Page 7 of Within the Veil

A lilting laugh, regretfully, pulls me into the here and now, redirecting my focus. Before me stands a woman, lithe and almost ethereal, in a flowing gown of emerald hues. Like most of the Fae, her face is unlined, the epitome of ageless beauty, while her long, white hair, adorned with various gems and flowers, cascades down to gently brush the floor. As I move my eyes upward, my gaze collides with swirling silver orbs that are as unsettling as they are mesmerizing. My lungs struggle to expand; the air suddenly thick as I find myself submerged within the depth of the power that emanates from her eyes. Impressive.

"It is not often that one can hold the gaze of a Seer, never mind appreciate their fine ability to decorate." She says solemnly, an infectious grin on her face belying her tone.

Much like with Ruadhan, an unbidden smile takes over my face, "It's a pity, then."

Her head quirks to the side, "What is?"

"That your long life has been, clearly, lacking in grandiour."

Her infectious laughter fills the air, "Oh, but you are truly a delight."

Sweeping her arm forward, she summons two simple chairs, a small table, and two steaming cups of what smells like clover tea, placing them by the window. Following her lead, I sit down and grab the tiny teacup, frowning at the delicate glass in my hands.

"If you are wondering what you are supposed to do with a tea cup filled with tea. I suppose you can begin by drinking its contents," her lips quirk into an amused smile, delicate eyebrow arching before she turns her silvery gaze to the open window before us.

Her smile dims, all signs of amusement fading as a deep sigh escapes her lips. "There is a saying among Seers,'Ceangailte agus ar Seachrán,'"she says in a voice that seems to come from a long way off. "Tethered and adrift is a quite apt description... A melancholy paradox is better. To be aware of the currents of destiny, yet bound to let them flow untouched, is a curse as much as it is a gift."

As the words flow from her lips, my body leans forward, eager to hear whatever part of her story she wishes to share, even whilst knowing I will be the one to end it.

She shakes her head softly, her voice taking on a hushed whisper. "Like most Fae born, I wasn't given a chosen name. Names usually emerge when the soul names itself. Well, my soul screamed," her lips twitch, "the moment I opened my eyes. The swirling silver of my gaze gave my power away. I was a tiny baby, barely a few breaths old, before I was handed to the Seers for training. That's not to say I didn't stay with my parents; it would be cruel to separate a child from beings who generally struggle to have children. No, the mere fact that my powers manifested at birth meant that I needed to be guided by a Seer sooner rather than later."

She pauses, eyeing me cautiously. "It's not common knowledge, but there are trainers. Between you and me, I trust you. Still, the Council of Seers took it upon themselves to impart wisdom upon me, wisdom I soaked up as readily as I drank my mother's milk. You're probably wondering, 'What can a baby learn?' Well, the intriguing thing about us is that our ancestors' souls ensure we absorb all the information we need. It's stored in a sort of memory bank--think of it as a mental encyclopedia activated the moment our powers awaken."

I find myself entranced by her tale, hanging on every word. "In my case, my parents were unusually aware of the trainers. I later discovered that when a Seer comes into their power, they're trained in their dreams through a connection. As I grew older, that shifted. From an early age, I was told to watch and never interfere. Our role is sacred to the Seers. To interfere risks not just our own lives but also the balance of power. There's only onetrueSeer gifted per lifetime, one for the Seelie and one for the Unseelie, and not because there is a lack of Seers; we are trained by a group, after all. No, every small Kingdom has its own; they just aren't as strong...aspure." She rolls her eyes. "My line is one of the original, the strongest. And as you can imagine, the Fae live through many lifetimes. The decision to train a new Seer depends on the times ahead or if a Seer's life is taken."

She looks at me then, her eyes carrying a subtle, pinched look as if the weight of the world presses on her. Though her face is unlined by age, her eyes reveal her burdens. For a moment, I struggle to maintain eye contact; her gaze is unsettling. But I refuse to look away. My duty, my purpose, keeps me anchored. "I am here for a reason," I think to myself. And if her initial greeting is any clue, she clearly knows what that reason is. I remain silent, and with a glint of amusement in her eyes, she turns back to the window.

"Regardless, one of the things we learned never sat right with me. I'm unsure if it's because I received my power early or I simply thought differently. Maybe it was after observing centuries of prophecies, watching threads of time weave and unweave, break, and mend. Although we're trained to separate duty from emotion, I find that doing so makes one weak. What good is being a Seer if you can't see within yourself? I've been watching you for quite some time, and yes, I know why you're here. But things won't end the way you think they will." She gives me an enigmatic smile, and I frown.

"Now, I am more than aware of your mission today. If I were against it, no matter how strong you are, I would have killed you before you could have raised your weapon against me." The familiar itch of wanting to rise to challenge rises within me, but I ignore it.

She grins, "It isn't a challenge it is a mere fact. But back to the matter at hand. This is one of those times when Seers need to do more than what has been ingrained within them," she says, steeling her spine and sitting up straighter. She turns away from the window and holds my gaze steadily. "We must understand that there comes a time when silence is the loudest form of betrayal. We've been cautioned, but caution can morph into cowardice when cloaked in inaction. There are moments so critical that remaining idle would be the gravest interference of all; times when the very fabric of destiny beckons us to act, lest we become complicit in unraveling the world itself. I refuse to be the poison that undoes the world."

Although I agree with her, there's something more beyond what she's saying. "What do you mean?" I ask.

It was the right question. She rises and walks over to a small chest, about two hand-width in size, that is set on a nearby table. The moment her hands touch the box, it begins to emanate a faint glow, and she lovingly caresses the sides as one would a lover, before retaking her seat before me. The chest, engraved with runes on every visible inch, hums with power. The markings are not only familiar, but they are not unlike the ones adorning Shadowfire and the ones drawn upon my skin, inked there by Ruadhuan himself upon earning his weapon during combat. These are runes of the gods.

Placing the chest on the table, she undoes the latch and pulls out a blade of pure obsidian with an intricate gold handle entwined with symbols that seem to shift and move within her hand. The power is immense, and as she places it atop the table between us--its presence makes the room impossibly brighter and yet colder at the same time-- it feels out of place. Not because of its apparent, almost sentient, power but because I get the overwhelming sense that the blade has itsowndestiny-- one entwined with my own. How? I can't reasonably surmise, but it sets me on edge.

I came here knowing that my mission would be accompanied by my death; I had made peace with it. My duty to my people is an honorable reason for death. But like everything else in life, peace is a clever illusion set forth and controlled by the fleeting whims of the gods. I shift my gaze from the blade back to her.

"It's simple. Like this blade, I have come to realize that despite my power, I am still merely a tool of the gods. And when a tool is used for its intended purpose," she trails off, and almost absentmindedly, she brings her slender finger to the sharp point, and with the slightest touch, her finger begins to bleed freely; a silvery, verdant fluid, instead of the red copper I expected, that seems to protest leaving her body, simultaneously dripping but flowing backward as well--fighting to return to its host. But instead of looking closer at the anomaly, my senses are overloaded by the scent that begins to permeate the air. Because unlike the tang of copper, I have grown used to, instead, it is cloyingly and tantalizingly sweet, like fresh fruit and candy from the finest of confectioners'.

"Its existence is comfortable, familiar, and useful," she continues as the wound heals as quickly as it was inflicted. "However, once broken, or defiant," she flashes a mischievous smile, "those tools are easy to discard. A burden that quickly becomes a fleeting memory."

She places the blade at the center of the table, her blood seeping into the metal as if it is absorbing the power that flows through her. I barely hold back, both, the brief flash of jealousy for the blade and, the urge to lick my lips at the mere thought of running my tongue over the blade before it greedily absorbs her blood.

Not all Fae have a craving for the thick nectar of life, the red kind anyway, and I'm usually the same, but there is something satisfying about tasting the blood of your enemies as they plead for their lives. But this particular flicker of interest has nothing to do with war, and everything to do with the amount of power that flows through her life's blood. It is inconceivable.

As the last of the rich green and silver droplets disappear, the blade shines brightly, displaying a startling array of colors, and I notice a gleaming black diamond embedded within the handle.

Before my curiosity can take hold, she laughs and points to the blade,"Serath'ae,aptly named--for it is Seer's Blood, that feeds the dagger-- is passed down lineage across several centuries." She brings her voice down to a mocking whisper, "Legend has it, the blade is sharp enough to slice through the very fabric of reality."

"It's not a legend," suddenly serious. "This blade holds within its handle, what we call 'The Oracle's Eye.'"

My eyebrows shoot up of their own volition. Despite my amassed knowledge benefits of having eyes and ears everywhere, the whisperings of a gemstone, which grants visions of the future and reveals glimpses of fate, were scant more than a tale. The Fae tell many tales, simply to convince people, they do not know, of their greatness -- humans, too, for that matter -- yet they have failed to realize that, the best way to prove your greatness is to let it speak for itself.

"Yes. Serath'ae isn't simply a family heirloom; it is one of the forbidden weapons, forged not only by gods but of the cosmos." She sighs warily, "As if I needed any more coveted objects, my lineage decided to give me a weapon that can also alter the course of events. Change fate, only to alter everything thereafter. It is not only burdensome but incredibly annoying," She scowls.

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