bandombigbang2012 Red is the Rose, Brendon/Spencer, R, Part 2
Part 1
“Yes, please, I would love to see whatever it is you think I would like so much.” Brendon easily joins hands with Spencer. They walk casually through the Wild Wood, and Brendon can’t tell if it’s having Spencer at his side, or just the softly glowing light everything they pass is now bathed in, but the dark forest doesn’t seem nearly as frightening as it did when he was on his own. They walk through the woods at a stroll and Spencer points out species of plants and trees Brendon has never seen on his side of the North Fence, back in Summerlin.
There are animals too--quiet and watchful, their large eyes shining in the glow of Spencer’s Faerie light. Brendon chortles happily as the creatures venture forth to greet Spencer, their natural curiosity finally winning out over their shyness at Brendon’s presence. Spencer speaks softly in the Old Words to a tiny, deer-like animal and Brendon stoops to pet her soft roan fur. “Is this what you wanted to show me?” Brendon can barely contain the wonder in his voice.
“No, this is very much unexpected.” Spencer stops his soft murmuring and nods his thanks at the tiny fawn. “What I think you would enjoy is over here,“ he pulls Brendon by the hand, and through a dense growth of ferns taller than most men. “Look,” he says, his smile wider than Brendon knew it could be.
Brendon is speechless. Eyes wide, he tries to take in all that he’s seeing. A pond--or a small lake, really--spreads out before them. It’s a blue Brendon has never seen before. Not even a mid-summer sky, or Spencer’s eyes, can come close to matching its beauty. The water glitters and shines, both with the otherworldly light all things touched by the Seelie folk seem to possess, and reflecting the thousands upon thousands of tiny lights that glimmer in the air above it, and skip along its surface. “Wow,” is the only word Brendon can form after long quiet moments. “I love fireflies!” He exclaims, holding out his hand as one of the twinkling lights zigzags closer.
“They aren’t fireflies.” Spencer whispers in Brendon’s ear. He rests his chin on Brendon’s shoulder, one arm around his waist, pulling him close.
“...not...fireflies?” Brendon leans back into Spencer’s solid warmth, confusion clear in his voice as he cranes his neck to try and read Spencer’s expression. “Then what are they?” he says in a low, husky voice as one of the lights hovers over his outstretched fingers.
Spencer holds out his own hand, allowing one of the lights to rest on his index finger. “Have a look,” he says and raises his hand close in front of Brendon’s eyes.
What had at first appeared to Brendon to be the flickering tail of a firefly is actually an orb of light. Contained within is a tiny creature, her translucent wings beating faster than a humming bird’s. “Oh! She’s beautiful! What are they?”
“Sprites,” Spencer says with authority. “Spirits of the forest. They’re the smallest of all the creatures in Faerie, and possibly the oldest. Their size and knowledge allows them to pass through the veil between worlds with an ease most others envy.” Spencer’s voice is thick with an emotion Brendon can’t read and he thinks perhaps Spencer is talking about himself. “Especially at this time of year.”
Brendon blushes and grins when the tiny Sprite kisses the tip of his nose, her delighted laugh a barely audible squeak. “I think she likes you.” Spencer laughs as they watch her fly away, her fragile wings arcing rainbows as she flies back out over the pond.
“I like her too!” Brendon is thoroughly besotted as he gently touches his nose, still warm from the Sprite’s kiss. They watch the tiny creatures bob and weave and duck and spin. “What are they doing?”
“Courting,” Spencer smiles bashfully.
“Courting?” Brendon watches the lights merge and join then flutter apart. “Oh! You mean...oh.” He coughs to cover his embarrassment and then follows Spencer to the shelter of a thick evergreen that must have been a sapling when Spencer was a human boy.
Patting the ground beside him, Spencer laughs and nods, “Yes, that is what I mean. Will you rest here awhile with me, Bòidheach?”
Wordlessly, Brendon sinks down beside Spencer, wrapping his arms around him and sinking into his solid warmth. They content themselves with watching the Sprites and their dazzling display. “At home,” Brendon says in a hushed tone, “when the animals...when they...court. It is usually in the spring. It is unusual for,” he coughs and clears his throat, unsure why he is so embarrassed, “mating to occur at the full of autumn, isn’t it?”
“Time moves differently for the Seelie,” Spencer kisses the corner of Brendon’s lips and then yawns broadly, making them both laugh.
“You were just about to go sleep when I interrupted you,” Brendon admonishes, settling Spencer down until his head is pillowed on Brendon’s thigh. He runs his fingers through the soft, slippery strands of Spencer’s hair.
Spencer nuzzles into the petting and says, in a sleepy voice, “Mmmm...will you stay with me, just a little while longer?”
Brendon’s heart lurches in his chest as he looks down at Spencer’s face; eyes closed and more relaxed than Brendon’s seen him in their few brief meetings. He trails the pads of his fingers over Spencer’s bearded cheek, making his eyelashes twitch at the tickling sensation. “No place I’d rather be.” Brendon buries his hand back in Spencer’s hair, smoothing it over and over. “I suppose I’ve missed Sunday meeting by now anyway.” His tone is a little more bitter than he would have liked.
“Oh, aye?” Spencer mumbles, on the edge of sleep.
“Mmm. But lately I’ve been wondering. You know, how am I supposed to believe in something I’ve never seen? How am I supposed to follow rules that say if I do not marry I am nothing? That if I choose to court a man I have no rights?” Of their own volition Brendon’s fingers tug at the strands of Spencer’s hair he’s got wrapped around his fingers.
The tugging wakens Spencer, and his eyes flutter open, studying the dark scowl on Brendon’s face, “That is the truth of it? Men are not free to court of their choosing?” He blinks and rubs his cheek against the rough fabric of Brendon’s homespun trousers.
“Yes,” Brendon soothes the spot where he’d been tugging at Spencer’s hair. He sighs and wrinkles up his nose. “Anyway, I’m not sure I can believe anything when these so called beliefs were supposedly whispered in the ear of the Founder of Faith by a salmon. That can’t actually be true, any more than loving who we chose to love is wrong.” He shrugs and his shoulders droop.
“Fionn mac Cumhail didn’t talk to the salmon, he ate it.” Spencer’s brows crease in a frown and his voice is grumpy and young. It surprises Brendon that Spencer would know the tale, but it’s easy to forget Spencer comes from a time so long in the past. He’s just about to question Spencer about this so called Exchange of All Knowledge when he looks down.
Spencer is sound asleep, his breath soft and warm against Brendon’s leg. Brendon sighs and stares at the Sprites and their magical lights.
* * *
It’s raining heavily when Brendon finally ducks under the wire barbs of the fence in the North Pasture, making for home. And finds himself staring into one large brown eye. Algernon the Urie family plow-horse is chewing at some weeds he’s pulled from around the fence post. And atop Algernon is Brendon’s brother, Matt, his scowl plain enough to see behind the rivulets of rain water falling from his wide brimmed hat. He’s not alone. Brendon swallows and blinks up into the face of his eldest brother. Mason is dressed in his Captain of the Guard uniform, astride his yearling, Boxer. Most disturbingly of all, Ian the good natured shepherd is standing between the two, the rain water mixing with his tears and a thin trickle of blood that is escaping from his left nostril; a purple blue bruise under his eye.
“Oh Brendon, I am so sorry.” He says, attempting to move towards Brendon, only to be cut off when Matt and Mason move their mounts into his path. “They made me tell them! And then they made me wait with them, every day until you returned.”
“Brother, would you care to explain your deceptions?” Mason’s expression is stern and stony.
Every day? Sighing while trying to give Ian a look of reassurance and forgiveness, Brendon says, “No. Not to you. Let’s go see Mother and Father.” He shoulders his way between his brothers and their horses, giving Algernon a friendly pat on the rump and linking his arm with Ian’s, then continuing across the pasture as if to continue his way home, without giving his brothers a second glance.
As he stands before the hearth, the cheery fire spitting and popping in protest at the thin mist of rain water sneaking down the flue, Brendon’s stomach twists with the absolute knowledge that he’s disappointed his father and hurt his mother deeply. She sits in her rocking chair, wringing her kerchief in her fisted hands and weeping. “So, you missed Sunday meeting to go traipsing about in the Wild Wood, chasing Faerie folk for days at a time.” His father stalks back and forth in front of him, watching the measure of each footfall and not even sparing Brendon a glance.
“Yes.” Brendon has had enough of lies and deception. He winces when his mother’s weeping is joined by Ian, bawling along with her.
“You went into the Wild Wood!” Mason shouts. “That is forbidden! You know that!”
Voice oddly calm, Brendon turns to his brother and smiles, “Forbidden, but not formally so. Am I right? There are no laws to keep people out, only fences and old wives' tales.”
“There’s no lovely girl in Henderson. No courting. No wedding to be had.” His mother blows her nose loudly. “Oh Brendon, my beautiful baby boy, you lied to us. Your own mother and father. How could you?”
Brendon shrugs and takes a deep breath, trying not to cry at the sight and intensity of his mother’s distress, “I would spare you the truth.”
“Truth? Truth! Boyd do you hear the words your son speaks? It is madness.” Grace stands up and then sits down just as abruptly. “And to add to our misery, you missed Sunday meeting, what was I to say to the womenfolk at the market these past three days?”
“Yes mother, I missed Sunday meeting. I’m sure the entirety of Summerlin is abuzz and calculating at which exact moment I shall be cast into the Outer Darkness!”
“Don’t say that!” Brendon’s mother, father, Ian and Mason shout simultaneously, making complicated hand gestures between their mouths and hearts.
Clapping a meaty fist against Brendon’s shoulder, sending him slightly off balance, his father says in grave seriousness, “Your mother and I can only conclude that you have been enchanted. There’s no help for it; you must go to The Brobeck and beg for your immortal soul.”
“Father! I don’t need to beg anyone for...”
“Silence!” Boyd roars, his round face an alarming shade of red. “You have brought enough shame to your family, and yourself. Cavorting all over the Republic, at all hours, doing whatever it is you want at the moment. You will listen to me Brendon, and you will listen to me well. If you do not seek The Brobeck’s council, you will most definitely be cast out of this household! Do I make myself clear?”
Long seconds tick by and Brendon says nothing. He tries to formulate a plan. He wants with all his heart to run to the Wild Wood and beg Spencer to bring him to the Seelie Lands. He wants to run to the Wild Wood and pluck every last rose from the King’s beautiful plants, compelling Spencer to take him to the King.
He just wants Spencer.
But he has no plan, and no time to make one, pinned in place as he is by his father’s angry blue-grey glance. He looks at his mother, his brother, and Ian. The thought of leaving all he’s known, no matter that he has never felt he truly belongs, leaves him cold. He can never have what he wants, anyway, so instead he finally replies, “Perfectly.”
“I’m sending Mason with you, to make sure you actually go to The Brobeck, and don’t end up at some other foolish distraction. And take Ian with you, his soul can use some council as well, I’m sure.”
“Yes, sir!” Ian pipes up. He’s finally stopped crying and looks painfully eager to please his employer and secure Brendon’s forgiveness.
Mason clamps an arm across Brendon’s shoulder, ushering him towards the door. “Let’s go now, The Brobeck is expecting you. Has been since Ian told us what you’d gotten up to. The sooner we leave, the sooner this nonsense will be over with.”
The boys cast withering glances at each other, but whatever fight Brendon felt when set upon by his brothers at the edge of the Wild Wood has long fled. He bends to kiss his mother’s cheek, brushing away a tear as it drips from her chin. “I’ll be back soon, Mother.”
They tromp across the fields and through The Meadows, Mason never far from them, smugly astride his yearling as Brendon and Ian shiver in the cold fall rain. “I really am sorry, Brendon. It was a stupid story to make up, and then you were gone so long and your brothers were so angry...I didn’t know what else to do.” Ian says miserably, spitting out the words from between his chattering teeth.
Brendon hugs himself, the sopping wet wool of his sweater scratching against his fingertips. “No, Ian. I’m sorry that you had to lie for me in the first place. And I am certainly sorry that my brothers felt the need to beat you. Their anger is for me, it was wrong of them.”
Ian hiccoughs miserably and his face twists up as though he’s about to cry again, so Brendon hands him Bogart to pet. The little dog had trailed their every move from the fence line to the house, and now across the fields. Brendon’s glad of his company. He would be lying if he said he isn’t afraid.
The Brobeck is the spiritual leader of his people. No one Brendon knows has ever actually seen a Brobeck, mind, but He puts forth writings and His speeches and proclamations are read at all Sunday Meetings, festivals and Republic events. He is wise and powerful and, Brendon thinks, completely terrifying to contemplate.
The Brobeck’s compound, ironically enough, is almost to Henderson. It takes Ian and Brendon, who are walking briskly because of the cold rain, almost an hour to get there on foot. When they reach the bramble hedge that obscures the house from the high road, Mason says, “Okay, so I’ve brought you here. You can do the rest,” and rides off back towards Summerlin proper.
“So,” Ian’s voice is high pitched and he swallows loudly, “Would you make terrible fun of me if I said I am scared?”
Brendon’s smile is tight and grim, when he reaches out his hand to give Ian’s fingers a comforting squeeze. “Not at all, my friend. Not at all.” He pushes at the rusty gate and it squeals in protest. The pathway leading up to the only brick house Brendon can recall ever seeing is narrowed by the considerably brambly hedge that rises a good ten feet on either side of the gravel walk. The grey clouds and pouring rain do nothing to lift Brendon’s spirits, and he senses that Ian feels the same way. The wooden porch on the front of the house is drooped and peeling. “You’d think they could spare a few coins from the collection plate to spruce the place up a bit, wouldn’t you?”
Ian snorts out a laugh and then covers his mouth with his hand when the heavy front door opens. “Breezy!” Ian grins, and then says, “Oops, I mean Sister Weekes. I didn’t know you worked for The Brobeck,” he says the last words in a low tone of reverence.
“Hello, Brother Crawford, it’s good to see you.” Breezy--Sister Weekes, brushes her long dark hair behind her ear and smiles at Ian and Brendon in turn. “I greet visitors and schedule appointments. He’s expecting you, Brendon, you can go on through.” She motions towards a long hallway and smiles warmly. “You can hang your sweater up on a peg just there, and I’ll bring you some tea, this weather is terrible! You poor boys must be frozen.” She is genuine and kind when she smiles. Brendon is unsure how much his family has told her, or how much she’s heard from Summerlin gossip, but there’s nothing but warmth in her expression.
Brendon drops his sweater over a peg by the front door and watches as a puddle starts to form on the ugly brown rug beneath it. “Um,” he rocks back and forth on his heels, hands jammed into the front pockets of his trousers, “Ian I guess you can wait out here?”
Nodding eagerly, Ian takes a seat on a faded red settee, a small cloud of dust puffing into the air from his weight. Breezy once more indicates the door at the end of the long hallway, and then turns to making a pot of tea. Brendon drags his feet, in no hurry to meet The Brobeck.
The halls are cluttered with piles of books and papers, and the walls are lined with water colors depicting the Faith and its glorious past. He snorts, wondering what Spencer would make of this telling and retelling of things he’s seen with his own eyes. And then Brendon wonders if he’ll ever get a chance to ask Spencer, or even see him again. For the first time since he cleared the tree line from the Wild Wood, Brendon swallows back the threat of tears.
The door at the end of the hall is ajar and Brendon cautiously walks into the room, waiting for the grand Brobeck Reveal. The room is empty. Well, not exactly empty; there’s a large desk and shelves crammed with yet more books and a sofa and several chairs, but there’s no one, Brobeck or otherwise, in the room. Confused, Brendon takes a seat in one of the hard wooden chairs and stares out one of the many paned windows, watching the rain fall. He’s so absorbed in his thoughts, Brendon jumps to his feet when there’s an affected coughing sound from just inside the door. “Brother Weekes?” He asks in confusion.
“Hiya Brendon,” Dallon Weekes, Breezy’s husband and owner of Summerlin’s only mercantile gives an awkward wave as he enters the room. “Have a seat,” Dallon waves Brendon back into the chair and slides behind the desk, shuffling papers and picking up a clipboard. “So, your parents tell me you’re enchanted.” He makes air quotes and a small, careful smile graces his handsome face.
Brendon blinks and his brain eventually catches up with his eyes. “Wait. You’re The Brobeck?”
“Pay no attention to the man behind the desk,” Breezy jokes as she enters with a tea service on a silver tray. She hands Brendon a large cup of already brewed tea and sits on the edge of Dallon’s desk, the skirt of her pretty pink striped dress fanning out over it. “I suppose you could say we’re The Brobeck.” She shrugs.
Dallon nods agreeably. “Yes. Because, well, there’s a lot to write, and a lot to read. And, it’s kind of an inherited position. My Father was The Brobeck and his father was The Brobeck, and well you get the picture.” Dallon gratefully takes the cup of tea Breezy offers him. “And, well, in all this time nobody’s ever asked for an audience. They seem pretty happy with a letter.” He makes a face that is somewhere between apologetic and resigned.
“But that’s....that’s ridiculous!” Brendon blusters and then burns his tongue when he raises the tea cup to his lips and drinks deeply.
Having carefully set the tea things on the big desk, Breezy takes a chair beside Brendon. “Look Brendon, people, they need to believe in something. And we help them, we do. And if there’s a little...mystery to it, that’s okay too. And well, you never know...we keep the rules, and people like rules. They like to feel safe. Our writings, they make the world make sense.”
“This doesn’t make any sense at all to me.” Brendon mutters and sets his tea down on a small round table.
“We’ve never had someone claim Enchantment before, either.” Dallon confides in him. “Are you? Have you been to the Seelie Lands?”
“What? No!” Brendon stands then and makes to leave, until Breezy settles him again. “Wait. You mean you believe in Faerie folk?”
“Of course,” the Weekes’ say together.
Dallon shrugs like he’s stating a simple truth. “They know about us, we know about them. We put up a fence, they cast a spell on the Wild Wood, and everyone’s happy.”
“Except me.” Brendon says miserably, playing with the china tea cup; spinning it round on its saucer.
Setting his clipboard down again, and shuffling yet more paper, Dallon sighs and says, “Look, Brendon. In all my years, in all the years of all The Brobecks before me,” Breezy harrumphs in her throat and Dallon quickly amends, “Before us, I mean, no one has ever gone into the Wild Wood. Ever.”
“So?”
“So--you went, you explored you--sowed some wild oats.” Breezy laughs at the expression of extreme distaste on Dallon’s face. “Now you’re back and you can honor your parents and never go back.”
Brendon is so taken aback he just sits there with his mouth hanging open. Eventually he finds words, “Really? That is your sage and learned advice? Honor my parents?”
“Oh, well and tell us about the Faeries. You know, if you want to.” Dallon chuckles. “Look Brendon, it’s not like your dad gave us a lot of time to come up with something here. You went into the Wild Wood. You weren’t supposed to. Don’t do it again.”
“I’m not going to tell you about Faeries! You shouldn’t even care about Faeries, never mind believe in them. And for the last time, there’s no law against going into the Wild Wood. Just because everyone’s been too afraid to ever do it, doesn’t mean it’s wrong!”
“You’re old enough to know better.” Breezy adds. “Just find a nice girl and settle down, okay?”
His tea finished, Brendon stands. “So that’s it? No praying for my immortal soul? No lecture about being cast into the Outer Darkness? Just...just...do what everyone expects of me?”
“We always pray for everyone’s immortal soul,” Dallon says and Breezy nods encouragingly. “Here’s a list of readings I’ve put together about avoiding temptation and respecting your elders and community traditions.” He hands over a neatly folded square of paper.
Brendon snatches the sheet from Dallon’s hand and tucks it into his pocket. “This is...ridiculous. I’m done here!” And he storms out of The Brobeck’s office and into the waiting room. “C’mon, we’re leaving!” Brendon shouts at Ian without stopping to wait for him.
“How did it go?” Ian says with concern, trotting to catch up with Brendon.
“I’ll tell you how it went! It was ridiculous. If I didn’t think Sunday Meeting was a waste of my time before, I certainly do now. Ian you’d do well to lead the people of Summerlin, they’re all a bunch of sheep, and The Brobeck is the biggest sheep of all.” Brendon’s arms pump furiously as he stalks across The Meadows.
Ian’s expression could not be more shocked if Brendon had slapped him. “Brendon! You can’t say that! That’s terrible!”
“So are they!” Brendon huffs. “I am so done with this town and its sheep-people.”
“What are you talking about?” Ian straightens his glasses and lengthens his stride to keep up with Brendon.
Brendon stops dead and holds up his hands to prevent Ian from crashing into him. “Here, take this. Prove to my father that you saw the Brobeck; that you’re willing to repent or whatever it is the flock tells you you’re supposed to do.” He reaches into his pocket and takes out the square of paper Dallon had given him, pressing it into Ian’s palm.
“Why? Why can’t you tell him?” Ian’s voice is pitched high with worry and he shakes rain water out of the tangled mess of his curls.
“I’m running away,” Brendon announces with a flourish.
Ian’s eyebrows rise to his hairline in surprise. “Um, don’t you think at your age it’s more like...leaving.”
“Whatever, “ Brendon waves a dismissive hand. “I’m going back to the Wild Wood and no one can stop me. I’m not coming back. See how they like that! And you feel free to tell my brothers that if they ask.” Brendon abruptly turns north and stalks off.
Blinking into the post-storm drizzle Ian says, “Wait. Did The Brobeck pray for my immortal soul too?”
* * *
The feasting hall is loud with merriment, but Spencer sits staring glumly into his tankard, watching the ale slosh around in the pewter cup. “Hello, pretty! Why so glum?” William, one of the Kingsguard, and of the Elven realm straddles the long bench beside him, stealing Spencer's tankard and helping himself to a healthy swallow.
The Captain of the Guard-Gabe, who is coincidentally also an Elf-flicks the thick purple velvet of his cloak aside to reach over and tug on a lock of William's long brown hair. “Bilvy, my good man, I know that look. I do believe the pretty human is besotted.”
“Feisigh do thoin fein,” Spencer growls, focusing his attention on the table.
William clamps a sympathetic hand at Spencer's shoulder and gives him a knowing look. “So, which member of the Seelie Court has caught the eye of Pete's pet human?” Gabe forges on, oblivious to the look of misery on Spencer's face.
Exasperated, Spencer huffs out an indignant breath and says, “Not that it's any of your concern, but no one in the court holds any appeal for me.”
William laughs at Spencer's conviction and Gabe narrows his eyes, considering. “Ah well, I do know the look of a lovesick pup when I see one, so Flower Boy, if it's not someone in the court...”
“Oh Spencer!” William suddenly exclaims, “You can't mean that you've fallen in love with a human?” He spits the word out like he's tasted something nasty.
“I know it's been a while since I was among my own kind, but I am human. Why should I not...have affection for another human?” Feigning nonchalance Spencer lifts the drum stick of an oversized fowl from his truncheon to his mouth, and takes an obscenely large bite, chewing with his mouth open in the hopes of significantly offending Elivish manners so that his two dining companions leave him in peace. “And for your information I am not Pete's pet human. It seems to me that being human in the Seelie court is the last thing anyone would ever want to be.” He mumbles around his bite of food.
A dark, knowing glance passes between the two elves before William finally says, “Spencer, you truly do not know?”
“Not know...?” Spencer prompts after he swallows his food, wiping his face with his sleeve.
“You have been among the Fae-folk for some while now...” Gabe starts, then takes a fortifying swallow from his own tankard. “Have you never noticed that Pete, Our King...he does not take hostages?”
Spencer stops, and the poultry leg is suspended in his grip, halfway between his plate and his mouth. “Well, now that you mention it...”
William pats Gabe's shoulder and continues for him, “Spencer, every thousand years the Seelie King must pay a tithe to the Caorthannach. This is how the veil, however thin, is maintained between the worlds. How we keep the peace in all realms.”
Spencer glares-glacial blue-at both members of the Kingsguard. “What care I for the cost of peace? I have been held here, waiting for some act to be equal to the saving of my life. How much gold Pete must surrender is nothing to do with me.” He quirks his eyebrow and tears a large bite of bird flesh between his teeth.
“Spencer,” Gabe sets his empty cup down on the wooden table with a thump, “The tithe isn't gold. It's not money at all. It's-you.”
“What?” Spencer sputters into his own trencher, his eyes wide and his mouth open in confused disbelief.
Very gently, William reaches over and wipes the beads of ale from Spencer's beard with the leather tips of his gauntlet. “Once, every thousand years on what your human world calls Samhain, the Caorthannach demands a sacrifice to keep the pact made by Pete's ancestors. Pete knew you were the one, that's why he's kept you, all these years.”
When he can speak again Spencer says, “Samhain? But that's less than a fortnight away in the Summer Lands!” Spencer stands, then sits, then stands again. The Elves give him a look of pity, whether in sympathy for the truth Spencer’s just learned, or for the fact that he still keeps track of the passage of time in the human world, Spencer can’t say. “I will not offer myself up on a plate to some sidhe! This is absurd! Surely the King will see reason?”
Gabe and William just continue to look sadly up at Spencer, “It is the way of things, Spencer. You cannot change it. The magic is too strong. The world is dependent upon this thing.” Gabe tugs on Spencer's elbow and settles him on the bench beside him, cuddling him close. “You owe the King, the Seelie folk, a debt that must be repaid. No one lives forever.”
Blinking and swallowing, Spencer says, “This is not how I imagined a warrior's end,” he stares at his lap and says no more. He doesn't say that the world is unfair and unkind and how dare he be allowed to find Brendon just in time to be snatched away. He just blinks slowly and tries to remember to breathe.
* * *
Brendon runs through the Wild Wood heedless of the wandering vines and twisted tree roots he trips and stumbles on too many times to count, but his anger pushes him on. He thrashes through the darkened trees, feet pounding against the moss strewn ground, anger pushing him on to the familiar clearing and its roses-and Spencer. He is so angry and disillusioned by his meeting with Dallon and Breezy (he refuses to ever again refer to them and their sham belief as The Brobeck) that hot tears course down his cheeks as he swipes aside trailing tendrils of greenery. He doesn't know what he'll do when he gets to the clearin¬g, doesn't know what he'll say.
He only knows he wants Spencer.
Breathing heavy, Brendon bends at the waist, his hands braced on his knees, mumbling at himself to get it together. He dashes the tears from his cheeks and inches closer to the rose bush. He inhales the lush scent of the blooms and he starts to feel more calm. Biting his bottom lip, Brendon reaches out to stroke his thumb slowly across a rose petal, watching as his finger tips are bathed in the faerie light.
“Brendon?” Spencer's voice behind him is soft, tentative.
Turning quickly on his heel, Brendon crosses the short distance to where Spencer is standing, once more in his armour and cloak, although his broadsword remains carefully housed in the sheath across his back. Relief floods through him as Brendon flings himself at Spencer, who has no choice but to open his arms to Brendon or be flung backwards by the force of the embrace. “Oh Spencer!” Brendon is barely able to keep the tremble of a pent up wail from his voice.
“Hey. Hey now, it's all right, mo chroí, it's all right,” Spencer rests his cheek atop Brendon's head and makes soothing, quieting noises, holding him tight. Very gently, Spencer strokes the tip of his forefinger under Brendon's chin, tilting his head up so he can meet his eyes. “What is it? Are you hurt? Did something frighten you?” Spencer's concerned darkened eyes flit from studying Brendon's face to searching the darkness beyond the safe pool of light cast by the rose bush.
Brendon sags against Spencer, feeling the glowing warmth of the armour's metal seep into his bones like reassurance. “No, no.” He swallows loudly and Spencer watches as Brendon's pulse leaps just below the set of his clenched jaw. “I'm...lost.” He finally says in a small voice.
“No, Bòidheach, you are not lost. You've found me. You're here now, shhh.” Spencer kisses across Brendon's forehead and cheeks.
“No, no,” Brendon rests his cheek against the breast plate of Spencer's armour, pausing while he tries to find words to explain all that has happened since he last saw Spencer. “Everything I thought I once believed-everything my parents still believe, and the entire Republic for that matter-it's all lies, all based on superstition and nonsense.” Brendon stops babbling and raises his face to Spencer's. He mashes their mouths together in a desperate, messy kiss. “Please,” he husks, “Please Spencer, take me with you. Take me back to the Seelie lands with you. There's nothing here for me, anymore.” He sniffles and moves to wrap his arms more securely around Spencer's neck.
Jerking back, Spencer releases Brendon so abruptly and shoves at him with such force that Brendon has to fling out his arms to keep his balance. “You know I can't do that. That cannot happen.” Each word is clipped and precise, and the look in Spencer's eyes is so shuttered and cold that Brendon cries out like he had fallen.
“I don't care!” Brendon wails miserably. “I'll do anything! I'll pick every single last rose from that bush and beg the Faerie King himself!” Brendon scowls and takes a brave step forward. “Everyone in the Republic is a liar. And even those that don't spread the lies, live in fear of those lies. They are sheep! Hateful, fearful sheep. I can't live that way, Spencer,” Brendon holds out an imploring hand. “I won't live that way. I won't go back.”
“Brendon!” Spencer's voice is loud in the quiet of the Wild Wood. He says the name sharply, and it sounds strange to Brendon's ears; no warmth, no terms of endearment. Spencer crosses his arms over his chest, ignoring Brendon's reaching arms. “Do not say such things. The King's justice is no joke! You are human you belong in this world, you know nothing of the Faerie world, and I would not wish it upon you.”
Repeatedly opening and closing his balled fists at his sides, Brendon cries, “I don't care! If you won't take me to the Seelie Lands maybe we can just stay here?” he waves his arm to take in the dark circle of forest beyond the rose bush, “In the Wild Wood. Maybe make a home together by the Sprite's lake. I don't care about being human, don't give a damn about the Republic, Spencer. I only care about you.” Brendon darts forward, grabbing desperately at Spencer’s cloak and bunching it up in his fists.
Spencer stares unflinchingly at Brendon for long minutes, swallowing and breathing heavily, but saying nothing. Finally, with a little nod to himself and an arch of his eyebrows he says, “No. Go home Brendon. There's nothing for you here.” He pries Brendon's fingers from their tangle in the soft velvet material and pins them to his side.
“Nothing? Truly? You...you do not want me?” Brendon closes his eyes and draws a deep breath, hope and fear warring inside his ribcage.
Stepping back, Spencer pauses and says, “No,” so softly Brendon takes a second to process what he's said. And then, before Brendon can even blink, Spencer is gone.
It's a lie. Brendon knows it is. He could tell by the downturn of Spencer's mouth and the way he seemed to have to fight to say the word that Spencer had lied to him. But why?
* * *
Brendon does not go home.
Instead he continues North through the Wild Wood, and eventually comes out the other side. The journey to the Economic Capital is reduced by one quarter, not having to circumnavigate the Wild Wood. Brendon has been here a handful of times, mostly as a child with his parents to get supplies and spread the word of the People of Faith. Boyd Urie had called it Sin City and Brendon realizes as he comes to the crest of a hill overlooking the city, that he's never learned its actual name, everyone just calls it The Capital.
Everyone in Summerlin is familiar with the Administrative Capital, Henderson, that was far closer to his village. Brendon can't help but look in awe at all the tall brick and mortar buildings that reach almost to the clouds, illuminated with lamps that burn unnaturally bright in what is either an attempt to mimic or mock the bright light of the Seelie creatures. Digging his hands deeper into the front pockets of his trousers and setting his shoulders, Brendon begins to trot down the hill, determined.
Many of the musicians he's built instruments for, and many of the singers he's given lessons to eventually make their ways to the towers of The Capital, playing the many cabarets and music halls that distract and console those who have lost more than their share in the city’s gaming halls. Brendon thinks maybe if he can find a familiar face, he can put into action his plan. It's not difficult. As he's walking by a particularly colorful hall, the strains of a guitar, the sound of which he knows like his own mother's voice, calls to him. Inside he finds Ryan, the boy he'd sold his first guitar to.
“Brendon!” Ryan exclaims brightly. He carefully sets his guitar down and unfolds his long limbs from the stool he's perched on. He pulls Brendon into a hug and the fedora perched on his head is knocked askew and they both laugh. “So, you've finally decided to take your chances in the big city, huh?” Ryan smiles, his brown eyes warm as Brendon settles the hat back onto Ryan's head.
“Yes, I was hoping that maybe I could sleep on your floor, play some music with you, and make some money...”
“Of course! Of course! I owe you so much more than I ever paid for old Gladys over there.” He hooks a thumb back towards the stool and his guitar. “And really, with your playing and voice I'm sure that we can make these losers actually pay us some attention and, you know, actually pay us.” Ryan wrinkles up his nose and laughs, head back and bright.
Brendon takes a minute to survey the room. It's full of dour looking men who seem to not have noticed in the least that Ryan's song no longer fills the room. It's a relief that Ryan doesn't ask him why he's in the city, or what he needs the money for. Ryan had always had secrets and reasons of his own and he never seemed to ask anyone anything more than they'd be willing to tell. “Yes with your lyrics and my singing I'm sure we'll be a hit!” Brendon laughs as Ryan winds an impossibly long scarf around and around his neck against the autumn chill.
“Let me just show you my room and then we can head back to the bar and make a start at our new partnership, yes?” Ryan drops a companionable arm around Brendon's shoulder and leads him out of the music hall. “You're travelling light, I see.” Ryan takes in Brendon's bedraggled appearance and lack of any kind of pack or bag.
Biting his lip Brendon says, “Er...no. It's kind of a long story actually...”
“No matter.” Ryan claps him between the shoulders and they turn up a rickety wooden staircase on the side of the building. “This city is ripe with fresh starts! My friend Keltie,” He pauses to waggle his eyebrows lasciviously, making Brendon laugh, “Makes all of my clothes. I would offer to lend you some but I don't think that would work so well.” Ryan looks at Brendon and then himself, taking in their difference in height and totally different body types. “But she does a wonderful job and lets me run a tab so I'm sure she could fix you up in no time.”
“That would be wonderful!” Brendon exclaims, “Although I don't intended to be here very long, a week or two at most. But, a new shirt and vest never hurt anyone!” He smiles wide as they climb the stairs. “I also didn't think to bring my guitar. Would you have one I could use? Or perhaps there's a pianoforte at the music hall?” They stand on the narrow stoop as Ryan fusses with his watch fob and the tiny brass key affixed to it.
“Yeah, I'm sure there's a piano in there under all the dust that Jon will let you play.” Laughing, Ryan throws open the door and barks out a laugh, “Do I have a guitar you can borrow?” Light from the doorway shines into the tiny room, casting shadows into the corners but lighting up glass bottles strewn around the floor and atop every surface, the remnants of a viscous glowing green liquid-absinthe--in most of them. There is a rack on wheels by the tiny twin bed and in it rest at least six guitars of all description.
“Oh!” Brendon crosses the room and his hands immediately land on the neck of a maple guitar. “It's beautiful,” he whispers reverently.
For the first time in his life, Brendon feels like things are going according to plan. Granted the plan is very loose, but he sings and plays with Ryan-in music halls and bars, and sometimes on street corners just for fun and the joy of being able to make music however and where ever they wish. And he makes a little money and manages to buy the supplies he needs. He works with speed and determination, Spencer never far from his thoughts.
A fortnight after he'd arrived into the glaringly bright lights of the big city, Brendon is ready to go. Ryan returns to the little room at the top of the stairs, the previous night's earnings spent on the bottle of absinthe he's tucked under his arm. “Oh,” he says taking off his hat, eyes widening as he sees Brendon's meagre, recently acquired belongings piled in the center of the room as Brendon struggles to cover a large object with a tarp.
“Thank you so much for all you've done for me, Ryan.” Brendon's eyes shine with sincerity as he crosses the room to embrace Ryan.
“You're leaving, so soon?” He breaks their embrace and sets the bottle he's carrying down on a shelf by the bed.
Shouldering a small leather pack and securing the larger tarp-covered object to it, Brendon smiles and nods, “Yes, I couldn't have done what I needed without you.”
“Here, take this. You make her sing in ways I never can,” He stoops to hand Brendon the beautiful maple guitar Brendon hadn't been separated from since his first day in Sin City.
“Oh, oh! Thank you! I promise to take good care of her!” Brendon wraps Ryan in a fierce hug one more time, the brass strings of the guitar making a loud, painful twang as it's trapped between them.
Brendon pretends he doesn't feel the fall of Ryan's tears onto his shirt collar. “Come back and visit, any time. You really are most welcome.” Ryan mumbles and pulls away, dashing at a stray tear with his long fingers.
The entire time he'd stayed with Ryan, Brendon had never volunteered any information about why or how he'd come to the city, or about why he needed to make money. Ryan had never asked about what Brendon had hidden under the tarp in the corner of the room and as far as Brendon knew he'd never stolen a peek at it either. Ryan didn't know where Brendon was going, and he certainly didn't know that Brendon could never come back. “I'll do my best.” Brendon forced an affected, overly sunny smile. Then, lifting two fingers to his brow in a salute, he heads out the door and down the rickety wooden stairs.
* * *
Brendon runs headlong into the Wild Wood. He has a lantern in his hand and a fire inside him so bright he knows exactly where he's heading. His pack is snug against his back and the large bundle tied to it thumps rhythmically with every step. He'd strapped Ryan's guitar across his chest and tries to play it to the beat of his walking, using the same hand he's carrying the lantern in to attempt an awkward strum. He laughs at the sight he must make, but there's only the darkness and the unseen, yet felt presence of creatures too timid to come to greet him. He feels buoyant and giddy the closer he gets to the rose bush. Brendon believes his plan will work. It has to. He carries on, tripping on branches and bracken and determined to make it back to Spencer.
Seeing the warm glow of the Faerie roses ahead of him, Brendon slows his step, trying to walk and rearrange his belongings at the same time, laughing as he pitches over onto his back in a heap. He manages to struggle free from the straps of his rucksack and leans his new guitar against one of the menacingly tall trees. Carefully, he takes the large bundle in his arms and carries it over to the rose briars. “Spencer?” he calls softly, and waits.
When Spencer doesn't appear, Brendon reaches out a cautious hand and strokes the pad of his thumb across a petal on an especially large bloom. Still, nothing. Brendon sighs and his eyes dart nervously around the forest before he wraps his hand around the rose, and pulls. It comes effortlessly off in his hand but still, Spencer does not appear. With a grunt, Brendon sets down the package and, lips set in a thin line, plucks another rose. And another. And another. Anger and desperation course through his blood as Brendon plucks bloom after bloom from the safety of the green foliage.
Chest heaving and hands scratched from his haste at plucking the blooms Brendon looks wildly around him. “What have I done?” he whispers to himself, eyes wide with fear as he shoves the thick fall of his hair from his eyes.
“Brendon? What are you doing here? What...” Spencer, glowing brightly and scowling fiercely takes in Brendon standing by the now stripped bare rose bush, the ground beneath his feet mottled with crushed rose blooms and petals. “I told you to go home. What have you done?” He's not wearing his armour, just a pale blue embroidered doublet over a crisp white shirt, and breeches and knee high leather boots that are a rich brown. In his right hand, poised to strike he holds a long bladed, lethal looking knife.
“And I told you I couldn't.” Brendon walks towards Spencer but makes no attempt to touch him. “I told you I wanted to be with you.”
“And I told you I did not wish for that to be so.” Spencer's voice is just as soft and unsure as the first time he'd told Brendon he didn't want him, his eyes are cast downwards and he refuses to meet Brendon's.
Reaching out a tentative hand to rest on the stiffly starched sleeve of Spencer's shirt, Brendon says, equally as soft, only full of conviction, “Yes, but you lied. And you're lying now. The only difference between you and the citizens of the Republic, the People of Faith, is that you don't believe your own lies.” Brendon bites his lip to suppress his smile. “Here,” he says ducking down but not breaking contact. He hefts the tarp covered bundle one handed and foists it at Spencer.
Spencer's eyes go incredibly wide. “What, no. Brendon I can't...” He holds his hands up and starts to back away, but Brendon still has hold of his shirt sleeve. “You don't know what you're doing...what this means!” His voice is high and breathy and Brendon laughs.
“It's a gift, for you. Given freely.” He tugs on the loose rope securing the tarp over the object beneath. A snare drum shines in the otherworldly glow of the roses. The drum head is an unblemished, white calfskin and the sides are detailed with interlace traced into silver. It's beautiful. “A drum, for you. I made it.”
“You would give me a gift?” Despite his hesitance and fear, Spencer can't help but reach out and bring the drum up by its embroidered strap. “Brendon,” Spencer makes a pained, gasping noise and gathers Brendon to him, “What have you done?” He mumbles into Brendon's hair.
Brendon returns the embrace just as fiercely and draws back to smile up at Spencer, “So, the old wives tales are true then? A gift given freely to one of the Seelie folk...”
“Binds us forever, yes.” Spencer manages a small smile, and there is no joy in his voice. He sheaths the dagger he'd been holding, it makes a metallic snick as it slides home into the scabbard on his belt, then sighs, taking Brendon's hand. “You are mine. And I am yours. Always.”
“Yay!” Brendon squirms in Spencer's grasp turning until he can wrap his arms around his waist. Ghosting his lips over Spencer's beard, Brendon bites playfully at the pink swell of Spencer's bottom lip before hesitantly pressing their lips together in a sweet kiss.
Spencer cups Brendon's jaw, deepening the kiss and tracing the cleave of Brendon's lips with his teeth. “But, I cannot protect you.” he husks.
“Protect me? From what?” Brendon leaves his arms loosely around Spencer's waist as he draws back, staring at Spencer with a puzzled tilt of an eyebrow.
“Eternity...”
Brendon shakes his head back and forth. “I don't understand.”
“You will.” Spencer says, then ends the conversation by pressing his lips to Brendon's once more before guiding him into the roses.
* * *
The feasting hall at the Faerie King's castle is filled to bursting, quite literally as what appears to be a giant comes hurtling through the thick lumbered doors to raucous laughter, just as Spencer and Brendon arrive. It's lit up brighter than Sin City and Brendon can't help the look of drop-jawed, wide-eyed marvel he sports as he takes in the sights. There are beings and creatures of all sorts from all corners of the Seelie Realm. “Is that a unicorn?” Brendon hisses when he glances in the corner and sees a maid with long auburn hair stroking the neck of a white horse.
“Shh,” Spencer grouses, pecking a kiss to Brendon's cheek and strengthening his hold on Brendon's hand that he's clasped in his.
“There he is! The man of the hour!” Spencer sighs heavily and closes his eyes as Gabe's obnoxiously loud voice floats over the crowd.
“We thought you'd skipped out on your own fete!” William smiles pleasantly as they come to stand, flanking Spencer.”
Brendon blinks up at Spencer's very tall, very pretty friends, “Oh! I took you away from a party?”
“Téigh trasna ort féin!” Spencer makes an abortive, sharp gesture shaking his head from side to side once, and whatever else Gabe and William were going to say is lost when Spencer says over top of their noise. “Brendon, this is Gabe,” he gestures to his left and Gabe makes a courtly bow, cloak over his arm and extending a hand to Brendon, who giggles. “And this is William,” he claps an arm across William's shoulder, while he repeats the same movements as Gabe. “They are from the Elvin lands, and are in the Kingsguard.”
“Captain of the Kingsguard,” Gabe adds obnoxiously.
“Oh, pleased to meet you!” Brendon does a funny little wave, “I'm Brendon Urie, Human, late of Summerlin.” And he does a shuffle ball change, making both William and Gabe tip back their heads with laughter.
“Oh, you're Spencer's pet human!” Gabe reaches out to ruffle Brendon's hair and he laughs harder when he hears Spencer growl, focáil leat and sees Brendon's confused glance. “Isn't that sweet that you've come to see him off?”
“See him off?” Brendon follows behind as they head to the long banquet tables. Gabe and William plunk themselves down on a bench, and look up at Spencer and Brendon expecting them to do the same.
Spencer stands where he is, and grabs a tankard of ale up from the table. He drains it and then says, “I haven't told him, yet.”
“Oh! So you don't know!” Williams brown eyes are full of sympathy. He tugs on Brendon's sleeve and Brendon topples down beside him, half on the bench, half on Gabe's lap, making Gabe and most of the people who had so far been casting not so furtive inquisitive looks at Brendon, bray with laughter.
Wriggling free and into an upright position between Gabe and William, Brendon, who is still confused says, “Tell me what?
“Our Spencer here is to be the latest once a millennium snack for the Caorthannach,” Gabe offers smugly without preamble.
Spencer continues to mutter extremely unflattering things about Gabe's ancestry and his progeny, and Brendon continues to gawp in confusion. “That didn't clear anything up at all, just so you know.” Brendon scowls but he lets Spencer gently cradle his hand between both of his own.
Smiling soft and a little sad, Spencer cuts off Gabe's rambling diatribe about the creation of the worlds and the universe between by saying, “Brendon, remember when you wondered what it was the King wanted from me, to make him hold me here so very long?”
“Yes! I told you that a thousand years of arms and armour should be more than enough payment for saving your life.” Brendon busses a kiss to the corner of Spencer's mouth, and ignores Gabe and William’s doe eyed cooing.
Biting his lip between his teeth, Spencer inhales through his nose and says, “I am the tithe the King is going to pay to the Caorthannach. Me. He's going to send me to Hell, Brendon. To keep the realm safe. All of the realms.”
“What?” Brendon yelps, all the color draining from his face. He stands up quickly and all eyes in the hall quickly turn to survey the disruption. Spencer's mouth is a thin line as he yanks on their still joined hands, seating Brendon on the bench beside him once more.
“That is my purpose, a sacrifice so that all may live.” Spencer's voice wobbles but he juts his chin up, blinking slowly. “Now do you see what you have done? You have bound yourself to me, but I am to go where you cannot follow. And you will be here, alone...”
“For ever.” Brendon swallows thickly. He flings his arms around Spencer's neck, kissing him fiercely, heedless of the Elves cat-calls. “How can this be?” Brendon whispers against Spencer's lips, “I only just found you. I won't let you go! I can't.”
Spencer hugs Brendon to him and allows himself a brief moment to stroke gentle fingers along the planes of Brendon's cheekbones. Pulling away slightly, Spencer rests his forehead against Brendon's. “It is already decided.” He says softly.
Brendon is shocked at the ease with which Spencer seems to have accepted his fate. He cannot do the same. His brain is going a mile a minute, trying to come up with a way to free Spencer from this curse, to free them both to be together. His musing is interrupted by the soft but clear strumming of a stringed instrument Brendon thinks he remembers vaguely learning about when he was a bairn; a lute. Everyone in the feasting hall quiets and the strumming of the lute is for a beat accompanied only by the scraping of silverware against truncheons and the soft footfalls of serving maidens.
Everyone is looking at the dais at the Western end of the hall. The King, whom Brendon hadn't noticed before, is sitting in his throne. The King of the Faerie folk looks nothing like Brendon imagined. So far every encounter with the Seelie had shown Brendon someone almost unnaturally beautiful. And, well, it's not like the Faerie King is unattractive, it's just he's sort of small and, well pointy with a horsey grin that Brendon finds...unsettling.
And that grin is turned full force on the lute player. Sitting at the King’s feet is a tiny, red head most of his face obscured by a ridiculous, floppy hat made of golden velvet with a large peacock feather stuck in the trim. His features are fine enough for him to be of elven kind but he is in no way tall enough to be of that realm. “Oh, Patrick's going to sing you off!” William claps as the sound of the lute fills the room, elbowing Spencer in the side, and Gabe sighs dreamily at the dais.
Brendon recognizes the song, from the folk tales the grannies used to tell. It's sad and slow and beautiful.
Of all the money e'er I had,
I spent it in good company.
And all the harm e'er I've done,
Alas! it was to none but me.
And all I've done for want of wit
To mem'ry now I can't recall
So fill to me the parting glass
Good night and joy be with you all.
So fill to me the parting glass
And drink a health whate'er befalls
Then gently rise and softly call
"Good night and joy be to you all"
Oh, all the comrades e'er I had,
They're sorry for my going away,
And all the sweethearts e'er I had,
They'd wish me one more day to stay,
But since it falls unto my lot,
That I should rise and you should not,
I gently rise and softly call,
“Good night and joy be with you all.”
So fill to me the parting glass
And drink a health whate'er befalls
Then gently rise and softly call
"Good night and joy be to you all."
Part 3
“Yes, please, I would love to see whatever it is you think I would like so much.” Brendon easily joins hands with Spencer. They walk casually through the Wild Wood, and Brendon can’t tell if it’s having Spencer at his side, or just the softly glowing light everything they pass is now bathed in, but the dark forest doesn’t seem nearly as frightening as it did when he was on his own. They walk through the woods at a stroll and Spencer points out species of plants and trees Brendon has never seen on his side of the North Fence, back in Summerlin.
There are animals too--quiet and watchful, their large eyes shining in the glow of Spencer’s Faerie light. Brendon chortles happily as the creatures venture forth to greet Spencer, their natural curiosity finally winning out over their shyness at Brendon’s presence. Spencer speaks softly in the Old Words to a tiny, deer-like animal and Brendon stoops to pet her soft roan fur. “Is this what you wanted to show me?” Brendon can barely contain the wonder in his voice.
“No, this is very much unexpected.” Spencer stops his soft murmuring and nods his thanks at the tiny fawn. “What I think you would enjoy is over here,“ he pulls Brendon by the hand, and through a dense growth of ferns taller than most men. “Look,” he says, his smile wider than Brendon knew it could be.
Brendon is speechless. Eyes wide, he tries to take in all that he’s seeing. A pond--or a small lake, really--spreads out before them. It’s a blue Brendon has never seen before. Not even a mid-summer sky, or Spencer’s eyes, can come close to matching its beauty. The water glitters and shines, both with the otherworldly light all things touched by the Seelie folk seem to possess, and reflecting the thousands upon thousands of tiny lights that glimmer in the air above it, and skip along its surface. “Wow,” is the only word Brendon can form after long quiet moments. “I love fireflies!” He exclaims, holding out his hand as one of the twinkling lights zigzags closer.
“They aren’t fireflies.” Spencer whispers in Brendon’s ear. He rests his chin on Brendon’s shoulder, one arm around his waist, pulling him close.
“...not...fireflies?” Brendon leans back into Spencer’s solid warmth, confusion clear in his voice as he cranes his neck to try and read Spencer’s expression. “Then what are they?” he says in a low, husky voice as one of the lights hovers over his outstretched fingers.
Spencer holds out his own hand, allowing one of the lights to rest on his index finger. “Have a look,” he says and raises his hand close in front of Brendon’s eyes.
What had at first appeared to Brendon to be the flickering tail of a firefly is actually an orb of light. Contained within is a tiny creature, her translucent wings beating faster than a humming bird’s. “Oh! She’s beautiful! What are they?”
“Sprites,” Spencer says with authority. “Spirits of the forest. They’re the smallest of all the creatures in Faerie, and possibly the oldest. Their size and knowledge allows them to pass through the veil between worlds with an ease most others envy.” Spencer’s voice is thick with an emotion Brendon can’t read and he thinks perhaps Spencer is talking about himself. “Especially at this time of year.”
Brendon blushes and grins when the tiny Sprite kisses the tip of his nose, her delighted laugh a barely audible squeak. “I think she likes you.” Spencer laughs as they watch her fly away, her fragile wings arcing rainbows as she flies back out over the pond.
“I like her too!” Brendon is thoroughly besotted as he gently touches his nose, still warm from the Sprite’s kiss. They watch the tiny creatures bob and weave and duck and spin. “What are they doing?”
“Courting,” Spencer smiles bashfully.
“Courting?” Brendon watches the lights merge and join then flutter apart. “Oh! You mean...oh.” He coughs to cover his embarrassment and then follows Spencer to the shelter of a thick evergreen that must have been a sapling when Spencer was a human boy.
Patting the ground beside him, Spencer laughs and nods, “Yes, that is what I mean. Will you rest here awhile with me, Bòidheach?”
Wordlessly, Brendon sinks down beside Spencer, wrapping his arms around him and sinking into his solid warmth. They content themselves with watching the Sprites and their dazzling display. “At home,” Brendon says in a hushed tone, “when the animals...when they...court. It is usually in the spring. It is unusual for,” he coughs and clears his throat, unsure why he is so embarrassed, “mating to occur at the full of autumn, isn’t it?”
“Time moves differently for the Seelie,” Spencer kisses the corner of Brendon’s lips and then yawns broadly, making them both laugh.
“You were just about to go sleep when I interrupted you,” Brendon admonishes, settling Spencer down until his head is pillowed on Brendon’s thigh. He runs his fingers through the soft, slippery strands of Spencer’s hair.
Spencer nuzzles into the petting and says, in a sleepy voice, “Mmmm...will you stay with me, just a little while longer?”
Brendon’s heart lurches in his chest as he looks down at Spencer’s face; eyes closed and more relaxed than Brendon’s seen him in their few brief meetings. He trails the pads of his fingers over Spencer’s bearded cheek, making his eyelashes twitch at the tickling sensation. “No place I’d rather be.” Brendon buries his hand back in Spencer’s hair, smoothing it over and over. “I suppose I’ve missed Sunday meeting by now anyway.” His tone is a little more bitter than he would have liked.
“Oh, aye?” Spencer mumbles, on the edge of sleep.
“Mmm. But lately I’ve been wondering. You know, how am I supposed to believe in something I’ve never seen? How am I supposed to follow rules that say if I do not marry I am nothing? That if I choose to court a man I have no rights?” Of their own volition Brendon’s fingers tug at the strands of Spencer’s hair he’s got wrapped around his fingers.
The tugging wakens Spencer, and his eyes flutter open, studying the dark scowl on Brendon’s face, “That is the truth of it? Men are not free to court of their choosing?” He blinks and rubs his cheek against the rough fabric of Brendon’s homespun trousers.
“Yes,” Brendon soothes the spot where he’d been tugging at Spencer’s hair. He sighs and wrinkles up his nose. “Anyway, I’m not sure I can believe anything when these so called beliefs were supposedly whispered in the ear of the Founder of Faith by a salmon. That can’t actually be true, any more than loving who we chose to love is wrong.” He shrugs and his shoulders droop.
“Fionn mac Cumhail didn’t talk to the salmon, he ate it.” Spencer’s brows crease in a frown and his voice is grumpy and young. It surprises Brendon that Spencer would know the tale, but it’s easy to forget Spencer comes from a time so long in the past. He’s just about to question Spencer about this so called Exchange of All Knowledge when he looks down.
Spencer is sound asleep, his breath soft and warm against Brendon’s leg. Brendon sighs and stares at the Sprites and their magical lights.
* * *
It’s raining heavily when Brendon finally ducks under the wire barbs of the fence in the North Pasture, making for home. And finds himself staring into one large brown eye. Algernon the Urie family plow-horse is chewing at some weeds he’s pulled from around the fence post. And atop Algernon is Brendon’s brother, Matt, his scowl plain enough to see behind the rivulets of rain water falling from his wide brimmed hat. He’s not alone. Brendon swallows and blinks up into the face of his eldest brother. Mason is dressed in his Captain of the Guard uniform, astride his yearling, Boxer. Most disturbingly of all, Ian the good natured shepherd is standing between the two, the rain water mixing with his tears and a thin trickle of blood that is escaping from his left nostril; a purple blue bruise under his eye.
“Oh Brendon, I am so sorry.” He says, attempting to move towards Brendon, only to be cut off when Matt and Mason move their mounts into his path. “They made me tell them! And then they made me wait with them, every day until you returned.”
“Brother, would you care to explain your deceptions?” Mason’s expression is stern and stony.
Every day? Sighing while trying to give Ian a look of reassurance and forgiveness, Brendon says, “No. Not to you. Let’s go see Mother and Father.” He shoulders his way between his brothers and their horses, giving Algernon a friendly pat on the rump and linking his arm with Ian’s, then continuing across the pasture as if to continue his way home, without giving his brothers a second glance.
As he stands before the hearth, the cheery fire spitting and popping in protest at the thin mist of rain water sneaking down the flue, Brendon’s stomach twists with the absolute knowledge that he’s disappointed his father and hurt his mother deeply. She sits in her rocking chair, wringing her kerchief in her fisted hands and weeping. “So, you missed Sunday meeting to go traipsing about in the Wild Wood, chasing Faerie folk for days at a time.” His father stalks back and forth in front of him, watching the measure of each footfall and not even sparing Brendon a glance.
“Yes.” Brendon has had enough of lies and deception. He winces when his mother’s weeping is joined by Ian, bawling along with her.
“You went into the Wild Wood!” Mason shouts. “That is forbidden! You know that!”
Voice oddly calm, Brendon turns to his brother and smiles, “Forbidden, but not formally so. Am I right? There are no laws to keep people out, only fences and old wives' tales.”
“There’s no lovely girl in Henderson. No courting. No wedding to be had.” His mother blows her nose loudly. “Oh Brendon, my beautiful baby boy, you lied to us. Your own mother and father. How could you?”
Brendon shrugs and takes a deep breath, trying not to cry at the sight and intensity of his mother’s distress, “I would spare you the truth.”
“Truth? Truth! Boyd do you hear the words your son speaks? It is madness.” Grace stands up and then sits down just as abruptly. “And to add to our misery, you missed Sunday meeting, what was I to say to the womenfolk at the market these past three days?”
“Yes mother, I missed Sunday meeting. I’m sure the entirety of Summerlin is abuzz and calculating at which exact moment I shall be cast into the Outer Darkness!”
“Don’t say that!” Brendon’s mother, father, Ian and Mason shout simultaneously, making complicated hand gestures between their mouths and hearts.
Clapping a meaty fist against Brendon’s shoulder, sending him slightly off balance, his father says in grave seriousness, “Your mother and I can only conclude that you have been enchanted. There’s no help for it; you must go to The Brobeck and beg for your immortal soul.”
“Father! I don’t need to beg anyone for...”
“Silence!” Boyd roars, his round face an alarming shade of red. “You have brought enough shame to your family, and yourself. Cavorting all over the Republic, at all hours, doing whatever it is you want at the moment. You will listen to me Brendon, and you will listen to me well. If you do not seek The Brobeck’s council, you will most definitely be cast out of this household! Do I make myself clear?”
Long seconds tick by and Brendon says nothing. He tries to formulate a plan. He wants with all his heart to run to the Wild Wood and beg Spencer to bring him to the Seelie Lands. He wants to run to the Wild Wood and pluck every last rose from the King’s beautiful plants, compelling Spencer to take him to the King.
He just wants Spencer.
But he has no plan, and no time to make one, pinned in place as he is by his father’s angry blue-grey glance. He looks at his mother, his brother, and Ian. The thought of leaving all he’s known, no matter that he has never felt he truly belongs, leaves him cold. He can never have what he wants, anyway, so instead he finally replies, “Perfectly.”
“I’m sending Mason with you, to make sure you actually go to The Brobeck, and don’t end up at some other foolish distraction. And take Ian with you, his soul can use some council as well, I’m sure.”
“Yes, sir!” Ian pipes up. He’s finally stopped crying and looks painfully eager to please his employer and secure Brendon’s forgiveness.
Mason clamps an arm across Brendon’s shoulder, ushering him towards the door. “Let’s go now, The Brobeck is expecting you. Has been since Ian told us what you’d gotten up to. The sooner we leave, the sooner this nonsense will be over with.”
The boys cast withering glances at each other, but whatever fight Brendon felt when set upon by his brothers at the edge of the Wild Wood has long fled. He bends to kiss his mother’s cheek, brushing away a tear as it drips from her chin. “I’ll be back soon, Mother.”
They tromp across the fields and through The Meadows, Mason never far from them, smugly astride his yearling as Brendon and Ian shiver in the cold fall rain. “I really am sorry, Brendon. It was a stupid story to make up, and then you were gone so long and your brothers were so angry...I didn’t know what else to do.” Ian says miserably, spitting out the words from between his chattering teeth.
Brendon hugs himself, the sopping wet wool of his sweater scratching against his fingertips. “No, Ian. I’m sorry that you had to lie for me in the first place. And I am certainly sorry that my brothers felt the need to beat you. Their anger is for me, it was wrong of them.”
Ian hiccoughs miserably and his face twists up as though he’s about to cry again, so Brendon hands him Bogart to pet. The little dog had trailed their every move from the fence line to the house, and now across the fields. Brendon’s glad of his company. He would be lying if he said he isn’t afraid.
The Brobeck is the spiritual leader of his people. No one Brendon knows has ever actually seen a Brobeck, mind, but He puts forth writings and His speeches and proclamations are read at all Sunday Meetings, festivals and Republic events. He is wise and powerful and, Brendon thinks, completely terrifying to contemplate.
The Brobeck’s compound, ironically enough, is almost to Henderson. It takes Ian and Brendon, who are walking briskly because of the cold rain, almost an hour to get there on foot. When they reach the bramble hedge that obscures the house from the high road, Mason says, “Okay, so I’ve brought you here. You can do the rest,” and rides off back towards Summerlin proper.
“So,” Ian’s voice is high pitched and he swallows loudly, “Would you make terrible fun of me if I said I am scared?”
Brendon’s smile is tight and grim, when he reaches out his hand to give Ian’s fingers a comforting squeeze. “Not at all, my friend. Not at all.” He pushes at the rusty gate and it squeals in protest. The pathway leading up to the only brick house Brendon can recall ever seeing is narrowed by the considerably brambly hedge that rises a good ten feet on either side of the gravel walk. The grey clouds and pouring rain do nothing to lift Brendon’s spirits, and he senses that Ian feels the same way. The wooden porch on the front of the house is drooped and peeling. “You’d think they could spare a few coins from the collection plate to spruce the place up a bit, wouldn’t you?”
Ian snorts out a laugh and then covers his mouth with his hand when the heavy front door opens. “Breezy!” Ian grins, and then says, “Oops, I mean Sister Weekes. I didn’t know you worked for The Brobeck,” he says the last words in a low tone of reverence.
“Hello, Brother Crawford, it’s good to see you.” Breezy--Sister Weekes, brushes her long dark hair behind her ear and smiles at Ian and Brendon in turn. “I greet visitors and schedule appointments. He’s expecting you, Brendon, you can go on through.” She motions towards a long hallway and smiles warmly. “You can hang your sweater up on a peg just there, and I’ll bring you some tea, this weather is terrible! You poor boys must be frozen.” She is genuine and kind when she smiles. Brendon is unsure how much his family has told her, or how much she’s heard from Summerlin gossip, but there’s nothing but warmth in her expression.
Brendon drops his sweater over a peg by the front door and watches as a puddle starts to form on the ugly brown rug beneath it. “Um,” he rocks back and forth on his heels, hands jammed into the front pockets of his trousers, “Ian I guess you can wait out here?”
Nodding eagerly, Ian takes a seat on a faded red settee, a small cloud of dust puffing into the air from his weight. Breezy once more indicates the door at the end of the long hallway, and then turns to making a pot of tea. Brendon drags his feet, in no hurry to meet The Brobeck.
The halls are cluttered with piles of books and papers, and the walls are lined with water colors depicting the Faith and its glorious past. He snorts, wondering what Spencer would make of this telling and retelling of things he’s seen with his own eyes. And then Brendon wonders if he’ll ever get a chance to ask Spencer, or even see him again. For the first time since he cleared the tree line from the Wild Wood, Brendon swallows back the threat of tears.
The door at the end of the hall is ajar and Brendon cautiously walks into the room, waiting for the grand Brobeck Reveal. The room is empty. Well, not exactly empty; there’s a large desk and shelves crammed with yet more books and a sofa and several chairs, but there’s no one, Brobeck or otherwise, in the room. Confused, Brendon takes a seat in one of the hard wooden chairs and stares out one of the many paned windows, watching the rain fall. He’s so absorbed in his thoughts, Brendon jumps to his feet when there’s an affected coughing sound from just inside the door. “Brother Weekes?” He asks in confusion.
“Hiya Brendon,” Dallon Weekes, Breezy’s husband and owner of Summerlin’s only mercantile gives an awkward wave as he enters the room. “Have a seat,” Dallon waves Brendon back into the chair and slides behind the desk, shuffling papers and picking up a clipboard. “So, your parents tell me you’re enchanted.” He makes air quotes and a small, careful smile graces his handsome face.
Brendon blinks and his brain eventually catches up with his eyes. “Wait. You’re The Brobeck?”
“Pay no attention to the man behind the desk,” Breezy jokes as she enters with a tea service on a silver tray. She hands Brendon a large cup of already brewed tea and sits on the edge of Dallon’s desk, the skirt of her pretty pink striped dress fanning out over it. “I suppose you could say we’re The Brobeck.” She shrugs.
Dallon nods agreeably. “Yes. Because, well, there’s a lot to write, and a lot to read. And, it’s kind of an inherited position. My Father was The Brobeck and his father was The Brobeck, and well you get the picture.” Dallon gratefully takes the cup of tea Breezy offers him. “And, well, in all this time nobody’s ever asked for an audience. They seem pretty happy with a letter.” He makes a face that is somewhere between apologetic and resigned.
“But that’s....that’s ridiculous!” Brendon blusters and then burns his tongue when he raises the tea cup to his lips and drinks deeply.
Having carefully set the tea things on the big desk, Breezy takes a chair beside Brendon. “Look Brendon, people, they need to believe in something. And we help them, we do. And if there’s a little...mystery to it, that’s okay too. And well, you never know...we keep the rules, and people like rules. They like to feel safe. Our writings, they make the world make sense.”
“This doesn’t make any sense at all to me.” Brendon mutters and sets his tea down on a small round table.
“We’ve never had someone claim Enchantment before, either.” Dallon confides in him. “Are you? Have you been to the Seelie Lands?”
“What? No!” Brendon stands then and makes to leave, until Breezy settles him again. “Wait. You mean you believe in Faerie folk?”
“Of course,” the Weekes’ say together.
Dallon shrugs like he’s stating a simple truth. “They know about us, we know about them. We put up a fence, they cast a spell on the Wild Wood, and everyone’s happy.”
“Except me.” Brendon says miserably, playing with the china tea cup; spinning it round on its saucer.
Setting his clipboard down again, and shuffling yet more paper, Dallon sighs and says, “Look, Brendon. In all my years, in all the years of all The Brobecks before me,” Breezy harrumphs in her throat and Dallon quickly amends, “Before us, I mean, no one has ever gone into the Wild Wood. Ever.”
“So?”
“So--you went, you explored you--sowed some wild oats.” Breezy laughs at the expression of extreme distaste on Dallon’s face. “Now you’re back and you can honor your parents and never go back.”
Brendon is so taken aback he just sits there with his mouth hanging open. Eventually he finds words, “Really? That is your sage and learned advice? Honor my parents?”
“Oh, well and tell us about the Faeries. You know, if you want to.” Dallon chuckles. “Look Brendon, it’s not like your dad gave us a lot of time to come up with something here. You went into the Wild Wood. You weren’t supposed to. Don’t do it again.”
“I’m not going to tell you about Faeries! You shouldn’t even care about Faeries, never mind believe in them. And for the last time, there’s no law against going into the Wild Wood. Just because everyone’s been too afraid to ever do it, doesn’t mean it’s wrong!”
“You’re old enough to know better.” Breezy adds. “Just find a nice girl and settle down, okay?”
His tea finished, Brendon stands. “So that’s it? No praying for my immortal soul? No lecture about being cast into the Outer Darkness? Just...just...do what everyone expects of me?”
“We always pray for everyone’s immortal soul,” Dallon says and Breezy nods encouragingly. “Here’s a list of readings I’ve put together about avoiding temptation and respecting your elders and community traditions.” He hands over a neatly folded square of paper.
Brendon snatches the sheet from Dallon’s hand and tucks it into his pocket. “This is...ridiculous. I’m done here!” And he storms out of The Brobeck’s office and into the waiting room. “C’mon, we’re leaving!” Brendon shouts at Ian without stopping to wait for him.
“How did it go?” Ian says with concern, trotting to catch up with Brendon.
“I’ll tell you how it went! It was ridiculous. If I didn’t think Sunday Meeting was a waste of my time before, I certainly do now. Ian you’d do well to lead the people of Summerlin, they’re all a bunch of sheep, and The Brobeck is the biggest sheep of all.” Brendon’s arms pump furiously as he stalks across The Meadows.
Ian’s expression could not be more shocked if Brendon had slapped him. “Brendon! You can’t say that! That’s terrible!”
“So are they!” Brendon huffs. “I am so done with this town and its sheep-people.”
“What are you talking about?” Ian straightens his glasses and lengthens his stride to keep up with Brendon.
Brendon stops dead and holds up his hands to prevent Ian from crashing into him. “Here, take this. Prove to my father that you saw the Brobeck; that you’re willing to repent or whatever it is the flock tells you you’re supposed to do.” He reaches into his pocket and takes out the square of paper Dallon had given him, pressing it into Ian’s palm.
“Why? Why can’t you tell him?” Ian’s voice is pitched high with worry and he shakes rain water out of the tangled mess of his curls.
“I’m running away,” Brendon announces with a flourish.
Ian’s eyebrows rise to his hairline in surprise. “Um, don’t you think at your age it’s more like...leaving.”
“Whatever, “ Brendon waves a dismissive hand. “I’m going back to the Wild Wood and no one can stop me. I’m not coming back. See how they like that! And you feel free to tell my brothers that if they ask.” Brendon abruptly turns north and stalks off.
Blinking into the post-storm drizzle Ian says, “Wait. Did The Brobeck pray for my immortal soul too?”
* * *
The feasting hall is loud with merriment, but Spencer sits staring glumly into his tankard, watching the ale slosh around in the pewter cup. “Hello, pretty! Why so glum?” William, one of the Kingsguard, and of the Elven realm straddles the long bench beside him, stealing Spencer's tankard and helping himself to a healthy swallow.
The Captain of the Guard-Gabe, who is coincidentally also an Elf-flicks the thick purple velvet of his cloak aside to reach over and tug on a lock of William's long brown hair. “Bilvy, my good man, I know that look. I do believe the pretty human is besotted.”
“Feisigh do thoin fein,” Spencer growls, focusing his attention on the table.
William clamps a sympathetic hand at Spencer's shoulder and gives him a knowing look. “So, which member of the Seelie Court has caught the eye of Pete's pet human?” Gabe forges on, oblivious to the look of misery on Spencer's face.
Exasperated, Spencer huffs out an indignant breath and says, “Not that it's any of your concern, but no one in the court holds any appeal for me.”
William laughs at Spencer's conviction and Gabe narrows his eyes, considering. “Ah well, I do know the look of a lovesick pup when I see one, so Flower Boy, if it's not someone in the court...”
“Oh Spencer!” William suddenly exclaims, “You can't mean that you've fallen in love with a human?” He spits the word out like he's tasted something nasty.
“I know it's been a while since I was among my own kind, but I am human. Why should I not...have affection for another human?” Feigning nonchalance Spencer lifts the drum stick of an oversized fowl from his truncheon to his mouth, and takes an obscenely large bite, chewing with his mouth open in the hopes of significantly offending Elivish manners so that his two dining companions leave him in peace. “And for your information I am not Pete's pet human. It seems to me that being human in the Seelie court is the last thing anyone would ever want to be.” He mumbles around his bite of food.
A dark, knowing glance passes between the two elves before William finally says, “Spencer, you truly do not know?”
“Not know...?” Spencer prompts after he swallows his food, wiping his face with his sleeve.
“You have been among the Fae-folk for some while now...” Gabe starts, then takes a fortifying swallow from his own tankard. “Have you never noticed that Pete, Our King...he does not take hostages?”
Spencer stops, and the poultry leg is suspended in his grip, halfway between his plate and his mouth. “Well, now that you mention it...”
William pats Gabe's shoulder and continues for him, “Spencer, every thousand years the Seelie King must pay a tithe to the Caorthannach. This is how the veil, however thin, is maintained between the worlds. How we keep the peace in all realms.”
Spencer glares-glacial blue-at both members of the Kingsguard. “What care I for the cost of peace? I have been held here, waiting for some act to be equal to the saving of my life. How much gold Pete must surrender is nothing to do with me.” He quirks his eyebrow and tears a large bite of bird flesh between his teeth.
“Spencer,” Gabe sets his empty cup down on the wooden table with a thump, “The tithe isn't gold. It's not money at all. It's-you.”
“What?” Spencer sputters into his own trencher, his eyes wide and his mouth open in confused disbelief.
Very gently, William reaches over and wipes the beads of ale from Spencer's beard with the leather tips of his gauntlet. “Once, every thousand years on what your human world calls Samhain, the Caorthannach demands a sacrifice to keep the pact made by Pete's ancestors. Pete knew you were the one, that's why he's kept you, all these years.”
When he can speak again Spencer says, “Samhain? But that's less than a fortnight away in the Summer Lands!” Spencer stands, then sits, then stands again. The Elves give him a look of pity, whether in sympathy for the truth Spencer’s just learned, or for the fact that he still keeps track of the passage of time in the human world, Spencer can’t say. “I will not offer myself up on a plate to some sidhe! This is absurd! Surely the King will see reason?”
Gabe and William just continue to look sadly up at Spencer, “It is the way of things, Spencer. You cannot change it. The magic is too strong. The world is dependent upon this thing.” Gabe tugs on Spencer's elbow and settles him on the bench beside him, cuddling him close. “You owe the King, the Seelie folk, a debt that must be repaid. No one lives forever.”
Blinking and swallowing, Spencer says, “This is not how I imagined a warrior's end,” he stares at his lap and says no more. He doesn't say that the world is unfair and unkind and how dare he be allowed to find Brendon just in time to be snatched away. He just blinks slowly and tries to remember to breathe.
* * *
Brendon runs through the Wild Wood heedless of the wandering vines and twisted tree roots he trips and stumbles on too many times to count, but his anger pushes him on. He thrashes through the darkened trees, feet pounding against the moss strewn ground, anger pushing him on to the familiar clearing and its roses-and Spencer. He is so angry and disillusioned by his meeting with Dallon and Breezy (he refuses to ever again refer to them and their sham belief as The Brobeck) that hot tears course down his cheeks as he swipes aside trailing tendrils of greenery. He doesn't know what he'll do when he gets to the clearin¬g, doesn't know what he'll say.
He only knows he wants Spencer.
Breathing heavy, Brendon bends at the waist, his hands braced on his knees, mumbling at himself to get it together. He dashes the tears from his cheeks and inches closer to the rose bush. He inhales the lush scent of the blooms and he starts to feel more calm. Biting his bottom lip, Brendon reaches out to stroke his thumb slowly across a rose petal, watching as his finger tips are bathed in the faerie light.
“Brendon?” Spencer's voice behind him is soft, tentative.
Turning quickly on his heel, Brendon crosses the short distance to where Spencer is standing, once more in his armour and cloak, although his broadsword remains carefully housed in the sheath across his back. Relief floods through him as Brendon flings himself at Spencer, who has no choice but to open his arms to Brendon or be flung backwards by the force of the embrace. “Oh Spencer!” Brendon is barely able to keep the tremble of a pent up wail from his voice.
“Hey. Hey now, it's all right, mo chroí, it's all right,” Spencer rests his cheek atop Brendon's head and makes soothing, quieting noises, holding him tight. Very gently, Spencer strokes the tip of his forefinger under Brendon's chin, tilting his head up so he can meet his eyes. “What is it? Are you hurt? Did something frighten you?” Spencer's concerned darkened eyes flit from studying Brendon's face to searching the darkness beyond the safe pool of light cast by the rose bush.
Brendon sags against Spencer, feeling the glowing warmth of the armour's metal seep into his bones like reassurance. “No, no.” He swallows loudly and Spencer watches as Brendon's pulse leaps just below the set of his clenched jaw. “I'm...lost.” He finally says in a small voice.
“No, Bòidheach, you are not lost. You've found me. You're here now, shhh.” Spencer kisses across Brendon's forehead and cheeks.
“No, no,” Brendon rests his cheek against the breast plate of Spencer's armour, pausing while he tries to find words to explain all that has happened since he last saw Spencer. “Everything I thought I once believed-everything my parents still believe, and the entire Republic for that matter-it's all lies, all based on superstition and nonsense.” Brendon stops babbling and raises his face to Spencer's. He mashes their mouths together in a desperate, messy kiss. “Please,” he husks, “Please Spencer, take me with you. Take me back to the Seelie lands with you. There's nothing here for me, anymore.” He sniffles and moves to wrap his arms more securely around Spencer's neck.
Jerking back, Spencer releases Brendon so abruptly and shoves at him with such force that Brendon has to fling out his arms to keep his balance. “You know I can't do that. That cannot happen.” Each word is clipped and precise, and the look in Spencer's eyes is so shuttered and cold that Brendon cries out like he had fallen.
“I don't care!” Brendon wails miserably. “I'll do anything! I'll pick every single last rose from that bush and beg the Faerie King himself!” Brendon scowls and takes a brave step forward. “Everyone in the Republic is a liar. And even those that don't spread the lies, live in fear of those lies. They are sheep! Hateful, fearful sheep. I can't live that way, Spencer,” Brendon holds out an imploring hand. “I won't live that way. I won't go back.”
“Brendon!” Spencer's voice is loud in the quiet of the Wild Wood. He says the name sharply, and it sounds strange to Brendon's ears; no warmth, no terms of endearment. Spencer crosses his arms over his chest, ignoring Brendon's reaching arms. “Do not say such things. The King's justice is no joke! You are human you belong in this world, you know nothing of the Faerie world, and I would not wish it upon you.”
Repeatedly opening and closing his balled fists at his sides, Brendon cries, “I don't care! If you won't take me to the Seelie Lands maybe we can just stay here?” he waves his arm to take in the dark circle of forest beyond the rose bush, “In the Wild Wood. Maybe make a home together by the Sprite's lake. I don't care about being human, don't give a damn about the Republic, Spencer. I only care about you.” Brendon darts forward, grabbing desperately at Spencer’s cloak and bunching it up in his fists.
Spencer stares unflinchingly at Brendon for long minutes, swallowing and breathing heavily, but saying nothing. Finally, with a little nod to himself and an arch of his eyebrows he says, “No. Go home Brendon. There's nothing for you here.” He pries Brendon's fingers from their tangle in the soft velvet material and pins them to his side.
“Nothing? Truly? You...you do not want me?” Brendon closes his eyes and draws a deep breath, hope and fear warring inside his ribcage.
Stepping back, Spencer pauses and says, “No,” so softly Brendon takes a second to process what he's said. And then, before Brendon can even blink, Spencer is gone.
It's a lie. Brendon knows it is. He could tell by the downturn of Spencer's mouth and the way he seemed to have to fight to say the word that Spencer had lied to him. But why?
* * *
Brendon does not go home.
Instead he continues North through the Wild Wood, and eventually comes out the other side. The journey to the Economic Capital is reduced by one quarter, not having to circumnavigate the Wild Wood. Brendon has been here a handful of times, mostly as a child with his parents to get supplies and spread the word of the People of Faith. Boyd Urie had called it Sin City and Brendon realizes as he comes to the crest of a hill overlooking the city, that he's never learned its actual name, everyone just calls it The Capital.
Everyone in Summerlin is familiar with the Administrative Capital, Henderson, that was far closer to his village. Brendon can't help but look in awe at all the tall brick and mortar buildings that reach almost to the clouds, illuminated with lamps that burn unnaturally bright in what is either an attempt to mimic or mock the bright light of the Seelie creatures. Digging his hands deeper into the front pockets of his trousers and setting his shoulders, Brendon begins to trot down the hill, determined.
Many of the musicians he's built instruments for, and many of the singers he's given lessons to eventually make their ways to the towers of The Capital, playing the many cabarets and music halls that distract and console those who have lost more than their share in the city’s gaming halls. Brendon thinks maybe if he can find a familiar face, he can put into action his plan. It's not difficult. As he's walking by a particularly colorful hall, the strains of a guitar, the sound of which he knows like his own mother's voice, calls to him. Inside he finds Ryan, the boy he'd sold his first guitar to.
“Brendon!” Ryan exclaims brightly. He carefully sets his guitar down and unfolds his long limbs from the stool he's perched on. He pulls Brendon into a hug and the fedora perched on his head is knocked askew and they both laugh. “So, you've finally decided to take your chances in the big city, huh?” Ryan smiles, his brown eyes warm as Brendon settles the hat back onto Ryan's head.
“Yes, I was hoping that maybe I could sleep on your floor, play some music with you, and make some money...”
“Of course! Of course! I owe you so much more than I ever paid for old Gladys over there.” He hooks a thumb back towards the stool and his guitar. “And really, with your playing and voice I'm sure that we can make these losers actually pay us some attention and, you know, actually pay us.” Ryan wrinkles up his nose and laughs, head back and bright.
Brendon takes a minute to survey the room. It's full of dour looking men who seem to not have noticed in the least that Ryan's song no longer fills the room. It's a relief that Ryan doesn't ask him why he's in the city, or what he needs the money for. Ryan had always had secrets and reasons of his own and he never seemed to ask anyone anything more than they'd be willing to tell. “Yes with your lyrics and my singing I'm sure we'll be a hit!” Brendon laughs as Ryan winds an impossibly long scarf around and around his neck against the autumn chill.
“Let me just show you my room and then we can head back to the bar and make a start at our new partnership, yes?” Ryan drops a companionable arm around Brendon's shoulder and leads him out of the music hall. “You're travelling light, I see.” Ryan takes in Brendon's bedraggled appearance and lack of any kind of pack or bag.
Biting his lip Brendon says, “Er...no. It's kind of a long story actually...”
“No matter.” Ryan claps him between the shoulders and they turn up a rickety wooden staircase on the side of the building. “This city is ripe with fresh starts! My friend Keltie,” He pauses to waggle his eyebrows lasciviously, making Brendon laugh, “Makes all of my clothes. I would offer to lend you some but I don't think that would work so well.” Ryan looks at Brendon and then himself, taking in their difference in height and totally different body types. “But she does a wonderful job and lets me run a tab so I'm sure she could fix you up in no time.”
“That would be wonderful!” Brendon exclaims, “Although I don't intended to be here very long, a week or two at most. But, a new shirt and vest never hurt anyone!” He smiles wide as they climb the stairs. “I also didn't think to bring my guitar. Would you have one I could use? Or perhaps there's a pianoforte at the music hall?” They stand on the narrow stoop as Ryan fusses with his watch fob and the tiny brass key affixed to it.
“Yeah, I'm sure there's a piano in there under all the dust that Jon will let you play.” Laughing, Ryan throws open the door and barks out a laugh, “Do I have a guitar you can borrow?” Light from the doorway shines into the tiny room, casting shadows into the corners but lighting up glass bottles strewn around the floor and atop every surface, the remnants of a viscous glowing green liquid-absinthe--in most of them. There is a rack on wheels by the tiny twin bed and in it rest at least six guitars of all description.
“Oh!” Brendon crosses the room and his hands immediately land on the neck of a maple guitar. “It's beautiful,” he whispers reverently.
For the first time in his life, Brendon feels like things are going according to plan. Granted the plan is very loose, but he sings and plays with Ryan-in music halls and bars, and sometimes on street corners just for fun and the joy of being able to make music however and where ever they wish. And he makes a little money and manages to buy the supplies he needs. He works with speed and determination, Spencer never far from his thoughts.
A fortnight after he'd arrived into the glaringly bright lights of the big city, Brendon is ready to go. Ryan returns to the little room at the top of the stairs, the previous night's earnings spent on the bottle of absinthe he's tucked under his arm. “Oh,” he says taking off his hat, eyes widening as he sees Brendon's meagre, recently acquired belongings piled in the center of the room as Brendon struggles to cover a large object with a tarp.
“Thank you so much for all you've done for me, Ryan.” Brendon's eyes shine with sincerity as he crosses the room to embrace Ryan.
“You're leaving, so soon?” He breaks their embrace and sets the bottle he's carrying down on a shelf by the bed.
Shouldering a small leather pack and securing the larger tarp-covered object to it, Brendon smiles and nods, “Yes, I couldn't have done what I needed without you.”
“Here, take this. You make her sing in ways I never can,” He stoops to hand Brendon the beautiful maple guitar Brendon hadn't been separated from since his first day in Sin City.
“Oh, oh! Thank you! I promise to take good care of her!” Brendon wraps Ryan in a fierce hug one more time, the brass strings of the guitar making a loud, painful twang as it's trapped between them.
Brendon pretends he doesn't feel the fall of Ryan's tears onto his shirt collar. “Come back and visit, any time. You really are most welcome.” Ryan mumbles and pulls away, dashing at a stray tear with his long fingers.
The entire time he'd stayed with Ryan, Brendon had never volunteered any information about why or how he'd come to the city, or about why he needed to make money. Ryan had never asked about what Brendon had hidden under the tarp in the corner of the room and as far as Brendon knew he'd never stolen a peek at it either. Ryan didn't know where Brendon was going, and he certainly didn't know that Brendon could never come back. “I'll do my best.” Brendon forced an affected, overly sunny smile. Then, lifting two fingers to his brow in a salute, he heads out the door and down the rickety wooden stairs.
* * *
Brendon runs headlong into the Wild Wood. He has a lantern in his hand and a fire inside him so bright he knows exactly where he's heading. His pack is snug against his back and the large bundle tied to it thumps rhythmically with every step. He'd strapped Ryan's guitar across his chest and tries to play it to the beat of his walking, using the same hand he's carrying the lantern in to attempt an awkward strum. He laughs at the sight he must make, but there's only the darkness and the unseen, yet felt presence of creatures too timid to come to greet him. He feels buoyant and giddy the closer he gets to the rose bush. Brendon believes his plan will work. It has to. He carries on, tripping on branches and bracken and determined to make it back to Spencer.
Seeing the warm glow of the Faerie roses ahead of him, Brendon slows his step, trying to walk and rearrange his belongings at the same time, laughing as he pitches over onto his back in a heap. He manages to struggle free from the straps of his rucksack and leans his new guitar against one of the menacingly tall trees. Carefully, he takes the large bundle in his arms and carries it over to the rose briars. “Spencer?” he calls softly, and waits.
When Spencer doesn't appear, Brendon reaches out a cautious hand and strokes the pad of his thumb across a petal on an especially large bloom. Still, nothing. Brendon sighs and his eyes dart nervously around the forest before he wraps his hand around the rose, and pulls. It comes effortlessly off in his hand but still, Spencer does not appear. With a grunt, Brendon sets down the package and, lips set in a thin line, plucks another rose. And another. And another. Anger and desperation course through his blood as Brendon plucks bloom after bloom from the safety of the green foliage.
Chest heaving and hands scratched from his haste at plucking the blooms Brendon looks wildly around him. “What have I done?” he whispers to himself, eyes wide with fear as he shoves the thick fall of his hair from his eyes.
“Brendon? What are you doing here? What...” Spencer, glowing brightly and scowling fiercely takes in Brendon standing by the now stripped bare rose bush, the ground beneath his feet mottled with crushed rose blooms and petals. “I told you to go home. What have you done?” He's not wearing his armour, just a pale blue embroidered doublet over a crisp white shirt, and breeches and knee high leather boots that are a rich brown. In his right hand, poised to strike he holds a long bladed, lethal looking knife.
“And I told you I couldn't.” Brendon walks towards Spencer but makes no attempt to touch him. “I told you I wanted to be with you.”
“And I told you I did not wish for that to be so.” Spencer's voice is just as soft and unsure as the first time he'd told Brendon he didn't want him, his eyes are cast downwards and he refuses to meet Brendon's.
Reaching out a tentative hand to rest on the stiffly starched sleeve of Spencer's shirt, Brendon says, equally as soft, only full of conviction, “Yes, but you lied. And you're lying now. The only difference between you and the citizens of the Republic, the People of Faith, is that you don't believe your own lies.” Brendon bites his lip to suppress his smile. “Here,” he says ducking down but not breaking contact. He hefts the tarp covered bundle one handed and foists it at Spencer.
Spencer's eyes go incredibly wide. “What, no. Brendon I can't...” He holds his hands up and starts to back away, but Brendon still has hold of his shirt sleeve. “You don't know what you're doing...what this means!” His voice is high and breathy and Brendon laughs.
“It's a gift, for you. Given freely.” He tugs on the loose rope securing the tarp over the object beneath. A snare drum shines in the otherworldly glow of the roses. The drum head is an unblemished, white calfskin and the sides are detailed with interlace traced into silver. It's beautiful. “A drum, for you. I made it.”
“You would give me a gift?” Despite his hesitance and fear, Spencer can't help but reach out and bring the drum up by its embroidered strap. “Brendon,” Spencer makes a pained, gasping noise and gathers Brendon to him, “What have you done?” He mumbles into Brendon's hair.
Brendon returns the embrace just as fiercely and draws back to smile up at Spencer, “So, the old wives tales are true then? A gift given freely to one of the Seelie folk...”
“Binds us forever, yes.” Spencer manages a small smile, and there is no joy in his voice. He sheaths the dagger he'd been holding, it makes a metallic snick as it slides home into the scabbard on his belt, then sighs, taking Brendon's hand. “You are mine. And I am yours. Always.”
“Yay!” Brendon squirms in Spencer's grasp turning until he can wrap his arms around his waist. Ghosting his lips over Spencer's beard, Brendon bites playfully at the pink swell of Spencer's bottom lip before hesitantly pressing their lips together in a sweet kiss.
Spencer cups Brendon's jaw, deepening the kiss and tracing the cleave of Brendon's lips with his teeth. “But, I cannot protect you.” he husks.
“Protect me? From what?” Brendon leaves his arms loosely around Spencer's waist as he draws back, staring at Spencer with a puzzled tilt of an eyebrow.
“Eternity...”
Brendon shakes his head back and forth. “I don't understand.”
“You will.” Spencer says, then ends the conversation by pressing his lips to Brendon's once more before guiding him into the roses.
* * *
The feasting hall at the Faerie King's castle is filled to bursting, quite literally as what appears to be a giant comes hurtling through the thick lumbered doors to raucous laughter, just as Spencer and Brendon arrive. It's lit up brighter than Sin City and Brendon can't help the look of drop-jawed, wide-eyed marvel he sports as he takes in the sights. There are beings and creatures of all sorts from all corners of the Seelie Realm. “Is that a unicorn?” Brendon hisses when he glances in the corner and sees a maid with long auburn hair stroking the neck of a white horse.
“Shh,” Spencer grouses, pecking a kiss to Brendon's cheek and strengthening his hold on Brendon's hand that he's clasped in his.
“There he is! The man of the hour!” Spencer sighs heavily and closes his eyes as Gabe's obnoxiously loud voice floats over the crowd.
“We thought you'd skipped out on your own fete!” William smiles pleasantly as they come to stand, flanking Spencer.”
Brendon blinks up at Spencer's very tall, very pretty friends, “Oh! I took you away from a party?”
“Téigh trasna ort féin!” Spencer makes an abortive, sharp gesture shaking his head from side to side once, and whatever else Gabe and William were going to say is lost when Spencer says over top of their noise. “Brendon, this is Gabe,” he gestures to his left and Gabe makes a courtly bow, cloak over his arm and extending a hand to Brendon, who giggles. “And this is William,” he claps an arm across William's shoulder, while he repeats the same movements as Gabe. “They are from the Elvin lands, and are in the Kingsguard.”
“Captain of the Kingsguard,” Gabe adds obnoxiously.
“Oh, pleased to meet you!” Brendon does a funny little wave, “I'm Brendon Urie, Human, late of Summerlin.” And he does a shuffle ball change, making both William and Gabe tip back their heads with laughter.
“Oh, you're Spencer's pet human!” Gabe reaches out to ruffle Brendon's hair and he laughs harder when he hears Spencer growl, focáil leat and sees Brendon's confused glance. “Isn't that sweet that you've come to see him off?”
“See him off?” Brendon follows behind as they head to the long banquet tables. Gabe and William plunk themselves down on a bench, and look up at Spencer and Brendon expecting them to do the same.
Spencer stands where he is, and grabs a tankard of ale up from the table. He drains it and then says, “I haven't told him, yet.”
“Oh! So you don't know!” Williams brown eyes are full of sympathy. He tugs on Brendon's sleeve and Brendon topples down beside him, half on the bench, half on Gabe's lap, making Gabe and most of the people who had so far been casting not so furtive inquisitive looks at Brendon, bray with laughter.
Wriggling free and into an upright position between Gabe and William, Brendon, who is still confused says, “Tell me what?
“Our Spencer here is to be the latest once a millennium snack for the Caorthannach,” Gabe offers smugly without preamble.
Spencer continues to mutter extremely unflattering things about Gabe's ancestry and his progeny, and Brendon continues to gawp in confusion. “That didn't clear anything up at all, just so you know.” Brendon scowls but he lets Spencer gently cradle his hand between both of his own.
Smiling soft and a little sad, Spencer cuts off Gabe's rambling diatribe about the creation of the worlds and the universe between by saying, “Brendon, remember when you wondered what it was the King wanted from me, to make him hold me here so very long?”
“Yes! I told you that a thousand years of arms and armour should be more than enough payment for saving your life.” Brendon busses a kiss to the corner of Spencer's mouth, and ignores Gabe and William’s doe eyed cooing.
Biting his lip between his teeth, Spencer inhales through his nose and says, “I am the tithe the King is going to pay to the Caorthannach. Me. He's going to send me to Hell, Brendon. To keep the realm safe. All of the realms.”
“What?” Brendon yelps, all the color draining from his face. He stands up quickly and all eyes in the hall quickly turn to survey the disruption. Spencer's mouth is a thin line as he yanks on their still joined hands, seating Brendon on the bench beside him once more.
“That is my purpose, a sacrifice so that all may live.” Spencer's voice wobbles but he juts his chin up, blinking slowly. “Now do you see what you have done? You have bound yourself to me, but I am to go where you cannot follow. And you will be here, alone...”
“For ever.” Brendon swallows thickly. He flings his arms around Spencer's neck, kissing him fiercely, heedless of the Elves cat-calls. “How can this be?” Brendon whispers against Spencer's lips, “I only just found you. I won't let you go! I can't.”
Spencer hugs Brendon to him and allows himself a brief moment to stroke gentle fingers along the planes of Brendon's cheekbones. Pulling away slightly, Spencer rests his forehead against Brendon's. “It is already decided.” He says softly.
Brendon is shocked at the ease with which Spencer seems to have accepted his fate. He cannot do the same. His brain is going a mile a minute, trying to come up with a way to free Spencer from this curse, to free them both to be together. His musing is interrupted by the soft but clear strumming of a stringed instrument Brendon thinks he remembers vaguely learning about when he was a bairn; a lute. Everyone in the feasting hall quiets and the strumming of the lute is for a beat accompanied only by the scraping of silverware against truncheons and the soft footfalls of serving maidens.
Everyone is looking at the dais at the Western end of the hall. The King, whom Brendon hadn't noticed before, is sitting in his throne. The King of the Faerie folk looks nothing like Brendon imagined. So far every encounter with the Seelie had shown Brendon someone almost unnaturally beautiful. And, well, it's not like the Faerie King is unattractive, it's just he's sort of small and, well pointy with a horsey grin that Brendon finds...unsettling.
And that grin is turned full force on the lute player. Sitting at the King’s feet is a tiny, red head most of his face obscured by a ridiculous, floppy hat made of golden velvet with a large peacock feather stuck in the trim. His features are fine enough for him to be of elven kind but he is in no way tall enough to be of that realm. “Oh, Patrick's going to sing you off!” William claps as the sound of the lute fills the room, elbowing Spencer in the side, and Gabe sighs dreamily at the dais.
Brendon recognizes the song, from the folk tales the grannies used to tell. It's sad and slow and beautiful.
Of all the money e'er I had,
I spent it in good company.
And all the harm e'er I've done,
Alas! it was to none but me.
And all I've done for want of wit
To mem'ry now I can't recall
So fill to me the parting glass
Good night and joy be with you all.
So fill to me the parting glass
And drink a health whate'er befalls
Then gently rise and softly call
"Good night and joy be to you all"
Oh, all the comrades e'er I had,
They're sorry for my going away,
And all the sweethearts e'er I had,
They'd wish me one more day to stay,
But since it falls unto my lot,
That I should rise and you should not,
I gently rise and softly call,
“Good night and joy be with you all.”
So fill to me the parting glass
And drink a health whate'er befalls
Then gently rise and softly call
"Good night and joy be to you all."
Part 3