Black Browed Night

End of the 2nd Aeon - Birthnight of the Vampires Chapter Three

It wasn't too long that my captured heart had begun to wither and age returned in fiercer force than ever. Throughout the previous seasons, Setebos and I planned our day of conception of the Heir Apparent, converting some in the fairy realm to our cause and growing stronger as a dominant power in Illyria. Having moved permanently to the west of the island, far from Queen Mab's scouts and Oberon's forces, further we were pushed from the luscious meadows and warmer climate. The west was colder and held less pity in the breeze to its harsh barren indifference, but it would do. As the closest I could be to the species, I claimed ownership and farthest from the fae, the land would do for my purposes. Having finally built a rapport with some of the settlers and blessing their fields, instead of suspicious guarded eyes, gentle glances my way were welcomed along with few gifts.

It's a start, Setebos reminded me. Some spare food will turn into willing livestock sacrifice. For what was built in a day worth remembering for all of time?

Staying clear of my former lover's hut, I was received with open arms by the settlers and steadily built their trust, while his fortunes had turned empty and sour. As the seasons passed, the dark crystal in place of his heart had spread its dominance, through his bloodstream to settle at his fingertips. Before long, his was entirely covered in the enchanted crystal and I drooled as I watched his frail, stiff movements, justice was found. Ostracized from his own community, my former mortal lover found me, finding its source of enchantment. Grovelling on his knees with speech having left his blackened stone tongue, I held his face as I had years before. Waiting as his autonomous mentality finally left him and was replaced by my will. As fluid as a well-oiled door, my aura pierced through the weakest of mental defences, where no magical blockade could thwart me. My own justice had been delivered, and though I could never undo my curse, my first and only mortal love had turned into my first stoneguard, keeping close for my protection for all eternity. A justified afterlife of repentance.

"Shame this form wasn't strong enough to hold you, dearest." I stroked down the neutral expression of the stone face. "It would've been too good to be true."

Setebos's presence held my entire mind into his own warm caress, knowing my physical emptiness was too great to compensate for. I could have never taken his body. The mortal would shatter, my love. All our work would be for nothing if I was to go too soon.

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Finally, the season had arrived for me to abandon my watch of the mortals and return to the Fairy Realm undiscovered. Passing villages, roads and gatherings, my cloaked stone guard and I made our way to the destination.

Setebos grumbled his own musings at my plan for conception. Take heed, Illyrian will bestow what he ordains you deserve.

"I deserve my birthright, Setebos. I desire no more than what I'm fashioned to be, a Queen."

The sulphuric air thickened with each slow step towards the hot springs. Every breath constricted in my throat, tightening my chest to counteract the fumes. Such air, though rotten within my own nose, was the perfect breeding ground for all fae, where life was blessed by Illyrian. Ahead in the cradle of a valley, past indifferent oaks guarding the springs, a hot steam column blew to climb the skies above. Ignoring the damp sweat obstructing my pained movement, I prayed that this spring would provide a cure for my destiny. If this hot spring could gift me with the Heir Apparent, Mab's dominion over my life would be finished. I would be Queen of the Fairies at her final breath.

Breaching past the last of the oaks, the spring's mist of warm waters awaited, calling in sumptuous hisses. Steam kissed the spring's surface, aided by the gentle breeze to explore its unique water floor. Unfazed by the blood-tinged waters, the steam licked each glimmering reflection, inviting me closer to delve into the welcoming waters. Legend spoke of Illyrian, the God of Vows resting in death on the island and that his heart eternally bled into the spring from down below, tinting the waters red. Igniting power straight from his deity veins to any who chose to bath in it. I salivated at the prospect of Illyrian potentially gifting me with a child, the Heir Apparent, as it had always been.