Flowers and Fey (Closed for WeaverofWorlds)

[Apollo Wilde]

The earth was trembling; she could feel it in her bones. That hum in her molars, not painful, but not pleasant. The morning dawned as it always had –night giving way to the brushstrokes of orange, yellow, and pink before rising to blue. It was going to be a clear day, with balmy weather that was a bit out of character for this time of year, but nothing to be too concerned about, reassured the weatherman on channel 6.

The plants could feel it; glossy green despite the changing of the seasons, their leaves mute and heavy with the secret conversations that kept the world turning. A brush of her fingertips against the ivy told her most of what she had suspected; had woken up to in the back of her head. Something was happening, something bad, but something that they either didn’t know or were too scared to voice aloud. If the ivy didn’t give her her answer (they were but houseplants, born and raised in hot houses and somewhat severed from the rest of the natural world), then she suspected one of the oaks or pecan trees outside could.

Tea, toast – skimming the news until the world’s woes were too much – and she was out the door, sloppy chic in her over-sized hoodie, black leggings, and black combat boots. Wearing all black in this day and age seemed like an instant marker; something that would set her apart. Instead, it had the opposite: it pushed her further into the background, a trace of a shadow moving along others. So with her hands in her pockets, trailing heavy incense smoke and fresh dirt, she went down the stairs from her apartment, through the damp grass and falling leaves, sporadic patches of green through the yellow and brown as the rest of nature struggled against unseasonable warmth to honor the fall, and stood in front of the massive oak tree that stood outside of her window.

“Good morning,” she murmured, pressing her hand to the trunk. Scratchy bark, old. Warmed beneath her palm as the oak settled into its roots, rousing itself. Torpor amongst the trees this time of year was to be expected – the winter was nearly on them, and with that, their long slumber. At least, for those that shed their leaves.

“Hm? Oh, good morning, child.” The greeting was warm, but distracted. The voice was deep, echoing, burbling of water and of memories of good earth and of the land before this complex rose.

“I’m sorry to disturb you from your oncoming rest, but –“

“She shivers this morning. Whispers of a weakening bond. Whispers of blood thinned.”

A crease in the human woman’s mouth. Her eyes were closed, and she moved to press her forehead to the trunk of the Oak. A shiver went through the tree, either wind or a caress.

“I was hoping that wasn’t the case.”

“I’m sorry, child.”

A slight wind, sharp with the razor of a cold front. So much for a balmy day.

“Whispers of thinned blood but not of lost hope.”

____

The way that plants spoke wasn’t in the manner that she suspected most would think. Plants were by nature quiet things (with the exception of carnivorous breeds; they were chatty as birds). Trees were the slowest to speak, but held wisdom of centuries. Grass was a steady rush of whispers. Houseplants, a dull buzz. And so on. There were no voices, half-formed breaths or wind. It was…the best she could describe it was that it was a feeling. Like remembering a conversation that she’d dreamed. Ever since she was little, she could feel them. And had she been born into a regular family, she suspected she would have been buried under therapy to convince her that what she heard was from an overactive imagination.

But as things turned out, Anemone Hulce wasn’t born into a normal family.

Green witchcraft, or rather, green magic, was something that her family had been “blessed” with for untold generations, stretching back through oral history, the only reliable history that her family had. Deeply connected to the earth, growing and mending and tending had come naturally to them. When the earth was healthy, they were healthy – when she ailed, they ailed. And so in recent decades (“recent” only to mortals, it would seem), their powers waned. Not entirely helped by Anemone’s mother – the stories went that she had traded a good portion of her blooded magic for love, or, more than likely, lust – Anemone’s father was an unknown. So the blood had thinned; thinning further by the mistake of not one, but two daughters – meaning that frayed magic was frayed further. The Green was gifted to each daughter, and since time immemorial, there had always been one daughter.

Until recently.

Anemone’s grandmother, Rose, had spoken of oracles, of premonitions and secret gossip of the rushes that their family would be weakened, but how, when: that was as mysterious as the whim of the Fey.

“I want to be normal,” sighed Marigold, “So I’m giving whatever Green I have to you. Have it.” And with those innocuous words, the Green was transferred. A hum in the blood, warmth like sipping hot cider near a fire on a snow-covered day. That had been what, nearly twenty years ago? Whatever “normal” could have looked like for Anemone was lost on that day. Her mother had taken Marigold, and left Anemone with her grandmother. Not that distance meant distance between the family; it just made them into friendly strangers with similar faces.

Grandmother Rose had proven to be a taskmaster from Hell. Working with and through the Green had taken up every aspect of Anemone’s life. How she managed to juggle that with the “real world” she wasn’t sure. What it meant was that she was a bit naïve (laughably so) to the way of the waking world, a bit closed off, finding the conversation of humans…uninteresting. Brief, may have been the best way to put it. A naïve nihilist: someone who took comfort in the unyielding fact that nothing that mortals did was truly of no difference. In the end, the sun would grow dark and cold, and everything that had lived to build ever more complex systems of cells would die. And then the work of the greatest man would be equal to the greatest work of ants.

It was soothing.
___

“But I’m telling you; I felt it. And the Oak outside confirmed it. Something big is coming, something bad.”

“Hrm?”

Anemone cradled the phone closer to her ear, watching the people walk by. Outside of any garden, park, or nursery, the massive library in the heart of town was Anemone’s other sanctuary. Though the trees that had birthed them had long since passed, there was still the film of plant knowledge on those pages, memories baked deep, unable to be removed by the process of making paper, no matter how mechanical and refined it had gotten. Like walking through a cemetery, libraries held memories.

“Something bad is going to happen. Something that has to do with our family.”

Silence on the other line.

“…Grandma, did you hear me?” She hated how shrill she sounded; how panicked. How out of control. But the feeling had only grown worse through the day, hum in her molars turning into a throbbing pain, reaching thin fingers from the back of her mouth through her jaw, flicking the backs of her eyes and spotting her vision. Every step she took further from the Oak had confirmed it; the pecan trees, the cedar.

“I heard you, child,” echo of the Oak, “But I think you’re misheard. The Green is full of troubling words now; has been for decades.” The fatigue of having to explain things for an untold time to someone who apparently could not comprehend.

Anemone sucked at her cheek. Grandmother swore, up and down, that the Green was full of doom because of the decay of humanity, constantly weakening the bond. That one day the Green would fail entirely; that the only reason that the Green still blessed their family was because of their ability to listen; how they cared, how they listened. That the Green had, if not quite given up, at least reconciled herself to knowing that she was dying, and at near the end, wanted at least a comforting ear to spend her troubles to.

“It’s not that. It’s specifically about us, our ‘thinning blood.’ ‘Thinning blood’ over and over,” Anemone kicked at a small pebble; watched it stumble across the concrete before coming to a stop by the cement wall. “I just think-“

“It’s nothing,” the old woman’s voice was characteristically sharp – the conversation was over. “You’re letting your imagination run away with you.”
___

A week, then two – and the feeling only grew stronger. Stronger to be a migraine that never went away, that churned her guts and made it impossible for her to eat anything more substantial than soup. Her grandmother kept insisting that it was nothing; her mother and sister were of no help. And the Other Families? Bah; she’d have better luck trying to turn the sun back against the sky.

Desperate times called for desperate measures. The Old Ones, the dryads, had been confined to sacred trees. Praying for a time where they could re-emerge and play with mortals again, only to die with horrific cries of betrayal as their homes were cut down, the memory of what they were having finally faded away. Dryads were the natural friend of their family; now little more than myth. Leylines, criss-crossing the earth with their magnetic pull, would be of no help to her; they were the realm of the Metal Magicians, those who could deal with magnetism, the precious flesh of earth transformed by time into something else.

She hated how she kept coming back to the same answer.

The Fey were supposedly to be naturally inclined to at least being a bit more receptive to those who worked with The Green; a connection to the natural world and the joys it held would be looked favorably by those of the Summer Court, for there was a natural love of those who loved flowers and the spring nearly as much as they. But even then, “favorable” by the Fey meant nothing. Dryads were more consistent with their affections. Whatever was left of the earth, the Green and her servants, were little more than mere whispers, who Anemone had to strain to hear, even on the best of days.

If it were to come up again, or if she were going to be questioned as to what she was doing now, she knew she would say it was desperation. It had to be. That would be the only thing that kept her digging through old journals, some little more than words scrawled on napkins, through childhood songs and rhymes passed down, hinted at on death beds, that would show her the path she needed to take. To summon the capricious, the intractable.

And what had she to offer?

She twisted at the wooden bracelets she always wore, a shade or two lighter than her own brown skin. What was to be gained? Another twist at the corner of her mouth. Her trump card; something that inherently meant little to her, for she seldom put any thought into it. But that alone wouldn’t hold a Fey’s interest. An Incubus would be eating out of the palm of her hand for it, but Fey? Mmm, not such an interesting thing.

Memory?

Stories?

How she knew to call him?

Glancing down at the magic circle she’d drawn, salt and dried flowers, dried herbs, the bounty of her personal garden. The first blossom of her prized night blooming cactus, oils laced with delicate jasmine blossoms that she herself had made, kissing the lid as she left it to simmer and soak in the rays of the sun. And something sweet: mint jelly, that too, she had made – though less of a jelly and more of a syrup, to speak to her lack of expertise at jelly making.

She spoke like jumping into frigid waters: one moment she was silent, the next, the words flowed from her, rushing over one another. The details she’d work out later, but surely she had enough to bait her hook: the promise of a beautiful young woman, created in her mind’s eye with the glamour of rose, the giggling of romance still pressed deep into those dried petals. Beautiful and buxom and helpless and pleading for someone, anyone, to come to her aid. A bit of realism was there too: the need was real, but all else? Fanciful tricks that she herself had created, that she cloaked herself in as she learned of the language of the flowers, learned to love them best of all, and they returned that love, drenching her in their potent magics, in their ways of charm and seduction and beauty.

The final word; the snap crackle of the roses standing to attention, of lacing invisible fingers through her own to protect her back, to wrap around her and breath the illusion of a beauty into being.

 

[WeaverofWorlds]

The crunch of snow beneath his feet was on the the few joys he still held after so many long centuries.

How many of his brethren, beholden to Summer, could say they walked among the silence of freshly fallen snow? How many could sing of the delights of the steady crunch of it beneath their own weight? And Winter, so very dour and morose, how could they hope to understand the delight of anything but their stuffy hunts and twisting schemes? No, he was certain this was a delight all his own, or at the very least shared with mortal's who no doubt saw so little joy it it. That the world held such places, where Summer gave way to autumn, yet autumn was so very much like Winter, that was a delight all it's own to know. That he found himself here, so very far from humans was something of a personal choice.

They were delightful of course, on the occasions he sought them out. Some he would even claim as his favorites.

But even the endless curiosity that was mortals dimmed after so many long centuries. He had lost count of course, time was such a fiddly thing. What use did he have for counting years when time was just a measurement of his silent torment? That he could return home, stand beneath the familiar skies, bow once more before the Summer Queen...

But alas, such thoughts did little but sour his mood. Best not to think upon them, and instead upon the ever delightful crunch of fresh snow. Such natural places, such untouched forests, where nought but trees, and animals, and the natural state of things existed, were becoming a rarity. One of many things about humans that was a shame, that they so eagerly sought to cut themselves off from what they once held so dear to themselves. The trees groaned all around him, whispering their displeasure. He was not so good at listening, his gift had more to do with hearing the mortal's whispered words then the trees, but if he strained, and if he was far from mortal desires, he could just make out the slow ponderous voices of the woodland denizens, could just about feel the connection to the Feywild all natural places had...

He hadn't taken more than a few steps, straining against the stillness of the air to grasp at wispy strands of Home, before something broke its way into the air. It was bullheaded, inelegant, a crash of thunder when a gentle breeze might have done. But it snapped his attention away from thoughts of Home and onto this new feeling. A call, carried on the winds, echoed by the trees, an image of a beauty crying out for aid. He paused, felt and heard and saw the beauty. Her plea was unfocused, a stumbling thing that reached out into the world and sought to grab at anything that might hear. Dangerous and foolhardy, only the desperation in it held his attention where otherwise he might have ignored it. Something within, something so long dormant, twisted at the desperation... it was so very much like a...

A whim caught him then, a stray thought that like the wind carried his footsteps away from what he had been and onwards to what he would be. Snow crunching beneath his feet became leaves crackling underfoot, the evergreens giving way to the orange and red and yellow of autumn leaves. Here, the Green magic was alive in the air, the smell of herbs, of jasmine, the delicious sweetness of sugar mixed with the cool sharpness of mint. Yes, this one knew at least of what things so called to Fey minds. Of the woman herself, a delicate beauty, vibrant and buxom, with eyes that cried for aid just to look upon them. Such a woman would surely turn the eye of any who looked upon her...

Yet a moments examination gave way to suspicion. Human magic was a great work, but the Fey were masters of illusion, of trickery, of charm. It was not that he knew there was something there, but the air tingled with magic, with the working of illusion. Such audacity, to draw one such as he in with the promise of what wasn't. Such ingenuity to play such a game when one called out to those who delighted in them. Well, if a game was to be played, he should hope to play too, for it had been such a long time since he'd had someone to play along with.

A twist of magic, a woven thread about his form, and then he emerged into view, a gnarled old man dressed in rags, creaking forward on weary limbs, eyes squinting at the beauty who stood before him. A dry, wheezing voice emerged, addressing the woman whom called to him, even as something within the eyes couldn't quite hide the flash of mirth and delight that lit up the dreary day he'd been having.

"Well, yes, a maiden we have, hm? Seeking help, hm? What ails you, child, that you would call so loudly, hm?"

The act, he would admit, was not his greatest ever. But performance had never been his most prized ability, and the despite the illusions and trickery that now hung in the air the desperation within the cry for help had rung true, truer than any he'd heard in centuries. He would not ignore that, could not ignore that, for the desperation rang so close to what drove his very being, what tortured his so that he could no longer hear. That such call had been made, that he had been able to hear it at all... that had been, in so many ways, a balm upon the wound of his very existence.

"Come child, tell Grandfather what might be done, hm?"

 

[Apollo Wilde]

In her zeal to call something, anything, she’d forgotten the flowers of truth. “Forgotten,” or was rendered fuzzy-minded by the intoxicating whim of the roses. Dangerous flowers, those. Conceit, yes, but well earned: not many other things could lay claim to being such an obvious symbol of beauty and love. But dealing with them could be problematic, as she was realizing, dimly, as the specter of the old man appeared before her.

A wave of a hand: a shifting in the glamour. Not of the image, but rather, the sound: the clatter of wood when the figure before the Fey wore none. To his eye, she would be a beauty with pale skin, abundance of hair. Deep brown eyes; a break in the illusion, but only to the most skilled of eyes.

“Grandfather, your presence honors me.” Words made sweeter by the jasmine tea she’d consumed earlier, respectful amiability. “I am one connected to the Green,” words born on invisible flower petals: a consequence of using the glamour of the roses, but one that would only add to the charm and charisma of her facade. Filled her with warmth: the flowers were her closest friends, after all:

“I call seeking answers,” a small smile. “The Green trembles around me; talks of thinning blood and of an unspoken dread. I feel..” Hesitation. Looking to the side, grasping her wrist, rubbing again at bracelets that were unseen. “I feel that there is a great problem brewing, but none of my family will tell me; they don’t believe me. But I feel it.”

Attention snapped back to him. “I beseech you; please, tell me what it is. What the Green knows and what concerns my family.” If she provided her surname, the illusion would shatter; too much truth for the airiness of the flowers to withstand. Names alone would be an exchange of power; the mixed nature of her own, changed from slave owner to slave owner, true names buried deep within the flow of time, would offer her some momentary protection, but could also serve to anger, be seen as a deliberate muddying of the waters. She was already walking a fine line as it was, but she’d harbored a hope that he’d be more amused than annoyed with her current trick. And the roses had been all too happy to do it, giggling amongst themselves, even as they were dried and their words were less spoken than thought.

“But I do not come empty handed. Jasmine oil as proof of my good will, mint jelly - these things grow and tended to me by the gift of the Green, and my own hand. If this is not enough…” Feigned shyness now: was that what men were supposed to like? The idea of a shy, inexperienced woman? “Then I offer myself, as I am - untouched. Unkissed.” She wanted to gag on the words; so archaic and annoying. Somehow, the oldest things still clung on, well into modernity. But with his kind, so similarly wrapped up with creatures like unicorns, purity of flesh was to mean something, if a distant second to purity of heart and mind. That much she knew she couldn’t fake. Her studies, her own personality, had kept her flesh untouched at the very least; the type of woman who floated through life, always concerned with something right over the horizon or out of reach. “Cloud cuckoo lander,” she would’ve been called in another age. “Spacey” now, but with a darker undertone that went beyond the suggestion of an empty mind. “Untouched, unkissed,” she repeated, swallowing down bile, “For you to touch, to kiss.”

A problematic bargain - one that spoke again of her desperation. Sex was of no interest to her - the type that hadn’t yet figured out what men were good for -, but offering these things to a Fey? Trouble from beginning to end. The old stories said that once Fey touched, no mortal man would have anything to do with her, for fear of awaking their ire. Other stories countered that, stating that Fey and their whims could result in her being turned to stone, or disfigured, or squirreled away inside of a glass bauble for their amusement for all eternity.

Ha. Maybe he’ll transform me into an old tree. It’d solve most of my problems.

“If you so desire.” An incline of her head as she knelt.

 

[WeaverofWorlds]

"Grandfather, your presence honors me."

Ah, the ceremonial type. Were he not already playing the part of some withered, ancient man, he might have grimaced in annoyance. He had never been one for such gravitas from mortals, they were not usually inclined to flowery words and needless platitudes, and certainly they had as a whole lost what inclination they'd once had. It was a delightful thing to watch over the years, the way the humans spoke shifting as rapidly as the seasons. But if that was to be part of the game, who was he to deny her?

“I am one connected to the Green, I call seeking answers. The Green trembles around me; talks of thinning blood and of an unspoken dread. I feel.. I feel that there is a great problem brewing, but none of my family will tell me; they don’t believe me. But I feel it. I beseech you; please, tell me what it is. What the Green knows and what concerns my family.”

He hobbled forward as she spoke, hummed idly at her words. The Green indeed. He could near taste it in the air, the way flowers seemed to hang upon her words, the grass whispered at her presence, even the ponderous trees quickening themselves at the sound of her voice. An interesting sort, he'd dealt with such types before, though that was many short years before. Just like then, it was a lot of talk of danger, and dark omens and other such things of such grim importance. He could already feel the boredom setting in, the usual request and likely the usual payment of this magical bauble or that bit of memory or, spare him, the offering of a firstborn. The Winter were always so eager for that one, so eager for young flesh for often less than tasteful things. He shuddered slightly at the thought before returning his attention to the words spoken, even as he eyed the offering placed ceremoniously within the circle of salt and herb.

Jasmine oil, the flowery scent pleasant to his fey sensibility, the touch of the Green about it lending it just that bit more value. That she'd made it with her own hands, of her own garden, was all the better, the emotion put into it more appealing than even the scent itself. The scent of mint brought his attention to another offering... his gnarled finger dipped into it, coming away with the end coated in what seemed more syrup than solid. Still, slipping his fingers into his mouth brought for the taste of mint and sugar, a wonderous little refreshing treat. Still, the information she sought answers too...

“But I do not come empty handed. Jasmine oil as proof of my good will, mint jelly - these things grow and tended to me by the gift of the Green, and my own hand. If this is not enough…”

If he were not playing his part, he might have snapped his head around at her words. It was almost as if she knew, or expected, that such simple things would not suffice, would not catch the attention and interest of one of the Fairfolk. He eyes her curiously, watched the woman shy away demurely, noted with squinted eyes the slight hesitations, the unnatural way the woman comported herself. A sniff at the air, now, the scent of rose petals flickering through the air about her... Curious, one who appeared as she did certainly would not need such to-

"Then I offer myself, as I am - untouched. Unkissed."

His thoughts stuttered for a moment, his expression widening in surprise. The mortal woman... surely she had not...

“Untouched, unkissed. For you to touch, to kiss. If you so desire.”

She had, even if her distaste at the idea slipped through the illusion of her willingness. A moment, as the Archfey composed himself once more, attention now truly garnered. He repeated her request within his mind, went over the words once more. Cocked his head to the side, made of show of closing his eyes as he sought the voice of the Green. He let his power flow, the touch of Winter receding against his presence, as one of the Summer called to them. So near to her, beloved of the Green, they reached out to him readily, a clamor of voices rising all around. So many voices, each eager to be heard, but it was the old Oak that rose above the others, its voice ponderous even with Summer's touch upon it, the strength of its years outweighing all others but he.

"Keeper of Wishes. The Green whispers. Whispers of weakening bonds. Of thinning blood."

"So you say, Young Oak. So says the mortal as well. She called to me, seeking the aid of the Fairfolk, though I do not think my brethren would answer. Summer is readying to sleep, and Winter cares little for mortal worries."

"The child called and was answered. Do you bring hope, Keeper?"

He was silent then, eyeing the tree with what might be considered admonition. Uppity little youngling, presuming to ask that of him. He supposed it was the human's doing, though trees were rarely so inclined to play favorite, it happened on occasion, and even more so for one so gifted. Even exiled from the court as he was, the natural world gave him the respect he was due... most of the time. Alas, what was he to do but hear the woman out? She was offering something considerable, and if nothing else that was something to consider. But even as he pondered the offered payment, toyed with the idea of offering his aid, some part of him was already accepting. The desperation in the request, the willingness, however much she might not like it, to offer herself for the answers she sought...

He ignored the oak now, let his presence fade and the plant's voices die away. His attention was upon the woman now, interest well and truly piqued. How strong was she, that she would earn the love of an Oak? How much must she be loved that the flowers danced at her request, wove their singular magics about her form? He hobbled forward once more, circled knelt form of this most magical woman. His eyes saw her, buxom and shapely, long hair perfectly placed, features so soft and round they conjured forth the image of beauty itself. But the illusion, perfect as it was, was unsubtle upon such close examination. Her every movement sang seduction, her words spun words of romance, her very presence a blessing.

He hummed at the sight of her, and in a moment stepped closer still, his hands reaching out to grasp the woman's chin, forcing her eyes to meet his. Brown, not one usually given to such a beauty. Green or blue, something striking and vibrant, to draw the eyes and fascinate. But those browns... are, that was far more interesting to him then anything else. She was a child at playing the game, but play it she did, and well enough to draw him in.

How delightful!

Would she see through his guise as well? Was she beloved enough that the plants would risk his ire to aid her, to tell her of what he was, what she had managed to call to her side? Or perhaps she had felt the touch of Summer when he had spoke with her Oak, was strong enough to eavesdrop on a conversation not meant for her? So many questions, such wonderful potential in this game! To continue then, even if he'd already made his decision, it would be a waste not to tease the poor mortal, to prod until he found the woman beneath the flowery words. So he cackled, playing up the old man he appeared to be as he released her chin and circled her once again.

"Such a beautiful thing you offer, child." His voice was needlessly suggestive, his gaze deliberately lecherous, modeled off of a Winter courtier he'd met once so long ago. A squinting look as he leaned in to examine her illusory chest, humming slightly as he reached forward impossibly fast to grope her without hesitation. He felt the magic flicker, the Green shifting under his touch ever so slightly, the thread unraveling just so. Unsubtle, but it clung well to the person beneath. He leaned further into this perverted persona, his circling punctuated by prodding at her hips, a hand brushing across the curve of her ass, a sniff of her hair. Each was a test, a push against the illusion, each met only with the slightest of shifts in the magical web. "Ah, but you hide yourself from me beneath all this frippery. Show me what it is you offer. Surely you're not so prudish as to offer without first displaying what is to be paid? Give us a tease, a little shake of the goods, child. Perhaps I might be convinced you are worth the aid you seek so desperately. Come come, no need to be shy..."

 

[Apollo Wilde]

Panic, hot and sour, rushed through her, quickened her pulse. But to her credit, she held still, the faint bitterness of distaste slipping through the glamour. A touch here, a prod there. Yielding flesh would meet each of his touches; the firm swell of breasts, the compact curve of a muscular rear. Only the hair seemed…faint. Like running fingers through cornsilk, or perhaps fur; a near likeness to hair, but not quite making it.

Touching, she suspected would happen, but not the burning that accompanied it. The way that ice felt hot to the touch, when it clung to slightly damp fingertips: that’s how it felt. The mild burning that arched from each fingertip, stones thrown into the water, casting ripples wider and wider. The roses - ah, fickle things! Subdued by their love of her, she could feel it, but they were the definition of coquettish. Their love was that of an older sister - a proper older sister - in that they chided, they nagged, against her unnatural state of virginity. Purity was only respected by the white lily; to roses, red and pink ones, at least, it was something to be hand waved away, a barrier over the realm to greater pleasure. So their reaction was within the realm of what could have been expected - but only under the worse case scenario.

Their giggling became cooing, eager lovers welcoming the object of their desire. Her glamour shuddered, slipped; curled round the burning marks of his fingers. They sought him out, chased his touch.

Well - if I had any doubts about summoning the real deal, she pressed her lips thinly together, this cinches it.

A barked note through her magics: hold. Hold this glamour; hold his attention. If you continue to present an image that’s pleasing, he’ll caress you more. Give you what you want.

Pause in the giggling. Consideration; the shivering hum of flowers conversing amongst themselves. Then -

The glamour held.

“I know not what you mean, Grandfather,” smooth as honey, the torturous moments of panic banished. “Unless…” A grit of her teeth. She would be pushing the realm of her abilities: illusion wasn’t something that she relied on often. A deep breath, as if preparing herself for a sprint.

In for a penny, in for a pound.

Despite the small, burning holes in the glamour, it still held tenaciously: rippled further as the beauty reached up to slide down the strap of the gauzy dress she wore. Woven from spider’s silk and milkweed, it was sheer white, all the better to bolster her purity. The gown was another feat of magic: somehow seeming damp enough to cling to her and reveal the firm points of ruddy nipples, the flow of curves, but dry enough to billow in an unseen breeze. Anemone was breathing hard, throwing everything she had into the next stage of the glamour. As herself, she was still clothed, in her typical all black attire, save for bare feet, but to his eyes, she would appear to be disrobing, milk skin exposed one inch at a time.

Sweat beaded on her forehead from the effort, the fatigue in all of her senses, the violent encouragement of the roses to push harder, that she could do it, and the flicker of exhilaration that came with any worthwhile magical pursuit. She was still too far from the finish line to be overly confident, but as her illusion slipped the gown past the dip in “her” navel, it was hard not to give herself over to the joy of magic well cast.

Don’t get cocky. You’re only half way, if not a third, there.

Gown puddled around bare feet, showing the elderly Fey the nude body of the supplicant. Perfectly pale, cast and molded by the hands of the gods, even: startling in its rare perfection. The fairytale beauty brought to life. Eyes modestly cast down and to the side, bare breasts heaving with each breath taken.

A little…too perfect, a little too…artistic? Was there a hint of Botticelli’s Venus there? Surely - in the long coils of reddish blonde hair, the faint upturn of pomegranate hued lips. Beauty that was familiar, on the edge of a dream.

 

[WeaverofWorlds]

It was the hair that shuddered most of all under his ministrations, the flaw within the illusion. He grasped at it, readied himself to pull at it magically, to unravel the weave just a little more, only for magic to resist, to pull away from him. He smiled eagerly as the illusion hardened against his touch, wove itself tighter around the woman, vibrant joy breaking through the lecherous mask at the sight of it. He'd learned of the illusion, felt the rose petals that formed it, knew their silk like touch against his fingertips, knew they could sense the Summer of his being. Yet still they drew back, called once more to hold fast to their place, to sing the illusion once more into place. Such loyalty, such love from a flower so eager to delight in the games of love.

Then her gown was falling away, inch by delicious inch. Oh he could say that, yes, for the illusion was as real as anything else, a sight to behold as cherished as any flower, and just as fleeting a thing. Fey hands stilled as gossamer thread fell away, revealing the naked skin beneath, a temptation all its own. It was a sweet dream, like honey upon the tongue, such a delight to behold she was. Yet it's power was shattered, not by lack of skill or some rare gift to see beneath the illusion. No, it was shattered for the images it conjured, for reddish blonde hair to echo one far grander, for perfect breasts to pale before a memory so long forgotten, for delicate features to fail before a dream once dreamt. A shuddering breath from the Archfey, his emotions for just a moment fraying his own illusion, the trappings of a decrepit man flickering like a dying flame. Memories of Summer were brought forth, a being whose beauty shone so bright even the sun would pale placed beside her. The only one who would garner his eternal loyalty, whose smile might force away the bitterest cold.

Of course the flowers would know, of course they would be able to weave such an illusion, to mimic the Queen of Summer. They could not match her magnificence, but they would allude to it, sing of it in their works, embody a mere fraction of her essence within the illusion. Yet they were rose, one of the Summer Queen's favored flowers, so if any might weave a vision of her beauty it would be they. He applauded them the effort, applauded the mage beneath for earning such dedication and love from the fickle petals. But it was a bittersweet memory, for how long had he been away, how long since his eyes beheld the sweeping grandeur of court, of the brilliant majesty of she who embodied warmth and comfort. No, he would not lose to this illusion, however much he might want to let himself bask in the distant dream of a realm he was no longer allowed to see.

"Your beauty shines, such perfection a rare gift. How wonderous you are, the very picture of Summer, so cruel a thing to offer one such as I. Surely you would not fault me for wishing a feel of you, a taste of what is given..."

He made a show of it now, wrinkled skin against the soft smoothness of her. He whispered to the petals that surrounded her, coaxed them with promises of delight for the woman they so hid from him. That would please them, wouldn't it? Of course it would, for what greater delight was there then for their mistress to feel rather than merely mimic? So he beseeched them, carry his touch to their beloved, let her feel what their downy petals did. Where a finger brushed across the swell of her breast, the firmness of the beauty's teat, let a whisper soft petal flutter across the one beneath. Where fey breath tickled the illusion's ear, carry the sensation to the one they shielded. Where his hands danced upon her skin, let her feel that too, like the gossamer silk of the gown about her feet. Dance for him and her, let neither be disappointed, and the petals might yet see something greater than a mere touch.

He picked at the threads of the magic too, the fingers gliding across silken skin also tugging at the petal's careful bindings. When they resisted, he pursued, when they relented he drew them away. Push and pull, hem and haw, a flirtation with the woman as much as the illusion, the joy of such interaction, of such whimsical fun! Longer, he hoped, would she keep this game going, would she keep her petals dancing upon her skin.

"Give us a dance, sweet child. Give us a swoon, a sigh, a tittering laugh. Surely you are no tree, standing tall but unmoving. Step here and there, come close than dance away. Flirt with me, dear child, make me feel young once more beneath the brisk autumn winds."

 

[Apollo Wilde]

Breaking through, a gasp, not sure if it wanted to be a moan or a sigh, escaped her. She hadn’t anticipated the Fey actually wanting to touch. She’d assumed (assumed!) that he would have been pleased enough with the offer, to collect at a later time -

That might be her saving grace.

Gritting her teeth, she sucked in a deep breath, preparing herself for her second wind. She could feel the strain through her entire body: she had to treat this as an endurance race, not a sprint. Even then, with an adjustment of her magics, the fatigue was great, not helped by her treacherous rose petals, who allowed this Fey’s touch to slip through the illusion. She could feel those phantom touches, the material of her shirt little more than tissue paper, her bra, an afterthought. The roses were warring, too: wanting her to welcome his touch, to give in, but held by their word to help her. The conflict would show in minuscule shudders of the glamour, ripples across a sheet.

“No - I don’t think I will,” words came easily enough, still dripping with sweetness. She knelt, gathering up the abandoned dress. “You’ve seen what I have to offer,” a breathing point in the marathon; keeping the clothing up and ‘stationary’ was far easier than having it removed. “But it is only in exchange for what I ask.” Though Anemone felt the urge to smirk, to feel confident that she’d come out on top, she knew it was still far too soon for anything close to rejoicing. So she kept her face neutral, the neutrality all the easier to lay the shy gaze of a virgin across.

This old goat was the only exasperation she allowed herself to think. Bare feet swept across the floor. Carpet, there - she hadn’t been foolish enough to try and draw a magic circle anywhere that wasn’t guarded. Beyond the carpet there lay the mundane trappings of her apartment, shielded, too, by the glamour, cloaking the apartment in the imagery of a copse of trees, sunlight filtering through evergreen branches. Just outside of her eyesight, she could sense her houseplants, watching on, curious - wanting to help, but not having much to offer - just their fidelity - faith, commitment.

Their attachment wrapped around her, almost physically, and she allowed herself to lean back into their imagined arms. Vigor, they had, and loaned to her, breathing fresh wind into her aching magical senses, drenching her as if upending a bucket of water over her head. Refreshed, she took in another deep breath, focused on the Fey in front of her -

He is not what he seems, whispered an ivy.

How would you know? Not accusatory - curious. The ivy in her home had a shaky connection with the greater Green, they were like children, sheltered from the greater world.

The Oak said so, chimed in the golden pothos. Oak told us.

How?

Branches on windows. Scratching with no wind.

What do I do?

Hold strong.

Her dark eyes searched the elder figure before her. There was no break in what she was seeing; power far beyond her own. The Oak was known for honesty and power. But she was too far, too wrapped up in others, to ask - but…

She hadn’t done it before. Not under these circumstances, really: holding an illusion, speaking with other plants, having to reach out and ask. The illusion was the marathon, this was trying to speak and run at the same time. The ivy could only give her so much: the brief, second wind that they’d granted her, along with their message, had to be used appropriately -

Oak, what is it that I see?

Not an old man.

The Oak “spoke” loud enough for the two figures to hear him clearly.

Trembling in her knees from the strain, she managed, somehow, to dig deeper within herself. A glimpse, please.

The old Oak could not hope to best the magic of a Fey; the least he could do in his age was a stutter. A blink and she would miss it shift. Youth returning to old hands, before drifting away again.

So he’s not what he seems, either.

How best to play this?

Her glamour was rapidly burning out; she knew this. Reaching out to the Oak, asking for his help without a physical connection was one push too far -

At least I’ll sleep well at the end of this.

A grit of her teeth, a grim smile beneath the illusion. She wasn’t ready to give up. There had to be one last wind within her. “Do you agree to my terms, Grandfather?”

Agree, give me your word, and I’m yours. The last bit of desperation, fear sneaking beneath the strain. A reminder of why she called him; that she had little time to open the ground for debate. “Agree, give me your word, your power, and I’ll do as you ask,” she purred out. She couldn’t rush him - but she needed him to agree. The devil was in the details: she knew her end of the bargain, but was certain that if he agreed, there would be some loophole that he could suss out. Fear, there, again, at what she could be giving up.

But I don’t matter. Solving this, fixing it, correcting the Green. That’s what matters. I’m nothing. The fresh burst of resolve coursing through her, she lifted her head. “Agree, and I’m yours.”

 

[WeaverofWorlds]

He could feel the magic straining, the teasing ripples of fatigue. Magic was a fickle mistress, so eager to help but so very demanding. Without the reserves to maintain the magic it flickered, faded, died like the last ember in a hearth, the final breath of autumn giving way to Winter ascendant. Yet still she held on, the illusion strengthening with her resolve, the Green surrounding her lending their aid. It might have been infuriating to anyone else, to him it was a delight to see, to watch the human struggle, almost falter, only to bounce back once more. The young oak sang out once more, coming to her call, whispering from its place outside and granting her a flicker of sight behind his illusion.

A snap of his attention, the bite of his fey magic, just enough to put the oak back in its place. Yes, he was eager to see how beloved the mortal was, but that did not mean one would challenge him without repercussion. The tree fell silent as he spoke to it, loud enough that she might hear as well, and understand just a fraction more what she had called to her.

Silence now, little Oak. You've done more than enough.

It was her resolve that drew him in finally, that had him pulling away his hands and regarding her with the full weight of his flighty attention. Even tired as she was, the illusion about her frame nearly in tatters, the petals holding fast through loyalty alone, she stood defiant. She spoke the terms once more, stuck to the bargain, laid clear her offered payments and what she asked for in return. But the desperation beneath belied her bluff. She had nothing else, no more to go on with, no other trick to fall back upon. She had played her hand in this, bet all on this one gamble, seeking aid from the fickle, flighty whims of one of the Fey. Her desperation was whispered in his ear, louder now than ever before if only because she stood before him.

It started as a giggle, bubbling up from his throat. It became a chuckle, than the loud raucous laughter of someone drunk upon mirth. He laughed as he danced away, age disappearing from his gait if not his form. He laughed until he cried, silvery tears wiped away with a finger as his joy was wrangled under control once more and his chuckling faded into a brilliant smile. He glanced at her now, his eyes shining with barely contained amusement, a grin that spoke nothing at all of perverse desire, even as he returned to the mint syrup, collecting its container and taking another appreciative lick of the contents. It was no jelly, but it delighted the tongue all the same.

"You are a wonder, little witchling. Or are you a druidling? So difficult to remember what they call you, so many names, so many years. But you, ah, a delight I've not seen in centuries. So beloved by the Green that the plants themselves risk the ire of the Fairfolk to aid you. Why, if I did not know better, I'd think Sister Willow had kissed you at birth. Or would she be Mother Willow now? It is often so difficult to remember the cycles."

He was before her then, one moment at the little makeshift altar and the next gazing into her eyes, brown meeting the sudden vibrant silver of his own orbs. Another sip of the syrup, and a hum of contentment. His own illusion had dropped in the sudden movement, old age and rags lost as swiftly as a sneeze. What stood before her now was a tall man, thin, with hair like a vibrant apple red, an impossible color for a mortal to match. His clothing was mortal, somehow the act of wearing such detracting from the otherworldliness of it all, a thick fur coat over a thermal shirt, thick pants and sturdy boots.

"But you've entertained me long enough, I think. Forgive my manners, it has been so long since I've the opportunity to trade tricks with a mortal mind. Particularly one so blessed with the love of the plants. Forgive my state of dress, it is so very difficult to find mortals capable of spinning spider's silk or morning dew. I'm sure you expected something far more impressive. I am called Rylnon by the mortal tongues that speak of me, and it is a great pleasure to make your acquaintance. Ah... But I suppose I haven't truly, now have I? You must be tired, allow me to get your coat. Little petals, rest now, you've done your part, and I assure you I mean your mistress no harm."

A finger, coated in mint syrup, pressed against the mage's true nose, leaving the sweet treat stuck to the tip. Like a thread untangling the magic unraveled, the illusion dispelled. Rose petals fell from about the woman's frame, scattering across the floor around the pair. He offered the woman a jubilant, teasing grin, even as his eyes looked her over properly and his finger returned to the treat in his hands.

"There now. Isn't that better?"

 

[Apollo Wilde]

Like her namesake, the glamour blew away from her, a constellation of flower petals borne on a merciless wind. She gasped freely then; not out of surprise, but of being relieved of the burden. So quick was her exposure that she nearly sank to her knees: only sheer will kept her up now. And from the depths of those rose petals, scattered now to all four corners of her apartment, there was her, a figure in black, the deep blonde hair blown away, the gown with it, wisps of smoke leaving behind only charred wood.

But when she straightened herself, the clanking of those intricately carved sandalwood bracelets oddly musical, it was with all of the power and dignity that only came with great age to magic users. True, the only thing she had shared with her facade were her eyes: deep brown, looped with long lashes. Her skin was maple syrup filtered through with sunlight, seeming to glow from within. A remanent of the glamour; it was slowly fading as sweat dried on her brow, as her breathing evened out. And of her face? No delicate beauty was she: her face was a collection of hard angles, wood roughly carved into the semblance of a woman’s face. High forehead and broad nose, with high flat cheekbones that tapered into a sharp chin, lips that could either seem plush or overly large, the only things on her face that suggested softness within those curves. The sharpness of those features, combined with the inner fire suggested that maybe she was not all entirely human herself, a strange overall pointedness to her, prickly, if one were to be uncharitable. The ink spot of a mole below her left eye, in the path of tears.

She was of average height, though standing as straight as she was, she seemed taller. Her figure was hidden beneath the large black shirt she wore, the leggings giving hints of muscular legs; perhaps an athlete, a runner, at some point in the distant future. While his hair was unnaturally vivid red, hers was the color of dead leaves: brown, but crackling with energy, turning copper where the lights illuminated it from behind: a corona, a mass of curls that seemed to explode from her scalp, held at bay by a black headband, before finally succumbing to gravity and settling down to her mid-back.

“Well met, Rylnon,” a wipe to her nose, removing the bit of syrup there. It crackled cold with the smell of mint, and she made sure to wipe it away and clear from the shining stud in her right nostril. “I’m Anemone Hulce, the 110th Daughter of the Green.” Her formal title, though she knew it didn’t align with mortal math. Seemed that generations had skipped, blended together. All she knew was that her grandmother was the one who bestowed the title upon her, after Marigold had ceded, and so her grandmother had been titled by her grandmother, and so on and so on. She supposed that the words meant something to him; they meant enough to the Other Families.

Of course he’s beautiful. It was an afterthought - one that made her do a double-take, as subtle as it was. Maybe the roses were still mocking her, as they settled on the floor, preparing to depart to the realm past the living. They were still tittering, overly loud, fawning over his appearance.

For the first time in her life, Anemone felt the twinge of desire.

She was tempted to rub her eyes, to make sure that he was truly in front of her, though his clothing grounded him more than his face. Her chest felt hot, her stomach rolled, turned to bubbles, rose to stoke warmth in her cheeks. How had she suspected that seeing a Fey would be the same as seeing any other creature? Of people that she idly took note of, letting them pass through her mind like sand through fingers?

“Do we have a deal?” She managed to pull her tongue away from the floor of her mouth to stammer out her command, her embarrassment at being caught off guard reminding her of the task at hand.

 

[WeaverofWorlds]

110th Daughter of the Green. The title meant something, somewhere. A breath of air, a whispered memory. He remembered another with such a title, some vague memory from so long ago. Another deal made, a bargain struck. Ah, but it must not have been very interesting otherwise he'd have remembered it wouldn't he? Or perhaps he was merely distracted by this wonderful little treat. A jelly was delicious, of course, but somehow the syrup tasted all the sweeter touched by the Green One's hands. Perhaps he'd be able to bargain with her for more, until the moment her flickering light stuttered and died. A shame that would likely not even be a single century. Still, one must take the little joys where one could.

"How droll you are. So eager to be serious, when life is meant to be fun. But if we must, we must. Come then, let us seal our bargain and move on to more entertaining endeavors. For you, the answers you seek and not a drop more. For me, this delightful treat, the jasmine oil and you."

She was a delight to behold, even in this. Not some soft seeming maiden, wilting at the harsh sun. No, she was one who'd felt the sun's kiss many times, features sharp and unyielding, so very similar to fey of the Winter. Harsh they were, sharp and angular and oh so dreary. But all the same, the lack of vibrancy upon her physical form merely highlighted the touch of magic about her, the glow of the Green. It was subtle even in the way it expressed itself in her, a highlight here, a warm touch there. Yes, no traditional beauty, no grand expression, but in her own way she was beautiful, a treasure hidden within clothing and temperament.

"Such a bargain you would strike with me. What drives you to such desperation hm?"

He considered as he cast his gaze about. The rose petals tittered about, and he threw them a wink and a blown kiss, sending them into giggling fits all over again. He twisted this way and that as he hemmed and hawed, rolling the problem over and over in his mind, only for another thought to flit through his mind. He spun suddenly, to face Anemone, to point a finger at her in a moment of remembering, grin wide with boyish glee.

"Ah! Hulce! I remember now! You're line called me once before! Some centuries ago now, to see to some problem or other. The 86th... or was it the 87th? Peony I think it was. Does your family favor flowers for names? I think there was another with such a name as well. Chrysanthemum? Lily? Bah, no matter. Where was I? Oh yes, the bargain. I think I shall accept your terms as they are. The deal is struck. I swear that I shall give you the answers you seek, or if I am unable to aid you in finding them, so long as the promised payment is delivered to me. Though I would imagine you will need some practice before you deliver the jelly. This syrup, while delicious, is hardly what was promised."

He deliberately made a show of finishing the mint offering, favoring the witchling with a meaningful flourish of the container, now empty of its sweet prize. Wording was such a funny thing after all. He'd found the error in her demands, the wording that gave him the room to wiggle away from obligations she might further demand. Perhaps he would see to helping her further, she was proving a bit serious for his liking but she'd the spark of playfulness to her. Besides, if the Green was calling to her, warning of something dark on the horizon...

"Ah, but you are so very formal. Shall we perform some grand ceremony, Daughter of the Green, or will my word suffice as binding enough for you? I am to call you Daughter of the Green, yes? Or would you prefer Anemone? I am never certain, and you seem the stuffy sort to demand the title."

 

[Apollo Wilde]

His voice was the height of spring, music high and sweet. No matter how hard she blinked, how much she allowed herself small shakes of the head, she couldn’t clear how dazzling he was from her view. The bubbles continued to rise and dance in her stomach, the heat on her cheeks increasing. Words were like thick molasses.

“Nu..No!” Sharper and louder than she intended, hoping her words were a knife to slice through this enchantment. A deep breath, as she struggled to collect herself. The tittering roses were not helping. Anemone’s in love, Anemone’s in love, they sing-songed, even as their voices grew fainter. Well, at least they were leaving the living plane with some joy.

“No,” she pressed, calmer, still flushed. “I asked for answers - and your power.” Pressing the heel of her voice into that last bit. The power, she’d need. A precaution, not knowing what all was out there. There would be no mistaking that. She straightened up, trying to find a spot in which to seem like she was looking at him, without looking directly at him and running the risk of falling further into his good cheer. “Answers, and your power. Then you’ll…” a glance as he handed her the empty jelly jar. It’d taken her hours to make that much! All of that hard work, gone, just like that. “Then you’ll get the oil, and me.”

Another deep breath - she knelt, to set the jar down. He hadn’t agreed, so there would be no leaving the circle. Twisting a bracelet round her wrist, the smooth wood soothed her. “It’s possible,” slow, thoughtful - an echo of the Oak. “Secret Songs speak of one of the past Daughters making a deal with the Fey. I thought it was just…” Pressed her tongue into the side of her cheek. His easy voice was distracting. “Nevermind what I thought - it’s possible,” she added, with finality. “Anemone. You can call me Anemone.” A name she’d hated, been teased over - had only recently come to, if not quite enjoying it, accepting it as is. He was right; all of the women in her family had been named after flowers, each name carefully picked according to the child that would bear it.

Why she got the name that were tied to the tears of a goddess didn’t bode well for her. So she’d tried to think of it in the “Common” manner: that it meant “anticipation,” that perhaps she had been born for something good.

“A…binding ceremony would be best. To ensure that there is no twisting of my words.” He’d teased her for being formal: she’d adopted the tones out of respect, and now out of flatness. She couldn’t afford to have her words left open to more interpretation - it was a given that one of his kind would take liberties. It’s not about me. It’s about the Green. The Green that has given me so much, loves me as I am. The thought alone was enough to make being his plaything that much more palatable -

But what if he were to touch you; to take you up on that word? To kiss you?

Her mind nearly blew a fuse. What would his lips feel like? Would it be like movies? Romantic and sweet, or would -

Why am I thinking about this? Absolutely not. This is a business transaction.

“I apologize for my lack of jelly-making skills - I’ll continue to work at it. Is there something else that you would want in its stead?” Brown eyes glanced up at him, searching. Trying to. It seemed that no matter how hard she wanted to take him all in, she kept being drawn back to his face, the movement of his lips. “But what drives me,” forced her eyes to a spot on the ceiling, “Is that the Green trembles. I feel a great evil stirring, rumbling - and I don’t know what it is. My grandmother, the 109th, does not feel it. She doesn’t believe me. And I can’t ask the Other Families,” the words spilled out of her, spurred by her fear, by her need to know, “But I feel that since it’s in the Green, it is to be my responsibility to absolve it. No matter what it is. But I know I’m weak. Too weak as I am. Only by joining my power to yours may I find out what’s troubling the Green and have the means to right it. Promise me you’ll help,” she looked at him, pleading in her voice. “Promise me. Please. I need your word on this. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

 

[WeaverofWorlds]

"Anemone. Anemone.... AAAAAAAAAAnemoneeeeeee. May I call you Anne? Oh, what about Mone? Nem, perhaps?"

He drew out the name, tested it upon his lips as he watched her. He could see the little signs, the bits and pieces of humans that made them so fascinating to so many beings so much greater than they. The flush of her cheeks, warming the syrup skin, lending a soft glow to the magic that formed upon her skin. The way her eyes darted about the room, to and fro, settling for a moment upon his face, his lips, before darting away again as if a butterfly too shy to light upon a flower. It enticed, tickled the edges of his interest, beckoned more insistently than any fanciful gift or elegant word. Such fun he would have with her.

"Power is it? You never asked for such. Or mayhap you did. I might not have noticed. Too intent upon the elegant nakedness on display. Suppose it matters little... power... power... So many ways to fulfill that little request, isn't there?"

He was eyeing the barrier now, the circle of salt and herbs that would supposedly keep him at bay. It would have succeed at that, if he were some lesser fey, one of the weak willed. A sprite, a spriggan, one of the pixie folk. Annoyances, though excellent sources of information, pixies, terrible gossips that they were. Could never leave well enough alone. But he was something altogether different, more ancient, more powerful. He wondered a moment if she realized he'd already broken the barriers walls to tap her on the nose. But there she was again, eyes straying to his face again, only to dart away. It was endearing, how she was trying to keep herself focused.

"Yes, yes. I'm sure the Green is in grave danger. I believe you, truly I do, the Green does not lie. It is just a matter of how urgent you seem to make it. Surely whatever deep, dark, dangerous thing is supposed to happen, it can wait for a few minutes before rearing its ugly head. It's the least it could do, else surely nothing good would ever get done. Ah, but I forget myself again, time runs so quickly for mortals. I suppose that should mean this is truly a matter of urgency, which would mean... ah, to be so serious is such a chore. How you manage all the time is beyond me. A binding ritual, was it? You'll have to excuse me, I'm a bit... what's the word... rusty? Yes, I'm a bit rusty when it comes to this. Been so long since I've needed to be so very official about things."

Magic sprang to life, the presence of Summer filling the room. Color flashed to brilliant life, somehow all the more vibrant filled with Summer magic. His smile turned Cheshire, slinking up to, then passed, the barrier of salt and herbs, invading Anemone's personal space with the casual ease of someone who considered personal space to be a lazy suggestion. His fey power wrapped around them, a summer breeze rustling the leaves of vine and plant, setting his silver eyes aglow as his gaze fixed upon hers and suddenly all sense of mirth was gone, replaced by a regal seriousness he had not employed since he'd left his home. When he spoke, it was not just the lilting sweetness of his voice, but a voice that spoke with an echo of the Green, with the weight of something ancient.

Fey light spun across his form, another illusion slipping across his form, though this one unbidden and undirected. The Wild magics of his home, coming to a call of one whom commanded the very land in that sylvan land. Mundane, functional clothing was replaced with the finery of the Fey Courts. A shirt made of the finest silks, spun by silkworms so lovingly tended they nearly sang, the color of lightest lavender, buttons of kelpie tears cinching the cloth about his torso. Pants of unicorn leather, whispered thanks given to the spirit of the purity itself forever sealing the blessings of the fair equine within. A cloak of spun spiderweb and morning dew draped from his shoulders, shimmering in colors impossible for the mortal world to mimic, outshining the first rays of dawn and the deep shadows of dusk, clasped by silver chain and mother of pearls.

The picture of an Archfey, in all his courtly glory, as he was, and he should be, as he was meant to be.

Anemone Hulse, 110th Daughter of the Green, Beloved of the Oak. You offer jasmine oil, sweet mint jelly, and your own body, unkissed and untouched. I offer in turn my knowledge, my aid and my power shared. So this I swear, as Keeper of Wishes, Summer Scorned, Archfey of Mian. By the warm kiss of Summer and the chill bite of Winter, let us be bound, as one unto the other.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

“I did ask for it!” Petulance there, bolstered by her sense of panic. Panic smoothed it out, made it more mature. “I asked for power and answers. I’m not going to be tricked this early in this game.” The formal tones slipped, revealed more personality. Tenacity, yes, and stubborn. The type that would not let go when what was right was in question.

Her head was spinning. He drifted from one subject to the next, as capricious as a leaf caught in the wind. Surely he made sense in his own head, but it was a struggle for her to keep up, to keep clinging to the thread of reason. Why she brought him here. Through the Green, she reached out, a marathoner looking to pass the baton, to the ivy to ground her. She was tired after holding the glamour for so long - and she hadn’t anticipated needing any sort of magic just to face him.

I don’t know why I thought this was going to be easy.

There had to be a reason why humans, no matter how powerful in magic, did not often bargain with Fey. There were kinder, more sensical spirits to ask for help.

As dazzling as she thought he was, she was in for it. It was funny, to think of her mere magics as “glamour.” As the air shifted around them, took her temporarily to a place beyond the mortal realm, she felt the residual waves of magic wash against her, waves against her feet at the edge of the shore. This was dangerous; those waves beckoned to her, promised her everything she’d ever wished, things she’d never admit outside of dreaming. All she needed was to take a step forward, to erase the bounds of magic that was apparently not for his sake, but for her own. It would be so easy, just smudge a line of salt here, move a herb there -

Gasping, her head broke through the waves that had crept up on her, the ivy yanking her back, panicked at a state that it could scarcely understand. And as she was being forcibly pulled out of the flow of magic, dragged through time that had slowed and shimmered around her eyes, she had to come face to face with Rylnon - and her eyes watered. Tears she hardly knew she shed poured down her cheeks as her hands struggled through the molasses of the air to cover her mouth. In his full splendor, she saw the true meaning of glamour. It was burned onto her soul, and she knew that she would never forget what she saw.

“Let us be bound,” her voice echoed in her ears, in the pit of her stomach, flowed from her mouth as flower petals, buffeted on the tide of magic that surrounded them. It would be so easy to promise more, to fall into his sway, to give in, let herself be drawn forever into him. But if she did - the Green, the beast that slumbered in the distance, shaking itself awake, would arise -

And she knew she was crying now, not from the beauty, but from the immense sorrow of remembering herself, her duties. Of having to turn down the offer of eternity dangled in front of her.

“Let us be bound,” she repeated, swimming further to the surface, back to the coldness of reality. A third time, and she knew it would be sealed - at least, that’s how the old songs went. What was it about the number 3?

“Let us be bound.” These final words rung out, reverberated through the apartment, shaking the foundations. Knocked out electricity for the block - later blamed on a transformer explosion - but it would make no difference in that room. The light of magic sealing the two of them together washed out all else, even the candles she’d lit in various corners.

Slowly, the light faded, leaving them bathed in candlelight. The magic circle was blown out by the force of their agreement, swirls of salt buried into the fibers of carpet, herbs strewn about. A deep breath. Running her hands over her face, she wiped it free of sweat, tears. The tingle of excitement still tip-toed through her brain, making her feel like a child. She wanted to dance, to sing, to rest -

“What threatens the Green?”

 

[WeaverofWorlds]

"Let us be bound."

The words spoken, the binding done, fey pacts more ancient even than he wound about his very essence, sung to him of his obligations now to this young mortal. He would see to it, of course, without hesitation, though perhaps a very great deal of mirth and whimsy. Surely they would get to such serious matters event-

"Let us be bound."

The echoing wave of power rang out, like a bell tolling in his ears. Attention snapped to her, more attentive than he'd ever been otherwise, as she repeated herself, as he words rippled through the webs of magic that he'd spun about them in a show of their compact. Old wives tales told their stories, of fey whim, of fairy magic. Often enough they were wrong, but every so got it right...

"Let us be bound."

Like the strike of midnight, the crash of thunder, the snap of a viper's fanged maw, the magic cinched tight around his throat. Three times spoken, three times heard, three times bound. He could feel her weariness, but also her resolve, her fight against the tides of charm and trickery that played all about him by his mere presence. A small smile, the most sincere he'd given since laying eyes upon her. Then his arms were about her frame, catching her weight, taking just a small bit of the burden from her tired limbs. Such dedication to her craft, to the Green, that she would invoke half remembered stories and cry out for aid from beings so capricious as they.

"How marvelous you are, Anemone Hulce. A better bargain I could not have hoped to strike."

A thumb came up, to wipe away the last of the tears that stained her face, so softly and tenderly it was as if he were with a lover. Would be, by her bargain, and perhaps because of the ways he could help her. But for now, he would merely be an elder speaking to the young, the glamour of his being fading as once more his fey might was hidden away within. And yet even as tired as she was she pressed onward, the stubborn dedication of mortals, so very single minded, and all the more fascinating for it.

"To explain would take time, time I think that we will have plenty of. We are bound now, you and I, by ancient things even I cannot explain. Know this, for now. The magic of your bloodline thins, fades as amid times ebb and flow. The reasons for this I can only guess at, though I'd imagine you have some idea of it. The Green feels it, knows it, fears it. Tell me, what do you know of the Circle of Magi? Their purpose? The reason the families exist? The hallowed pacts made in times long forgotten?"

He had to know what she knew. Had they forgotten their ancient duties, these mortal men? They so often did, time traveling so swiftly in their eyes. Memories of darker times, of death and fear that all felt, when Man and Fey, Demon and Angel, Dragon and Spirit, all had come together and faced the great beast. The Monster that Sleeps. But surely... surely even mortal histories would not forget? They had been granted the task, blessed with magic, entrusted to ward away the danger, keep the pieces slumbering... But the Green...

 

[Apollo Wilde]

He was so, so warm. Smelled wonderfully; beyond flowers or cologne or anything that mundane. She sank into his arms, grasping to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as she struggled to catch her breath. This close to his magic, even as he was wiping it away, was enough to drown her, to turn thoughts into flickers of light and color; clouds drifting away. His words were a dull echo in her ear, drowned to the sensation of being this close to such a magnificent creature.

His thumb against her cheek brought her face up, once more, to look up into his. For a moment, her human eyes were clouded over with silver stars, a sure sign of enchantment. As if waking up, she shook her head, delicately, and blinked, once, twice. Clearing the glitter from her view, she looked at him again, with the warm brown of humanity. The enchantment was cleared as she spoke, untangling herself from his grasp, no matter how much her body screamed at her to stay put.

His flattery, though the sound of his voice was enough to speed up her heart, she brushed aside. The ivy sent out curious feelers, checking on her soundlessly, caressing her, reminding her of where she was. Dear, dear things.

“I know all too well about the Circle of the Magi,” the words bitter on her tongue. “Their machinations, the politics. They look down on us, the Daughters of the Green. We’re not good enough for them.” Anger lent her feet movement; she paced across the carpet to the modest bar in front of an equally modest kitchen. On this bar sat the golden pothos and her ivy, and it was them that she went to caress as she spoke. “So we’re the red-headed step children.”

A pause. Then an awkward chuckle. She would happen to use that particular turn of phrase.

“Begging your pardon. It means that we’re essentially on the outs. The Circle doesn’t meet with any regularity, but their presence is…known.” More bitterness as she sucked the inside of her cheek, fingers still tracing the glossy, healthy leaves of the ivy. “They’re vultures. Waiting for us to fall. I’m within the normal circumstances, but..how I got there, a bit unusual.” A shrug, with a wrinkle of her nose.

“I just know that the families were formed because of some pact with your kind, eons ago.” A bit of frustration there at her own ignorance. “Our family hasn’t been gifted with a long, written history like the others. All that I know is passed down through song and reading between the lines. I’m not sure if Grandmother is acting like she doesn’t know to protect me, or if she’s honestly gotten that old that her powers aren’t what they used to be. My goodness, I need a drink!”

She finally stopped stroking the ivy, and turned to face Rylnon. All of the formality had fallen away, collapsed under the weight of exhaustion, leaving a crumpled woman behind that still had enough energy to put on a small smile. “I think tea’ll be nice. I think there’s a lot to talk about.”

A pause. He was within her home. She had to be hospitable. “Could…I get you anything?”

 

[WeaverofWorlds]

The grim touch of Winter upon his soul as Anemone laid out the depths of her troubling lack of news. They should have been wiser, should have known that humans would forget, would pass on less and less the gravity of their solemn duty. From her words, it seemed more the norm for the backstabbing ways of the Fey Courts then the solidarity that had been assured. He'd no doubt some still kept to their oaths, the humans could be fickle as any sprite, but always the ones who had a sense of duty emerged... Such as the witchling before him. It made sense the ones who followed the Green would lack the written histories, but surely through story, song and plant... but no, even trees died, given enough time. Or perhaps she'd never been to the place where the most mystical of the trees held vigil.

"Tea will do lovely... you wouldn't happen to have a something with a floral hint?"

Being serious was easier to do now, though the whims and flighty thoughts threatened to intrude. But that was not what was needed, his whimsical nature set aside for far grander thing. She was not wrong, there was much to discuss, worrisome tales to dreg up from the deep. For today, only talking, little more, despite the sudden worry that the Green was perhaps more urgent than it normally was. If the trees, the grass, the vines, if they all sang of thinning blood...

"If I may ask, Nem, how long have you heard talk of thinning blood? How long has the Green whispered such words to you? How long has it sung of dark tidings? One year? Ten? So long as you've remembered? Do your songs and stories speak of such tidings, or is it only you?"

How long has the Courts left this to fester?

There were unspoken rules nowadays, of leaving the mortal world well enough alone. They'd turned, as a whole, from the ways of the Green, of the Feywild, of innocence and trust in the natural realm of provide. He'd seen it firsthand in the centuries he'd wandered the world among them, upon his few dealings with them. He'd felt the slow decline of whimsy, of hope, of belief in the wild things in the world. Children were some of the few that still held fast to such fantasies of the realms beyond that which could be seen, and even they lost such wonder sooner and sooner.

But that shouldn't mean they would have ignored the Green. Such a thing was unthinkable. Mother Willow, Tidesinger, the Dreaming Twins, the Summer Queen herself, they alone should have stepped in. Even those of Winter, the Nightmare King, the Lord of the Wyld Hunt, the Queen of Air and Darkness, they would not let such a summons go ignored. Why then had the troubles of the Green gone unanswered. He could only hope this was a recent affair, that Anemone was the first to be told, rather than simply the first to truly listen. The first to act, to call out for aid from those who'd first shown her family to weave magic, to speak plant, to whisper to petal and stem, trunk and leaf.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

The companionable clatter of water, tea kettle, cups being retrieved. The mundane aspect of it all made it easier for her to talk; her back was to him, so he didn’t have to look into those starlit eyes of his.

“Jasmine, hibiscus; I think I may have some blue butterfly pea flowers from the summer, still. Osmanthus. Or I could make a blend.” Absent rattling as she pulled down smaller containers, festive little things that she apparently knew what lay within, despite having no labels.

“The ‘thinning blood’…I first heard about two weeks ago. It’s been a continued hum since then. The Oak told me.” Honey, sugar. Milk. “I think it has something to do with me directly. The Daughters of the Green have always given birth to one daughter each generation. One being to hold all of the magic, to be trained and watch, until she inevitably gives birth to the next daughter.” A slight twisting of her mouth. “It’s…never questioned. Marriage, social standing: it doesn’t matter. We are conduits of the Green until we pass the gift to the next daughter.”

The churning of water within the belly of the kettle.

“But I guess my mom thought to do things a bit differently, much to the shame of Grandmother. She gave away a great bit of her power: I don’t know to who. The general idea was that it was for love, or lust - something to get my father. I wouldn’t know. She doesn’t talk about it and my father was never around.” An off-handed shrug. “That would have been bad enough, but what little power she had was split further: I’ve got an older sister. There was only supposed to be one girl. One way for the little power to remain. It sort of turned out that way.”

She pulled the kettle from the burner before it started to scream. Measured out scoops of dried blossoms, sweetness still hanging in the air. The honey taste of osmanthus with the lightness of jasmine, and a pinch of black tea to steel it all. That would be ideal for her. “Marigold - that’s my sister - took after my mom. Said she wanted to be ‘normal’ - gave me her little power. So that still made me about half of what I should’ve been. The rest of my life: studying to make up for it.”

Set on the counter in front of him was a steaming cup of tea: deep red, winking in its tartness. There was a trace of something sweeter within; ah. Hibiscus mixed with osmanthus.

“But that’s not enough. My Grandmother’s pride, my mother’s shame, some unholy combination of the both of them, keeps me from knowing everything. There’s a limit to what you can uncover by yourself.” Milk, sugar, added to her own cup. Voice quieted as she took a long sip. “The rumbling, the pain - I felt first. That’s when I asked the Oak. And it kept getting worse. Grandmother had hinted at some story that our blood would be weakened, but she didn’t answer when I asked her about it.” A long sigh as she set down the tea, pressed her hands to her temples. She must seem so insignificant, so incompetent, before him. “Since, you know, we’re black,” might as well, without a hint of irony, “We don’t really have written records and histories. And since we’re just people, bits of the story get ‘forgotten’ when it puts someone in a bad light. I’m sure there are Daughters of the Green that I’ve never even heard of. It’s not like my family has always gotten along. I’m not entirely sure if I actually love my Grandmother.”

Rubbing at those wooden bracelets, she shook her head. “But as long as I live, I am here to serve the Green.”

 

[WeaverofWorlds]

He listened quietly as she fluttered about the little kitchenette, preparing the tea and talking over the information she had. The task was mundane, to someone else perhaps a dull affair uninteresting to behold. To him, it was something... unexplainable. To try to encapsulate the feeling. He had heard mortals describe the Feywild as fantastic, awe-inspiring, beautiful beyond all understanding. To him, this simplicity, this average existence, this mundane task she performed with the ease of long practice. That was beauty. Awe-inspiring.

His eyes were on her the whole time, throughout the entire process, and when she presented him his cup he took it almost reverently. A long slow sip as she finished her words, spoke her Oath to the Green. The dancing flavors of flowers, the sweetness upon his tongue a momentary distraction from this most serious task.

"Delicious. My complements, Nemmy. Mm... I should spirit you away, have you make this more often. Your blood is thinned indeed, if what you're telling me is true. You'll have to tell me why the color of your skin is such a concern, mortals seem to have such strange hang ups about that and I've never followed the logic. Ah, but the thinning. It's not your connection to the Green that's fading, but rather the core of your magic. Your Summer is turning to Winter. There's likely all manner of reasons, humanity faltering is not uncommon. We can address that readily enough, though I suppose you'd wish a solution that would take affect more immediately, rather than a few generations down the line. That leaves out the most common methods, living alone amongst the Green, feeling nothing but the plant-life all around. Difficult to manage too, though I hear the Amazon can do wonders since.

"That leaves the more esoteric methods. Most still wouldn't work, not immediate enough for our purposes... others would be problematic in their own ways. Though I suppose that method might... Mm... Would certainly work well with the payment promised..."

He grew more thoughtful, his words trailing away as he considered. Yes, it would work. They'd need to start off slowly, her body couldn't handle more than a fraction of what she would eventually need, but there was little more touched by the Green than the Fey, few among the Fey stronger than an Archfey. It should, most probably, breathe life back into the withering flower of her magic. She would need to prepare herself, he would need to find somewhere suitable, somewhere that such a connection between them could be forged, with the Green all around them-

He was moving then, pacing across the room. He was getting agitated, ancy, as he considered everything at once, all together leading to a single conclusion. The trail led inevitably there, to a time he truly did not wish to remember. No one who had lived through that war wanted to relive such somber memories. Summer chose most often to forget that such things had happened, Winter choosing instead to ignore. Dragons, demons, angels, all lost those times within their annals, never to be spoken of. But if the danger she spoke of existed, if her blood was thinning, then the most likely outcome, the reason the Green trembled so insistently... but why now? This was surely something the Green would have felt long before now?

"There was a war once. So long ago humanity has no real records of it. We fought... well, it has no name, for to name it would give it power. But we all fought it, everyone and everything, lest it consume us all. Demons died in agony, Angels fell with crushed wings, Summer and Winter screamed side by side, even the great wyrms were sent crashing from the skies. Humanity stood with us, those few family's that held the spark of magic, the common man, all to hold back the inevitable end. Even the Green, so ponderous in her methods, woke from her slumber, rose up and crashed against the Great Enemy. It was almost not enough, the end almost came.

"But somehow we won."

A deep sigh, all sense of mirth gone, the Archfey dour and grim. He hoped he was wrong, for to be right meant the worst possible outcome was rearing its head. To be right, to have correctly understood the Green, meant that the danger of even a fragment of that Evil was breaking free. Or trying to at any rate. If there was ever an entity, a presence, so unfathomably difficult to understand, even for the Fey, it was the Green.

"Is there a place, Anemone? A place your family cherishes, reveres, protects above all others? Where you can feel the Green strongest, no matter how weak it may be elsewhere? Where no other mage would ever be shown, no matter how much they were trusted?"

 

[Apollo Wilde]

A warm flush as he complimented her tea. Less because of his nature, but because she always felt a spark of warmth when something she made had the desired affect. She would have to do something about those nicknames, though.

Laughter from her, a little incredulous, a little surprised. But all true expression, washing away her formal tones. “Explaining racism is something those better than I can barely explain. But for the purposes of my story, it means that we don’t have written ancestral documents. Things that we know were passed down in code. Song. Rhymes. Quilts, in some cases. But they’ve been forgotten, sold off. We’ve hit a few rough patches along the centuries.” Another off-handed shrug.

Listening to him, she was leaning forward, her cup of tea nearly forgotten. Another flicker of her personality: a natural curiosity and interest in history: and here he was, explaining both. It was only when his expression fell that hers turned to one of concern. Despite being removed from the most of humanity, there was a desire for empathy, the slightest tugging at her heartstrings at the sorrow or consternation of others. Instinctively, she reached out to take his hand - meant to reassure - but, as he asked of a sacred space, she withdrew her hand, trying to play it off as her straightening a tendril of the ivy.

More laughter: sharp and bitter now. “No. No sacred places. You have to understand…” There was no point in her being coy with him now. If he asked, she needed to answer honestly, even if it made her seem less than proper. “My family, as of late, has treated The Green as a burden. A burden and then something to be jealously guarded. Just getting any sort of training from my Grandmother was nothing short of a nightmare. Most of what I know, I’ve had to research and find out on my own. I’ve been helped immensely by the Green: the Oak, the plants that I’ve been honored to share my life with.” That would partially explain the immense skill: a natural connection as well as the desire to want to carve out a family, somewhere she felt something close to love. “So, in a sense…anywhere that there is plant life, is a sacred space to me.” Soft smile as she fondled the tendril of ivy. “From a dandelion growing through the sidewalk to an actual forest; anywhere is sacred.”

That was no lie from her - would also explain her ability to be “plugged in” no matter where she went. “You know, one time, I was in the grocery store, and I was completely smitten by these cut peonies. I mean, blossoms the size of my fists. Massive. Beautiful, beautiful things. Depressing that they were cut, and their life was already winding down, but I couldn’t help but to go over and touch them. They seemed so happy to make that connection…One of them told me I was going to get a raise.” A soft laugh. “Of course I ended up buying the whole bundle and made their last days as comfortable as I could. And I did end up getting that raise. But that’s what I mean - it doesn’t matter where. Or how inconsequential. And I think it’s because I look so hard for any sort of connection that they respond. Maybe if I wasn’t so lonely, I’d be a worse Daughter of the Green.”

She should have been embarrassed - really, confessing to a stranger about how lonely and sad her life was. Pathetic. It was easy, though. With his glamour still burned into the backs of her eyes and the warmth of her tea, her apartment was her home again, and she was surrounded by the love of her cherished plants. It was easier to think of him as something…more distant. Her mind, in its drowning of amazement, had struggled to shuffle him somewhere he could be processed. And it had settled on ‘teacher’, ‘untouchable deity’ that could be loved, even desired, but never possessed. Yet another thing that she couldn’t have. But at least he understood her duty, could speak to that.

“But you know…” She set down her cup, rubbed at her chin. “Where we’re at right now might be as good as a place as any other. No one comes here; I don’t like having house guests. And I’m surrounded by plants. In here - the patio, the bedroom, the bathroom, that tiny little study in the front.” A hand waved around. There was the ivy, yes, near the kitchen, but the candlelight would show a plethora of pots, macrame hangings, shelves: each filled to nearly bursting with plants of all kinds. Exotic and common, in bloom and dormant, her home seemed less a collection of walls and more of a slice of greenhouse recreated with limited means.

 

[WeaverofWorlds]

He smiled at her words, an indulgent, warm expression that lit up his face and blew away at least some of the dour cold that had slipped through into his emotions. It grew bitter, a bit of Winter creeping in, at the sense she gave off, the idea that her own family shared none of the love she seemed to crave. Her hand, drawn away, found itself taken in his, the fey slipping across the room, his pacing done at least for a time. A finger bopped her on the nose, accompanied by a roguish grin, to distract if but for a moment from her melancholy.

"For what it is worth, Daughter of Green, you are alone in this no longer. You've drawn the attentions of the Fairfolk, and I have no plans to leave you be anytime soon."

Ah, but serious matters still required him. It was lost, somewhere in the history of the Daughters. The location of the seal. He could find no fault with Anemone's logic, the way she spoke of every plant and piece of the Green was something to be treasured. A true practitioner of the magic of the natural world, reminiscent even of some of the greatest of druids. Someday, she might seek out Mother Willow herself, and what he wouldn't give to be present for that meeting. It had been so very long since a mortal had slipped into the Feywild, walked among the realm so blessed by the Green itself. But the seal. They would need to find it once again, examine it, bolster it's defenses and strengthen its magic. He'd no hope of finding it himself, he was not present for the original placement, but Nem had a connection to the place, the literal guardian of the seal whether she realized it or not.

"We shall need to strengthen your magic. That is, I think, the first step in your little problem. Without the magic your family once had, it's no wonder the Green grows worried."

His eyes cast about, taking in the room, and what it represented. It was Nem's, her place, so filled with her own essence that the Green was strong here. The plants grew well, healthy, thrived under her careful tending. A place so strongly bathed in her presence... it might work well to keeping her from losing herself in something that wasn't she. Not to mention humans were ever so stuffy about enjoying themselves, even in the most pleasant of ways. Perhaps then, it would be best that he didn't ask, and it's not like it wouldn't involved collecting on due payment just a little bit. What was the human phrase... two birds, some manner of stone? Just a drop of his essence into her, through a method that would leave her distracted, and certainly magically vulnerable, and they'd have proof of concept! And possibly a very irate Green Mage with dozens of prime plant-life all about eager to do her bidding... the sacrifices he made for the safety of the world.

"Tell me, Nem, how averse would you be to getting your debt out of the way? The more enjoyable portion of it, of course. Unless you believe mint jelly is more enjoyable than sex, I suppose. Possible, you humans have all kinds among you. Asexuals? Interesting sorts, love talking to them, they've an odd reaction to use of glamour. Very confused about it whenever they get a little whiff of it. Can't decide if they are aroused or turned off. Think they confuse the magic as well."

His thumb was rubbing against Anemone's palm as the Fey's mind wandered onto this new train of thought. How the humans found such things was fascinating. And the need to put a label upon it, to define nearly everything. So many sexualities, all labels meaning so many different things.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

Boundaries didn’t seem to be a thing with him. He’d taken her hand, then touched her nose - the latter, for the second time. Where the touch of someone else was enough to make her recoil, now she found herself biting back the urge to giggle and sigh. She managed enough strength to give his hand a gentle squeeze - and then set about trying to free herself from his warm touch before her mind imploded. So much for that; his grip held firm. And somehow she gathered he wouldn’t appreciate her trying to gnaw her own arm off to get away.

“As long as you’re bound, you mean.” Cynical: deflection, her greatest weapon in the arsenal of keeping people at a distance. “But I know, for the most part, what I signed up for.” Forgiveness for his inevitable departure, a reminder that she needed to keep her distance. Business transaction. Duty to herself, to the Green. To her blood.

No small wonder that he was right about needing to bolster her skills: that’s why she called him. One of the reasons, anyway. Rather than comment, she let his statement sit in the air. It was without judgement, so she could at least appreciate that.

Debt; yes, that was right. The caressing of his thumb against her palm was stoking a strange fire. “It’s the terms of our contract,” she said, forcing herself not to tremble. “I offered myself. If..” A shiver of fear, hesitation. The swallowing of both: she had a duty. “If you find me…pleasing…” That wasn’t the right word. It wasn’t a matter about being physically attractive to the Fey or not. The glamour had taken the guise of what he would be drawn to, which was definitely not her. “Forget I said that. I made a deal, and I plan on upholding my end of it.” No dwelling on her own looks, or perceived lack thereof. She was who she was, but at least she was as “pure” as could be. Pure; what a load of patriarchal bullshit. The sooner she would be rid of it, the sooner she could move on. In reality, perhaps he was doing her a favor, by taking it all from her.

“I’m not an ‘asexual’,” she sighed, looking away from him. “I just never had any reason to be interested in men. Until now.”

How had that last bit slipped out?

She made a sound like a coughing growl; feeble attempt to clear her throat. “I’m not the kind of person people look at. And that’s fine by me. It’s only…when I get around other people, that they tell me I’m strange or wrong for feeling this way. But it’s not a matter of feeling anything.” How to explain? “My magic, the Green: they keep my life full. I’m happy with them. Shouldn’t that be all that matters?”

A bit of hurt in her voice now; surely he wasn’t joining the ranks of her accusers? Maybe this would be more of a chore than she thought.

 

[WeaverofWorlds]

He watched her as she spoke, noted the subtle hesitations, the stumbled words, the hurt and expectation of more of the same. But he understood such mortal things with some difficulty, the way she seemed to imply that she was unappealing. She certainly did not match the fairy-tale stories, the Fey qualities that so many proclaimed to be beautiful or stunning. But his interest was not based in such things, and she held a beauty all her own. She professed to being content in her life, though the little slips suggested, to his ear at least, that she might not entirely believe that.

"If you are happy with the Green, fulfilled and content, than what right does any have to tell you otherwise? No one can understand the Green as you can among the rest of humanity. They call you strange for it, tell you that you are wrong. I say instead that you are interesting. Unique."

He'd leaned forward now, resting his head upon one hand as his other continued to trace patterns in her palm. It was effecting her, he could see it. The twitch in her hand suggesting she wanted to pull away, yet she squeezed back. Her tongue slipping, revealing things she hastily retreated from, seemingly surprised by her own mouth's betrayal of her thoughts. The little shivers, the way she looked away, glanced back, away again. All of it interesting in its own way, this newest game, for despite the feelings and importance of such things among mortals, it truly was just another game to be played. One with a pleasurable ending for all, and one played often by the Fey, for what was more natural than this most ancient of games. The rules changed often, the methods as well, but the goal was ever the same, whether mortal or magical. Now to see if she knew to play, or if she'd be swept along to enjoy the ride.

"It's well you are so willing to see your end of the bargain through. That hardly means you need not take joy, even pleasure, in doing so." A silky smooth lilt to his voice now, teasing and suggestive. He wanted her to slip again, to admit without thinking her interest. A self imposed goal, perhaps, but one that was already delighting him, and all the better if he could pretend he was ignoring those slips entirely. "But surely there has been someone who has caught you eye. Humans seek companionship, flowers and trees have hardly the warmest touch. You have never wanted to embrace another, to feel their body against yours?"

A subtle release of his power, a breathe of charm to lend his words a bit more suggestive weight. She might take insult to him working his magic upon her, but she could hardly fault him for wanting to make the game more interesting. A tug at her attention, to draw her eyes to what he wished her to notice. The silver of his eyes, the curve of his lips, the sensation of his fingers upon her skin. He didn't dare more, for the traitorous little plants about might decide he was overstepping. Hopefully they'd realize what he was doing, and leave well enough alone, so that their mistress might enjoy herself without cause for worry.

Be silent, little ones of the Green. Still your words, and I promise your Lady will be well taken care of.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

She wasn’t entirely sure if his encouraging words were meant to be just that, or more trickery. It would be nice if they were the former, not the latter. Still, she allowed herself a lifted brow - nothing more, though.

I’m going to have to take him at his word, as difficult as that may be.

Nothing was as difficult as looking at him, though. There was…this spark, something in her animal gut, long forgotten, that recognized interest. Too underdeveloped to tell if it was true interest or feigned. Her heart leapt at the possibility that he might…want to actually kiss her. If it was him, she didn’t think it’d be so bad. Maybe he’d be so concerned with her purity to overlook her lack of finesse with such things. If she could get free from him, maybe her head would stop spinning; she’d stop hearing the remembered giggles of the roses.

Logic would dictate that he was teasing her; trying to get a rise out of her. Some sort of amusement, a spicing of the dish that he was preparing to dine on. Okay. That was…fair. Maybe she didn’t have to like it, but the ultimate goal was his knowledge and power. She could let herself be malleable for him.

“It’s not,” a small whine there, “about feeling good or whatever. Or acting like this is something-” Cut herself off as he drew closer, her field of vision shrinking to just his face. The deep quicksilver of his eyes, how red his hair was. If she voiced her concern, he’d be overly apologetic, she could just feel it, a way to tease her. That’s how these games went, right? Bantering back and forth, feigning disinterest, being upset. “I wish you’d just get straight to the point,” she ground out, exasperated. “All of this back and forth. Do you want to collect or not?” Brusque now, wanting to wipe away all of the nonsense. She knew what she offered. There was no point in being coy about it. And… “You don’t have to play a seducer with me,” she huffed. “It’s a waste of both of our times. And to answer your question - no. Not until today.” The last bit was forced out, annoyance at herself and at him for drawing this out longer than it needed to be.

The plants that adorned her apartment seemed less silent creatures of the soil and sun, and more a chorus of eavesdroppers. Their silence was telling; each was straining their abilities, reaching, touching, to determine what this Fey meant. Concern flickered towards Anemone, soothed by the more romantic of the flowers. A warring unspoken chorus, still waiting, still listening.

A deep breath from her. “You already know you’re dazzling, Fey,” a deliberate dodge of his name, trying to remove the personal from this. If she spoke frankly, put that distance between them, this would be easier. His magic, gentle as it was, met with some natural resistance, seemed to be emanating from those wooden bracelets. It would make sense that she wore some sort of enchanted gear. “Handsome beyond compare. Beautiful. Too good for the likes of me. So let’s not make this any worse for myself.” Softer, now. “Please. I’d rather…not act like this is going to bring me closer to you. Or anyone.”

 

[WeaverofWorlds]

I wish...

Two simple little words, and yet they tugged at an ancient part of his very being. For just a moment he relished in the feeling, of those words being spoken so very closely, of the frustrated desire hidden within them. It wasn't a particularly strong wish, he felt the almost offhand way it was spoken. But it was a wish all the same, a calling to her momentary desire that was almost a song within him. An insistent call, directed right at him.

I wish you'd just get straight to the point.

He stared at her as she spoke, as she complimented him only to insult herself. It was interesting to him, the way humans seemed so capable of not realizing themselves. He wondered if she'd bothered to look in a mirror at all in her life, or if she merely could not see the beauty she held. Many misunderstood Fey sensibilities, believed themselves unappealing, that somehow the only thing the Fey took interest in was some paragon of beauty. An unkind assumption to every woman who'd found themselves a fairy lover that didn't have looks to rival a goddess. Even in that, she was not unappealing, her features sharp and angular, reminiscent, some might say, of some of the harsher Fey, Winter more often than not but even Winter had it's appeal.

I wish you'd just get straight to the point.

It was as she finished speaking that he moved, acted upon the wish she'd made, however offhand it was. He rose to his feet and leaned across the divide, his lips finding hers in the moments since she finished. He kept it simple, chaste, more a pressing of lips to lips than some grand display of passion, one that lasted only long enough to hopefully get intentions across. There would be time for more intensity, he was sure, but first to introduce this woman to some decent romance, or at the very least the concept of getting pleasure out of one's work. He wore a teasing grin upon his face as he drew away a scant few inches, just enough so that he could speak comfortably, even as he felt her breath against his lips.

"Is that 'to the point' enough for you, Nem? I can never tell what counts as forward among humans, it seems to change every time I look away for half a second. Perhaps you'd prefer something more obvious. Should I disrobe entirely, pose naked for your enjoyment?" He fingered the coat he wore, both a show of considering and actual consideration. He wasn't entirely sure what would count as 'to the point', he wasn't lying about not fully understanding where humans were at any given point. Be open, don't be open, free love, sex is the devil's work, on and on and on. "I have it on good authority that I am not unpleasant to look at, and can you believe it, by a Daughter of the Green no less. High praise, I think, if I can draw the attention of someone so enamored with plant life. What do you think she'd say to my clothes upon her floor? That is a human pick up line, isn't it? Something to do with clothing upon a floor, at the least."

 

[Apollo Wilde]

She’d walked out of the depths of winter into the middle of summer. Cold ice exploded into the fresh green of new leaves, the cloudburst of color from innumerable flowers. It was like everything she’d read or heard about in songs, and somehow even better. Over all too soon, she was left blinking, absolutely dumbfounded, lips still slightly pursed as if waiting for the return of his. Unconsciously, she leaned forward, chasing after his voice, his spring time warmth -

“ ‘Nem’ is terrible.” Her voice was soft, so soft to be barely audible, trembling. Already the magic of his lips was fading, and already she wanted to reacquaint herself with them. Get lost in the natural heat he exuded, a faint echo of the most sacred of Green spaces, the kind she’d only half-remembered from dreams. Comforting, reassuring, sparking the carnal: how could one touch create so many emotions?

And now here she was complaining about nicknames when a part of her wanted to grab the sides of his face and press her lips back to his, to drink as deeply of him as she possibly could.

That’s the magic; you’ve got to be careful. He’ll bewitch you and you’ll end up spirited away.

She blinked languidly, still trying to clear his stars from her eyes. That wasn’t the reaction anyone should have to a first kiss. To see a promised land: beyond that, to feel the warmth of a distant sun and smell the unworldly flowers that bloomed in the cracks between this realm and the next.

He mentioned getting naked, and blood flooded her cheeks. She coughed, then rubbed her forehead. He was teasing her. But at least it was about the shifting morals of humans than her own lack of experience. Well, that was nice of him. Hands moved from her forehead to rub the back of her neck as she tilted her head up in exasperation. “I meant…” Fingers dug into the nape of her neck. “I meant that all of the sweet words, all of that stuff that’s supposed to lure the opposite sex into bed - you don’t have to do that. I know what I signed up for. You kissed me; that’s one thing down.” Like ticking points off of her fingers. “I’d prefer not to actually give you my virginity,” inwardly wincing, was there no better way to say that? - “Until all the terms are met. Power. Knowledge.”

Of course, there were several loopholes; she knew she was leaving herself open for that. But for some reason, she didn’t think of the Fey as the kinds that would entertain such things as foreplay and cunnilingus: penis in vagina. End of story.

“Virginity, in this case, being explicitly your penis in my vagina,” she added, as flat as she could. She was an adult. She could use the appropriate terms for sex organs without grimacing.

He was baiting her again. “What more do you want from me? You know I find you attractive - faint praise even from a Daughter of the Green when there are more powerful, more storied families out there with stronger gifts.” Hand left the nape of her neck as she crossed her arms. Something to steel herself against him. “And as far as your clothes on the floor…do what you wish.”

Lay back and think of England. Something like that. To be as methodical as possible, without the knowledge (or good grace) to understand that she could be coming off as incredibly rude, shooting down compliments, dodging whatever might be pleasant. So those shields were up to protect herself, though deep down, she knew she was already smitten. Head over heels; the plants could sense it, drawing it into themselves as sunlight, storing it deep within their cells, collecting bits of power, of new emotion, to be stored and relinquished when needed. Water to their parched senses, in all actuality. Even plants knew the meaning of love, of eternal springs, of wanting to be close. And knew it was missing; turning it back out in gentle waves, unsure of how much to funnel back into her without scaring her.

Already, she seemed to be absorbing it, air in her lungs. It wasn’t a rush of immense power, but a slow unfolding, unwinding of blankets as she rose out of bed. She uncrossed her arms, held out her hands. They seemed to shimmer, heat mirage, as she flexed her fingers into her palms.

“I’ll be dammed,” she looked up at him, a combination of awe, appreciation - perhaps a breath of adoration. “I can feel it already.” Like opening a door to let in a new wind. “Thank you.” Sure, it had been what she asked for, but her thanks was sincere.