Circumstance, parts 4/5 (UPDATED 21/08/12)

[Salamander]

I started writing this three years ago, lost the file and then found it again and remembered how much I love these books. This is pretty self-indulgent crack, but I'm glad others are reading and enjoying!

Spoilers- none. It's set far before the 'Merry Gentry' books begin, but expands on a incidental character who was introduced in Book 7- Swallowing Darkness.

The book and characters are not mine. If they were mine I would be queen of the sluagh by now.

It should be perfectly readable without any knowledge of the series if you just ignore any bits of Merrydom jargon. However, to enhance you reading pleasure: The sit hen is where they fey live. Faeries come in several flavours; there's the Seelie, or light court, and the Unseelie, or dark court. The unseelie court contains the sluagh, which is the place for creatures even the unseelie don't want anything to do with.

You also need to know about Mirabella; she's a seamstress in the sluagh. She is a human woman who was stolen by the seelie court some time during the 1800s. Their King cut off her arm and then cast her out of the court, so she was taken in by the sluagh, who gave her a tentacle in the place of her arm. As you do.

Oh, and there is a fair bit of plot/scene setting before we get to the sneezes, but it gets there alright!

On with the crack!!!

'Circumstance'

The corridors of the sluagh sithen made their own light, but at night the light dimmed to an almost pitch blackness echoing the sky outside, apart from the fact that down in the tunnels and endless corridors, there was no light, no stars to guide the way, for the sluagh do not need light.

Deep within the sluagh sithen, where the nightmares of nightmares slid along the corridors, a human woman awoke in the small hours of the night the sudden knowledge that she needed to sew a shirt, long sleeved, out of the lightest brushed cotton she had, collar measurement 14 inches.

This was not entirely an unusual experience. Since being taken on as seamstress to King Sholto of the sluagh, Mirabella would occasionally find herself driven by a vivid dream or merely an uncanny hunch to create a particular garment without understanding why, only to find a few days later that exact garment would be required. She was not blessed with the power of prophesy, but her guardians had explained to her that the sithen had what they called "background magic," which meant the faerie courts were as capricious as living things, acting in ways the fey themselves did not understand.

As far as Mirabella could understand it, the sithen where she lived was magic, it was the ground she walked upon and the air she breathed, the invisible stuff that had kept her mortal body from decaying for nearly two hundred years. It seemed to her only natural that it should communicate with her, the way a horse communicates with its rider, and it was endearingly specific about the important details of life; measurements to the quarter inch, location of buttonholes and all.

And now she was required to sew this shirt. More of a tunic, really, with the front being one piece for comfort, tied at the neck with lacing rather than buttons or clasps, and definitely in some soft, warm fabric. By the measurements she had understood as she visualised the finished items in her hands, it was to be for King Sholto, though of course there was no way to be sure. It was an odd request- the fey had less need than humans for comfort, and Sholto favoured formalwear over casual. Perhaps he was to go somewhere cold. Either way, the sithen's suggestion was so sudden and pure that all desire to sleep fled her limbs and Mirabella rose at once. She dressed in her own clothes as quickly as she could- despite the fey's assurance that she was free to move with the times, Mirabella felt most comfortable in the attire of the century she had been born in and the station she had held; long dresses with full skirts, tight bodices and demure necklines to cover her nearly from wrist to ankle.

It was certainly easier to dress here in the sluagh than it had ever been in the mortal world, she thought, as she always did when she reached behind her to tighten the lacing on the back of her own corset. It was an action a truly human woman would have required assistance with, which Mirabella was able to achieve effortlessly, owing to the fact that her right arm was in fact a slender tentacle like the limb of some undersea creature brought on land. The flesh of it was speckled dark on the upper part and pale on the sensitive underside, the tip of it adorned with suckers as sensitive and suited to fine work as any woman's fingertips. It joined the human flesh of her forearm a few inches above where her elbow had once been in an unnaturally neat ring of pale scarring where it had been had been bound to her by magic. This was the limb she had been given when Taranis, King of the Seelie court, had taken her right arm in a fit of rage. No faerie healer could save her arm, but here in the sluagh a doctor had contrived to replace her arm with this new appendage which, frankly, suited her new lifestyle much better. It was flexible, dexterous and she had eventually come to appreciate it as beautiful, in the way that deadly snakes are inhumanly beautiful. Although she'd worn it for nearly two hundred years she still marvelled that such a thing had come to be part of her.

Mirabella had no sooner left her bedroom than she was joined by her dear friend, Una. They spent most of their time together, partially because Una seemed to have an uncanny sense for when Mirabella was awake and in need of company. Perhaps this was not remarkable, for the tentacled limb which was now part of her body had once been part of Una's. It was not such a generous donation since Una had plenty of them and it had grown back almost immediately. But Mirabella and Una were, as Una was fond of saying, of the same flesh. Una was one of the sluagh creatures known simply as nightflyers. Mirabella had never seen a manta-ray, which is shame because it might have gone some way to explaining Una's appearance. As it was, she was a little shorter than Mirabella in height, possessed of a great number of pearly-coloured tentacles along with large, dark eyes and soft wings which folded across her body when at rest to give her the appearance of a hood or cowl around her face. That is to say by the standard of the sluagh, which contained some of faerie's worst nightmares, she was an average citizen. Now she swooped down from the ceiling and landed at Mirabella's side.

"Can't you sleep?" She asked, in her whispery voice.

"I was woken," Mirabella told her "by a sewing commission. Are you in the mood to work?"

"With you? Always."

When Mirabella had become the royal seamstress to those in the sluagh that wore clothes, she had found to her surprise that her new friend was also wonderful at sewing. The only thing Mirabella could do better with opposable thumbs was use dressmaking scissors- Una could cut around shapes with a sharp knife but it wasn't quite the same. In this way they settled into a comfortable routine whereby Mirabella planned and cut patterns, Una pinned them together with alarming speed, Mirabella sewed neat stitches and Una cut off the loose threads. Those in the sluagh who were in touch with the world outside had offered to get them a device called a sewing machine which Mirabella considered unnatural. Besides, the thing was partially made of iron, which was as upsetting to Una as it was for most other faeries.

And so the woman in a dress right out of the 1800s with her best friend the tentacled horror made their way to their workshop to begin sewing a shirt. If this was not the sluagh court of faerie it might have seemed an unusual day.

* * * *

Although she had never adjusted her patterns to the nocturnal, Mirabella found walking the Sithen at night an interesting experience for that was when the sluagh at large were most active; being immortal most of them needed no sleep at all, but many of the larger, older creatures tended to lie dormant during daylight hours, only to unfurl their great, terrible bodies at night. Some of the nightflyers were also awake and licked across the high ceilings with the fluid grace of bats, on secret business of their own. The whisper of their wings brought occasional gusts of air to her face which were refreshing after many hours in the sewing room. The faint brushes of unseen hands and claws that sometimes tugged at her clothes were more frequent at night and the corridors were nearly busy with the coming and going of those on feet or otherwise. For this reason, she was not overly surprised to see a large party approaching them. Yet when she recognised who it was her feet halted of her own accord.

In a realm where six legs or soft, roiling bodies and great gaping jaws was the norm, being one of the very few humanoid creatures in the sithen would have made Lord Sholto instantly noticeable, even if he wasn't recognisable as the King of all the sluagh.

Right now he did not shine as the sidhe could shine in truth, but there was a radiance in his white face and pale golden hair that made him stand out like lantern. He was flanked on either side by two nightflyer guards, and behind him walked a woman so old all her flesh has dissolved from her bones- a Night Hag. In all this terrible, usual company, Sholto was stunning. His features held the fine, unnatural beauty of the fey, his eyes which were cast straight ahead were three circles of gold. He wore a long coat that dragged on the floor behind him like a train and he looked very well in it; the deep dove-grey was the perfect plain setting against which the jewels of his eyes and hair could be more readily appreciated. Mirabella allowed herself a moment of personal satisfaction- that coat was one of the finest things she'd ever made and the King seemed to like it, for he wore it often. As he approached, the reason why such a sidhe looking creature could be King of the sluagh became evident. He was seelie to the waist, but from there he boasted the limbs of his nightflyer father, at once strong, dexterous and disturbing.

Mirabella stood aside at once to let him pass, dropping a low curtsey as befitted the man who had saved her life and given her entirely new one, whilst beside her Una did the same. To her great surprise and gratification, as she looked her up her gaze met two eyes of startling saffron. Sholto gave her the tiniest nod of acknowledgement before he swept past, his stride tense, urgent, and quick enough to set his long hair rippling behind him like a cape of cloth-of-gold. Mirabella returned that nod with a small but genuine smile, noticing in that fleeing moment that something in his face looked wrong. Haughty, though he always looked haughty, but his eyes were narrowed in something very like tiredness that put a bitter set to his mouth. No, truly, he looked about done in, but Mirabella was not wont to voice such thoughts about her King.

Mirabella quickened her steps to return to her bed, for much as she was under the King's protection it did not do to linger too long in the deeper corridors of the sithen. There were ancient things here sleeping unseen under the surface of magic and there was no knowing when something might become interested in a human woman disturbing its rest. Meanwhile, Una took to the air in search of her own roost with the ethereal, improbable grace of the nightflyers. She stooped to whisper her foremost tenctacles gently over the human woman's shoulder in a gesture Mirabella had come to recognise as affection and appreciate as such, reciprocating by smoothing the fluid flesh with her good hand as it ran through her grip like oiled velvet.

"You did well." Mirabella called after her friend, patting the satisfying bundle of the shirt under her arm.

Una's high, hollow voice called after her, chiding "We did well. Sleep now, flesh of my flesh."

As she drew the covers around herself, that pale, handsome face sprang unbidden in her mind and wondered what could make the King of the sluagh look so drawn. But it did not do to think such things! Sholto was a man who drew back the beasts of raw magic with a word, who both contained the wild hunt and all the terrors of the sluagh from ravaging America and wielded his sluagh as a weapon of deadly precision, defending his people from all comers including the sidhe treachery which seemed to be their greatest threat. Days were darkening and discontent brewed in both the bright and dark courts. They needed him to be strong.

* * * * *

Although she had felt compelled to rise in the middle of the night in order to sew the shirt which her vision had suggested to her, Mirabella's dream had in fact suggested no real urgency in the creation of that shirt, merely that such a thing would be needed in a few days. It was simply her own preference to go immediately to her sewing room whenever she had an idea for a garment. She had been the same in her mortal life, always desiring to strike while the iron of inspiration was hot, and the freedom of her life in Sholto's court allowed her to indulge her whims. So long as she sewed for the King and those of his people who were wont to wear clothes and managed her own supplies for doing so, there was nobody to comment if she desired to sew solidly for days at a time, working mostly late at night and then sleeping late, or spend days doing nothing but reading and sketching new designs. The sluagh were wonderously tolerant of difference, as well they might be, for any creature in faerie was welcome in the sluagh- it was the last refuge for those even the unseelie court found too awful to keep. Since the many denizens of the sluagh were blessed with flesh made of malleable magic, superior to her human form in size, strength, speed, and in their opinion, beauty, Mirabella was treated with general affection, as one might look upon an endearing child with an unfortunate disfigurement, encouraging her to make the best of the inferior lot nature had given her through no fault of her own.

For this reason she was not at all surprised when she did not receive any summons from the court for two days. On the third day, just as she was beginning to wonder if she might have misinterpreted the sithen's suggestion or re imagined her normal night's dreaming as a magical command, the King's undersecretary came to her in her sewing room. Bhari was a female nightflyer, and considered particularly attractive for her flesh showed very pronounced gradation in colour from the jet black of her back and the outside of her limbs to the moonlight-pale undersides and face. When among males Bhari had mastered the art of moving with a delicate, effortless grace that let glimpses of the paler flesh on her more intimate tentacles show as if by accident. It was her equivalent of the way Mirabella's more forward contemporaries were wont to wear their dresses cut very low.

She whispered into the room like a polite, hooded ghost that had swallowed an octopus, making the request in her firm but fluting voice.

"Could you please come to King Sholto's reception room at once?"

"At once?" Mirabella replied absently, taking care to push her needle in-out-in the fabric she was embroidering and regretting that it would be nice to finish working with this colour before she set it down.

"There is a Lady of the Bright Court for you on King Sholto's mirror." Bhari said.

That was the seelie sidhe, of course, assuming that one could drop whatever one was doing and rush to cater to their whims. Still, sewing comissions were not only Mirabella's bread and butter, they were also her calling, and she never turned down a request politely made.

"And she is waiting as we speak?"

An affirmative nod.

"Then I had better come right away."

Mirabella had come to read the nightflyers well enough to notice that Bhari's great almond-shaped eyes crinkled momentarily at the corners in an apologetic smile. She was the epitome of diplomacy, but then that was why she was a chosen assistant to the King. Mirabella was gathering up her sewing-case and some paper for notes when her hand alighted by chance on the shirt she had sewn the night before, and she scooped it up with her on the off-chance that it might be needed. Least ways if King Sholto was there she could ask him if he had need of it. With that she followed the under-secretary on the short walk to the King's chambers.

It no longer seemed strange that the fey could communicate, or even move, through mirrors. It was certainly more comprehensible to Mirabella's eighteenth-century mind than the speaking-device Sholto called the "telephone" which could not be explained away by magic.

King Sholto was Lord of that which Passes Between, one of the fey who could transport themselves and others over great distances through a portal such as a mirror, but his talent was not required tonight, not that a Lady of the Seelie Court would step willingly into the Sluagh. Lady Celia's simply explained her desires through the surface of the mirror, as though speaking through an open window. Celia herself was a perfect example of a Lady in the seelie court- tall and inhumanly beautiful in a way which made Mirabella feel like a moth beside a butterfly as she suggested colours and hemlines to best bring out the Lady's attractiveness. Mirabella did not need to be present in the room, for Celia's maidservant simply measured her mistress in front of the mirror.

When the audience was over, Lady Celia bid her an affectionate farewell to which Mirabella supplied a low and genuinely felt curtsey. When she raised her eyes from their demure resting place upon the edge of the rug under her feet, the mirror showed only an empty chamber. It was not the sumptious royal chambers of the seelie court, but it was a nice room in the golds and oranges the bright court favoured. The light from the small chandelier was so bright it spilled through the mirror to play off the dark, polished flagstones of Sholto's room creating an effect like the reflection of a ship's lantern at sea. All very pretty, but gilt and ambient golden light of the seelie sithen was garish enough to hurt Mirabella eyes as though she was staring at the sun, though she didn't feel that living in the darker sluagh was necessarily to blame. Looking at the mirror with its vista on the perfectly presented reception room in the context of Sholto's more soberly decorated chambers where the floor was smooth and shiny not by magic but by the passage of countless feet and the walls were undulating and organic in naturally pleasing proportion, presented a perfect image of Mirabella's progress since she had been taken by the fey- out of the place where nothing was as it seems and into the soothing safety of the sluagh. If Mirabella had learned anything, it was that the dark could be kind, kinder than a harsh midday.

More practically though, Lady C had walked away without clearing the mirror and breaking the magical link between the two locations, and that was a dangerous mistake to make. It would not do to leave the Seelie with a permanent window into the sluagh court through which any spy could watch Sholto at his business, or indeed, any creature of nightmare might decide to slip through. Mirabella, of course, had no magic of any kind and was forced to a more humble means of closing the connection- that is, asking someone else to do it for her.

The door to the King's private chambers was a heavy, oaken one, dark with age and clearly, forbiddingly locked. Casting her eyes around for a final time to be sure Bhari did not linger nearby, Mirabella was forced to swallow her fears of interupting whatever important business was going on behind that door with a light, apologetic knock.

There was no answer for a long second, and she stilled her breathing the better to listen, leaning her head as close to the wood as she dared without the risk of looking ridiculous if the door opened suddenly. All was still. Yet just as she raised a hand to knock for a second time, there came the click of a key turning in the lock. The door under her fingertips fell open a crack, sufficient for her to tentatively push it open the rest of the way.

The corridor beyond was completely empty. She stepped forward reflexively, and to her horror the door swung shut behind her with a life of its own. Another decisive click came from the inner workings of the ornate keyhole just below the handle, where the mechanism slid home with no need for a key to turn it. That was Sholto's magic, undoubtedly. As 'Lord of that which passes between', he was very good with doors.

She did not need to try the door to know that the King's magic had locked her in. There was no point in second thoughts about disturbing her Lord, then, not if she meant to leave at all. There was still the matter of the mirror, anyway. Though Mirabella was a woman who had faced worse things in her life than social awkwardness, she had been raised at court under King George and the thought of simply walking into her King's chambers made her squirm. He could be sleeping, or busy or- it hardly bore thinking about. As one of the older fey had said to her, you could take the human out of her right century, but you could never take that century out of the human.

"Sire?" She called out, but all was still. A breath, and she began to walk deeper into the chambers of the Lord of the Sluagh.

The King's chambers were not dark. On the contrary they were filled with warm, sourceless light that cast too few shadows, but the colours here were dark wood, deep burgundy drapery and stone so grey it was nearly black. Luxurious, but forbidding. Mirabella cast her eyes up, as she always did, to admire the high ceiling of the entrance way. It ornately decorated with what might have been carving and might have been the naturally tortured shape of the rock above her head, split into heavy veins that burst with seams of crystal showing in the dark stone like fossilised flowers. The walls at head height were plastered smooth and plain in off-white, like the interior of some strict church, dull enough to her eye, but she understood that these rooms were designed to be used by those with wings as much as those without. Una had informed her that the King's chambers were not only easy for her to navigate, with their ceiling height nooks and hand-holds, but also very beautiful from a nightflyer's-eye-view.

There was, however, no sign of Lord Sholto.

She moved forwards slowly, passing several locked doors. She had been the in King's chambers for private fittings and her feet moved her instinctively towards the wing of the building she knew best. For a long time the only sound was the whisper of her dress on the floor. Just when she was about to call out again Mirabella caught the sound of slight movement coming from the open door to one of the King's meeting rooms.

Inside, there were many handsome leather couches and armed chairs arranged around a massive fireplace. The facing wall was hung with weapons of various types, from ornate swords to heavy pieces of metal in curious shapes, the uses of which she could only speculate. And on one of the couches lay the King of the Sluagh, apparently unconscious.

Sholto lay on his side, one of his arms cushioning his head, with his body drawn in on itself seemingly for warmth. His mouth was slightly open, the long golden hair was more mussed than she had ever seen it. Apart from that, Mirabella thought, he looked for all the world like a sleeping angel. Which was odd -wasn't it?- because they fey don't need to sleep.

It was improper to stare, and doubly improper to intrude on her King when he was sleeping, but curiosity rose in Mirabella like bubbles. She stepped forwards for a closer look, allowing her eye to linger. To the waist down Sholto appeared perfectly sidhe. His features were handsome, with the usual seelie delicacy to his brow, though his jawline was sculpted and strong. His shoulders, as she knew from her sewing, were broad. Then she came to the main focus of her interest- his nightflyer limbs. In his sleep they were spread from beneath the hem of his shirt like a sea-anemone at rest. The thicker limbs which were his "arms" looked much like her own, though paler in colour. He also had what she called "fingers" on Una, which were for delicate work, and some extra limbs in between. She felt a pang of recognition as she gazed at him; he was the only other creature in faerie to combine humanoid features with dextrous tentacles. She wondered- did his meet his flesh abruptly, as hers did? Or was the transition more gradual, more organic? Guilty but intrigued, she inclined her head to see if she could examine the place where tentacles met skin. It was too hard to make out but she could certainly see the soft undersides of his "fingers" and she felt a blush rise in her cheeks- Mirabella was not an expert on sluagh anatomy, but she knew enough to know these were intimate.

Only when she was close enough to touch him did her presence startle him awake. His eyes opened to show a sliver of sunset. He murmured something incoherent, then they snapped open to blazing gold as they cast about the room, disorientated.

"Bhari?" It came out husky, his voice an octave below it's usual pitch.

As she watched he sat up swiftly and his eyes settled on her with something close to his usual authoritative stare.

"Mirabella, Sire."

She ducked a low, apologetic curtsey, braced for fury or anything else. When she raised her eyes Sholto was standing as though to pretend that he had not been horizontal mere moments ago. As she watched, his appearance corrected itself. Creases disappeared from his shirt while his hair settled around him like an aura, it's sleep-damp quality subsiding into rippling silk. This was what the fey called glamour- a small act of personal magic that changed the appearance. Chances were it was completely unconscious, an automatic response upon waking, but Mirabella's practical mind had always found such artifice deeply disconcerting.

"Mirabella. I apologise, I had quite forgotten you were coming." Sholto began. His couldn't hide his voice, or couldn't hide it well enough, and there was an edge on it which made Mirabella wince- a gravel-raw rasp evidently from sleeping so long with his mouth open.

"I was not-" She began, then halted because he seemed about to speak.

Sholto raised two slender fingers as if to pause her, but then promptly applied them to the underside of his own nose, turning his head away. His features gathered into an expression of sudden distress so urgent that Mirabella wondered if he was in pain, until it become readily apparent that this was his futile defense against a sudden, wrenching sneeze.

"UuhESSCHih!"

He turned from her swiftly to release it in one quick, irritated burtst. Mirabella's head snapped towards him at the noise, impolitely startled by it. For a brief moment as she looked to him, she thought she saw him as he had been upon waking- hair rumpled, eyes tired. But when she looked again he was as composed as if it had not happened, with not so much as a hair out of place. In fact he recovered so quickly Mirabella had to wonder if she had imagined the whole thing.

"I did not mean to wake you, Sire." She continued.

Sholto waved an impatient hand.

"Not at all. I was... merely resting."

"Would you mind clearing the spell on the mirror? My appointment with Lady C. is over and she did not do so."

"You were speaking to someone on my mirror?"

She took an instinctive step back, drawing her tentacled arm in close to her body, and immediately felt foolish. Sholto was not a man who would maim a servant for impertinence. She knew that. Yet he stood a head taller than her and she'd learned to be wary of seelie beauty.

"You said that I might remain in contact with the seelie court in order to sew for those who still appreciate my skills, Sire. I did not mean to displease you."

"This does not displease me." He shook his head and a smile made his inhuman features that little bit warmer. All his golden hair slid forward over his face as he did it and he pushed it back in a tired, frustrated movement, murmuring " ...Then I was right the first time. Bhari did not in fact tell me you were coming. There is so much to be done lately that one more appointment I had forgotten about would not have been surprising to me."

He seemed now to be speaking mostly to himself, his voice still low and husky. Mirabella wondered at this- there is only so much roughness that can be attributed to having being recently woken. Sholto cleared his throat with a few deep coughs and a distinctly un-regal sniff before addressing her directly;

"You are quite right, it would not do to leave a window through which the entire Seelie court could watch my coming and going. Let us go and do it at once."

With that he turned and made his way through to his office, Mirabella following his long strides like a dolphin in the wake of ship. As he walked his appearance changed further. His own tentacles vanished from view, while the loose shirt he had worn to accommodate them was replaced by a more fitted one which sat snugly over what now appeared to be an incredibly toned stomach. His long hair was gathered in a thick ponytail at the nape of his neck, bound about by a black velvet ribbon such as gentlemen in Mirabella's mortal day were wont to wear. She watched him with interest. It was more glamour, of course. Yet she knew from experience that it could fool each of the senses- if she touched Sholto now she would not feel what she knew to be there. To her eye, without his nightflyer appendages he looked... unfinished. It was disconcerting.

His golden head turned around sharply to meet hers, as though he'd sensed her stare. "I apologise for my crime against your tailoring. It pays to be sensitive to appearance where the bright court are concerned."

She nodded to show she did not mind it.

The door to the reception room opened before him as he approached it and he allowed Mirabella to proceed him, yet rather than follow he murmured a hasty "-excuse me a moment-" as he halted his steps, overtaken by another sudden sneeze. "I- – hESSCHuh!"

It was a surprisingly forceful movement which bent his body forwards into his cupped hands. He raised his head for only a second before he sneezed again, another sharp "- ESSCChuh!"and Mirabella murmured a reflexive "Bless you." Again as she glanced to him she thought she saw him as he had been in his chambers- tentacles and tunic and all, hair loose and flowing- but when she looked again he was smartly dressed and utterly Sidhe looking. How bizarre. Perhaps he was not quite unchanged, though. In the wake of his sneezes he moved sluggishly, as though the movement pained him, and a flicker of ticklish irritation remained to haunt his nostrils and the corner of his mouth. Mirabella wondered at this. She'd seen the the sidhe sneeze before, occasionally, but only ever in response to some obvious stimuli; dust, a strong scent. And even then it was a quick, purposeful reaction. Nothing like this.

"I beg your pardon," he said hoarsely, and turned his attention to the mirror before she could comment.

The mirror's surface was bright in the dark of the office, still showing the same golden room in which Mirabella had been talking to Lady C. Nothing had changed, save that an elderly brownie was now polishing some silver in the far corner. So far as she could tell nothing had come through in either direction. That was a relief. When Lord Sholto approached the brownie scuttled for the door with an expression of panic, and Mirabella remembered that in the bright court Sholto was considered an unclean nightmare. He was Queen Andais' 'perverse creature'. Sholto was clearly used to this reaction for he merely raised one slender hand and cleared the surface of the mirror with a touch. One moment she could see the bright court, the next it was only her startled reflection peering around his own.

Lord Sholto turned towards her, mouth open to speak, but his voice cracked on the second syllable so that she could not make him out. He waved a hand in apology and cleared his throat softly, but to no avail. The next attempt set him to coughing spasmodically, with a ticklish intensity that made her wince.

She could see he was trying to muffle the sound but it soon deepened into a deep bass bark that made him gasp for breath and his shoulders shudder. Something about the heavy edge on it drew Mirabella's attention. Truly, he sounded awful, although even with his fist raised to his mouth and his eyes narrowed in discomfort he could not help but be anything but beautiful. It was as if each in breath he took to recover himself only irritated him a little more, and Mirabella was rooted to the spot with second-hand embarrassment as he sat down rather heavily in the wing chair to one side of him.

Eventually the coughing abated but the man did not move for a long moment. He sat in the chair with his eyes cast down, recovering, and it was only then that Mirabella realised what was strange about what she has seen. The man was fey, and more to the point he was sidhe, surely immune to any infirmity of the body at all.

"Shall- shall I send Bhari to you, Sire?" She asked. It was the safest thing she could think of to say- high court ettiquette among the fey held that it was intolerably rude to ask a personal question. Among the seelie court it was customary to completely ignore any expression of weakness or

strong emotion at all, for fear of giving offence. The sluagh were not so strict, but Sholto was sidhe, or partly sidhe and Mirabella had learned the hard way about angering her King.

At any rate Sholto did not seem to hear, though perhaps it was the tentative quality of her own voice. At the same time she could not countenance simply walking away and leaving the man in distress. Gambling her response on Sholto's good nature, she approached him and laid a hand on one shoulder to get his attention, saying again "Sire?"

This time he looked up. Those eyes were lit like stained-glass windows of precious gold, but she did not fancy it was magic that made them so, not with that pallor in his cheeks. Under her touch his shoulder trembled fractionally. It was almost imperceptible at first but grew into irrepressible bone-deep trembling that came and went in waves. If she did not know the fey were not susceptible to such things, she would have said he was shivering.

"Are you-" That was the beginning of a direct question. Well, curse the sensibilities of the sidhe at a a time like this! "Sire, are you- - cold?"

~TBC~

Edited August 23, 2012 by Salamander
Added 'TBC' at story writer's request

[SterlingSilver]

Oh WOW. This looks AWESOME. Such a sophisticated writing style! And I think stories that set up plot usually end up being the very best! Keep going, I love this ;D!

[Salamander]

Hehehe, thank you BlackScatter!

Mods- if you're reading, could you either add a 'to be continued' to the end of the story, and/or add 'part 1' to the title of the thread? Thanks a lot. I hate not being able to edit posts, and of course I can't pm you yet! Also, there's a full stop needed in the introduction half way through the disclaimer.

If there's any mods around from when I last used the forum, this is Silverbirch. The forum seems to have eaten my identity and I had to make another one.

Thanks so much,

Sal.

[March Hare]

Yes, this looks quite interesting, indeed...

I like King Sholto. Especially in this state. Very curious to see what'll happen next!

[count tiszula]

LLovely to see your stories here; I've run out of appropriate early English remarks, which is odd really in view of the faerie context. Where are the green children?

[Salamander]

PART 2

“Sire, are you- - cold?”

“I believe so.” He said faintly, as though the sensation was too novel to be burdensome.

“I beg your pardon.” He continued, waving his hand to dismiss the coughing fit as if it was dissipating smoke. “No, do not send for Bhari.”

This was most curious. Mirabella would have been content to leave, and to leave well alone, if it were not for something in his face that kept her closer to his side than anyone would think proper.

“I thought the sidhe did not feel the cold?” She asked, tentatively.

“Not so easily as humans.” He admitted. “In truth I had not noticed it until now. I merely-”

And there was that coughing again, husky and painful-sounding. His was sniffling again, too, and rubbing distractedly at the bridge of his nose. There was a damp quality to his voice that made her wish she had a handkerchief to give him- to her ear it sounded as if he needed it.

“May I?”

Either he had no objection or simply no idea what she was going to do. Whichever it was he did not shy away when she placed a gentle hand to his brow and made her assessment. “You're burning with fever!”

In truth, so far as she could tell he was running a low-grade temperature, merely enough to make him miserable. But even that was enough to worry her in a man who was not supposed to take ill at all. Yet, much as she desired to stay with him, to keep her hand at his brow since he showed no ambitions towards pulling away, what was to be done next was clear enough.

“I'll call for a healer-”

And his glamour dropped, because one of his tentacles was suddenly wrapped around her wrist, and none too gently either.

“Don't.”

Fever or no there was royal authority in that voice. She halted instantly.

Beyond that, he was supernaturally strong. There was no way she could pull away if that wasn't what he wanted. He was squeezing her to the bone, so tightly she knew there'd be purple indentations when he loosened his grip. Of course, he wasn't used to mortal bodies. Why would he be?

“You're hurting me.” She said, fighting to keep her voice mild.

His look of surprise made it clear that hadn't been his intention. Yet though he released the pressure somewhat he did not let go, instead tugging on her wrist to make her reverse her step away from him. She was dragged to closer proximity than she would have liked, and held there when another limb found her other “arm” and held her with equal tightness. He had her advantage- she was anchored to the spot and he hadn't even used his own arms. The compulsion was to struggle but she tried hard to relax, to show no fear lest she provoke him. He's not himself. That much was clear from the fever-brightness in his eyes, the unnatural focus of his expression. And, of course, the way that his free fingers rubbed unconsciously beneath his irritated nose.

“That will not be necessary.” He said, with some real sidhe arrogance in his voice. If Mirabella had forgotten momentarily that this was her King, she remembered it now. Yet his voice gave him the lie. That sentence was punctuated with another damp, ticklish sniff. And then another.

His eyes were fixed right on her, and he was so close that she could see the lines of colour in his iris which marked him as fey. They blazed in stern golden yellow, like winter sunlight. Despite the situation, she could not help but notice that he had very long lashes. They were all the more noticeable because they fluttered as he blinked hard.

“That will not be necessary, Mirabella.” He said again. “I merely- hhh-hh-”

The King did not finish the sentence because his breath was suddenly gone in a frantic inhalation. His features rippled, eyes inching shut, nostrils twitching. He hovered there for a moment, and then breathed out, slow and steady, the ticklish sensation retreating out of what was clearly pure force of will. He shook his head with a growl of frustration.

“I just-” He tried again, but now there was no avoiding it. There was no warning this time- he barely had time to turn his head into his shoulder before-

“-ESSCHuuh!--ESSCHuuh! -EKGSSCH!--”

Thankfully the moment he began sneezing he also released his grip on Mirabella's wrists, which left her watching him with something like awe. Each release snapped his upper-body in half and despite the sharp, nasal sound of them he had barely time for more than a hiccuping gasp between each one.

Again, each time the impulse overtook him she was treated to a sight of Sholto as he really was as the magic of glamour flickered and failed. It was as though a curtain was very briefly drawn or pulled back as his composure waxed and waned. It was curious.

And it was wet. The spray of it glittered momentarily in the bright light of the office as his head jerked forwards in a final, painful sounding “--heh'EKGSSCHuuh!!”

“Bless you.”

She said it quietly, but that was no comfort since she hadn't meant to say it at all. The words were only a human custom and they had just slipped out, as though the sound of his distress had wrenched them from her. It took a moment for the ridiculousness of a Christian blessing upon an immortal monstrosity to sink in. Colour rose in her cheeks, but it was nothing to what Sholto must be feeling. He kept his head in his hands so that the curtain of his hair obscured his face. Everything about his demeanour communicated Leave me alone, and let us pretend this never happened.

He should just be so lucky.

It was clear why he wasn't looking up. Visual evidence aside, his breath had taken on a thick, congested quality which was not at all relieved at his attempts to sniff it back discretely. Had a King of the fey ever experienced such indignity before? Mirabella did not know, but she knew that it was down to her to do something about it. He did not move for a while afterwards, and the way his hand gripped the side of the chair suggested dizziness.

She prompted him; “Do you have a handkerchief?”

He coughed again and gave a little half nod which suggested kind of rather than yes.

“Wait there.” She said, and added, “Please. Sire.”

And off she went. It was good to get away from him- her heart was pounding uncomfortably in her chest and walking calmed it. She'd been shaken by his sudden lunge for her, the realisation of his vastly superior strength. And shaken too by the fever-light in his eyes. For a moment there he'd looked so tired, so hurt.

Mirabella had little idea of where she might find a handkerchief for the King of the Sluagh, if indeed he did own one, but allowed her feet to guide her in the certainty that if there was such an item in the King's wardrobe, she would be the one to find it. He had dress handkerchiefs at least, she knew that because her own hand had sewn them. They would do in a pinch. She trotted briskly down the corridor in the King's quarters but her mind was still very much in the room behind her.

Then the passage twisted sharply, and lead her to a room that hadn't been there before. Mirabella was expecting a good five yards more corridor and this made her stumble, only just avoiding an encounter between her shins and a table. She would have sworn that this corridor did not lead to Sholto's dressing room. It had not lead here half an hour ago, certainly. Yet here she was. She knew that the sithen rearranged itself in slight ways from time to time, like an animal shifting in it's sleep. Sometimes her own bedroom would be closer to the sewing-room, sometimes a little further away. And now it had brought this place closer to her. That was... kind of it. Or it would have been if it wasn't utterly unsettling. Still, she was not so surprised to find a neat stack of handkerchiefs sitting on top of a dresser just inside the room.

She took one tentatively in her hand to examine it. To her eye it was very nicely made, in linen so fine and soft that she could see the shadow of her fingers underneath the cloth. The embroidery in the corner was some faerie characters, of which she knew just enough to make out the 'S' for Sholto. It was slightly warm. The air of the sithen was warm, too, thrumming slightly like the expectant purr of some great beast.

“--Thank you.” She said uncertainly to the room at large.

In response the warmth faded away with a sensation like pressure receding from around her ears.

She seized the handkerchiefs and returned to her King before the ground she walked on could make anymore “helpful” adjustments- what with one thing and another she hardly felt her nerves could stand it.

Upon returning the room was just as she had left it. Sholto still sat in the chair with his head cast down, but as he approached he raised it with a visible effort and arranged himself into a more authoritative stance. It was not enormously convincing. Even as he straightened his spine, he kept his head tilted so that a curtain of hair obscured his features. Mirabella waited anxiously for him to address her. The cloths grew slightly damp in her palms as he ignored her, steadily.

There was something about him, though. She had been ignored by the sidhe. Indeed she had spent most of her life in the faerie courts where the default human experience was to be ignored by the sidhe, who were champions of coldness. Sholto's silence was not cold. He was clearly embarrassed, but whilst some people mastered the art of projecting their embarrassment onto other people, making any observing feel guilty for noticing, Sholto simply contained his. It filled him, but did not radiate into her and she did not feel it. All she felt was compassion, and it was driving her to act in ways quite above her station.

That was why she stepped forward and placed one the handkerchiefs on his knee. He raised it and gave a firm, pinching wipe under his nose.

“You'll feel better if you blow,” she told him before she could stop herself.

He raised his eyebrows a fraction at the impertinence but promptly turned away as if waiting for her permission to do so. The thick sound made her wince, but as she expected when he turned back to her looked brighter, and his voice was clearer when he replied with a low, sincere “Thank you.”

He still sounded awful, though. Mirabella looked anxiously into his face for some sign of what ailed him. There were none of the usual signs. His skin was pale but even, with no blush of fever where she knew him to be burning, and his eyes were clear. That was magic, she just knew it. Glamour could not hide his expression, and that spoke of fever and fatigue such as she'd never seen in him before. Perhaps the fey who were not used to illness would not notice, but Mirabella had nursed enough people to know the look of someone who needed a hot drink and a warm bed. She stepped closer to him as though drawn by a thread attached somewhere in the pit of her stomach, and the same force had her placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Sire, are you quite certain that you will not see a healer?”

Sholto gave her a little smile and took her hand in both of his, pressing it.

“Quite. I appreciate your concern but I cannot allow any... inconvenience to interfere with my affairs at court. You are aware that the Sluagh are deep in negotiation with Queen Andais? Any intimation of weakness on my part will go badly for all us. And that goes for within the sluagh. There are already rumours that I am weak King, that the people would be better of with a ruler who is not tainted with sidhe blood. Yet my sidhe status is the only thing which affords us any safety from the dark court.” Sholto shook his head, suddenly aware he had spoken at much greater length than a King should to his seamstress. He dropped her hand and continued, “I fear you have already seen too much. But I am sure I can trust you to speak of this no-one.”

That last was phrased as a statement, but it contained a command and Mirabella knew it. Any warmth she had felt at his touch quickly dissipated into a sad, sick feeling. The thought of him fighting through court affairs with his sickness concealed under glamour struck her as terribly lonely. Besides which the man had not even known whether he owned any handkerchiefs- she did not expect him to do better at any other aspects of caring for himself. As a man he needed a healer, or at the very least a friend. As a King he could allow himself neither.

“I understand. I do not wish to compromise the safety of the sluagh.” This she said this with her very best court manners, eyes turned to the floor and a low curtsey to communicate that he could trust her, and that her affection meant him no disrespect.

However there was one detail to his plan which did not sit right with her. At the risk of his displeasure she attempted to tell him.

“I will show myself out. But you must know- - if that is the case you cannot face the court now.”

“I shall decide what I can or cannot do.” Even tired and sick the King balked predictably at her forwardness.

Had he not noticed? Perhaps he hadn't. After all, did he not have his eyes closed whenever it occurred?

“Sire, you- your glamour breaks every time you-”

His timing was perfect, but he was not listening to her due to being thoroughly distracted. He was definitely getting worse, Mirabella thought, for his sneezes were no longer quick, sudden releases but drawn-out ticklish sounding fits.

“ISSChuh! ISSCHuh! ISSCHuh! hh- heh-” Sholto looked down in surprise to see his own fore-tentacle poised to rub at his nose. His eyes widened. “Ah. That may be a- a- heh-ISSChuuh! ...ugh” He recovered with a tiny sound which, had it not been repressed to almost nothing, might have been called a groan. “This may present a problem.”

“Can you not prevent it?” Mirballa asked, wincing.

Sholto's head bobbed forward again before he could reply, but this time he pinched his nose shut reflexively. The result was a painful-sounding stifle which half-escaped his clutching fingers.

“n-NGKtsch!--” His forehead with creased with pain in the aftermath, as he gave her a wry smile. “… apparently not.”

She laughed then, she could not help it. He looked so earnest, and so discouraged.

“Stop that at once- you'll hurt yourself! I meant the glamour.”

“Oh. That. I doubt I can prevent that either. This is going to make court business a little difficult; I cannot demonstrate this kind of infirmity to the court. I-”

As he spoke, Sholto rose and took a pace forwards in agitation, his eyes bright and hazy as foxfires. Yet the moment he was upright, his legs swayed with a distinct lack of the customary sidhe grace and only Mirabella's hand at his arm kept him from stumbling. She gave a little under his weight- the man had a head of height on her and was heavy- but guided him to lean against the wall which was mercifully close Even then she did not release him but hovered close to his side for fear he might fall. After a long minute, his breathing steadied. His body was hot against hers, yet she could feel quick convulsive shivers run under his skin like currents of water and she took a few deep breaths herself for good measure, allowing her own racing pulse to grow calm. Lord Sholto's hair hung over her face so that she looked at him through it, colouring the world golden as though she was laying in a field of harvest grass. It smelled animal but very clean, like a cat's fur.

Eventually Sholto pulled away from her and touched a hand absently to his temple. “I feel... most unusual.”

“That will be the fever. It's only to expected. You should not have stood so quickly.”

“I will bear that in mind.” He replied weakly, pulling from her and straightening.

His voice was hoarse again, and thickened by congestion so that she could scarcely understand what he was saying. He remedied it immediately by fishing out the handkerchief and giving another heavy blow. When he raised his head his gaze had again taken on that pained, dizzy expression. He coughed again, shoulders shaking, and pressed his hands to his temples for a full slow minute before saying quietly “Please excuse me. I don't know what's come over me.”

“Neither do I.” Mirabella said, giving him a long, musing look. “Though if you were human I would say that you had taken a chill, and a bad one.”

Something about this remark amused Sholto. Or perhaps it was merely that he looked up to see a human woman standing over him with her hands severely on her hips, quite unperturbed that one of these hands was, in fact, a tentacle. He almost laughed but it came out as a ticklish cough.

Sholto paused to sniffle thickly, as though experimenting, and dab at his nose before saying more to himself, “It is highly unlikely but not, I believe, impossible.” For a moment he turned inwards, snuffling thickly. All traces of the earlier glamour was gone. He was wearing the clothes he had slept in, and his hair was loose and sweat-damp the temples. For a moment the King of the Sluagh looked tired and lost. Mirabella could see his pupils moving in a flickering dance as his brain struggled to assert itself over the disorienting force of fever. It took him a long time to marshal his thoughts.

Then he addressed her. “Tell me, what would you suggest if your assumption was correct?”

She blinked.

“What would I suggest? Sire, have you never taken ill before? Surely-”

“-Not for a very long time. I can scarcely remember it.” He interrupted her, his golden eyes aglow with tiredness. “Humour me.”

Well, then. She swiped a strand of hair from eyes with a flick of her non-human limb and fixed him with a critical eye. “In that case I would suggest that you went straight to bed. You do have a bed?”

“I do.”

“Then you should go and lie in it.”

She made a motion towards the his chambers, but he hesitates there with his one hand supporting his weight. He was actually swaying in place, as though caught in a breeze.

“Sire, please. Come before you fall over.”

“A minute- ih” The crack in his voice made his predicament perfectly clear. He turned his head from her, shoulders twitching as he drew a heaving gasp. One hand was raised with ponderous slowness to hover in front of him, then suddenly flashed to his nose in a sharp, convulsive sneeze.

“HGK'GSSShuh!”

He was sounding worse. Much worse.

“Bless,” she said automatically. The in one quick movement Mirabella snagged the pile of fresh handkerchiefs and shoved the bag she'd brought with her underneath her human arm, leaving the other free to grip her King by the wrist and guide him the direction of his chambers.

Give or take a pause when she had to prompt him to “do the door” in a quick flare of magic, Sholto followed like a tame lamb, obedient yet unsteady on his feet. As soon as they were sheltered in his private chambers and away from prying eyes, he succumbed to another bout of heavy coughing, pausing again to lean against the wall. The sound of it made Mirabella's own chest ache in sympathy, though she thought it was more like a pain in her heart- he was a good man. He did not deserve this. Her hand found the space between his shoulder-blades and rubbed a futile, soothing pattern over his back until he got his breath. When they continued down the corridor she did not remove it, and to her surprise she found his arm snaked around her waist, holding her close for support and warmth. It was a not something she would have expected from the King of the Sluagh, but if it gave him some comfort she was willing to accept it. Besides, physical comfort can go both ways.

She gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze, more to keep him awake than anything else.

“It isn't far, and then you can rest. Come.”

TBC...

[TheCakeIsAlive]

I'm not familiar with the books, but really quite like this story. You write it very well.

*ignorant moment* So the King of the Slaugh is some tentacled creature but due to the "Glamour" he appears human-like? Or am I getting it wrong?

Anyway, very much enjoyed reading. Thank you for sharing.

[Salamander]

*ignorant moment* So the King of the Slaugh is some tentacled creature but due to the "Glamour" he appears human-like? Or am I getting it wrong?

Thank you very much.

You're quite right. Sholto is mostly human, with tentacled limbs around his stomach (I didn't design him, blame Laurel K. Hamilton!) In the Sluagh this appearance is normal, but around other people he is somewhat ashamed of them and usually hides them through the magic called glamour.

Edited November 3, 2011 by Salamander

[Scion]

I admit I hate Laurell K. Hamilton, but I LOVE your writing and what you've done with her characters. You should have authored this series lol, because this is far more enjoyable than the real thing! I really like it.

Edited November 3, 2011 by Scion

[SterlingSilver]

You set up everything so nicely, and really portray the characters well .. I love how distant he is. Males who shrug off concern are hawt in my book ;D xDDD.. The pacing is perfect.. I feel really relaxed while reading your writing, as if everything is happening exactly when it should .. Can't wait for more!!

[Salamander]

I'm aware this is taking me an absolute age to update, but in my defence each part is pretty long. Expect another part in a month since that seems to be my pattern because I get very horny when I'm premenstrual and then I feel like writing porn. I mean, nothing. Enjoy.

Blackscatter- thanks so much. I appreciate what you said about the pacing, I feel like this is moving as slowly as treacle because I want to describe every little thing, so I'm glad you like it.

Tisza- hwaet, you old dog! Good to see you around

Thanks for your kind comments, there will be one more part to come.

PART THREE-

Mirabella had anticipated a struggle in opening the door to the King's chambers, weighed down as she was with a heavy tray from the kitchens. Balancing it on one hip, the china rattled dangerously together as she reached to fumble with the handle. It fell open before she touched it, creaking in a little burst of magic. This suggested that Sholto was still awake, and that he welcomed her presence- good to know.

The sleeping chambers of the King of the Sluagh room were everything she had expected and then some. The walls were panelled in dark wood with furnishings in rich, bloody shades of purple, burgundy and red on a ground of black; organ-meat colours. One wall boasted a tapestry depicting a frankly disturbing scene of sluagh creatures lead by two figures on horseback, their goblin and human enemies fleeing before them. It was not something she would care to look at whilst falling asleep, but as her mother once said, there was no accounting for taste, least of all in the faerie court. The furnishings resembled rest of the royal chambers, being ornate and evidently expensive without cosseting. The sluagh don't go in for the plush velvets and soft sofas favoured by the other fey.

“I brought-”

She began, then hushed herself- the King was in his chambers and he was fast asleep in his impressive fourposter bed, passed out on the top of the covers. He lay curled in on himself like a sleeping lion. Against the shadows his pale hair was the brightest thing in the room, seeming almost to omit it's own light, as did his luminously pale skin. His breath passed his parted lips with a congested snuffle, and even in sleep every swallow made him wince.

Instantly correcting herself, Mirabella moved as quietly as she could. She set the tray down on a table with exaggerated care so that it barely clinked even though it was laden with a teapot and mugs, cold water and warm soup in a lidded bowl of the dark earthen-ware favoured by the sluagh.

She eyed it critically, hoping she had done right. She had never quite come to grips with the significance of food in faerie. So far as she could gather, the fey did not need to eat, but benefitted by doing it occasionally. In the Bright Court it served something of a ritual purpose but the ornate feasts they served were more for looking at than for eating, even when they weren't made of illusion. Most of the creatures in the sluagh were hunters, so as a rule while the meat in the sluagh kitchens was real, the rest was mostly magic. However the bodies of the fey worked, as a mortal she needed to eat real food and the sluagh were quite accustomed to Mirabella helping herself out of the kitchens. Nobody need know that it was not herself but the King of the Sluagh who was, in her opinion, in need of a hot drink and some soup.

However quietly she laid the tray down, it was not quietly enough.

In response to the sound, or perhaps through some supernatural keenness of his senses, the moment she was at his bedside Sholto stirred.

“Who- Mirabella. You came back.” His voice was hoarse, wondering.

“Of course I came back.” She fixed him with a critical eye. “How are you feeling?”

He paused, thinking about it, one hand pinching unconsciously at the bridge of his nose.

“... cold.”

Only a moment later his body supplied it's own answer. The thick congestion in his head became audible not just as a thickness in his voice but as a series of increasingly wet sniffles. Sholto propped himself up on one arm and then cautiously rose to a sitting position, and the sound immediately worsened. From there, it only took one deeper sniffle to tip him over the edge from irritated to ticklishly desperate. His breath scissored as he drew a series of gulping gasps then doubled over, attempting to smother it into the crook of his arm.

“hh- hhheh-- ih''IGSSShmhh!”

It rocked his body forwards, heavy-sounding and evidently wet. Yet just as he raised an embarrassed face back up to her he ducked down again, gripped by a sudden fit.

“ik'GSSHuh!--KGSShhuh! Hh-huh'GSCCHuh! … snnf”

“ Please egscuse be, I don't wish to-” he began, his voice gravelly with congestion and shame.

“Bless you,” Mirabella cut across him, going to his side.

She laid a cautious hand on his forehead, relishing the way the fine bones of his brow fit perfectly into the contours of her hand. As she had expected he was warmer, much warmer than before, but it was not tell whether this was truly a cause for concern or merely an effect of his non-human physiology. Scratch that- he was pale and shivering, his aspect unresponsive and vague. These signs alone allowed her to make her judgement;

“Oh, you're getting worse. I wish you would let me send a healer to you. The fey have powerful medicine-”

“I have already explained this. Must you contradict me, Mirabella?” Sholto interrupted, eyes burning yellow in frustration. Raising his voice caused him to cough painfully, and when he spoke again it was in a softer tone. Not apologetic, but as close as the sidhe could come to it. “Why did you come back?”

She searched his face for some irony or passive-aggression, but there was none. He genuinely didn't know. How could she explain to a fey creature the curious magnetism his suffering ignited in her? Perhaps it was not something he could comprehend, given that sickness in himself or anyone else was almost unknown to him. She drew near to him anyway, sitting momentarily on the edge of the bed and laying her hand on top of his. That at least he understood, for he leaned in to her fractionally, his feverish form seeking her warmth.

She spoke in a low murmur, directing her words to the top of his head where his scalp was warm under her cheek. “Call it a human thing, but I could hardly leave you like this.”

There was a long pause and she thought he might speak but he only sneezed again, suddenly. The most she knew of it was that his shoulders seized and his head ducked down with a nasty clenched sound -“hNKGt!”- followed by a pained breath out and a thick, uncomfortable sniffle.

Naturally, she was not fooled. “You needn't do that, Sire, if it pains you.”

He shrugged, but the urge overtook him again before he could protest, too soon for him to even think about stifling. The result was a rushing “h'RRRSSh'ue” which although it doubled him over, did not send needles of pain through his blocked sinuses. He almost moaned with relief in the aftermath, and looked up to find Mirabella watching him, a handkerchief in her outstretched hand.

“I found you some fresh ones.”

“Thadk you.”

He took it, cupped it obediently over his mouth and nose and sniffled liquidly. Then he hesitated. It was, Mirabella had to admit, a very odd picture. She never thought she'd see the King of the sluagh people, with his perfect faerie beauty (not to mention his tentacles) looking at her over the top of a handkerchief. However, it got tiresome rather quickly as he sniffed again.

“You can blow.” she suggested.

He gazed at her over the cloth, pupils as large as a cat's. “I feel ridiculous.”

“Because you're fey?”

A nod.

“Well I'm not, and I'm used to it. It'll make you feel better.” He still hesitated. “I could pretend not to hear?”

Mirabella averted her eyes as he acquiesced but couldn't have ignored the sound if she'd wanted to. It was heavy, congested and persistent, such that it took him several long minutes to get his nose anywhere close to clear.

“Better?” she asked, at length.

“Much.” Yet even as he spoke he curled in on himself, hugging his arms about his torso. Even his tentacles got in on the act, gathering in close to his body like a sea-anemone retracting from an intrusive touch. Mirabella's eye was captivated by the dance of muscles under his smooth, pale biceps as he rasped his palms over his arms for warmth. She found herself staring for a little longer than was really proper, then shook herself.

“You look frozen. Lie under the covers and get warm.”

“I am-” his teeth chattered so that he could barely speak. “I am warm.”

She gave him a dark stare, her brown eyes meeting his inhumanly golden ones as she turned his earlier words back on him. “I know. Humour me.”

She gave up waiting for his assent and folded the covers back for him, creating an inviting space. Sholto rose obediently, and then settled down on his side, head slightly raised on the pillow. His golden hair spread around him like an aura against the dark pillowcase, like spun gold. Mirabella nursed a fleeting desire to run her fingers through it, instead clenching them in her lap and worrying over the texture of her sluagh limb like a rosary.

He looked peaceful now, more or less. One hand remained hovering at his nose, reaching every few minutes to appease the evident irritation there, and his nostrils flickered ticklishly with every other breath, yet the man seemed calm. His eyes had an aspect she had never seen in the fey before, being circled with shadow against his pale skin whilst his cheeks were stained with a blush of heat. She tried to ignore it, but coupled with the fatigue in his breathing these symptoms caused a conviction to rise slowly in her; the man needed to sleep, and if he would not see a healer there was little more she could do for him.

“I should go.” She said. “You need to rest. There's hot tea and soup on the tray, and more handkerchiefs. If you were human I'd say that only time will help, but you'll feel much better for some sleep.”

He sighed. “Yes, I suppose I cannot impose on you any further. Thank you, Mirabella.”

He took her hand in one of his and pressed it. The way he looked at her then, his eyes huge and luminous in his handsome face even as he was tucked up in bed like a child, made her wonder if he would protest, ask her stay. Certainly his lips opened, but he closed them again and released her hand. Mirabella shook herself, mentally. Vulnerable as he looked, he was one of the most powerful men in faerie- he would not be needing anyone to sit by his bedside and fuss. The desire in her to do so was purely human, and quite inappropriate here. She'd done what she could.

Reluctantly she rose and settled the blankets higher about his shoulders. “There. Do you think you can sleep?”

His initial response was a soft huffing breath as he attempted to breathe through his nose and failed miserably. He pinched frustratedly at the bridge of his nose before answering.

“I thiihnk-” Sholto's voice wavered but he swallowed it down enough to continue. “I th-think I will be able t-iih -” He managed one syllable further- a frantic, ticklish“ih-” and then his head was forced down into the mattress with a shuddering gasp, as he sneezed suddenly, wetly.

“ikt—GSSCh!-GGSCh!-GSSHuuh!” They came one on top another like hiccups, but infinitely more draining to his flagging energy.

“Are you quite finished?”

He shook his head desperately.

“No, it- Ah -- GSSCuh!-GGSCuh!--- hk'KSSHuuh!”

“God bless you!” She answered for him. “Perhaps sleep will not be so easy to come by.”

“Perhaps not.” He whispered, relaxing back to shiver fitfully under the covers. He scrubbed frustratedly at his nose. “Ugh, it still itches. And I am not used to feeling the cold.”

“You're still cold? Poor soul, I wish I could-” A thought dawned slowly on Mirabella's face, making her smile so broadly that Sholto responded with a questioning eyebrow. “Yes, it makes sense now. I have something for you- wait a moment.”

He was clearly too exhausted to wonder overmuch as she darted across the room to retrieve a little package wrapped up in brown paper. She presented it to him with a little flourish of her tentacled limb, and he sat up in bed to examine it.

“What is it?”

“Open it.” She urged.

He did so, and unfolded the thick, warm shirt she had sewn for him several days ago. Sholto held it up to the light.

“You made this for me?”

She nodded. He looked confused.

“I was not asleep for that long, surely?”

“No, no.” She soothed. “I made it a few days ago.”

“I -snf- I did not request such a thing. I would not have thought to. As I said, the sidhe do not need such things, we are immune to the cold-” Sholto half-smiled, ammending himself “-usually immune to the cold. How on earth did you know I might need such a thing? Have you the power of prophecy?”

That was not a wholly unusual talent in the faerie realm, but Mirabella shook her head. She had never spoken to anyone but Una about her own tiny forays into communicating with the faerie realm- for one thing it was a slight skill in a world bursting with magic, for another, she considered it her own little secret. However, it was her King who asked, and a King must be answered.

“I dreamed about it, a few nights ago. More than a dream- I knew that I was to make that thing for it would be needed. It has happened a few times. Una believes it is the magic of the Sithen letting its needs be known. That is how I have sometimes completed clothing for you before you have made the commission.”

The pale eyebrows arched upwards. “I have been crowned King by the magic of faerie and the vote of the sluagh, and yet my kingdom itself chooses to communicate with my seamstress.”

“Please, Sire, only measurements, Sire.”

He waved that aside, and looked at her with his golden eyes as though for the first time.

“This interests me. I will impose on your company, if-” He broke off, coughing, and took a sip of water. “-if I have not done so too much already. If you could tell me how it happened? I have never experienced such a thing.”

Despite his renewed animation, Sholto's voice was hoarse and painful sounding, the consonants flattened by congestion. Though the words were formal enough, Mirabella could not help but think that this was a King's way of saying “Don't go.”

“Then I'll stay.” She said, her own face cracking into a smile. “If you will promise to put it on and get warm, then I will explain if I can.”

He rose obediently, and immediately swayed. The fever was evidently taking it's toll, and he had to rest a hand on the bedpost to steady himself.

“Sire! Are you alright?” She asked him,

He nodded, passing his hand over his eyes as he regained focus. “Just... dizzy. I'm fine now.”

Even then, he shivered so convulsively that his fingers shook as they fumbled with his buttons. Her own rose instinctively to his rescue- she was as deft at buttons with her sluagh limb as she was with humans hands. Sholto did not resist, simply taking the top buttons as she did the bottom ones until their hands met in the middle. At this touch she felt her cheeks burn, for something she could not place made her heart strike up a momentary double-time. However it quickly eased, for this was not the first time she had undressed him in such a way- life as a seamstress often afforded such opportunity, though usually she was protected by her iron focus on her art. Now she felt quite vulnerable though he was the one that was naked.

For a moment he stood before her, naked to the waist down. Any attempt at glamour was long gone by now, so his tentacled limbs spread about him like a halo. To Mirabella they did not distract from the very human beauty of his torso and face. Not at all. Rather they framed it, the pearly pastel glow of them casting a flattering light over a chest which was muscular and perfectly defined. His loose hair provided the perfect backdrop. She had forgotten how long it was- as was customary for the sidhe he wore it to the waist like a golden cloak. It drifted slightly with his laboured breathing.

She was suddenly distracted. She saw his abdominal muscles clench as he drew a quick, shallow breath and almost immediately his body was flung forward as he attempted to sheild his face in the crook of his arm.

“GSSCh! -i'GGSCh!”

He only had partial success, as the first of two rapid sneezes was out before he could cover, and Mirabella felt the spray across the side of her cheek. The truly curious thing was that she did not mind it.

“Bless-”

“--heh'NgSSCHuuh!”

“Bless you.” She finished.

He drew a very wet breath through his nose, and made an apologetic face. “Forgive me-”

“It's alright.”

She hushed him by holding the shirt for him to shrug his shoulders into it.

As he did so, her tentacled limb drifted absently to her face, wondering. She almost certain she could not catch anything her King was suffering from, for that was not how illness in faerie worked. That was not her concern. Her concern was the flash of warmth which had overcome her at the intimacy of it. It was bizarre. It must have been too many years around the immortal, immaculate fey which had made her react to the suggestion of human fallibility with such disproportionate pleasure.

When she refocused on her situation, Lord Sholto stood before her now dressed in the shirt she had made for him. It fitted him perfectly, with enough material

She had a very good eye, and some magical assistance, and she allowed herself a little swell of pride, which (was increased) when he said,

“It's perfect.”

“I should hope so. I've been sewing your clothes for more than fifty years.” Those words tasted strange in her still-youthful face, and she laughed. “I'd be no seamstress at all if I didn't know your measurements. Now please go back to bed.”

In a few moments they were settled in Sholto's bed. It only took a little rearranging of the covers to get the pillows behind his back, so that he could sit up. Once he was comfortable, Mirabella dithered for a moment and then threw caution to winds and scooted herself in to space immediately next to him on the mattress,

She had intended to lie with her legs above the covers, but upon slipping next to him she found her King's sluagh limbs lifting the sheets and creating a space for her next to him. As she sat down, they tucked the covers around both of them with surprising efficiency, though there were a lot of them to do the work. She had almost forgotten that he was part nightflyer, what with the rest of him being so human, since she didn't tend to look at people below the waist when she spoke to them. At any rate, it was intimate with their bodies tucked together so closely that she could feel the fever-heat radiating off him.That said, she liked to think that the many layers of her thick skirts prevented their proximity from being improper, as such.

“I don't wan't you to get cold either.” He said, so hoarsely she could barely understand him. That reminded her-

“Would you like some tea, Sire?”

“I thidk-” He began thickly, the corner of his mouth creased upwards in a little smile. “I -snf- think you don't need to call me 'Sire'.”

Mirballa blinked. “Then what should I call you?”

“Sholto. It is, after all, my name.”

Her expression must have been priceless, because he actually laughed. It was a pleasant sound even if it did make him cough in deep struggling barks for a few long minutes. He tapped a fist absently to his chest and continued. “Now who's embarrassed? Yes, I know. Court of King George, and then the Seelie Court and now the Sluagh. It is a wonder there is anything left of you but courtly manners.”

“I-” She had a struggle finding words, and this made her blush intensify.

“Come, we are in bed together. It is -snf- hardly the place for formal address.”

Now he was just teasing her. She made the decision to surrender with grace. “It's a habit. I'll endeavour to break it. Would you like some tea, Sholto?”

“Yes, I think I would. Now, tell me- the magic of the sithen has been fading for centuries. How is it that it communicates with you, who are human?”

So despite her lack of good answers, they began to talk. His replies were intermittent, feverishly wandering or punctuated by sneezes, but she did not mind it. It was pleasant to be in his warm bed, with his soft, fever-slack body curled beside her. At least he was resting, his golden eyes flickering closed by degrees like the slow, sleepy blinks of a child resisting bedtime. She lost herself in speaking to him, explaining how she experienced life in faerie, how it felt to be breathed upon by the improbable magic of the fey, how it was to be so very far from home in time as well as space. How she was grateful to him for saving her life by taking her in. At length she wound to the end of her long, unaccustomed monologue, and turned to him to apologise for rambling. There came no response for the King of the Sluagh was completely asleep. His mouth was little open and his breathing was laboured, but at least in sleep his nose did not trouble him so badly and she was glad of that. One of his hands had drifted into her lap and his fingers were splayed slackly. She lost a good few moments in examining the contours of them, before tentatively sliding her own palm into his. Even in sleep his fingers twined with hers and he gave a little sigh, the deeper breath of a light sleeper finally settling. Satisfied that he was at peace, Mirabella closed her eyes just for a moment.

END OF PART THREE

Edited December 22, 2011 by Salamander

[TheCakeIsAlive]

Very lovely update. You write very well. Definitely worth the wait.

[Salamander]

Does anyone even remember this story from last year? It's finished!!! It has taken an inordinately long time because I was writing it just for me and it really caters to my personal tastes which others might not share. This story has actually gone in an 18+ direction which I did not expect when I started posting. Since I have been posting here I will put the next part which is not 18+ here, and then I invite those who are of age to join me on the 'Adult Stories' board to read the rest. It ended up being so long I had to split it into five anyway.

Yours with tentacles,

Sal x

PART FOUR-

Time must have passed.

Mirabella opened her eyes from a momentary doze she did not remember choosing to take. Both she and Sholto had slipped down in the bed, her less so than him, so that her cheek rested against the top of his head: the stiffness in her neck must have woken her. Sholto was clearly asleep. She could feel his breath coming slowly and evenly. His whole body had gone heavy and slack against her. One of his arms was around her waist and- she looked down at the curious sensation- one of his tentacle 'arms' was entwined with her own like two creepers grown together in absence of a supporting fence.

She gave him a gentle nudge.

“Why don't you lie down properly?”

He tilted his head to the sound of her voice and his eyes cracked open blearily. He looked awful. His nose was chapped and irritated, his lips cracked from bearing the brunt of his breath. A sheen of sweat lay on his forehead where- dear Gods, he was on fire! She could feel the heat radiating off his face from here. His pupils danced as he tried valiantly to focus on her, evidently dizzied.

She thought he was about to speak, but he was snuffling back the heavy congestion in his head. He touched a surprised, tentative hand to his nose as though he had only just remembered the state it was in, and then suddenly clapped it over his face as a sudden fit of sneezes surfaced before he could even think about finding the handkerchief.

“-NgSSCHuuh!-- iiGGSSChuh!” He paused and his breath hitched in delicate frustration. “S-sorry--” He managed, thickly. Mirabella simply pressed the a clean handkerchief into his hand and waited as the last slow sneeze tore it's way out of him.

“hh- hhuhh-- ht'GSSChuuh!”

“God bless you.”

Blowing made his forehead crease with pain, but at least his voice was a clearer.

“I feel a little-” He began.

“Ssh, you're burning.” Mirabella told him, gently pushing him down to horizontal and settling the covers around him. “Wait a moment.”

He lay obediently still, though his golden eyes followed her progress as she rose from the bed and turned her back to him to fuss with the tray of things she had brought. When she returned, it was to sweep his hair from his brow with a gentle touch and replace it with a dampened washcloth.

“Lie still. This will help.”

He simply nodded, eyes closing in relief at the same time as his jaw clenched with a vicious shiver brought on by the sudden cool. Mirabella narrowed her eyes. He had seemed ill before, but at least he was alert. Now he simply lay passively, his eyes firmly closed as though he could shut out the virus which was rampaging through his body. She remembered their earlier conversation;

“Sire, have you never taken ill before? Surely-”

“-Not for a very long time. I can scarcely remember it.”

'A very long time' in the life of the fey might be fifty years, a hundred. Maybe more than that. How old was he exactly? She had no idea. But this was clear- that it had been so long since he had experienced this it may as well have been the first time. Yet he did not complain, or question her about it, how long it was going to last, what might help. He simply accepted her ministration with tentative appreciation, as though afraid that she might at any moment become bored of him and leave. Now he simply lay perfectly still, willing himself not to feel what was clearly burning through his head and chest. Waiting it out.

It made her wish she could give him some of those pills for pain and fever which the humans had, to lessen the duration of this for him. They were not available in faerie, nor would they have any effect on a body made mostly of magic, but she mourned their potential all the same. That said, if she knew anything about nursing, this would be his worst night, and after his fever had broken he would feel a little better.

She did not ask what he wanted, not being sure that he would answer truthfully, or even that he knew what was best for him, but simply told him. “I'm going to sit with you until your fever is down.”

Sholto nodded.

Since it was clear she would be here for some time, Mirabella reached in her bag for her knitting and established herself again on the edge of his bed, her legs tucked under the covers. The repetitive click of the needles was soothing to her soul and she lost herself in counting stitches, almost forgetting where she was.

For a long time, Sholto lay quite still. The only movement was the flick of his eyes as they followed her around the room and then traced the pattern of knitting needles with quiet fascination. Eventually he was forced to move, as another coughing fit seized him and he rolled to one side to ease the burden on his muscles. When he looked up, Mirabella had retrieved the cup of water for him to sip until the spasm eased.

“You are... remarkably good at this.” He said weakly.

His words prompted a memory in her, something she had not thought on for many years and her brows narrowed. “I nursed my cousins through the typhus. Only one of them died.”

He grimaced. “I'm sorry I mentioned it.”

“Don't be. It was more than a hundred years ago. I am... a different person now.” She raised her night flyer limb for his inspection. He watched it unfurl with a soft, thoughtful look.

“I suppose you are. It must be strange for you.”

She shrugged, not really having an answer. Despite his hoarseness he seemed in the mood to talk, and reluctant to sleep, so she turned the question back on him: “How is it for you?”

He lifted two of his tentacle arms out of the covers, turning them over thoughtfully.“Ah, but I has born with mine. I don't know any other way. I- huh- excuse me-”

He raised his hands ponderously to his face and them promptly bucked forward with another wrenching sneeze. “iiGSSChuuh!” He did not rise again but kept his head turned down toward the mattress, simply moving his hands from over his mouth to cover his eyes, shielding them from the light. Mirabella was at first distracted by rescuing the washcloth which had slipped from his forehead and onto the bed. The fire in him had already bled through it and it was warm in her fingers. Too warm.

“God bless you, poor thing.” Mirabella said as she turned to soak the cloth in the cool water ready for another try. When she returned her attention to him he had not moved. The waterfall of his hair fell over his face, but she could see sweat had sprung up on the exposed flesh of his neck. His hair was damp in her hands as she parted it to look into his face.

“Sholto?”

“Just dizzy,” he said faintly. “Fine.”

“Is your stomach bad?” She asked, truly concerned now.

He shook his head fractionally without opening his eyes. “Just my head.”

With some gentle coaxing she got him to lay back down on the bed. He kept his eyelids closed, and she was close enough to see the delicate skin there clenched tightly with pain. There were beads of sweat across his brow, too, and after a moment's thought she wrung out the washcloth and wiped them off in one soothing sweep. When she saw how his features relaxed at the touch she carefully repeated the gesture, slower. With tentative care she wiped the sweat from his face, the back of his neck and the upper part of his chest where it lay exposed by the open neck of his shirt. The latter set him shivering uncontrollably, his teeth chattering visibly in his jaw.

“You're still cold.” She said, a statement, not a question.

Sholto shook his head again, and then nodded, wincing.

And then, because she could not think of a better next step, she lifted the blankets and hopped into bed alongside him. She lay down with her forehead next to his on the pillow. His limbs curled towards hers, uncertain, and when their legs bumped together he rolled onto his side to make room for her. He was so very warm- lifting the covers was like opening a stove but he drew away from the slight intrusion of cooler air.

His eyes opened slowly, looking at her from their new position side by side. His face was very close, and his breath tickled on her cheek. Mirabella raised her head on the pillow to take him in, reluctant to draw her body out of the warm cocoon of blankets they had created.

“Now, how are you feeling?”

“Fine.” He said hoarsely, and then almost laughed as he shook his head and amended his answer to “awful.”

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

A shrug. Yet though he did not answer outright, he snuggled closer to her and something about the way he tilted his head into her shoulder made her body respond instinctively. She rolled onto her back to make space for him and he rested in the crook of her shoulder, one arm lying warm and heavy across her waist. His hair spilled over both of them like a fall of temperate snow, and it took both her hands to sweep it back behind him. Only then did he settle. He seemed quite comfortable and accustomed to lying with a woman in such a manner as she supposed he must be but for herself, her heart beat uncomfortably fast. She was no longer sleepy but wide awake and hyper aware of every point at which their bodies touched. He was so warm and she knew it was unhealthy but against her flesh his heat felt... delicious.

She tried to lay still, to make some sense of the way her body thrilled under his touch, to calm her pulse which he must surely be able to hear. Every deeper breath she took brought the scent of him into her nostrils and made it worse, but Sholto himself seemed quite unaware of her predicament. If anything, he relaxed further into a feverish half-sleep. Relaxed was not the word though, for she could feel his limbs twitching against her in tight little jerks, and his breath was uneven and ragged, coming in turns between his nose and mouth as he struggled against the congestion. Mirabella tightened her grip about him instinctively, carding her hands through hair and petting the back of his head in slow motions as though soothing an animal.

For a while, it worked. The he gave one sudden, decisive jerk as every muscle in his body tensed at once. The violence shocked her, and truth be told the motion of his head thumped her none-too-gently in the jaw and made her wince, but she forgave him- she had forgotten that he was supernaturally strong.

His head snapped up and he raised himself up on his elbow in one quick motion. His breath came in rapid pants as he cast about the room, disorientated.

“Did you dream you were falling?” She asked, sympathetic.

He may have looked more human in his illness, but he gave her a look that was very fey. The three circles of colour in his pupils were very distinct at this short distance and they blazed, backlit by a glow of magic and the intensity of fever. His voice was a disorganised murmur, too fast and too intense.

“I dreamed- lots of things- Andais-”

“Shh,” She rubbed his back and smoothed his hair off his face again, trying hard to keep her expression from betraying her worry. She recognised the name- Queen Andais of the Unseelie Court- the only higher power to which Sholto answered. She'd never heard it coupled with anything good.

“It's alright, you're safe here. Drink some water?”

She handed him the cup. His hands were trembling so much that she had to help him hold it as he drew a deep gulp that made him splutter. Then he settled back, exhausted. She kept right on petting his head and rubbing up and down the smooth plane of his back but he seemed better now, less confused. His eyes were still fever-bright but they had lost the stained-glass-window glow of uncontrolled magic they had held ten minutes ago and were clearer, focused on things that were actually present. Like her face.

She blinked under the intensity of his gaze, averting her own eyes. She always felt a little plain beside the sidhe with their luminous eyes and unnaturally symmetrical features, but this was worse. He was looking at her like she was the only person in the world. Still, she was unable to look away for long as her attention was commanded by Sholto's hand at her jaw. He tilted her head towards his own and his thumb traced across her cheek with unaccustomed tenderness.

“Thank you, Mirabella.” There was no need to say what for.

She squirmed. “It's nothing.”

“And yet...”

He tailed off, caught off guard by a fit of ticklish coughing as he choked on the wetness in his nose running down his throat. The coughing only irritated him further and he made a hesitant little sound of warning. Mirabella was close enough to see his reddened nostrils flickering with irritation as he tried helplessly to stave off the next fit of sneezes. His breath wavered for a few moments, then with great concentration he steadied it and slowly lowered his hands from where they had hovered in front of his face.

He still looked itchily uncomfortable. Mirabella almost laughed.

“Sire- Sholto- please. You need to blow your nose properly.” She rescued the handkerchief and put it in his hand, bringing it to his face in encouragement. Her other hand travelled unconsciously to his twitching nostrils and she boldly stroked along the length of his nose, ending with an affectionate rub at its tip. “Your poor nose. You just sneeze if you need to. It doesn't- I mean- I don't mind it.”

That was just as well, considering that her gentle touch down the bridge of his nose was apparently the last thing it could stand. His breath scissored sharply and he flinched away from her with a fit of quick, fluid sneezes.

“GSSCH!-- GSSCH!--ii'GKTSSHuh!!”

That sounded wet, and he kept the cloth firmly over his mouth and nose in the aftermath with a little groan of disgust and a thick sniffle. “Ugh, I'm so sorry.”

“Don't be- bless you.” Undisturbed by his plight, she took the handkerchief from him and used it for a brisk, efficient clean-up of his nose and upper lip, more to demonstrate that she was not bothered by it than because he couldn't do it himself.

“Thank you.”

He settled back into the bed with a little sigh. This time their positions were subtly different. Sholto's head was above her on the pillows, which was only natural as he was a foot taller than her, but that meant that this time it was her who was being drawn into his embrace. She was being helped along, she realised, by the gentle pressure of a few of his sluagh limbs. The sensation was not unpleasant, but it was certainly unusual. She wondered if he knew he was doing it. His tentacles, like the rest of him, were far warmer than her own body temperature and she could feel the heat through her clothing. She allowed him to guide her in close to him, and found that they fitted together remarkably well. There was a moment of confusion about what to do with their legs but she soon settled and took a moment to assess her new position.

His hand was around her waist but it was no longer sleepily static. She could feel the slow movement of his fingers caressing her. It was only a slight motion, but it thrilled her and she did not want it to stop. In response she reached to stroke his hair again, this time bolder, plunging her fingers into the heavy silk of it and sweeping it away from him in a soothing motion.

This at least she understood. The fey touch each other for comfort. It was just one of the things about them which made mortals nervous. They always stood too close, and when they were afraid or upset they reached for each other. In the sluagh this meant that great inhuman creatures with teeth longer than she was would sometimes sleep together in piles like so many puppies. Her friend Una roosted with her fellow night-flyers in tiny spaces, pressed wing to wing, and when Una was anxious she would twine around Mirabella or lean her head against the woman's shoulder.

Mirabella had learned to calm the nightflyer by running her hands over her hooded head or reaching for one of her spare tentacle limbs with her own, smoothing the flesh of it. She did this to Sholto now and she felt him relax a little more with a congested sigh. He looked no better, and his eyes were huge in his face with hurt and fever as he held her close. If this was what he needed, she would gladly give it and she cuddled closer to him, lending him her warmth as a chill ran through him.

Much like Una, Sholto was not merely caressing her with his two hands. His extra limbs were still wrapped around her and they were stroking her too, tentatively. The touch was gentle, slight and uncomplicated- more like being nuzzled by a cat or brushed by the branches of a wind-swept tree.

As she snuggled closer they bound more tightly, moulding to her shape. She did not dislike it, but she was not certain she liked it either, and her heart beat faster, a natural reaction to being bound. She must have stiffened because his grip slackened immediately. That was good enough for her and she finally allowed herself to relax. Sholto caught her expression with an amused smile.

“Too tight?”

“No.” She said truthfully. “It's just feels- strange.”

“And yours -snf- doesn't?” He gestured to her own tentacled limb which was stroking at the back of his neck.

Mirabella blinked. She had used the borrowed limb for over a hundred years- no wonder that in the heat of the moment she had forgotten not every part of her was human flesh.

“Mine is my arm.” She explained. Nothing strange about it.

Sholto shrugged. “So are mine.”

There was a long pause, and then his features flickered again, eyebrows arching upwards in an expression of ticklish dread. “Wait-” He managed. Then- “ii'GGSHhuh!”

His body bucked against her as he seized into his hands, and Mirabella caught herself biting her lip at the little thrill of pleasure sparked by his movement beside her. Her expression swiftly became a self-conscious smile as she wondered at the perverse enjoyment her body was taking in her King's discomfort.

“God bless you.”

Sholto looked up at her from blowing his nose. His eyes were still over-bright and her attentions had tousled his golden hair so that it stood out around him like an aura. Though still pale, he had two spots of colour on his cheeks and his nose was becoming more chapped and pink with every wipe at it. He touched it and sniffled uncomfortably, but the effort was quite futile as he was completely congested. Despite his illness he now seemed bright and engaged with her, his eyes nowhere but her face.

“Cad you cadch this?” He said, indistinctly.

“I'm sorry?”

“This ailment-” Sholto said more clearly. “Do you think it's contagious? To you?”

Mirabella frowned.

“I doubt it, Sire. I know the fey catch ill occasionally, but it just... happens, doesn't it? It's a little late to trouble yourself about that- if it's catching I'm pretty sure I'd have it by now and I don't mind if I do.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Why?”

In answer, he kissed her.

END OF PART FOUR

I will post the next part on the adult board maybe tomorrow or the day after, to give people a change to catch up. (There's another ten pages to come.) See you then.

Edited August 21, 2012 by Salamander

[LeadaAlexys52]

There are no word to describe how amazing this is. Being still new to the forum I did not see this until today and I think it may be the most amazing piece of literature I have seen here. I don`t know this series but I am familiar with the concept of the Seelie and Unseelie courts and I am in love with these characters and the way you portray them. I feel like I have just been reading a novel that just happens to have an epic fetish scene in it. Also sick Fey is a bit of a facination for me so even more plus for me. I just realized I am babbling... I will stop now.

One thing I am sad about is that I won`t be able to read the last part. Although I am of age I`m not a full member yet and can`t be on the Adult Board. *sigh* All well. I got to enjoy this amazingness which is good enough for me.

Thank you for writing this!

[pinknose]

This is beautiful! So freaking beautiful! You're writing, the story, the interaction between the characters, it's all amazing!

Ugh, I sort of wish I could get on the adult board to read the last part, but I'm sure you have a good reason for putting it there so I won't whine.

Fantastic job. Your writing is just wonderful!

[obsessed]

Great story!

[Salamander]

There are no word to describe how amazing this is. Being still new to the forum I did not see this until today and I think it may be the most amazing piece of literature I have seen here. I don`t know this series but I am familiar with the concept of the Seelie and Unseelie courts and I am in love with these characters and the way you portray them. I feel like I have just been reading a novel that just happens to have an epic fetish scene in it. Also sick Fey is a bit of a facination for me so even more plus for me. I just realized I am babbling... I will stop now.

One thing I am sad about is that I won`t be able to read the last part. Although I am of age I`m not a full member yet and can`t be on the Adult Board. *sigh* All well. I got to enjoy this amazingness which is good enough for me.

Thank you for writing this!

Ah, thank you sweetheart! Soon you will be a full member and then you can read away. It really isn't meant to stop here, there's almost as much again. Glad you enjoyed it, and glad you're a fan of the fey. It must be a bit strange for people who aren't! I am very, very flattered