¤ Plans

The feeling of her cocoon unravelling, the dark space, the two windows, the whispers in the air that danced just out of one’s hearing… again.

She no longer wondered why she was here anymore; she knew she just was. But she also knew there was something out there, something beyond this dark space that was not merely what she saw in the windows. There was a strange pulling sensation that tugged and called at her soundlessly through the blackness. But it was weak, even weaker than the airy voices in the wind that sang to her, telling her to forget the sensation, just listen to them, who’s anywhere?, listen to us.

Why though? There couldn’t be anything else other than this vast darkness, could there? It was just not possible.

A harsh voice whispered in the wind, the sound of rattling death: There are infinite possibilities, dear lord. You just need to be as insane as they say I am to realise them. The voice’s grating laughter rang in the air for a moment, then was lost in renewed waves of the ghostly, insistent whispering before she could place where she had heard that before.

One of the windows flared to life, light brightening into eye-smarting intensity. Scrambling to her feet (feet? That’s new, she thought), she walked over to the window to look into it…

A soft knock on the doors of his quarters wakes Verchiel up. Always a light sleeper, the fairy lord is awake and alert immediately, sharp emerald eyes adjusting quickly in the dim light to recognise the luxurious canopy above his bed. Stirring slightly in the warm tangle of his blankets, he tries to turn to his side, but is prevented from doing so by the embrace of the fairy lady next to him, her aura dim as she sleeps. Eyes narrowing a little, he gently untwines Hedwig’s arms from himself, then sits up slowly.

A second knock on the door is delivered, as he reaches out for the white silk dressing robes that hangs neatly over the low back of the chair next to his bed. Even so, Verchiel does not make haste in his actions, taking his time to draw the robes over his body and to fasten the cloth belt around his slender waist. With one last half-lidded look to the fairy lady still sleeping in his bed, he leaves the bedroom.

From the doorway of the bedroom, Verchiel makes a spell gesture that opens the heavy wooden doors of his quarters, revealing another fairy standing outside. Her plain robes identifies her to be a runner sent from the fairy Court. Her cream wings folded meekly as a sign of respect, the fairy messenger diverts her eyes to the floor as she bows formally. ‘Greetings, your Highness, Heir to the Throne of Orbis, Royal Advisor-‘

‘What message do you carry so urgent that it cannot wait until morning?’ Verchiel interrupts her nervous litany of his titles with a drawl, folding his arms before him.

‘Pardon, Lord.’ Visibly thrown off track, the messenger takes a while to regain her composure. ‘Lord Advisor Sorra took ill unexpectedly late last night and has just passed away two hours ago. His Majesty King Kranz requests for your immediate presence at the Court. Also, Lord Advisor Sorra’s family requests for his son and heir, Ferra and his foster son, Wing to be informed of their father’s death and to be excused from their studies at the Academy for the period of mourning.’

At the news of his colleague’s sudden death, Verchiel’s impassive face does not betray a single trace of grief or surprise. There is no need to, since the fairy messenger never once abandoned her fascination with the plush carpet of the floor at her feet. ‘That is grave news indeed. Pardon my earlier discourtesy.’ He speaks the words, careful to inject them with the correct degree of remorse. ‘Convey my condolences to Sorra’s family and inform His Majesty that I will arrive at the Court together with Sorra’s sons with utmost haste.’

‘Yes, Lord. Is that all, Lord?’

Verchiel examines his fingernails in silence for a while, before transferring that gaze onto the messenger. He wonders idly how long he had before the trembling fairy would finally look up at him, but that moment does not seem to be forthcoming. Finally, he says off-handedly, ‘Yes, there is nothing else. You are dismissed.’

‘By your leave, Lord.’ There is an audible sigh of relief from the fairy messenger as she bows again and left the suite, her eyes still not meeting Verchiel’s even as she closes the double doors before her.

‘Milord. What was that about?’ A voice speaks as Verchiel turns to enter his bedroom. Hedwig is awake now, her long purple hair tumbling over her bare shoulders and pale purple wings as she sits upright in bed.

‘Sorra’s dead.’ Verchiel’s voice is careless as he answers. He moves to the wardrobe in his room, its doors swinging open at his gesture. After a moment of consideration of the wardrobe’s contents, he gestures again, and a well-tailored suit of rich black velvet floats out to hang before him in mid-air.

‘Ah.’ Hedwig displays the same amount of surprise as Verchiel did upon hearing the news, one elegantly thin eyebrow arched. She comes down from the bed, the hem of her nightgown whispering along the carpeted floor as she takes the velvet robes from where they hang in the air. She watches as Verchiel washes up and undresses, then steps forward to help him into the velvet suit.

It is a while before she dares to ask, ‘How did you manage it?’

‘His son is a talented Poison mage.’ Verchiel shrugs his slender shoulders as he sits down at the dressing table, fully clothed now. Husband and wife shares a look through the mirror; Hedwig’s amethyst eyes full of mild curiosity as she looks into Verchiel’s flat emerald ones.

‘I suppose you encouraged the boy to pay his father a late-night visit.’ Hedwig says, as she moves to pick up a brush from the table.

Allowing Hedwig to tidy his electric green hair, Verchiel’s face is even more inscrutable. ‘The boy moves fast, I grant him that. He is ambitious, but possesses none of the subtlety he practises in the arts of Poison, nor has he inherited the wits and obstinacy of his father. If I can persuade his Majesty to let him inherit his father’s place as War Advisor…’ Verchiel’s lips twitch in a thin smile.

‘So… the path is clear now?’ Hedwig ventures, lifting the thin silver circlet that symbolises Verchiel’s rank as Royal Advisor from the velvet cushion it rested on.

‘Hmm.’ At Verchiel’s non-committal sound, Hedwig frowns as she sets the circlet on his brow, her slim fingers working nimbly to arrange his hair neatly under it.

‘What about… her?’

‘Milady, you know better than to question my plans.’ Verchiel says lazily, waving away her fussing fingers and adjusting his circlet himself.

‘But I still think it is dangerous for her to be so close.’ Hedwig persists. ‘Milord, you could let me handle her, I am sure I can get rid-‘

Verchiel stands up abruptly, cutting Hedwig off in the middle of her sentence. ‘Milady, you know better than to question my plans.’ Verchiel repeats, his emerald eyes narrowing slightly as he watched Hedwig through the mirror. ‘I am sure that she will not have the chance to imperil even the hair on your head, much less jeopardise our plans. Do not assume that being who you are will allow you authority to meddle or reason to do so.’

There is a moment of stifling silence. ‘Pardon, milord.’ Hedwig finally says, and makes to withdraw.

‘Come now, milady, you cannot be angry with me now, can you?’ Verchiel has a mildly amused smile on his lips as he reaches out to catch Hedwig by the hand, his voice back to a lazy drawl. ‘You know that what I ask is necessary for the success of our plans.’

‘Of course not.’ Hedwig answers stiffly. She pulls her hand out of Verchiel’s grasp, her amethyst eyes hard. ‘I only fear that the success of your plans will never happen, milord.’ With that, she spins around and leaves the bedroom with ruffled wings.

Verchiel shows no signs of having heard Hedwig; he only adjusts his velvet robes, checking his reflection in the mirror once more before leaving his quarters. There is the business of informing Sorra’s sons about their father’s death to see to, on top of planning for his return to the fairy Court of Orbis.

So much to do, so little time. Verchiel almost smiles at the irony of the cliché, as he makes his way through the stone corridors of the Academy. Indeed, who has more time than an immortal fairy?

Unless one was Sorra, late Lord and War Advisor, of course.

Then perhaps you should have listened when Verchiel made you an offer that sounded too good to be true.

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I’m feeling really foolish today. Present tenses and flame wars make me do that. I’m pretty sure there are grammar mistakes somewhere in there. >_<

No matter what you say, criticism, whether warranted or no, does make you feel angry. I can safely say that I am human.

And I am uploading the short story soon, mini-part by mini-part. I’ve finished writing it, but the posting is the troublesome part. XD

Along with this addition to the piles of ‘stories-that-don’t-belong-to-MMOtales-zOMG’, I attach a batch of white-and-dark chocolate chip cookies~ Good day to you, dear reader!