The difference between nobility and nobility is a chasm - Quote from Pastor Marcus Theofaun

  Gwynfor awoke in pain.

  Her body was sore and throbbed and pulsed. Injuries old and new seemed to tickle her and send coursing jolts like little stabs throughout her body. She opened bleary eyes, the lids heavy as she forced them apart. Only then, did Gwynfor realize she could not move most of her body. Her hands and feet were bound, and she was tied to a chair whose legs bled into the floor. The air around her was stale, and it was too quiet. She felt outside of existence. Her prison was severed from the natural world. Walls of worked stone, floor of dead wood, and the light of perpetual itterfire–leaving the room in a constant dim shade of unblinking light. It was also cold, the kind of unnatural cold you achieved only by finding a place where the sun would never shine.

  Then, the memories returned, like the plunging of a dagger into the chest. She saw Willow, boarding the Salty Pelican, she saw herself abandoning him. For what? She was not even sure the kid had escaped, that the mother had escaped. Had she damned Willow to Ghost for a chance at saving a little girl?

  The tears finally came.

  They were not pretty tears, but the ugly ones which filled the nose and the mouth and the eyes, the kind where you worry of drowning in them and the kind where you might be relieved to drown. Her whole body shuddered and heaved and convulsed, every bit of her stuck in the deepest pits of regret and shame, all clawing and scraping and biting at her without relent. It was so very cold in the room.

  The sound of metal scraping against stone hissed through the air, horrid enough to claw attention from the dark depths of her mind. The sound barely lasted a second though, and was quickly replaced by footfalls on creaking wood. Gwynfor tried to twist her head around, but found the chair back too high.

  She didn’t have to wait long. The door groaned open, two figures slunk into view. She knew them both already: Dylon and Caistlin. One a wretched thing, who had helped cause this all, the other she did not understand. Dylon seemed to preen and strut in front of her, proud as a peacock, and dressed as obnoxiously. His clothes now bore frills and lace, and were made of velvet. He wore a feathered hat which limped over his face. “Today must be my Al’Guana,” Dylon said, smirking at her.

  Gwynfor met the traitor’s eyes.

  She spat at him, hurling all the hatred and anger she could muster.

  Dylon gasped, stumbling back. He raised a hand and slapped Gwynfor across the face with enough force to make her whole body move. The chair would have tumbled over had it not been melded to the floor. It stung violently, and Gwynfor did not regret a single moment. Dylon raised a hand again, clearly intending to strike a second time. Caistlin caught the Mel’Aniuh’s hand

  “Now what do you think you’re doing cripple?” Dylon demanded, with a voice of venom.

  “Your plan fails if you break her. One blow is a punishment, two is a risk. You hired me for my practicality, I suggest you heed my advice.”

  Gwynfor was careful to mask her expression, though she figured her red cheek would help hide it. She wondered if she could learn anything useful here, if she was ever freed, that was.

  "You forget your betters,” the Mel’Aniuh complained, but Dylon lowered his hand, and stalked forward, so that he was behind her. His shadow crawled, and she could almost feel it,an insect’s bite on a summer night. A single finger jabbed at the top of her head, pressing down hard, the fingernail digging into her skull so pain blossomed outwards. “You are in quite the predicament, little wraith. Gwynfor Flours is it not?” A chill ran through Gwynfor at her name, the name which tied her to family. She especially did not like the way it sat on the elf’s tongue, utterly delighted and devious. And only now, did Gwynfor realize her cloak and mask were gone, and she wore only the simple clothing she had before, minus her shawl. Her hair tumbled around her head, not much like human hair, but more like the leaves of a bush and her pointed ears poked through.

  “Where is Lydia?” Gwynfor demanded. She no longer cared, better to risk and take the offense than stay quiet for fear of offending. Dylon only smiled. “Demanding and fiery, I suppose I could have guessed so, given where you were found–and what you did. Are you aware of your crimes Gwynfor?”

  “Are you aware of yours?” she countered.

  Dylon moved like a viper, a hand grabbing her chin and throat, forcing up her head to meet his eyes. He was smart enough this time to put his other hand over her mouth so that she could not spit at him. “Those of noble blood cannot commit crimes, unlike mur–”

  Gwynfor bit down on his hand.

  “OW! CURSED CHILD!” Dylon bellowed, leaping back.

  Gwynfor smiled, and spat out the taste of metal from her mouth.

  The noble stared at his hand, bleeding from where her teeth had sunk into his skin. It was nowhere near enough to be dangerous, or even near enough to be deserved punishment, but it had felt good.

  “Filithy wendigo,” Dylon swore under his breath, staring at her. He seemed calm, almost too calm, for how he acted earlier. “You are trying my patience girl. So let me make things clear, one more misstep like that, and I will forget the mercy I intend to offer you, and have you hanged, and your parents exiled to Ghost for harboring a criminal of the Dragon.”

  “They have nothing to do with this,” Gwynfor said, glaring at him.

  Somehow, the elf managed to smile even more broadly and it looked entirely alien on his features. “That will not be how the judge would see it,” he said with a crooked smile. “Your activity with the Red Wraiths and similar prior movements is well documented,” he held up a finger to quiet her. “The Drakes are well aware of your movement's members. You may have thought yourselves secret, but we know all about Lydia and her business. And we know about the Daughters of the Old World, and the Alliance of Thyshar. And,” he said, with a flourish of his hands, “as I was saying before you interrupted me, you are now a murderer.” His smile was poison.

  Memories of a bottle thrown, screams echoing after the liquid gold began to consume the pavilion. She recalled a stone slung, hitting a soldier in the head as he loomed over a little girl. Dylon was right, Gwynfor had killed. She looked down at her hands, expecting to see blood. Instead, the only red she saw was the rage building behind her eyes. She was a murderer? She had killed? What of Dylon, his allies, his soldiers who condemned innocents to Ghost, to death?

  Worry still kindled in her. Dylon held the headsman’s axe over Gwynfor, her family, likely Lydia. But, as she slowly looked back up, slowly held her ground against predator, she knew it was never in her hands. No matter her choices here, her fate was to be decided by another. That was always the story.

  Then came the rage.

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  The rage at knowing you had been so thoroughly defeated.

  The rage of losing a game you’d been forced into at disadvantage and which your opponents made the rules.

  The rage at having just condemned her loved ones to misery and torment for the mere act of taking a stand.

  The rage at having failed one you loved.

  It boiled her and melted the chill of worry. It coursed through her blood and bones and heart, demanding action movement It was the kind of rage which took control.

  But, something in that fury nearly bubbling over, stopped her from saying something she should not. She felt an intense stare from Caistlin, as if his gaze left a mark on her. She met his eyes and in them saw, pity? No, it was not pity. Pity was for despondent things. It was empathy perhaps, an understanding and support in his gaze. It somehow seemed to soften the broken look of his features. Had he not been the one who captured her? Yet also he had helped save her. Gwynfor was mired deep in a swamp of deadly games.

  “Forgive me Mel’Aniuh,” she mocked. “I beg you to tell me the mercy you intend to offer.”

  Dylon’s eyes fluttered in surprise, then he regained control of his face. “So you can be civil,” he said in a tone of fool’s gold. “So charming now I can almost pretend to not see hatred in your eyes.” Dylon once more creeped behind her, his hands clamping down like jaws on her shoulders. “But I don’t need hatred girl, I need purity.”

  It was Gwynfor’s turn to blink a few times. “Purity?” she asked, confused.

  “Yes, purity. Not the kind I imagine you think, the kind humans have devised. I need purity of heart and spirit, purity of being and nature. I need the kind of purity a young, idealistic, female elf has. The kind of purity that would attract a unicorn.”

  The realization that came to Gwynfor was like that of solving a difficult riddle, or when an experimental recipe turned out perfect, except instead of excitement, it invoked dread. “No…” she whispered.

  “Yes,” Dylon hissed in response.

  “I won’t help you…” Gwynfor said, and didn’t speak aloud the part her mind conjured: Lydia would not help you.

  “You won’t?” he said, tutting. “I give you one last chance to deny me. If you do, you go to the noose, your parents to Ghost, and Lydia will be kept in the Dragon’s Dungeons forever. Which will weigh heavier on the conscience, not that you’ll be around long to experience the second, though I suppose I can have the execution delayed a while, long enough to make you squirm in regret. I–”

  “Enough Dylon,” Caistlin rasped.

  “AGAIN YOU INTERRUPT ME!” Dylon wheeled about, hand raised to strike.

  “Let me try convincing her sire,” Caistlin said, bowing low to the ground and backing away from Dylon. “Forgive my insolence, but I fear we run low on time, and she is the best lead you have. I will get her cooperation.”

  Dylon was still for a long moment, save for the slight tremble of his fist and upper lip. Finally, he said, “You have five minutes. If she does not agree, we will find another one, and I will make sure her punishment is severe.” Dylon left quickly, and Gwynfor saw he tried to slam the door, but underground as they were, the subterranean air refused to cooperate and it instead slowly closed itself after a long delay.

  Gwynfor looked at the man, his broken features made more extreme by the heavy shadows of the room. He walked over to her, and grabbed out a waterskin. “Drink,” he commanded.

  Gwynfor turned away, keeping her mouth shut. She knew of potions, rare as they were, and she didn’t know what quite to believe them capable of. Nevertheless she had heard enough stories to distrust a bottle here. He looked down, and took a long draft from the waterskin. He wiped liquid from chin, and again proffered it, “It’s just water, and you’ve been here long. Please, drink.”

  Gwynfor didn’t, even though she could now feel the parchedness in the annals of her throat.

  Caistlin sighed, “Fine, suit yourself.” Then he plopped down onto the floor, his entire body making a series of creaks and groans, as if it was barely held together. Somehow he made a slightly sprawled seating pose in the middle of a damp dungeon floor look to be luxuriously comfortable.

  “You will help me,” Caistlin said.

  Gwynfor raised an eyebrow. He sounded confident, cocky even. It made for an odd combination of appearance and personality. “Why should I?”

  He grinned, his crooked teeth showing. “I am not asking you, I am merely telling you the end result of our conversation.”

  Gwynfor continued to gaze at him, plopped on the stone floor, looking as at ease as possible. Her lip twitched, as she narrowed her eyes. He seemed different, less shadowed. His eyes looked almost pleasant, almost familiar. “Why am I the one you chose to kidnap?”

  He shrugged. “Unicorns are bastards to catch. They prefer young maidens, especially elves.” Caistlin leaned back, and looked up at the ceiling with a wistful expression. “I knew of Lydia, considered her for the task. Then, I discovered you.”

  “Still haven’t answered my question.”

  “I’m getting there,” Caistlin said, waving a hand, his bones creaking. “Most importantly, Unicorns are great at sensing character, ideals. You are known in the community, have been fighting against the injustice of our system almost your entire cognizance. You are the ideal candidate for Dylon’s plot.”

  “And you? Are you just here for the money then? You call our system unjust, yet you work for its perpetrators.”

  Caistlin licked his lips, and thin as they were, Gwynfor saw his crooked teeth gnawing and gnashing, a bit of spittle falling out from them. Finally, he said, “Trust me, I understand the failures of our world, Gwynfor. But I have my own wants and desires. Sometimes, I would work with a devil to accomplish them. I think both you, and Lydia would as well.”

  “And Lydia, I still haven’t been told. Is she well? My family, my friends?” Gwynfor demanded.

  He continued to meet her gaze, leaning forward on the ground. “Lydia is in prison. Dylon convinced her it was the best course of action. She is awaiting trial by the Dragon, and will leave the moment the matter of yourself is resolved. Your parents are frantic for you, and are much disliked at the moment, but otherwise safe.”

  Gwynfor bit her lip, thinking. “Would you undo my chains, I need to stretch.”

  He stood up from the ground and pulled a key from her pocket. Gwynfor froze, shocked. She had not expected that to work. He moved behind her and she heard it jingle in the locks. Gwynfor tensed, unsure if she should try and make a move, try to escape, try to–

  Click

  The lock was undone, her wrists and hands freed. Caistlin withdrew and sat back down on the floor. Gwynfor stared back. Then, slowly, stretched, that little freedom tasting so sweet. “Thank you,” she said.

  “You’re thanking your jailor?” Caistlin laughed.

  “You are not my jailor, Dylon is, the nobility is.”

  Caistlin continued to laugh. “And who’s to say I didn’t want to lock you in here?”

  “You freed me,” Gwynfor said, feeling cold.

  “You aren’t free. You’re like a pet bird released from their cage, but still trapped in a house.”

  Gwynfor now leaned forward, her hands blessingly able to prop up her head, as she tried to divine insight from his eyes of sky. “What is your goal here? I cannot decide if you are a friend or a foe to me, to our cause.”

  “I am not your friend, I told you, my wants are my own.”

  “So what is your want?” Gwynfor demanded. “You want me to help you, betray my nature as an elf to force a spirit to give its Gift? Then by Artaghan’s will, give me a reason, an explanation!” She yelled, a bit of spittle flying from her mouth. Her hands were clenched now, her face red.

  He looked away. She kept boring her gaze into his back, waiting for a reaction, anger, annoyance, anything. Caistlin leaned back, and turned towards her. “I want a flower. That is all,” he said.

  “A flower?” Gwynfor asked.

  “And an answer to a question.”

  “Is that worth working with evil men to get?” Gwynfor demanded.

  Caistlin stood up. Then, he knelt before her, and undid the locks around her feet. Turning away, he said, “Anything is worth it to accomplish my goals Gwynfor. I think, one day, you will know a similar fire, if you do not already know it. Tell me, think upon Willow, Lydia, those lost to the banishment. What emotion is summoned to you?”

  “Fury, hatred,” Gwynfor said, already feeling them beginning to course through her veins and rattle her bones. She felt hot, and antsy, though she suspected some of that was the ability to now stand and move.

  “Then I think we are motivated by the same wills.” He knelt down again, so that he was at her level. “Work with me, and you will go free, your family will go free, and even Lydia will, once she stands before Arrietty. I can promise you standing with Dylon, and with that opportunity. Like Lydia, you can be given power, and with that power work to enact change.” He held out a hand. “What will it be Gwynfor? Can you deal with a devil to save future souls?”

  She stared at his hand, trembling and shaking. Could she? Would Lydia do this? Did it matter? Gwynfor was not Lydia. They both had failed to save Willow. This was a chance to grow her own destiny. All it would cost, was damning a single Unicorn. Gwynfor clasped his hand, and shook it.

  She hoped she could trust this Caistlin, for her fate, her soul, she now set into the palm of his hand.