  She feels her throat open up of its own accord, the words rolling like sunlight on the Mediterranean’s waves.

“Pie jesu…”  It’s a slow, winding piece.  She’s heard it enough over Spencer’s sound system to remember.  “Pie jesu…”

Spencer leans back as the song echoes across the patio.  The sun shines on the bronze of her chains and the blue of her wings.

“... Agnus dei, agnus dei…”

Daphne closes her eyes and follows the music, trying to bend with its rhythm.  It’s a strange feeling, having her voice taken from her, breathing and speaking through powers that aren’t her own.  When she used the magic song so long ago, following the flow felt natural.  It didn’t feel like this.

“Qui tollis peccata mundi, dona eis requiem…”

But the Keeping’s beauty moves forward, unabated.  Just like the wetness growing in Spencer’s eyes.

“Dona eis requiem.”

As she watches him, and he watches her, neither can see the being between.  A frail little creature, clutching to her twigs.  Perhaps still dreaming of the blue sky and white clouds.

“Sempiternum…”

They don’t see how L Morgan’s climb up the branches has slowed.  How she eats less.

“... sempiternum…”

And how each wingbeat is slower than the last.

“... requiem.”

continue reading -> 

Howdy y’all!  Lehanna here to welcome you to your new nightmare!

As this chapter incorporates a lot of music, I wanted to provide you all access to these songs if you haven’t heard them before:

‘Flickerlight’, the song L performs at the start of the chapter, is original music composed by our good friend and sometimes-contributor PlasterBrain for Chrysalis.  You can find the original here

‘Pie Jesu’ has been performed by dozens of artists since it’s launch, but my personal favourite is the version by Croatian artists Josephine Ida Zec and HAUSER

Spencer and Daphne’s last day of vacation continues in Chapter 27: The Second Waltz, coming to you Friday, January 12th.  And with them, the Tower approaches…