Mydeadprincess.
The pain and grief of realizing, of accepting, Daeanna was truly dead surpassed any suffering he’d endured since that fateful day on the Talaenian lands. If he could have bargained his life with the Goddess for Daeanna’s, he would have. Her worth was invaluable, whereas his? He was replaceable.
She carried the promise for all pureblood Fae.
He carried only the ideas of obtaining her ultimate goals and visions.
Thaddeus shook the dreary thoughts from his head and quietly approached the crude panel of wood considered a door. With a blind swipe of his arm, he cast this small alcove in darkness, extinguishing all candles to leave naught more than the suffocating rise of smoke. For many minutes, he stood beside the door, listening for the occasional straggler to pass by in the passage beyond, waiting for valuable nuggets of information before he decided to emerge and face Grison.
The last three days, eves, whatever time ’twas in this desolate place, Cecir had paid him one visit. A single visit to follow up on his regenerative progress and force him into a comatose state without answering any of his questions. ’Twasn’t until yestereve that he realized Cecir’s sleep spells were a cover for Grison’s attempt to work information from Thaddeus’s unaware mind.
Yestereve, Cecir’s magic failed. Thaddeus had become strong enough to resist the spell, the forced slumber, and detected the deliberate and foul magic Grison tried on his mind.
Never again.
That serpent would pay for invading the private quarters of his consciousness. He’d pay dearly, despite not getting the information he sought. Grison’s frustration as he’d been hurled from Thaddeus’s mind proved that, and Thaddeus quietly thanked the Goddess for the powers she’d imbued him with at birth.
If ever there was a single lesson his father had taught him long ago, ’twas to always protect one’s mind.
He did, reinforcing the barriers, the steel walls, around his most precious and secretive thoughts.
No one, not even Daeanna—not for lack of trying, for he’d sensed her attempts to pass his shields many a time over the centuries—could break through.
Minutes of silence passed. Thaddeus slid down the wall and looped his arms over his bent knees, patiently waiting for the passersby to shuffle past the door, oblivious to his presence. Patience was never a gift of his, but he’d learned over the last few days of consciousness that the only way he’d gain an understanding of what was happening, and an upper hand against Grison’s cunning attitude, was through patience.
Playing with his strengthening magic, curling coils of deep blues, indigos, and grays between his fingers and palms, he tapped the seconds by with the toe of his boot. In the least, he’d been provided a fresh set of clothing, the linen less than suitable to appease his tastes but clean. The fabric was itchy,uncomfortable, and far from the silks and leathers he preferred.
Shuffling steps brought his shoulders square. He fisted his hands, extinguishing the magic into mere tufts of smoke that fizzled between his fingers. Tipping his head, he angled his ear close to the small crevice between the door and the crudely-carved doorframe.
Two.
The distinct shuffle-step of two gaits.
Muffled whispers preceded their approach, becoming more defined the closer they came.
“…such a disgrace…n’t be forced into such squalor…storm the castle, take out the king. Reset the Fae world as it should be.”
“Silence,” the other voice hissed. Thaddeus’s eyes narrowed in the darkness, lit only by an intensifying glow from lantern light as the duo hurried along the corridor. “That’s blasphemy. And impossible.”
“Not impossible. Grison assured us he has a plan.”
“For over a week, he’s said such nonsense, but a plan has yet to be presented.”
One of the men snorted. “Look who dares speak of blasphemy. You joined this movement knowing the ultimate goal. To speak poorly against our leader is treasonous.”
“Do tell. Have you heard further of this plan he speaks of? Our movement was brought to its knees after that battle. We’ve naught more than a few dozen remaining, and that’s no match for the King.”
The footsteps slowed until both men came to a halt. Thaddeus twisted silently, peeking through the narrow sliver of space between door and jamb. Only the arm of one man could be seen, but the lantern’s light cast elongated shadows of the two figures against the far side of the tunnel.
“Brax, if what we witnessed on that field was no trickery of magic, that half-breed’s bloodline is far more powerful than most of us combined. If Dagda honors him and accepts him as part of his Council, and with Liam by his side, Dagda is indestructible.”
The brazen man huffed. “No creature, even the King of the Tuatha de, is indestructible. And rumor has it that the half-breed is a balanced match for that sniveling bed-pet Seelie scum, if he didn’t perish on the battlefield. Forget not, his body was never found.”
Interesting.
Thaddeus didn’t doubt for a moment they spoke of him—the petty name-calling would earn that man a painful blow at a later time—but why would Grison keep his survival a secret from the Fae who followed the bastard blindly?
And…
