Prelude (Underworld Lucian Fanfiction)

19 - Chapter XIX: A Round of Morale

The Parisian Den, Noon, Three days later.

A crowd had gathered in the main hall, men and women of all colours crammed together on stools and chairs, the short ones standing, the tall ones seated on the floor. There were about three dozen altogether. Though winter was almost upon them, the air was warm in this hall, humid even...steam rising from the three furnaces, sweat on people's skin. Many had discarded their coats and fleece shawls, the rags that kept them hidden on the outside.

Reflective, Lucian stood in the alcove, watching them...studying their faces, the hum of anticipation hovering over their heads. They could not see him yet, but he could see them. Three days it had taken for them to gather, these lycans from beyond the den, their children absent, the parents travelling by daylight. How dangerous it was for these lycans who lived under the Line. They were the shadows that hid him...they were his people. But they should not be here. In the centre, Auguste was standing on a table, his hand gesturing firmly, raising his arms with every declaration of the honour that had come to their den. No one cared to lower their voice. They were too deep beneath the ground for that. Abruptly the pack-leader pointed, every head turning, like a wave, silence falling as all eyes fell on him.

Silence for the alpha. He stepped forward and they parted, their heads lowering in respect and expectation. Hands behind his back, he circled the room, drawing their faces close, their scents mingling with him. I am among you, he thought. I am for you. They hung on his every turn, allowing him to burn their faces with a glance. This is what they had come for. He leaped onto the table, his hood falling back, his face unmasked so they might see him. So they might understand what kept him fighting this war.

Rage.

His voice was like iron. "Who among you has lived in fear?" He paused on the question, lingering on silence. He would fill it with belief only when it grew too much. "Who among you?" He turned, aiming his hand into the crowd. "You..." He pointed again, a bearded monster of a man sweating under his notice. "...you." Baring his teeth, he showed them the extent of how serious he was. "All of you. You reek of fear."

They could not deny it. Many of them looked away. Others stooped, bowing themselves further, acknowledging the underlying stench that plagued this hall. Shame. Terror. No one dared accuse him of hard-heartedness.

"Your children..." he said softly. "...where are they?" Swift, he crouched, striking his palm against the oak table, gazing at them candidly, knowing the truth of his words. "Hidden." His hand became a fist. "Your homes..." He forced them to lean in, reaching out only to strike his palm against the table again, making every lycan flinch. "Hidden!"

Silver took his eyes. This was what they had come here for, and more, it was what they needed. Uncurling, he stood high above them, always turning, always watching them as they watched him. "They hunt us," he said coldly. "Even now, they hunt us, my friends..." Tonight, there would be no shame in this hall. "...but we will not be cowed." These lycans would learn the necessity of rage. They knew what came next.

Closing his eyes, like a tradition, he broached his question...one that had resounded for the past eight hundred years. "What...are...you?"

"Lycans..." They began uncertainly.

"I said, what...are...you?"

"Lycans..."

He opened his eyes. "Who are you?"

"Lycans!"

He drank in their fanaticism. "Are you weak?"

"No!"