Prelude (Underworld Lucian Fanfiction)

49 - Chapter XLIX: The Coming of Hrafn

Twenty-four hours later...

It was the last day of the Gathering, the eighteenth day of April 1900. An auspicious day for it was the day after the Lycan Council had successfully orchestrated two of the greatest merges since the mid-eighteenth century. The Northern merge...and the unification of France. The first having much to do with man-power, and the second having all to do with history. The first time that the entire French line could stand together since the revolution. A day when Auguste could join hands with Benoit, their partnership poised to build a greater France, a feat that could never have occurred without the backing of the entire lycan council. Even Monaco was celebrating at this point.

The optimism of that vote, the sense that they were making great changes to their horde, drawing them back to this room with an eagerness that verged on zeal. A desire to vote on matters relating to the coven. The progress of Kraven. The assassination of Amelia. An eagerness to change the world on this final day of council. The nine of them seated at a table of twelve...and the thirteenth chair, the one at their head, mysteriously remaining empty. The gong remaining unsounded. The table covered in the rarest of meats and blood, an entire suckling pig commanding their attention, while every golden plate and glass went unused, like soldiers without a purpose.

For it was not polite to eat before the opening gong had been struck. The nine lycans at times yawning, stretching, but as a whole, refusing to remove their masks, their faces hidden from each other, for again...it was not polite unless the lycan-master had done it first. His absence holding much of their interest, despite their thoughts continuing to merge on a single issue. That which ought to have been France, if not for that second smaller issue which had been so recently paraded before their judgment. An issue that could easily be solved as soon as the gong was struck. For the majority of them had smelled her scent, the majority had seen her gift...and the majority of them were troubled by what they saw.

For there was no doubt in anyone's mind that she was a problem. Her scent a little too brash. Her history spattered with holes. Her existence as incontrovertible as a white-speckled dodo stepping out of a painted menagerie. She was an unnatural creature that should not be, and yet it was not her ancient gift but the rumours surrounding her patron that kept her critics silent. All manner of charges laid on the council table as to why they should silence her voice permanently and yet none of them voiced for they—the nine members of the Lycan Council of Twelve that had actually arrived on time—had yet to broach the topic. For they had been seated in the Horde Chambers for approximately twenty minutes now...

...still waiting for the lycan-master.

One who...confused...them. His scent rarely unmasked. His history marred by war. His existence as sharp as it was strange; for there was no doubt in anyone's mind that he had become especially strange in the past two centuries. His arrivals were late. He did not sit when he ought. He hardly stayed long enough to warrant a meeting, and yet...they followed him. They feared him. They failed to understand his kindness...for it was an arbitrary thing. Stories of his cruelty leading them to think twice before receiving or refusing his impulses—kind or otherwise. Think twice before threatening the things that he favoured. For his mind no longer worked in a way that others' did.

His fellow pack-leaders bowing their heads, scraping the ground with their smiles; wondering in turn whether the one next to them could fully appreciate why no one else dared overthrow him.Their reasons formed of a hundred twists and turns, their most recent centring on a very specific knot...

...that final meeting with the Blackmarks.

Almost fifty years ago. The last time anyone had directly threatened his power. The meeting with Xristo's messenger ending in an uproar as the meeting proved itself a trick; the messenger suddenly growling words of revolution while holding a silver knife to another lycan's neck—a trusted advisor, a creature favoured by the lycan-master. The follower threatening to slice open the man's gullet...threatening to kill if certain traitorous parties were not immediately released from their cells...