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Saoirse's blood dances with iron and trickery, a secret she has managed to sheathe from all faery alike.
Until now, that is.
When Saoirse's cunning and charade is shredded to bits by the malevolent interfering of fa...
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CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE ALDER KING'S BEAUTY, HERALDED IN BALLADS AND ENCAPSULATED IN VERSE, WAS STRIKING.
A cruelly enrapturing sort of beauty, one unfairly befitting of the great King, that bordered on arrogance was pronounced upon his features. Hair of tousled, burnished golden fell to his shoulders, absent-minded waves frolicking here and there amongst the autumn-like hues. A noble brow, an air of impassiveness humbled their expression. A curved, full roseate mouth was gathered into a thin line, one suited for a carving. That was where sheer beauty ended, and a sort of awed majesty emerged.
Curled antlers rose on either side of his head, bone white as they speared into the air. A golden circlet, a wreath, was loped around the two protrusions, settled neatly upon his head, fashioned of leaves, twigs, claws, teeth, thorns, and briar. A cape of thorns dripped from his shoulders, tumbling down his broad back, gliding and scraping upon the polished floors with a whistle. Seated upon a throne of decidedly wicked looking branches, he consumed and swallowed the room whole. Curved talons emerged where fingers might've on one hand, stroking the arm of the throne, the other a hand that wore no jewelry, unlike the Spring King.
He was alarmingly arresting, if only for the sudden twinge of fearful admiration that struck Saoirse at the sight of him. He was terribly beautiful and awful all at once, something much like a prince from human fables. Fairy-tales, they called them; a description aptly suiting him for he was a faery. He bore a visage of wintry coldness, his features glowed in autumnal resplendence. But he was no King of Seasons. He was bequeather of all. Other faery territories may very well have laid claim to particular seasons, or elements, but it was the Alder King who bequeathed and possessed, and let it all tumble forth into the Mortal world. When the seasons were long, never ceasing to wither away, her mother would proclaim the Alder King to be slumbering. When a storm washed over them relentlessly, spearing the sky with lightning and thunder, she would say that the Alder King's ire was roused. When spring came early in the Mortal world, or their lives were distinctively more bountiful, her mother would say that the Alder King's temper was most favorable.
It was a distinctly humbling to be in the presence of a very myth.
But yet, not.
His eyes, onyx as they were, were that of a raven's. One attuned to the every motion of its prey, swirling the rotten-grey skies, beating its shimmering wings with every roll of thunder and crack of lightning. One deadened, with feigned passive interest, though stark cunning lurked in their depths as they bided their time for their unassuming victim to emerge -- infinite patience, cruel wisdom. Beneath that heavy stare, Saoirse felt as though he was circling her; she a corpse, and he eager to devour her.
A clawed finger raked against the arm of his throne, an eerie, grating whistle, and it felt as if that claw and scraped along her very spine. Silence was his weapon of choice. He appraised her in that enormous, enchanting room as she sat upon her knees for an indeterminable amount of time. It was not one of unabashed curiosity, like that of the likes of Madoc. Neither was it, however, blatant disgust. It was an impassive scrutiny that gouged into her like a blade, yet she got the distinct impression that he found her rather like a cockroach, something that wouldn't be sorely missed should anything befall her.
