Avalbane's heart swelled with a glorious peace as he stepped onto the dais, his shining eyes taking in the seemingly endless crowd before him. The noblest Sidhe down to the humblest hobgolbin knelt in tribute before the throne, before him, filling the hall that to so many seemed almost infinite on first view. The nature of the Throne Hall of the Otherworld was thus: a glade in the middle of the widest, greenest forest, filled with silver banqueting tables and carved chairs singular to each owner's nature. The chairs of the fire elementals, the Jinn, the hearth fae, appeared as leaping flames and the blue heart of a fire, while the brownies and the house-fae at the far end of the throne dais had stout chairs of ancient wood. Trees dripping with eternal flowers, fruit and great loops of silver and gold twining around the leaves and branches curved over the glade in place of a roof, and candles, torches, and the bright will'o the wisps that flitted hither and yon provided lighting. The air was full of the heavy, rich leafmould smell of the deep earth after rain and the fresh, sultry fragrance of ripe fruit, and the very magic of the Sithen made the air hum with music and song. At the very head of the hall sat a carved dais of gold, and upon that, the throne. Were a mortal to look at that throne, his eyes might have been burned from his skull; for it took on the nature of the ruler who sat upon it, and Avalbane, the Lord of Light, a being fashioned from purest elemental brightness, had fashioned what had before been a simple oak chair into something made of pure sunlight and topaz, shifting shape and form whenever the eye fell upon it. Strange twisting animal forms – snakes, salamanders – curled up the arms and dissolved into the lightstream, and Avalbane's heart grew glad to see it. The throne – the Sithen – accepted his power, for this in itself was a test of worthiness to hold the throne of High Court in the Otherworld. Occasional previous pretenders to the throne had not been accepted by the magic that bound this chair, this symbol, to a form, and the fae would tear them limb from limb. In truth, Avalbane had known the throne would accept him; when he had sat at the old King's side, he had felt the magic humming to him, calling him, and even after he had left for his own chamber or banquet table, the magic still beat in his heart, reminding him he had a destiny.
A robed figure approached him, slowly, stately, and in her grey hands, Avalbane's hungry eyes finally saw the last test, the last triumph: the crown of Faerie.
"My Lord," the lady whispered, and her voice was the wash of distant oceans. Her soft cloak curled around her body, the soft charcoal almost melding into her long stormcloud hair, but to look closer at her was to realise the cloak was a part of her, a second skin, wound in with her own pearly-grey skin. She was Roana, a Selkie, daughter of a Selkie queen and a smith-fae, the original maker of the crown in her hands. Her father believed that his blood in her veins was necessarily to keep the crown's power, for all the great magics of the fae respond to the being that made them, and she was given the ancient task of confirming the suitability of the pretender to the throne. Her words were enough to destroy a king or queen, even if they had come this far, and although the crown would never rest on her silken head, it did indeed resonate to her blood.
"Take your seat, Lord Avalbane, and prepare yourself," she breathed, and her voice swept out over the shore of waiting fae, and he smiled, pouring every ounce of personal power into the expression. His strongest power was that beauty, the beauty that made you forget everything, the world, yourself, all in adoration of his glory; it was a power that many discounted but in its true strength, it was greater than any offensive weapon, for a glimpse of his face shining in all its true perfection could immobilise, blind, break a heart. Avalbane's primary power was charm, the true meaning of charm; to bind and break the will of the victim until they could do nothing more than adore him, whether they wished or not. The lesser fae near the front of the crowd felt that power sweep out over them, and turned their faces away; the eldest among them knew only too well how true charm could destroy even another fae. A mortal would have had no chance at defense at all.
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Swan on the Moor
FantasyPOSTED FOR REFERENCE. Aine and her mother were thrown from the Fae Sithen when Aine was nothing more than a child, for the crime of her being the daughter of a human father. Once her beautiful mother has wilted and died, Aine roams the moors alone...
