Chapter 13: Chapter thirteen

Luminous skin cast shadows onto the walls of the bedroom as a tawny haired Dökkálfar pressed a kiss to my lips. The kiss soft and unhurried, a gentle exploration of each other's mouth. A stark contrast to the night before, which had been filled with animalistic passion and mindless lust.

Didrik’s mægen brushed my senses, reminiscent of dark, thick, caramel, with a spicy tang that warmed my mouth.

The haze of lust, and power was shattered as an unfamiliar wave of mægen flooded the room, sending Didrik shooting upwards. The Skutilsveinr leapt off the bed, moving to stand in front of the door as the sound of shouting rang out from beyond the bedroom.

I slid off the bed with unhurried movements, knowing if there was true danger Helma would have alerted me through the shadows. True to my thoughts, after several tense moments the shouts grew quiet, and the muscles in Didrik’s back relaxed, though his eyes never left the door.

“Smártungl,” Helma’s voice sounded through the door, accompanied by the feeling of her mægen sweeping into the room. “There is a matter requiring your attention.”

“What,” cringing at the hoarse said of my voice, I cleared my throat before attempting to speak again. “What is so urgent I must be roused from my bed?”

The response came swiftly, and I heard the amusement in the Víðarr’s voice as she spoke. “Your Bjartr stjarna is here.”

My what? I shook my head in attempt to clear away the foggy remnants of sex, and sleep. “Say again?”

“Röðull Kyrian, the Bjartr stjarna of the Smártungl is here.”

Kyrian. Why did that name sound so familiar, and why was a Ljósálfar here claiming himself as my bright star? The title of Röðull, the sun's glory, was that of a Ríkrsunna’s children, so he should know better than to make such bold claims.

Huffing out a frustrated sigh, I glanced at Didrik who turned away from the door to face me. The tall, lithe Skutilsveinr bowed at the waist, a hand pressed to his chest and left the room without a word.

My jaw clenched as the door clicked shut. I wasn’t planning on dismissing him, in fact my intention had been to return to bed and leave the intrusive Ljósálfar to wait until I deemed him worthy of my presence.

Though, I couldn’t blame Didrik for leaving, he did as was expected in this situation. When faced with the presence of a higher ranked lover, the lower would be forced to retreat, and if the man outside truly was my bright star, he possessed the highest rank among my lovers in the absence of a spouse.

A soft laugh fluttered past my lips as I headed for the bedroom door, curious to see how the Ljósálfar would react when faced with my unclothed, and tousled state. He would have already seen Didrik make his exit in his luminous naked glory, so there could be no doubt as to what he’d interrupted.

Despite sharing the Dökkálfar’s polygamous lifestyle, the Ljósálfar were almost as frigid as the Seelie when it came to sex. The Ljósálfar had no shortage of etiquettes, traditions and laws to make sure everyone conducted themselves with the utmost propriety. Even the thought of it was headache inducing.

The Ljósálfar Röðull stood in the center of the room facing the door, and the sight of him caused a momentary falter in my stride as I walked towards one of the two chaise lounges positioned around a tea table.

Quick to regain composure I sauntered past the Röðull without acknowledging his presence, and settled onto the chaise facing him.

I reclined on the chaise in a luxurious sprawl, my elbow propped on the armrest, cheek resting against my palm. With my unburden hand, I traced lazy circles over my thigh and hip bone as I gazed at the Ljósálfar who lowered himself to kneel in front of the chaise.

Long slender ears peaked out from short golden hair that framed a boyishly handsome face, and golden eyes gazed into mine with molten heat. His eyes were rimmed with a thick line of sooty black kohl, turned up at the corners in a delicate curve. Thick lashes that filled me with a flash of envy gave him a borderline androgynous look that strangely made him appear even more exquisite. The tunic he wore was open at the front, giving tantalizing glimpses of bronze skin.

Moonlight shone through the tall elegant windows of my chambers, bathing the room with silver light, and making my luminescent skin glow. The Ljósálfar’s body remained unresponsive in the moonlight, but even without the pearlescent glow bestowed by the moon, he shone with a light all his own.

“You may rise.”

In response the golden haired Álfr raised his head and grinned in a manner that could only be described as impish. The mischievous potential in that face sent a shiver down my spine.

Despite my words, he didn’t rise from where he knelt, instead he shifted his upper body forwards, his palms grazing across the stone floor as he crawled towards me with feline grace. The muscles in his back rolling, and shifting with each movement.

I remained impassive as he drew closer, not moving even when his upper body pressed against mine as he draped himself across my legs, his chin resting on top of my thigh. The hand that had been tracing lazy circles over my skin stilled as a warm breath blew across my fingers.

“You’ve been playing without me.” He crooned, his expression forlorn as he gazed up at me.

I traced the line of his jaw with my index finger, scrapping the tip of my nail across his bronzed skin. “A star who is jealous of the moon's love has no place in my sky.”

“Not jealous,” he purred as he turned his head to the side, capturing my finger with his lips, and nipping at it lightly. “Left out.”

“Shall I call Didrik back so he can fuck you too?”

He chuckled, surging upwards in a quick movement that had Helma taking a half step forwards as he straddled my legs, kneeling either side of me, pushing his whole weight down on top of me.

I raised a hand behind his back in a gesture for the Víðarr to stand down, before using the same hand to grasp the back of his neck. “Impertinent little star, aren’t you.”

The golden haired Álfr said nothing as he lowered his head, his soft bow shaped lips parting. His tongue forced its way between my teeth where it roamed forcefully through my mouth, hot and strong as it probed deep and exploring.

Comprehensible thought fled as lust ran roughshod through my mind.

A rush of searing mægen flowed over me, running through me like a knife, plunging into my body without mercy. My back arched, and I bit down on his lower lip at the sheer intensity of it. His mægen crashed into mine, hot and cold, dark and light twisted together; a chaotic storm of power.

Helma’s mægen danced in the air as the darkness stretched towards me, the shadows animated through her will. The dark reaches us, and the shadows shackle the Álfr kneeling over me in onyx bindings.

The shadows drag him off the chaise, forcing him to the ground with a heavy thud. He moaned in pain at the impact, but did not attempt to break free of the dark shackles as he laid supine on the floor.

Brushing a hand over my mouth, I spared a brief glance at my fingers wet with crimson blood as I rose into an upright sitting position, and crossed one leg over the other. The Ljósálfar’s lip was bleeding, and I watched it trickle down his chin, and neck. The urge to press my mouth to his bronzed flesh, and capture those sweet rivulets of blood on my tongue flickers through me.

“Release him.” I ordered.

The shackles holding the Ljósálfar faded as Helma withdrew her mægen, the Víðarr stood beside the door, arms crossed over her chest as she glowered at the golden Álfr.

He pushed himself upright, watching me warily without meeting my unwavering gaze.

“Why are you here?” My voice carried with it a note of power, dark and demanding.

The Ljósálfar stiffened, golden eyes briefly flickering to mine. He took a deep breath, his chest expanding, and deflating as he released a weary sigh. “Because... Because I was- am afraid.”

I tilted my head to the side with a half smile- afraid? He wasn’t even the heir, what did he have to fear in the sun’s court? “What does the glory of the sun have to fear?”

“Marriage, and monogamy to name a few,” he answered with a tight-lipped smile.

Soft laughter came unbidden to my lips at the unexpected response. “A frightening thing indeed, though monogamy is not something I would think to be of concern for the Álfar. We are not a race who practices such a lifestyle.”

“The Æsir do.” Röðull Kyrian said as he shuffled his body into a more comfortable position on the floor. I didn’t offer him a seat, he hadn’t yet earned such a privilege from me.

I arched my brow. That was certainly an interesting choice for a spouse. “What does your upcoming nuptial have to do with me?”

“Have you not heard?” He grinned, full of devious intent. “I am your star, shining brightly to accompany you on the loneliest of nights.”

Realization hit as I recalled the gossip show I watched earlier in the week. “You are the fourth son?”

Kyrian nodded, his grin widening.

“And you thought to use these rumors to avoid being married off to Ásgarðr?”

He nodded again.

“To whom are you betrothed?”

“It is yet to be decided, no official agreement has been made.” He sighed, running a hand through his short golden curls. “I learned recently that the Ástugrsunna seeks to be rid of me through marriage, death isn’t an option as it would damage alliance’s with the Seelie, thus marriage is her choice to remove me from court.”

“Ásgarðr,” I hummed, pondering that choice of alliance. “Interesting choice.”

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“It is, isn’t it.” Kyrian agreed, his voice full of unspoken meaning.

My gaze drifted to the windows, staring out into the night as I mulled over the various possibilities of such an alliance. There were so many moving pieces on the board that it was difficult to keep track of it all.

One wrong move could spark a renewal of open hostilities between our twin kingdoms, and no one wanted that- or did they? The actions of the Ljósálfar in the aftermath of Lady Anđela’s execution were questionable to say the least.

Refocusing on the Ljósálfar, I allowed a slow smile to curl over my lips as I mentally shuffled the board, opening up a place for a new piece.

“Are you worth the hassle of keeping?” Burying my conflicting emotions, I gestured with one hand, bidding him to approach. It was a gesture used to summon a subordinate, that I used it for him was an insult, and I meant it so.

The Ljósálfar crawled towards me, not even the slightest flicker of hesitation. Neither anger, nor pride reflected itself upon his face as he knelt in supplication at my feet.

“Someone has educated you well,” I commented, twisting one of the golden curls around a finger.

“It is said you take after the Ríkrtungl.”

“We are similar in many ways,” I said, cupping his cheek, and stroking a thumb over his lower lip which had stopped bleeding. I pressed hard on the freshly healed wound, causing the skin to break, and fresh blood to weep forth. “However, I am not as deeply entrenched in sadism as faðir is. I am still young after all.”

I lowered my head, pressing a hard kiss to his lips. His blood, flavored by his mægen, carried the taste of rich, exotic spices. My mouth left his to follow the trail of blood over his chin, and down his neck. He did not protest, merely groaned as my fingers stroked over his chest, slipping beneath his tunic.

Power called to power, singing a song of flesh on flesh, mouth on mouth and the intimate dance of two bodies pressed together. There was no tenderness in our embrace, no love, or caring, only primal need as I claimed him for my own. In that moment he was no longer the glory of the sun, but a star shining beneath the moon.

“You’re going to be problematic, aren’t you, my star.” I sighed as I combed my fingers through silken curls.

We lay together on the floor, drenched in sweat, and other delightful fluids as we luxuriated in the aftermath of a brief, yet enjoyable indulgence.

Kyrian chuckled, his lips curling into a decadent smile that beckoned me into a kiss that set off another wave of power, and lust.

When I finally managed to extract myself from the Ljósálfar, ribbons of color danced across the horizon as the sun prepared to make its ascent into the sky.

Seated in the dressing room, I watched through the mirror's reflection as a silent Maitane styled my hair. The Húsvættir hadn’t said a word regarding my concubine beyond directing Sorcha to adorn him in the manner faðir did his pets. That if anything showed what she thought of his presence.

Though, I had to admit seeing him like that stirred something deep within me.

A band of gold wrapped around Kyrian’s neck, slender chains draped from the collar to a pair of matching bands around his upper arms. He wore a short glittering skirt of gold, that sat low on his hips, and was split high on one side, exposing yet more of his beautiful bronzed skin. Jeweled anklets were fastened about his ankles, and draped over his bare feet, connecting to his second toe.

His adornments were on the simpler side compared to what I had seen worn by the pets kept by faðir, but Sorcha had limited supplies to work with.

Kyrian leaned against the wall of the dressing room, his expression a bland mask as he waited for Maitane to put the finishing touches on my hair.

Two thin braids decorated with silver thread hung delicately on either side of my face, whilst the hair at the front of my head was pulled back and teased to give height, before trailing back into a thick braid clasped with an ornate silver hairpin. From there it split like a hydra’s head into several smaller braids that were decorated with twists of silver thread, at the sides, dozens of smaller braids twisted and converged as they snaked their way to join the larger braid atop my head.

The dress I wore was made of shimmering silver material that hugged my figure, the skirt stopping just above my knees, while the corseted bodice had a criss-cross design of purple ribbons that encircled my upper arms to form a thin strap.

Walking together with Kyrian a half step behind me, a golden star to my silver moon, I felt a mix of emotions welling up inside me. In a matter of minutes, I would be throwing down a preverbal gaunt, and making one of the biggest political moves of my life. Part of me wanted to consult faðir, to warn him about what Maitane and I planned, but in doing so I risked warning those I intended to strike.

The dais at the far end of the dining hall had undergone yet another change, with the table being removed, and the chaise brought out from behind the curtain to replace it. The mirror taken from Lord Fergus’s rooms sat directly opposite the chaise, allowing it to have a full view of where I would be sitting and the curtain behind, with my crest embroidered on it. A pair of four pronged antlers with a crescent moon between them.

Kyrian lowered himself in a servile pose before me as I settled onto the chaise, his arms crossed at the small of his back, and cheek resting on my knees.

My fingers flexed in my lap as I restrained the urge to touch the delicate golden curls, instead I focused on Æsa who I called out of the shadows, and onto the chaise. The large form of the Garmr stretched out across the chaise, reclining behind me and providing a dark backdrop to offset my silver dress. In addition, the message conveyed with Æsa, and Kyrian’s positions was not something that would be missed, or overlooked.

“Connection in three, two,” Sorcha counted down, her fingers hovering over the mirror’s control. “One.”

The reflection in the mirror rippled, and the image of an elegant Svartálfar woman replaced it. “Blessuð nótt, Smártungl Elayna av Svartálfaheimr.” Her voice was soft and full of reverence, as she curtsied so low that all I could see was the top of her head.

Behind where she stood in the mirror, I could see that it was indeed night in Svartálfaheimr, and thus greeted her as such, despite the ever lightening sky outside the windows of the hall I sat in.

“Blessuð nótt, Barica, dóttir of honored hirð Faure. My Máni look upon you favorably this night.” I answered, shaping my lips into a gentle smile.

“My moon, we are honored to speak with you this nótt.” Barica said, placing her right hand over her heart as she spoke, the gesture conveying the sincerity of her words.

I lifted my own hand in return. “It brings this small moon joy to hear such words.”

The interview began slowly, with the expected questions being asked. I answered with responses that had been carefully cultivated, giving enough detail to satisfy without truly providing any information. Then, as planned we arrived at the most potent question of all.

“My moon, what are your thoughts on the current political situation with Álfheimr?”

I lowered my gaze to the Álfr who rested his head on my lap, only now releasing that I had been unconsciously toying with his golden curls.

“In truth I am baffled, and enraged.” I said, before adding the last with a forlorn sigh. “Even saddened.”

Barica’s lips parted, her silver eyes widening. “Would you be willing to elaborate on this, my moon?”

“I am baffled to hear of the response to Concubine Anđela’s execution,” I said with a wry smile. “The Ljósálfar behave as though they are victims, demanding recompense for her death. Yet, where is the recompense for the death of my móðir? Where is the recompense for the deaths of the dozens of Skutilsveinr, and Sveitungr who died to protect me from Concubine Anđela’s attempt to assassinate me? They hold the life of a treasonous lady above that of Svartálfaheimr’s Smártungl, above that of the Bjartr stjarna, above the Skutilsveinr! Even the lives of the dozens of Sveitungr who served in my halls are deemed less than that of a single Álfar. Why? Because she is kin to the Ástugrsunna?”

I laughed, a low husky sound filled with anger, and bitterness.

“What of my móðir? What of Bjartr stjarna Luciana, móðir to me, the Smártungl av Svartálfaheimr? What of Lady Luciana dóttir to Ard Tiarna Meryasek of the Unseelie high court? What of Princess Luciana, neacht to High King Locryn of the Seelie high court?” I demanded, lifting my hands away from Kyrian’s hair. “Where is the recompense for Svartálfaheimr, Niflheimr and Múspellsheimr?”

The reporter sat frozen, her pale luminous form as responsive as a marble statue on display at an art gallery.

“I am enraged that the life of a treasonous woman is given such value, simply because she is kin to the Ríkrsunna’s consort. Not even a woman of royal blood herself, but treated above those who are. What if Anđela the treasonous succeeded in her plot that night? Would the Ljósálfar claim the worth of her life above even mine?”

I dug a hand into Kyrian’s hair, and wrenched back his head, twisting him around to face the mirror. “This little pet, he is the only one who comes to offer recompense for the sins of the Ástugrsunna’s kin. He is the only one who values the lives of those who were lost more than that of a treasonous hóra.”

Kyrian went to the floor in a dramatic sprawl as I shoved him away, the chains attached to his collar jingling as he fell. His head twisted to the side, facing the mirror, and I placed a foot atop his head, the heel of my stiletto digging into his cheek.

I sighed, a drawn out weary sound that I paired with a crestfallen expression. “As for why I am sad,” I shook my head, gesturing to the Svartálfar woman in the mirror. “Tell me, Barica, what are you wearing at this moment?”

The reporter looked down at herself, her nose scrunching. She looked back up at me, and I could see she didn’t know how to answer. “I do not think dress is the answer you seek, my moon.”

“Where is the fabric from? What influenced such a modest design?” I prodded, watching as understanding lit her eyes.

“Álfheimr.” She whispered, her fingers pinching and twisting the fabric of her dress.

“My people, the people I love and cherish,” I softened my voice. “They treasure the Ljósálfar more than their small moon, more than the star who birthed that moon, and more than the brave Skutilsveinr who gave their lives to protect it. How can I not be sad with this knowledge in my heart?”

My words sent the reporter to her knees. Tears dampened her cheeks as she yanked the dress she wore over her head, casting it aside.

I folded my hands over my heart, lowering my head as I spoke in a low, unwavering tone.

“I pray to Máni that when I return home, it is to a people who recognize the sacrifices that the Skutilsveinr who fight to protect them make. Not only those who serve and protect the moons, but those who fight each and everyday to ensure the safety of our lands. If we as a people cannot honor those who protect, and provide for us, what reason do they have to do so?” With those parting words, Sorcha cut off the connection to the mirror which returned to its normal reflective state.

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