Imago Ch31: The Flickering Light

<- previous

"Let her go!” Lloyd demands, stepping forward. The nearest spriggans cross their spears in unison, barring his way. Alastor wags a finger, gesturing playfully to Astraea as she gasps for air.  

“Now, now. Let’s not do anything foolish. She’s upset enough already, don’t you think?” 

There’s a whisper of motion at Lloyd’s shoulder. Light glints from raised talons as Lyra measures herself against the guards.

“I’ll take your eyes for this." She breathes. Alastor scoffs, shaking his head in amazement. 

“Truly ill-mannered guests. How unfortunate. Still! That doesn’t mean I can’t be gracious in victory." He waves his hand, and the spriggans step apart, spears lifting like mechanical gates. “We’re all friends here, after all.”

“That a joke?" Ian bites out. "We trusted you an’ you used us."

Alastor leans against the altar. Responding to his presence, a fresh surge of aether tears through Astraea, sending her shrieking and thrashing against her restraints. Lyra lunges forward, but Alastor holds up a hand in warning. He settles his free hand over a green gem inserted into Astraea’s chest, letting the light shine through his fingers until the aetherflow calms. The dryad collapses back, sobbing for breath.

"It’s true.” He muses. “I lied to you, and to many others. I became a worse monster than even the most sadistic unseelie. I took apart..." He runs his hand over Astraea's heaving torso. "... many beautiful things." 

"Don't touch her." Lyra hisses. 

He leaves his hand where it is, unmoved.

“WHY?!”  Lloyd snarls.  “Why do all of this?”

“Why… for you, Lloyd Morgan.”

“I never asked -”#

“You did.” He looks up.  “You and all of humanity, in your own secret ways. Every peasant girl submitting to her lord, every member of the faithful praying to their gods.  Calling out for safety, security. Certainty. That’s a language you know, too. Don’t deny it.”

“You’re mad.”  Ian says. 

“Oh, perhaps. Perhaps so, Ian. But more importantly, I am resolute. Determined to do my part for our people.”  He caresses the side of Astraea's face, smiling softly as he wipes away her tears. “It won't be long now. The gate is almost at its limit, and once it overflows, the aether will ignite and take the others with it. Imagine how beautiful that will be. Gate after gate going off like fireworks. A final severing of the divide. A tangible step towards a better world.”

"L... Loyd…” Astraea rasps, trying to lift her head.   

Lloyd meets her eyes and smiles, his heart thundering, hands shaking. “H-hey, Astraea.”

The dryad shakes her head in mute, confused despair. Her unfocused eyes catch the figure at his arm. Her breath stops. “L-yra?”

“That’s right, Astraea.” Alastor coos. “Your ghost came back to play. Isn’t that marvelous?”

“N-no!” Astraea gasps, voice torn to shreds. She breaks into a coughing fit, fresh tears filling her eyes. “N-no, why - you - you shouldn’t h-have come!"

“And yet they did.”  Alastor’s fingers play over the emerald. “Bearing witness to our final, sacred act.”

"This isn't sacred." Lloyd says. "This is cowardice.”

“Sticks and stones, Lloyd Morgan.”

“You kill so you can hide under the blankets - " 

“I kill monsters.”  Alastor interrupts, his eyes sharpening. “So that there are fewer missing children. I would think you, of all people, could understand that.”

Lyra slips her arm behind Lloyd, tapping him on the wrist. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Neith shifting her stance, leaning towards the guards. Beside him, Ian tightens his grip on his iron.

“Oh, sure, Astraea’s taken all sorts of children.“ Lloyd balls his hands into fists, willing Alastor to keep looking at him instead of the others. “I’m not here to argue about which world has the bigger monsters. I’m here for my friend.”

“How noble.” Alastor grabs Astraea by her hair and lifts her head. She winces, biting back a cry. “And you, Ian? Are you also here for your… friend…?”

“You won’t divide us.” Ian growls.

“Not even Neith?”  Alastor flashes a dazzling smile at her.

“Kindly choke on that poisoned tongue, Cadbury egg.”

“L-Lloyd… Lyra…” Astraea wheezes. “P-please… just go, just RUN, I - “

Alastor’s hand tightens over the gem. It flares a sickly, phosphorescent green, pouring aether through her once again. Astraea’s words are swallowed up in a choked wail as the force of it slams her back down to the altar. Alastor stands, wiping his hand on his jacket. “Then I suppose there’s nothing more to say.”

“Wrong, actually.”  Lloyd says. Alastor glances his way with mild interest, and he grins, baring his teeth. “NOW!”

Lyra leaps. Ian charges.  Neith slams a foot into the back of a guard's knee. He drops, his spear falling away just as Lyra soars past it, her talons raised. 

Alastor rolls his eyes.  

"Stop, Lloyd Morgan.”

Lyra’s wings seize in mid-air, momentum carrying her forward even as she falls. She hits the ground at an odd angle, tumbling head over heels at Alastor’s feet. Blood trickles from an abrasion on her cheek, coarsening her look of frozen surprise.

“Sh-it!  Lyra?!” Ian stumbles midstride. He turns to see Lloyd behind him, standing stiff and still.  “Lloyd!”

“You honestly think I would give up my hold after our last encounter?  And you,” Alastor nudges Lyra with his foot, rolling her over onto her back. “Going by that name for what, twenty years now?  Just because you split, you thought you’d be free of it? Are we through with these games?"

Neith crunches down on a candy, her eyes blazing teal. She snatches a spear from the closest guard and hurls it straight for Alastor. He steps aside with a sigh, letting it sink deep into the hardwood at the base of the altar. It quivers with the force of the impact. Alastor puts a hand out, stopping the motion. "Fine, let's just... Lloyd Morgan, stop breathing."

There’s no sound to it. Lloyd's chest simply goes still. Lyra’s eyes bulge. They choke in still, frozen silence.

A heartbeat later, Ian and Neith rush Alastor as one, swinging wildly at his smiling face. He ducks around the blows, his eyes glowing golden as he weaves between them without striking a blow. 

“My, my, my, your face, Ian. You didn’t like that at all, did you? Let me ask you: if you land one of these hits, do you think they’ll spontaneously remember how to breathe?” 

Ian checks his swing, horror in his eyes. 

“Don’t listen!” Neith hisses, stepping into the gap. “They’ll be fine!” 

“Liar.”  Alastor chuckles, dodging aside as Neith launches a barrage of punches, trailing multicolored light from her eyes and mouth.  

“WILL THEY?” Ian shouts at Neith. Her face twists.

“I don’t know!”

"Did you know that nymphs can last seven minutes without oxygen?"  Alastor offers playfully. “On average, I mean.” 

“Fuck off.”  Neith rasps, lunging for his throat. He bats her arm aside. 

Lloyd's head pounds. The air begins to roar in Lyra’s ears. Shadows eat at the edge of their vision.

"Unconsciousness as soon as thirty seconds. Although the significant brain damage doesn't set in until the four minute mark. I have notes, if you’d like to see them."

"Turn it off!"  Ian pleads. Alastor leans aside to dodge another blow, the air from Neith’s fist ruffling his hair. 

"I'll free them if you stop."

Ian stands frozen, the tire iron clutched white in his hands.

“You lovestruck idiot!” Neith curses. “He’ll kill the lot of us! They’re dead either way if - “ 

“Hear that, Ian?” Alastor hops neatly over the flung spear, letting it shatter under a kick from the unseelie. “She’s already written them off. Why should she care about two little lollipops, hmm? You know what she is. She’s not even hiding it.”

“Neith, they’re suffocating!” Ian panics. Neith darts him a murderous, helpless glare.

“Then stop waffling and help me kill this f-”

Too late, she realises she’s split her attention. Neith has just enough time to turn back before Alastor’s fist cracks into her jaw, sending her spinning. She trips on the carpet and hits the floor with a muffled curse. 

A moment later, a steel-toed boot stomps on her back, pinning her to the ground. Alastor leans on his knee, shifting the majority of his weight to slowly crush the oxygen from her lungs.

“Well, Ian? Man to man. What’s your call?”

"Fight, you stupid bastard!" Neith croaks, struggling. Ian looks desperately from Lyra to Lloyd.  

“I-I - I can’t just - “

“...I…iiii…aan…”

Astraea’s voice hums like a wire under tension, cutting through the room. She strains to speak, sweat pouring down her face as she forces the sounds into words instead of screams. 

“...pllEEeaase… d… don’t let them…

Ian’s jaw tightens. Astraea squeezes her eyes shut, her voice rising to a shriek.

 “...d-diiiieeeaaaaAAAAGH!”

The tire iron clatters to the floor, striking a metallic 

Tik.

Alastor smiles, watching Ian’s face crease in silent, pleading pain. 

Tik.

"Lloyd Morgan, you may breathe again."

Lyra's sides heave as she sucks in air. Lloyd gasps. Alastor claps his hands together. 

"Now, children, while I love the company, I really can't be distracted. Not to worry, I’m prepared to entertain.” 

Spriggans stagger into position, dragging Neith to her feet and placing gauntleted hands on Ian. One scoops Lloyd up as another hefts Lyra, pinning her wings. Alastor gestures to the pile of cages and debris.

“If you would be so kind..." 

The spriggans march them away past the mirrors, parading among the rows of hollow-eyed specters. They stir, faint movements and whispers their only welcome to these newcomers here to share their fate. Astraea raises her head, shaking. 

"L-let themmmm go...! Y-you don’t nnneeed them - “ 

She tenses, cringing back as Alastor bends over her. He smiles gently, smoothing her hair. 

"Shhhh, little one. They've come so far to be with us.  Let us be good hosts and respect their wishes.”

“Wait, please- “

He presses his hand down on the emerald, concentrating. Astraea’s eyes flare gold as the torrent of aether redoubles, tearing the plea from her lips.



The guards halt by a series of cages dangling amongst the piles of books, tools, torture weapons and strange masks. Ian is backed into a large crate on the ground, with Lloyd and Lyra forced into identical dangling, ornate prisons. Neith balks and snaps, but the puppeteered spriggans only force a mask over her face, activating the mechanism and chaining her wrists to a spike in the floor. As the guards lurch away, she thrashes against the restraints, finally punching the floor twice in mute frustration.

Tik.

Tik. 

Lloyd throws himself against the bars, setting his cage swinging. It creaks until it draws to a stop. He grips the bars and shakes them, hoping to find one of them loose in their sockets, but they don’t budge.

“Of course. The only thing in this place that isn’t falling apart…Ian?” He calls down. “What about yours? Can you get it open?" 

Ian rattles his door. "No give. Sorry, mate. Looks like this is the view we're getting." 

Lyra crouches in her cage, antennae back, wings tight. She watches the flare from the altar with unfocused eyes.  "I should have known it would affect me. But it shouldn’t have mattered. I should have been…faster. Fiercer.”  

Lloyd slumps against the side of his cage, his hand trailing through the bars. 

"It's not your fault." 

A miserable silence descends over them. In the distance, Astraea begins to scream.  

Lloyd looks out at the mirrors, his eyes drifting aimlessly. A sea of hollow faces stare back, silently watching them from their own colourless prisons. Brownies and nymphs and goblins. Stranger creatures still, beings he has no name for. The King’s mirror is among them, a tiny pane of glass over a furiously roiling shadow.  

All these people…condemned by Alastor as deserving of death. Judging from the numerous torture devices within easy reach, none of them were swift. Lloyd is fairly certain his death will be more instantaneous, but it's a cold comfort.

"Doesn’t seem like a happily ever after, does it?” Ian’s voice floats out from his cage. Lyra stirs, and Lloyd smiles wistfully. Even with his face out of sight, it’s easy to hear the lopsided grin. “All the same, I'm glad to be here this time. Not stuck at Cromart straightening crisps."

“You would have lived.” Lyra states flatly.

“I woulda rotted away.”

Something wriggles against Lloyd’s arm. He sighs softly and gently shake the alp-luachra out into his palms.  "You should go." He whispers. "Back to your colony."

Nibblemonster nips Lloyd's hand, then burrows back up his sleeve. Lloyd stifles a sob, resting his hand gently against the warm creature tucked against him. He can tell himself that she doesn’t know what’s happening, but…she has to know enough. They all did. 

They made their choices anyway. 

"So yer just givin’ up, then.” 

Lloyd jolts, nearly banging his head on the roof of the cage. The sharp little voice seems to come from nowhere. "Who said that?" He asks, looking around.

"Feel like he was always one step ahead. Neeeever stood a chance.  An’ who could blame you?” The voice muses. “But that…certainty? That unflappable control? That’s a lie. Givin’ that relic credit beyond his due.  He’s willin’ to break the rules, and he’s had his share of fortune. But Alastor O’Reilly’s just a man. I’ve spoiled his plans before.  Seen him blood-boiling eye-popping furious. And I managed it alone, half-dead and without a prayer.”

"Who are you?" Lloyd scrambles across the floor of the cage, sending it swinging. He can see Lyra stirring, tracking the voice. Whoever it is sounds so close. "Can you let us out?”

“I don’t know. Can you let me out?”

“There!”  Lyra says, pointing. Lloyd finally catches sight of her - a translucent glaistig in one of the nearby mirrors, tipping him a cheeky wink.

“Here.” The Glaistig echoes.

“You’re one of his victims.”  Lloyd says, his momentary hope crumbling to dust. The glaistig bristles, puckering her lips.

“Wasn’t always.” 

"Sorry. Sorry, of course you… what's your name?"

She tilts her head. “My name?”

“If that’s alright?”

“It’s just… been a while.”  She stops and thinks, pausing as she hesitantly sounds out the syllables. "D... eir…Deir…dre. It’s… Deirdre.”

“And you're…”  Deirdre takes a deep breath.  “L l o y d  M o r g a n."

“Sometimes.” Lloyd winces. “Not for much longer, I guess."

The two sit in companionable silence. Lloyd draws his legs up, thinking. He can feel…something, beyond the dull despair. A need to talk. Maybe just a desire to fill the space. "Deirdre? Do you mind sharing your story?”

"My story?"  The ghost frowns. Lloyd nods. Lyra huddles against the cage bars, listening silently.  

“My story.”  Deirdre whispers, clutching her hand to her chest. “That’s right. It was my story, wasn’t it.”

“It is.” Lyra says. Deirdre offers a grateful smile.

"My family came from a forest. Not here. Back in Annwyn, where they don’t last forever. It went away, bit by bit. So I… we… my parents and I… immigrated. I looked after them.  We moved to a… to Lon… to… Lonnn…”  

“London?”  Lloyd offers. Deirdre brightens.

“London! That’s right! The city was so different from the forest.  I wasn’t sure I’d ever get used to it, but I found others from the wood. They helped me find my place again.”

“Other fae.” Lyra says. “The Market.”

“No!” Deirdre blinks. “Well, yes, but… no, pigeons!”

It’s so unexpectedly sincere that Lloyd can’t help but laugh. Even Lyra manages a smile.  

“And so many!  All kinds and colours, I’d only known woodpigeons before!”

"I never really noticed."  Lloyd says, then looks to Lyra. “We never noticed.”

"Well, you missed out. Did you know they were once holy birds? Carriers of messages, binding strangers by a wing and a promise." She sighs wistfully. "... but nowadays most people consider them pests."

"That’s not right."  Lloyd says.  

She shrugs. "Stories change.” 

“Stories change.”  Lyra agrees.

Deirdre smiles down at the reflected floor, her ears lowering.  “I had some ideas about what my story was going to be.  There was this… boy. Someone I wanted to… build a life with. But people tell so many stories about glaistig women that I… didn’t want him getting the wrong idea. I had him take things slow.  And Tiernan, he was so kind and understanding that he - that he -”  

She grips the collar of her tunic, her eyes glistening.

“Didn’t matter. I was cautious, I had plans, and then that man stepped into my life. And oh, did he have lots of ideas about what my story was. Lots of ideas, and not particularly interested in hearing a word of what I had to say about it.”

Lloyd lowers his head. "I would have preferred your version."

"Ach. How life is. And besides,” her voice takes on a vicious edge.  “I got him in the end. He changed my story, so I changed his. Took what he wanted and spoiled it. 

She unfolds her hands, looking down at them.  

“But… now maybe I’m giving him too much credit, because at that point, it wasn’t so much about getting back at him. He’d just… written this whole story for me.  Beginning, middle, end. Laid it out like some evil fairytale. And even though I tried to keep it at arms length, you can only hear a thing so many times before you start feeling…”  

She makes a fist and holds it against her chest. "You know?”

 “... we know.” Lyra says softly. Lloyd leans against the bars, sitting closer to her cage. 

Deirdre nods, smiling distantly.  “I just felt like I had my whole life stolen away. So at the end, I just wanted… I just wanted to say who I am, one last time. To myself. To the world. To scream it until it hurt, until it was true, even if it was just true for me. After that, whatever came next… that couldn't hurt me.”

She stifles a bleak laugh and gives her head a quick shape. “At least, that was the idea. The knife through the chest wasn’t a picnic - “   

"Deirdre?" 

Lloyd’s hand trails through the bars. Lyra’s unfolded her wings, her talons resting gently in her lap. She inclines her head in a slow, grave nod. 

“We see you.”

Deirdre sucks in her emotions, then forces a smile. She presses a hand against the glass, leaning on it as she looks away. “Well, would you look at that?” Her voice has gone hoarse. She wipes at her eyes with the back of her free hand. “D-didn’t think I had any tears left.”

"I wish we'd met before.”  Lloyd says softly. “But I’m glad to be together at the end of our story."

Deirdre sniffs and shrugs. "Better late than never, little pigeon."

"Mum used to call us little bird.” Lyra muses.

“Good.” Deirdre says, turning back with a firm nod. “It suits you.” 

“It… does. Doesn’t it?” Lloyd gives Lyra a half-smile.

“In a way. I hadn’t thought of it, but…”

“I don’t know about pigeon, though.”

“And just what’s wrong with pigeons?”  Deirdre huffs.

“N-nothing!” Lloyd says. “It’s just, for ages we’ve been… L.”

"It's always been L." Lyra agrees, softly.  “Maybe we could have picked out a bird name that starts with L…”

“Well, who knows. Things for another life, I guess. I just wish we could have…punctuated this one a little better.” Lloyd rests his chin against his knees. “What did you do, Deirdre? When you made him so angry.”

Something glitters in her eyes, and for a moment, Lloyd knows what it would have been to see her among the trees - something wild and fleeting, fierce in her joy. “I cracked one of his precious mirrors. Shattered it to pieces and set one of us free.” 

“... that easy?”

“That easy.”  

Lloyd sits up straight. “But they’re… aren’t they magic?”

“Well, sure, but they’re magic mirrors. Not just glass, of course.  But still glass.”

Lloyd catches his breath, staring. “Just glass.” He whispers. “Lyra, our voice. Remember Spencer’s gun cabinet- “ 

"Lloyd.”  She folds her wings and withdraws, back into the shadows.  “All it will take is a command." 

“I know, but- ”

“He owns our name.”

Lloyd breathes in again, trying to steady himself. His mind feels like it’s whirling with the possibilities. “You said that L, the person who sold her name to him, she was… a sort of, incomplete fusion. Partially Lloyd. Partially Lyra.”

“Yes..?”

“And you said it would be different now. That Lloyd and Lyra would be gone.“

“Lloyd - “

“Would that work? COULD it work?”

“Lloyd.”

He reaches out to her, straining through the bars. “I’m not an infant this time, I’m making this choice. Lyra, I’m willing to - “  

“I am not willing.”  Lyra snaps, her talons raised, her eyes glowing like twin moons. She’s crept back against the edge of the cage, as far as she can reach without touching her wings to the bars. Lloyd withdraws slowly, and she eases closer, shuddering. 

“I’m scared.”  

The confession whispers out of her, soft and shaky. Lyra’s talons jitter back and forth, as if seeking something solid to cling to. 

“The first time, I was panicked. I did not have time to think.  But now? Now I cannot stop.  The thought of us apart feels wrong, yes, but the thought of us gone? No longer able to talk like this? Not ever again…? It - “

“It’s sad.”  Lloyd says quietly. She nods.  

“... it’s sad.” 

“Endings are always a little sad.”  He reaches through the bars once more, lightly gripping her cage. “But we can’t start a new story until we finish this one.”

Lyra sucks in a breath. Her wings beat. Once. Twice.  Slowly, gently, she extends her hand. “Will you… help me?”

“Always.”

He wonders how they must look, dangling in their twin cages. The quiet boy from London. The winged dweller from the Wilds. 

“It’s been quite an adventure.” He says, wistfully. 

She nods, then smiles. Something loosens in her face as she meets his eyes. 

"Goodbye, Lloyd."

"Goodbye, Lyra." 

Lloyd takes a deep breath, reaching for her. Lyra meets him in the free air. Their fingers wrap around each other. Clasping. Holding.

One last time.



It is difficult, holding an entire world in your hands.

Alastor O'Reilly’s had three hundred years to learn that, and it still amazes him. Just how much force of will it takes to keep everything in the correct order, in the correct place. It had been too much for everyone who’d tried to walk this path with him. They’d been sucked dry by their calling. Left to the dust of time.

But he was different. He felt it in his bones, and let his bones turn to iron. Let the fires of fear and anger temper him into something more than what any one man could be. Someone who could shape an entire realm. Someone who could see the inner workings of things. Someone with the will to change the world. 

Alastor O'Reilly is tired. Stretched thin by time and care. He’s cheated whatever awaits his soul for too long. But with this, it will all have been worth it. All the horrors and sacrifice and toil and long, long years. As he pulls on the strength he stole from the elder dryad, as he forces another surge of aether through the writhing woman before him, he feels himself renewed in purpose. He is about to achieve his greatest - and final - glory. 

The destruction of the river. 

The single, crystalline note is soft at first. Barely audible under the dryad's choked screams. It vibrates through the air like a ripple in water. A bird crept in from the midnight wood, here to fill the void left by his silent audience. 

"One last serenade, little nymph?" He asks. He can feel it plucking at his attention, but he refuses to turn around. The fae are so full of tricks, so drenched in ways to confuse and distract. His focus needs to be here. 

As if in answer, the song grows higher. Resonating until it rings in Alastor's ears.  Rises until it reaches a fever pitch so intense it could only be punctuated by one thing:

The sharp crack of breaking glass.

Alastor’s concentration breaks with it. He whirls around, the air around him stinking of ozone and sap as the power slips away, leaving Astraea able to gasp for air. His gaze scours the cages for the singer, but what catches his eye is something else entirely.  A translucent figure hovers at the far end of the gallery, looking nearly as surprised as he is. Alastor’s heart freezes in recognition. 

Deirdre. The glaistig. The liar. The whore. The albatross who'd nearly stolen this moment from him. Shards of mirror glisten at her feet like scattered gems.

A shape emerges from the dark behind her, framed by a pair of empty cages. Dark hair and silver wings. Midnight eyes and pointed ears. A single set of arms with sharp, black-tipped nails, slim chest, and broad hips. 



The changeling singer, a single being once again. 

“...L?”  Astraea whispers, staring.   

“Mate?” Ian calls out from his crate on the ground. Even Neith stares in bewilderment. 

Alastor’s eyes bulge. 

“What have you done?” He screams. “Why?! After all - all I’ve GIVEN you!  Where is your gratitude?  Where is your - ” Alastor runs his hands over his head, pulling furiously at his hair.  “No, no more. No more foolishness. Lloyd Morgan,  I command your heart to stop."

“N-NO!!” Astraea shrieks.

The changeling flinches. 

Everything goes still. 

"I'm… not Lloyd Morgan.”  They smile, speaking slowly. They look up. “My name is Lark." 

They take in a deep breath, then release a single hard-edged note, holding it. The closest pair of mirrors shatter in a blaze of sound and colour, their spectral prisoners flickering away to freedom. Two long streaks of red leach from Alastor’s hair, leaving thin grey lines behind. 

"I see." He says, and plucks a long curved knife from the altar. "One last demon to exorcise, then.”

Alastor kicks off from the altar steps, a streak of golden light following him as he crosses the distance in a blink, the blade flashing.

Lark braces a foot, their wings snap, and they launch into the air.

Alastor leaps after them, clutching at the bookshelves like a monstrous spider. All around the room, dull-eyed nymphs jerk to life and take to the air, swarming in his wake. He’s faster than all of them, scaling hand over fist. Closing the distance. 

"You think you can fly out of my reach? I've hunted monsters centuries before you were even born!"

The room shifts and turns, reacting to its master’s rage - gears churning into motion, iron pistons burning through the air. Lark catches the edge of a bookcase and banks to the side, antennae whipping behind them. 

"If you're so good at this, then come get me!"

They swoop back down into the aisles, releasing an ear-piercing shriek. Mirrors crack and split, exploding one after another as Lark passes. Spirits spill out like fog -  confused, laughing, weeping. 

Alastor drops into the swarm of nymphs as they tumble into and over each other, breaking his fall with their bodies. He’s running before he hits the ground, launching himself forward, gaining on his target. The changeling’s leg is almost within his grasp, all he has to do is - 

A tire iron cracks across Alastor’s skull, sending him tumbling across the rotting floor. He pulls himself up to a halt, pawing at the blood pouring over his face. The gash seals over in a burst of light, leaving a web of fine lines creasing his eyes. A few paces away Ian gives the tire iron a flourish as Deirdre’s shade drops the broken lock on the ground.

"Go on, Trys. Bottle that memory."

Alastor spits blood on the floor. “Ian. I never did get around to teaching you what happens to men who trail after the fair folk, did I?” 

He’s on him in an instant, slashing and jabbing furiously, forcing him back step by step, closer and closer to the edge of the platform.

“They die.” 

Alastor cracks the hilt of his knife against Ian’s knuckles. Ian curses, losing the grip on his tire iron. Alastor smashes it out of his hands, then kicks it, sending it flying into the void.

"IAN!”

Lark hurdles forward, their blood turning to ice. Ian’s too far away. They’ll never reach him in time. Alastor raises his hand to strike - 

A chain whips around his wrist, iron links cinching tight as it’s yanked backwards. Neith's standing behind Alastor, gripping the now freed length of chain, her eyes fierce and bright above her mask as wisps of smoke rise from her fingers. Nibblemonster hisses from her jacket pocket, spitting out chunks of wood and carpet.

“You - “ Alastor snarls. 

Neith tilts her head and twists, pulling the chain down and stomping on it. His wrist snaps like a dry twig and he roars in pain, slamming to the ground. Ian’s on him in a moment, grabbing for the knife.

Light flares and Alastor kicks him square in the chest. Ian flies back, skids across the floor and soars over the edge into the dark.

Lark flashes past, a pale blur. They crash into Ian's chest, using their wings to arc and ride the momentum down and up. 

"Hold on!"  

"Shit, mate!" Ian curses, grabbing hard enough to bruise. Lark lets out a breathless laugh, their eyes wide and wondering.

"Now put your arms in the air!"

With one more mighty beat of their wings, Lark sends them both back above the plaza, veering along a wall and narrowly missing a mesh of whirling gears. 

Alastor waves his arms like a demented conductor, wrist still twitching and jerking as the magic knits it back together. Nymphs pour over Neith, ripping the chain from her grasp and dragging her backwards with it. Spriggans stagger to life, moving to the beat of a clock and advancing on Ian and Lark, just as more nymphs creep down from the shelves in a slow wave. Their actions are detached and mechanical. It’s easy for Lark to stay out of reach of the closest few, but it won’t matter. They’ll be overwhelmed by sheer numbers. 

“Need a hand?” 

Transparent limbs wrap around the nearest nymphs, pulling them back. Deirdre interposes herself, her arms spread wide. Thin blue fog swirls across the battlefield, ghostly figures emerging from it - brownies and glaistigs and goblins, dragging the puppeteered hordes aside. Neith rises from the floor, bruised and furious. Ian looks around in wonder. Lark tilts their head back, catching their breath.

"LLOOOOOOOYD!!"

Alastor comes flying out of the mist-wrapped horde, knife first. Lark leaps into the air, but not fast enough. Alastor’s hand wraps around their leg, slamming them back to the ground hard enough to drive the air from their lungs. Alastor dives on top of them. His face is a mask of fury, bloodshot eyes and yellowed teeth framed by a tangle of steel-grey hair. 

They roll, clattering through Alastor's heaped, broken possessions. Books and coins and tarnished silverware crunch beneath them.  Lark clutches at the fae hunter’s wrists to keep the knife away, but Alastor’s larger, stronger. He drives the knife down, and Lark twists away in time for the knife to sink deep into the floorboards. Alastor snarls, grabbing for their face. Lark lashes out desperately, their nails catching on something - a scar. They dig in, and rake. Golden blood sprays across their face as Alastor gurgles and recoils, clutching at his neck. Lark slithers back and away, scrabbling across the floor.

A flash of movement warns them just in time, and they leap for the closest shelf, scrabbling up it with all four limbs and launching into the air again. Alastor’s slashing wildly, one hand clamped over the slowly-knitting wound. The knife bites deep into the bookshelf, just behind Lark’s retreating form. 

Beneath them, mirrors shatter one after another, the other shades working to free their prison mates. Ghosts join the fight in a steady flow now, a dense stream of fog wrapping around Neith and Ian, forming a wall.

It curls around Alastor, but he breaks free of their spectral grasp, melting the mist away with a disdainful blaze of light. Pistons and cogs rise from the floor, forming a series of platforms for him to race after Lark. The wound across his throat has closed back to a twisted knot of purple tissue, leaving his voice a harsh, coughing snarl.

"Ian told me about your life! The fear, the isolation. Meaninglessness! You belonged nowhere! How do you not understand it!?“ 

"Because I do!" Lark shrieks back, mirrors splintering into dust. The changeling weaves through gears, ducking under and around the structures springing up to trap them. "You don’t care about making the world better!  You just want to crush what you can’t control! Why - "

“BECAUSE I’VE SEEN IT!” He screams, leaping forward to crash into Lark. They both plummet, spiraling back toward the ground, Lark's scarred wings straining against the sudden weight.

"I've seen what you people do! You ignorant child, I’ve seen what happens when our kind mix, and it would make you cower under the blankets - “

"I lived it!" Lark yells. "And I am NOT AFRAID!"

A cold blue flash darts from the fog in a trail of vapour, a whirl of wings and familiar features surrounded by a soft glow. Thisbe’s hands brush Lark’s shoulder in regretful greeting, leaving behind a light that lingers, just for a moment. Then they close on Alastor’s arms. She holds on tight and kicks, forcing the two apart. Alastor howls in rage as she soars away, her struggling burden clasped tight. 

Lark’s wings snap out, now free of the added burden. It’s almost too late. They hit the ground hard, catching their balance. A blast of light cuts past them, sending them to the floor. Groaning, Lark stands up, turning to see the gate. 

It’s like reality itself is crumbling. The earth trembles as angry splinters of burning white phosphorus snake from the doorway, thrumming in time to the clockwork, each pulse growing brighter and larger. Spirits blow away into shreds of vapor, and spriggans are bowled over, their armor clanking and clattering. Ian holds tight to Neith, grasping a bookshelf to keep from being thrown into the void.

“WE’RE OUT OF TIME!!” He yells. 

Lark looks up, then over to Astraea. Still secured to the altar, aether pouring through her.

“NO!  NOT YET!!”  They call back. Lark stands, bracing against the pulsing waves as they mount the altar. They clamber atop Astraea, straddling her and holding tight. She flinches, struggling to speak, as Lark scrabbles for her bonds. 

"Hang on!"

They manage to work one arm free, fighting against the cruelly tight bonds. Astraea tries to sit up, but the gem in her chest pulses and violently slams her back onto the altar. Lark's breath catches. 

“I’ve got to remove this!” They grasp the gem, grimacing as they feel the inflamed flesh where the setting has driven into her. "You're coming with me this time."

Their claws click around the metal, and they pull -

Burning hot aether sears through Lark’s hands. They shout in pain and surprise, letting go.

“L-Lark…!”  Astraea gasps.  “It’s… it’s too late! J- hrrrrrrgh… j…just… go!”

“NO!!” 

Astraea blinks up at them, eyes bloodshot, tracks of tears heavy on her face. “BUT WHY? WHY, I DON’T- ”  She bites down on another pulse, fighting for her voice.  “I DON’T UNDERSTAND! LOOK WHAT’S HAPPENED! LOOK WHAT I’VE BROUGHT YOU!! LOOK WHAT - ”

Lips press into hers, stealing her breath.  A hand grasps the side of her neck, fingers tangle in her hair.  A heartbeat and an eon, warmth and passion and strength flowing through her.

Lark pulls away, their eyes glittering in the light, and looks down on Astraea in a way Astraea’s never seen before.

“Because I love you.”   Lark says, an easy smile on their face.   “And this isn’t how our story ends.”

They reach down, remembering a day a long time ago. A day painted in fall colours, a life they wanted but weren’t strong enough to hold on to.  

Today is different.
Today they hold on.

Lark grasps the setting, letting the aether through them. The pain is unimaginable. It fills all their senses and rages around them, a storm that thunders with every pulse of the portal’s light. They are nothing before it, a fragile insect caught in a hurricane. 

Lark grits their teeth, closes their eyes, and sets their mind.

On Ian, and his warm smile.
On Astraea, and her bright eyes.
And on who they had been, and who they are. On the life they always wanted, and the life they’re ready to begin.

The emerald crackles.
Sparks.

And the gem bursts free. 

Astraea gasps. The air around them thrums - one final pulse of wild energy. Cut off from the flow of power, the boiling skin of the portal pulls in on itself like a vortex, screaming with inverted sound until it snaps, leaving a silent static in the air.

Lark releases a breath they didn’t realise they were holding, and - 

SHNK

A gnarled hand grasps their shoulder. A knife buried in their back. Lark freezes, looks down at the point emerging from their ribs. Their hands shake as they touch the crimson bloom spreading across their chest. 

"Foolish little creature.”  Alastor leans forward, his breath hot in their ear as he whispers. “All stories come to an end.”

The knife arcs violent pink energy as something frozen runs through Lark’s veins.

“Even” Alastor shifts forward,“yours.”

Alastor turns the blade.
Lark screams.

And the knife detonates.

Alastor’s thrown back, Lark forward, as the blast of sound ripples across the plaza. The remaining mirrors splinter into a thousand gleaming shards. Ghosts roar out in a flood, spiraling away, a hurricane of shining eyes and disbelieving voices. Alastor sways on his feet, his beard wild and tangled, his eyes rheumy and sunken with sudden age.

A weight presses down on the room, stealing breath, silencing voices. Something rattles atop a heap of ruined baubles - a small, silver-backed mirror, the last one unshattered. A long, jagged crack bisects the glass. Alastor’s breath hitches, his weathered face going pale. 

The crack grows. A thin line of shadow oozes out of it, feeling for purchase. It tightens around the edge of the mirror, gripping firmly, and flexes.

The glass explodes, a shower of shining fragments dusting the carpet. The shadow swells and grows, billowing out into the paw of an enormous cat, black as a moonless midnight. Monstrous claws tear and gouge at the floor, heaving and clutching. The mirror warps and twists to accommodate the cait sidhe as she pulls herself through. 

"A̸las̶t̸o̶r O̵'̴Re̴il̸l̷y.”

Twin blazing-phosphorous eyes fix the man in place. The King draws herself up to her full height, towering above him, words dripping from her jaws like razor-edged flint. 

“̴Yo̴u̸ a̴re fo̸rma̴l̴l̵y i̷n̵v̸ite̸d t̴o e̶n̵joy t̷h̷e h̶o̴s̴p̶ita̴l̴it̸y o̷f t̷h̸e̷ W̶i̴l̷d̷s a̴s O̶u̴r̴ n̸e̴a̵r̴e̵s̶t, d̴ea̸re̷s̶t g̴u̵e̵s̴t̸.”

He stammers, shaking. The King stalks around him. Drawing close. The fog of ghosts rolls around them, whispering expectantly.

“̶C̴o̸m̷e̷.” The pressure in the atmosphere doubles. “̸L̶e̸t̴ U̸s̷ c̵r̶o̴ss t̷h̴e̵ t̸h̵res̴h̵o̷l̶d t̶o̴g̶eth̷e̶r.”

Alastor screams before he’s drowned out by the rushing wind, cold blast of air that carries them out and away, beyond the walls of Xylia and into the dark. Nothing left of him. No trace beyond a fading howl and a splatter of blood. 

All around them, gears grind to a halt, their teeth flaking away into rust. The void draws away like morning mist, revealing the monumental buildings and the endless forest beyond. Lark breathes in, feeling the warm, wet throb in their chest. 

 "Was...that it?" Their voice distant in their own ears. "He's gone?"

Deirdre’s shade stares around the fading darkness. Nymphs pick themselves up from the ground, dazed and blinking. They can see Cordelia, her face a mask of confusion as she helps right a spriggan's helmet. 

“He's... gone." Deirdre says the words like she can't believe them herself. "It's over."

Neith, still heavy with chains and mask, helps a staggering Ian stumble over to the altar. His leg is bloodied, and he's keeping his weight off of it. Nibblemonster darts worriedly back and forth between them. 

"L...Lark..?"  Astraea pushes herself up with her free arm, her shape only half-formed, the rest of her a shimmering amorphous haze of light. She’s staring at the blood seeping through the changeling’s clothes. "Y-your - "

"I-is everyone… alright?" Lark coughs, flecks of crimson dotting their arm.  They flutter their wings, looking back and forth between them. "Everyone… safe?"

Ian’s eyes focus, and he catches his breath, stopping short. Astraea tears her focus away from the blood, finally looking up. 

"... y-yes.”  Astraea can barely breathe. “Everyone's s-safe."

"Good." Lark smiles. The faint light in Astraea's eyes lighting their world. "That's all I..." 

The world tilts. Lark falls backwards, and there's Ian's arms, suddenly reaching out to catch them. The strongest arms they've ever known. They smile as the world dims. The throb in their chest draws away, down into the dark.

 "...ever…" 

Her light. 
His arms. 

“... wan - 


continue reading ->



THIS WAS IT!! This is what we've building to for years . Thank you SO MUCH for reading and seeing Lark's story unfold. Our lil enby finally able to take the stage. Dramatic confessions of love! SWEET REVENGE! Chaos and explosions!! And most importantly, coming together to determine their own story, rather than the one others have tried to write for them.

It's just too bad about that knife through the chest.

Check in Friday, May 2nd at 12p EST for the epilogue as we close the book on their story.
And thanks for stopping by!

-Rin