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Exile	By : Rubella Category: S through Z > Tithe Views: 1545 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not Tithe, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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- 1-Exile
- 1
Exile
A Valiant fanfic, for Holly Black
by Ruby de Brazier

I was eleven years old when I first came to live in what you would likely consider paradise. No matter the season around this place, the weather within was always temperate, a warm spring day with a light breeze. There were platters of food, heaped high with exotic fruits and edible flowers, goblets of amber wine beside them, full at all times. Music was almost constantly playing, except when the folk slept, their beautiful limbs around each other, lovers or friends, and then the only sounds were their musical breath and the wind in the blossoming branches.
Everyone there was beautiful, tall and graceful, some with white fair coloring like ice and some with apple red and forest green and brown. Almost all were winged with faintly shimmering papery wings. I suppose I was born to be the exception.
In retrospect, there were many reasons why I would never find paradise in that place. My mother was dead, my family split apart, and I was sent to live there on the good graces of a Fairie woman who owed my mother some great boon, the tale of which I have yet to be told. I knew no one there, at first, and was unprepared for their ways. However, at that time I credited my vastly different looks with having caused my lack of happiness.
All my life I had been preparing for rejection. I can remember my mother putting the glamour on me, even as an infant, smoothing her hands over her apron nervously and glancing around one last time, as the low tones of the mountain bell faded into the distance. I never understood, and still don’t understand, why it was necessary.
When I first came to live in the Seelie Court, I was taken before Lady Silarial for presentation. I do not well remember this meeting, but I know that afterwards I was permitted to attend revels, to bear the mark that allowed the hidden door to open to me so that I could come and go from that place, and to eat and drink whatever I liked.
At night I would go to the revels, and at first I thought I was a favorite. Everyone seemed to want to look at me and would reach out their hands to touch my stone green skin, exclaiming that they found it to be as warm as theirs when it looked so cold, gingerly touching the tips of the fangs which extended from beneath my lower lip as if they were sharp enough to pierce at a touch. Of course they are not, or I would bite my own lip off. I would have to be trying to wound to draw blood with a bite. Now I know their apparent affection was mere curiosity about the monster in their midst.
As day slowly approached, I would retreat to some nearby cave or shadowed overhang where I could wait out the hours until night fell again, dozing and working on whatever my passion was at that time. Unlike the stupid versions of my kind so prevalent in Human tales, I was studious, absorbing anything I could learn, and I had a great deal of time in which to practice alone, at least at first.
I will not pretend that the curiosity of the court was always harmless. After a while, when my fangs and skin bored them they began to long to see me turn to stone. Various means were employed to this purpose. Once they cast a glamour of darkness over the clearing, fooling me into thinking it was still night. With a word the darkness was removed and full morning sunlight crept over my body with its dangerous warmth.
I could not move or speak, could not draw breath, but I could hear and see. I was a statue, frozen in a posture of surprise as they danced in a ring around me, laughing, poured wine into my still open mouth and competed to toss garlands around my head. After that I knew I was alone.
Perhaps that is why I didn’t trust Tamson at first, when he came to me. I was studying the herbs spread out to dry around me, trying to decide what to make of them. He stood silhouetted in the opening of the cave, his golden hair backlit by sunlight, a green velvet tunic accentuating his extreme paleness and dove grey softness of his eyes. A silver handled rapier hung at his side and caught the light oddly as he moved, as if it were made of water.
“Does it hurt?” he said simply, stepping over the threshold without waiting to be asked.
I thought he must have been referring to the potion.
“I don’t know what I’m going to brew with it yet.”
“I mean when you turn to stone.”
I looked up slowly, trying to show no fear, but his face held no malice.
“Not as such.”
He came and sat next to me on the stone floor of the cave, crossing his legs over curly toed shoes.
“Are you impervious to harm?”
“You mean when I’m stone?”
“Yes.”
“Almost.”
“Impressive!” he exclaimed, his face suddenly smiling, “I am Tamson.”
“Ravus,” I replied.
We bowed, inclining our heads towards each other without standing. From then on he visited me often during the day. We spoke of the various things I was studying from time to time, but he was never truly interested. What Tamson loved, more than anything else, as a child, was sport. He loved archery, hunting and racing but most of all he loved fencing. He brought me a broadsword forged of silver dipped in gold, which he said suited me, and taught me to fence.
We sparred in an enclosed area at first, the cave, and then began to spend nights fighting on open ground. Many hours were spent with Tamson during that period of my life, running through the night forest, exchanging mocking retorts and parried blows.
I say he taught me to fence, and he did but he did not teach me to fight. I was taught to fight for my life, not for my reputation, to use all my strength and all my weapons, including teeth and talons to rip my adversary apart. I practiced on wood, on stone, until my knuckles were raw and I was bruised from head to toe. The first time Tamson told me to attack him he was unprepared for this.
He had sketched out a rough circle on the ground with a white stone, turned to face me, saluted me with his sword and stood, knees bent and body turned in perfect, natural defensive stance. I regarded him, unsure of why he wished me to do this, but unwilling to risk displeasing him.
“Attack me.”
I bent my knees, leaned forward, and sprang. I hit him full in the chest, my mouth at his neck as we hurtled to the ground together, and pinned his arms to his sides. His sword clattered away towards the back of the cave and he yelped as the weight of my body crushed him to the floor. I stopped, staring into his eyes, which were wide with shock. I had not even drawn my sword.
For a moment I held myself above him, propped up on my arms, my face inches from his. I could tell that I had made some terrible mistake, and visions of Tamson walking out never to return came to mind.
Tears came unbidden to my eyes, as I saw again the look on my father’s face when he had walked in unannounced and I realized for the first time what I looked like to others who were not my family. I fought to hold back the fear that was growing in my heart. I had nowhere to go but here.
Then Tamson laughed, and I released him lighthearted and relieved.
“You win,” he declared with a smile, “but you will never get away with that in a fair fight, with rules and an audience.”
“You mean in a fight that is not real?” I asked, still not fully understanding.
“Oh, it’s real, Ravus,” he replied, “it’s quite real.”
From then on we fought with courtly rules and etiquette and I learned from him to control my anger, to use the fear my appearance caused in a more subtle manner, fooling my adversary into believing that my size made me slow and then making a sudden nimble attack that would catch him off guard.
I was larger than Tamson, and grew more so as time passed, yet despite my height and the greater reach of my arm he always matched me and often beat me, moving with a light step that seemed to fly along the ground, tricking me with the terrain, the bright sword flashing in his hands like a leaping fountain. When he had grown into his armor, which had been made of bark and enchanted so that no sword could break it, he wore this as well, and we fought in earnest for neither of us feared to hurt the other even if we struck with our full strength.
From time to time we joined the revels together. I tended to stay apart from the dancing, but he danced well and with anyone who took his fancy. Sometimes he would take me by the hand, and then we would dance together, since I wouldn’t do him the dishonor of refusing to dance when invited. A few times we fenced for the entertainment of the court, who clapped and twittered with excitement to see Tamson win what seemed like such an unmatched fight against a terrible and deadly opponent.
Most often we drank, and when we drank we would talk. Increasingly, as we grew to adulthood, the talk would be of the ladies of the court. He pestered me often on the subject of whom I might find most fair, but I was unwilling to even consider the topic in my own mind. They were all fair, and I knew I held not the slightest chance of being asked to dance by any of them.
Tamson treated it all like it was another game, a sport to be won by winning favor instead of victory, and pursued all who gave him but a meaningful look without hesitation or self doubt. They were only too happy to dally with him, but in the morning he went to bed alone, or arm in arm walked back with me to whatever hiding place was to be mine that day, singing some drunken ballad half in tune.
It was several nights after the midsummer revels of our nineteenth year that he announced he was in love. Politely, I inquired about her, what manner of lady she was. It was a mistake. Ah, her eyes were like emeralds, her lips rubies or pomegranate, her hair the colors of the leaves in fall, her skin as pure as cream, and all her attributes perfection. He talked for so long that I began to feel he loved in jest, for I had never known him to praise blindly or at such length even those whom he truly admired.
Her name was Mabry, and at the time I held the opinion that she was not good enough for him. She was, I pointed out in an attempt to reason with his madness, a great deal older than him. He merely said that her worth increased with age and that it mattered not in the great span of time, as true hearts love forever. She was far from the most beautiful in the court. On this subject he and I disagreed, and I have even heard him compare her favorably to the Lady Silarial herself.
Nothing I could say could persuade him from her, and I was ashamed that I should want such a thing. He was my only friend, should I not be happy for his happiness? Why should I feel loss when he began to spend his days with her, only coming to be with me once in a great while and then to spend the day praising her? Why should it make me so upset that he looked more and more pale and worn with exhaustion, are not all lovers supposed to be pale and worn looking? Why was it that seeing them together made the old ways rise again inside me, so that I wanted to rip out her throat?
I said nothing of these feelings to him. He asked me directly only once.
We had gone swimming, in the pool beneath the falls, leaving our clothes and armor on the bank while we enjoyed the cool moonlit water. I swam beneath the falls, letting the roaring water block out the sound of praise for Mabry and pummel me until I became calm. Leaving that, I sat upon the bank at looked up at the moonlight.
Tamson seemed to regard me for a long time before swimming over.
“Does it make you jealous?” he asked, brushing the black tangle of my hair back from my face. I said nothing, but could see my eyes reflected in his own as if in the clear pool, moonlight making them appear to glow intensely like the golden eyes of an owl.
“It needn’t.” He leaned forward and suddenly I felt his lips against my own, smooth as any child’s.
There was never a question of whether I would have given myself to him. If he wanted, I would have given him anything. I kissed him back and was surprised to feel his hands on my back, holding me as if he wanted me closer. If that was what he wanted, he would receive it. I put my arms around him, curling one hand over his shoulder and the other around his opposite hip and pulled him forcefully to me, opening my mouth to suck his lower lip. As I did so, he felt my talons brush his skin and the points of my teeth slide over his lip and gasped, but not in pain.
He arched into my embrace, almost swooning as I kissed him harder, and I wondered how long he had thought about this. He seemed to go with men and women equally, but all his lovers had one thing in common- they were beautiful. Was that what this meant- that I had become beautiful to him? I wanted badly for it to be so. It was like having been hungry for so long that you forget you are hungry, then when food appears you are suddenly ravenous.
I fell on him like that, like the monster that I was, and he surrendered to me with a joy which was exactly what I needed in that moment. Our bodies pressed together and I could feel his hardness against me, radiating warmth despite the coolness of the night air. I pressed my hips against his, rocking fiercely back and forth so that he felt my arousal against his own and he moaned, moving with me as naturally as if he were dancing. I could hear his pulse, so strongly it beat, under his quickening breath and I knew he was close to release but he pulled away.
He caressed the side of my face tenderly, passing one finger across my lips and chills ran over me. He began to kiss my face, small appreciative kisses, moving down my neck and chest until he was on his knees at my side. I did not move, unable to believe he was about to do what he seemed about to do until his mouth was around the tip of my shaft, warm and slick.
I stared at him, his face focused in desire and his eyes closed as he moved his mouth slowly up and down as if he were savoring me. The sensation was almost more than I could bear, and the sight was most definitely more. My skin next to his looked like limestone next to marble. I ran my hand through his hair, watching it catch the moonlight as it slid softly through my fingers until I held the back of his head in my hand. I thrust towards him, unable to control myself, but he was quite strong and seemed prepared for my reaction, bracing himself against my hip and moving his head with a slight twist which became faster with each stroke.
I heard a low rumbling noise, like growling and realized with a slight sense of shame that I was making it myself. He wrapped his fingers around my shaft, sliding his grip at the same time as his mouth and I felt he held me entirely inside him for a moment, the pleasure of it carried me over the edge of my self control and I came, shutting my eyes but still picturing his face.
When I was able to open my eyes again he was smiling at me, quite mischievously. It was a look that I had seen on his face many times before, usually when he was just about to win against me, and I smiled back in spite of the strangeness of the situation. I was acutely aware of his continued arousal, facing me as he was, but I did not know how to do what he had just done to me. I did not even know how to begin. There was one thing, however, that I knew I could do, having done it to myself many times when alone.
I pushed him down onto the rock and pinned him there. He looked up at me with an expression of complete bliss. Still pinning him with one hand, I wrapped the other around his shaft and squeezed, stroking the underside with my fingertips. He put his hand over mine and I knew he wanted me to continue. I began by touching him softer than I did myself, but as he thrust into my hand desperately I sensed this was not what he wanted. Once I began to stroke roughly he could not last, but came almost instantly, biting his lower lip and gripping my hand with his own to make me go faster.
He lay on the rock a few moments afterward next to me, neither of us speaking. I believe I may have felt a good deal more awkward than he did, and it is possible he was merely tired because he dove directly into the water afterwards and we swam, Tamson joking and splashing as if nothing unusual had happened between us.
I still do not know why he did what he did that night. Perhaps he felt it would make me know his love for me, make me feel less an outsider to his affection, and if so then he was partly right. It eased my jealousy in some ways and made it worse in others. I felt from then on that there was nothing Mabry had of him that I did not also possess and although that was not always a pleasant sensation it was often preferable to believing that he preferred her company to mine. I continued to chafe against his constant praise of Mabry, but it became more of a joke between us, as if he were delighted that I found her not to my liking because no two friends should desire the same woman.
We still fought in the forest often, which should have afforded me many hours with Tamson, but Mabry was increasingly there. She watched our sparring keenly, her handmaidens brushing her long brown hair and twining red flowers in it or feeding her fruit from a golden bowl. When we were done he would go to her, perspiration beading on his brow, and she would praise him in a soft teasing voice for his bravery. Tamson had decided that to woo Mabry we would perform a duel for the entertainment of the court that spring, as she seemed to like him best when he had a sword in his hand.
Once, seeing them together in a glen, I approached, intending to discuss our dueling later that night. When I heard him say to Mabry “I saw you with him” I felt the breath stop in my throat. Had she been unfaithful to him? I forced myself to turn, and walk away. Even if she had been unfaithful to him in some manner, even if he ordered her to come no more near him because of it, that did not make him mine. It should not. Just because he was my only friend in the world did not mean I had to be his only friend as well.
I could picture his face with its fair features, bold but not coarse and lit with grace. I told myself that he would find another, and I should not be so possessive of him. Were I his true friend, I would help him to obtain whatever he should desire. I sensed him beside me, and as he put his arm across my shoulders I realized I had not heard him approach.
“My love will truly enjoy our dueling in the tournament.”
I turned to look at him, but his face was calm. It was for all the world as if the two of them had been merely discussing the weather. So he had forgiven her for her indiscretion, he wished them to remain lovers. He turned to me, the slight question in his voice barely audible.
“Will you help me in this matter?”
“I shall.”
His hand grasped my shoulder more tightly and I believed at the time that he was grateful for my company.
It was a hot night. The court were arranged in a circle around us, Lady Silarial on a throne of morning glory vines was being fanned by several lovely human children and the ladies, who all wore crowns of tiny white daisies in honor of the occasion, were fanning themselves with feathers.
We saluted, and advanced towards each other. I wore no armor, as was my custom, and carried the broadsword Tamson had given me which appeared like a short sword now I was fully grown. He wore his enchanted bark armor and carried the delicate rapier of unbreakable glass.
The last thing I remember before my first strike hit was Tamson smiling, not even trying to avoid or block the blow.
It went through his armor as if it were mere bark, not enchanted at all. I had not been holding back, and the sword was halfway through his midsection by the time I realized he had been struck. There was no question that he had been dealt a mortal blow. He fell, blood widening in a pool around his left side, and I fell at his side. There was nothing I could do. By the time I had spoken his name once, he looked so pale he seemed already dead. He turned his face to look at me and betrayal was written across it. He struggled briefly to speak, no doubt to curse the day he had made me his friend, and then was gone.
Thus died Tamson, the beautiful, the beloved, the only true friend I have ever known. I went into exile on that day. His love, Mabry, came as well, and mourns him as I do, perhaps with more cause, but I cannot bear to see her face. Jealousy dies not. My grief is my own and alone I will keep it, for though she will surely have another lover, I may never know another friend. The world contains no place for me, no home, no light. It is on the edge of life that I must dwell, seeing its joy and triumph which are not my own. I am in exile until I hear again the voice of Tamson, even if that can only be in death.
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Exile