Fifteen hours.
A lot could happen in fifteen hours.
She could catch a cold. The brother could sprain a wrist. The child could bruise a knee.
The world could end in the next fifteen hours.
It was too long; fifteen hours allowed for too much tragedy and endings, for too much grief and pain. It was too long.
Fifteen hours were too long.
White Knight to F3.
Doctor jerked when the plane hit turbulence, a slight jolt that sent the clouds spraying suspended rain — smack — into the windows. He frowned, his grip on the armrests taunt and uneasy as the fat drops streaked — blurred — ripped across the bright blue sky, distorting the image. He drew his lips to a firm, unbending line as the plane levelled with the clouds and sky, finally easing when the “Fasten Seatbelts” light switched off.
Nocte looked to the sky, her elbow on one of the armrests with her cheek pressed against her palm. Witley and, strangely enough, Siren sat across from her while Alex, Chantée, Ewan and Doctor were settled along the other side of the plane. She had tried, several times already, to meet Alex in the eye, but the charm maker had, thus far, avoided her in a rather practiced manner. Two months living together, and they could read each other like an opened book.
They knew what she wanted; he wasn’t ready to give it.
She tapped her armrest twice and Doctor unfastened his seatbelt. Smoothly, subtly, Nocte cast a Sleep on Siren, and carefully, inconspicuously, the songstress drifted into slumber, unaware of Nocte’s actions. It had been so delicate, that neither Alex nor Chantée noticed, but Ewan — the prophet — felt and understood her conduct. Quietly, he closed his eyes and drifted on his own. He understood the need to retreat when the time called for it.
Calmly placing his seatbelt aside, the Lucent didn’t even look at the brother before beckoning, “Alex. A word, please.”
Alex, in a brief unguarded moment, was honestly confused, but then he realized that they had planned it beforehand. He glanced at Nocte, and then away with a pinched expression.
They knew what Doctor wanted; Alex wasn’t ready to give it.
But Doctor didn’t wait, already strolling passed their seats and to the back of the plane, expecting Alex to follow — forcing Alex to follow. Begrudgingly, and knowing that he had stalled long enough, Alex stood from his seat, gave Chantée a reassuring smile, and then followed after Doctor behind the curtains and into the galley.
Chantée shifted nervously at the absence of her brother. She had not slept all night either, and they had just boarded a plane to a foreign land.
Nocte straightened from her sky-watching and gestured, with her hand, for Chantée. The girl blinked owlishly, and then her shoulders relaxed at the familiar face. It was the face she had had at her side when her brother was gone.
“Chantée,” Nocte called. “Come here.” She patted the empty seat to her right. “I have something I have to tell you.”
“Have to tell,” not just “tell.” Chantée caught the connotation, and even stalled in her making her way to Nocte. A bereft smile from Nocte and Chantée relinquished her hesitance, sliding off her seat and carefully settling down beside Nocte. The girl’s legs swung, too short to touch the floor, and so did Nocte’s, too short to touch the floor. Chantée was bound to grow taller than Nocte with age.
Short. Another shortcoming of Nocte’s.
She never did quite manage heels either.
Nocte rubbed between her brows to clear her thoughts, and then faced Chantée’s attentive expression, ready to soak up whatever information she was to share with her. Nocte decided not to colour her words bright and beautiful.
“Chantée,” she said, even and honest. “My name is not Somnium. It’s Nocte.”
The girl blinked rapidly, momentarily blindsided. She did not understand why Nocte was clarifying, or even why she had lied.
“I lied,” Nocte explained, “because I didn’t trust anyone to know my real name.”
Chantée looked to the side, to the ground, and then finally back to Nocte. In several short seconds, she understood Nocte’s meaning. “The Fae,” the girl whispered, a little bit afraid, a little bit foolhardy.
Nocte nodded. “Among others.”
Chantée bit her lips together, and then nodded in short jerks, almost like a broken machine.
“Chantée,” Nocte drew the girl’s attention again, and the girl was obliging, thoughtful and conscientious. “I’m not from this world.” The girl paused in her machine mimics. “Doctor, Witley,” she nodded to the spy, who lowered her chin, “and I are not from this planet.”
Chantée did not believe, Nocte could tell. But Nocte wasn’t going to give her the time to disbelieve.
“We’re here, on Earth, because of a project — I cannot tell you about this project.” Nocte made sure to intercept Chantée’s query before the girl could even finish the thought. “It is a project that brought us here, across space and planets and stars. It is a project that did not account for the happenings here on Earth.”
The girl moved to the farthest edge of her seat, away from Nocte, not knowing how to respond or even where to go.
“We did not know, when pursuing this project, that there would be a prophecy here,” Nocte said.
Chantée froze, facing the window, avoiding Nocte’s eyes as hers grew large and round and incredulous. “T-The pr-prophecy?”
The girl knew about the prophecy! Nocte forced her heart rate to slow at the discovery. Perhaps the girl only knew snippets — she must have heard Alex and the vampires speaking of it, but dared not have asked. Nocte did not obstruct this advance by looking to Witley. Instead, she kept her eyes on Chantée, even if the girl did not look at her.
“Yes,” Nocte confirmed the girl’s wonderment. “This prophecy foretells the coming of a Great Evil. This man is to destroy Earth.”
“The e-evil man,” Chantée stuttered, and then gasped, turning to Nocte in an instant. “The F-Fae were talking about him!”
“Yes,” Nocte validated with a succinct nod. “This Great Evil is to assisted by The Darkness-”
“Who?” Chantée urged.
Nocte shook her head. “We do not know.”
“We,” not “I.” Chantée understood at once that it was not only Nocte involved, but others. Her brother, she was sure.
“But,” Nocte said, “the prophecy tells of a hero — a Singer — who will defeat the Great Evil, and at her side will be The Light.”
To be expected, Chantée looked immediately to the sleeping Siren, but Nocte nixed the idea at once.
“No,” Nocte said, firm and absolute. “Not Siren.”
Chantée’s eyebrows bunched together as her thoughts ran wild with speculation, fear and gripping, suffocating reality. “I-It’s n-not real, i-is it?” She placed her large, round, innocent eyes on Nocte, enquiring, pleading, fearing. “T-The pr-prophecy?”
Nocte took Chantée’s trembling hand and the girl flinched. Nocte tried not to be hurt by it, but rejection was rejection, no matter the form.
“Chantée,” she began. “I’m sorry I lied about my name. I’m sorry that I,” she squeezed the girl’s hand and Chantée tensed, “wasn’t able to prevent your kidnapping. I’m sorry that this is happening, but it’s happening.”
The girl shook.
“But did you doubt that I would never come pick you up after school?” Nocte asked softly, her heart growing gentle and warm. The girl growing gentle and warm in response. “Did you doubt that I would never be home when you returned? Did you doubt that I would never have dinner ready?” Nocte chuckled, nostalgic and smarting when she asked, “Did you doubt that I would never bring back cake?”
Chantée drew in a jostling breath, perceptive of Nocte’s examples.
“Did you?” Nocte prompted.
Slowly, warily, realizing, Chantée shook her head.
“Then trust me when I tell you this.” Nocte placed her fingers under Chantée’s chin, drawing the girl’s gaze to hers. “The prophecy is real. And now we are questing. We must be heroes now, do you understand? We must be big and brave heroes.”
The girl’s shaking subsided into a dull coldness, but there was still fear and disbelief. But Nocte would not lie to her. But Nocte lied about her name. But Nocte-
Chantée touched Nocte’s hand.
But Nocte never lied about her feelings.
“Th-The Singer,” Chantée stuttered, uncertain and scared. “Who is it?”
“She,” Nocte corrected. “The Singer is a girl.”
Chantée’s eyes widened. “Who?”
From the corner of her eye, Nocte saw the curtain to the Galley shift aside. Carefully, she drew back from the girl, who made a hurtful noise at the back of her throat, and nodded to Alex and Doctor. Alex knew. If he hadn’t before, then he did now. To Chantée, Nocte answered, “Ask your brother.”
Alex paused, warily registering Nocte’s calm and heavy understanding, and his sister’s skittish curiosity. With Doctor following behind him, he could not very well turn away from the confrontation. He addressed Nocte, “You’ve told her.”
Nocte shook her head. “Not everything.”
Alex pressed his lips. “What-”
“Wh-Who’s the Singer?” Chantée asked, tense. “H-Have we f-found her?”
Alex froze, his sister’s question resounding in his head. Nocte had left him with the most difficult task — the task of being brother. Doctor had told him as much while in the Galley. Struggling, cautious, Alex gently placed his hands on Chantée’s shoulders to give her some comfort, to ease her mind, but when the brother met the sister in the eye, she understood.
The girl trembled. She wasn’t stupid. One couldn’t run or hide from the Fae for seven years if they were stupid. Chantée wasn’t stupid. She knew. One look at her brother’s face and she knew.
“I’m the Singer,” Chantée whimpered.
Alex was at a loss for words; Doctor quickly placing a comforting hand on the girl’s arm.
But it was to no avail.
The girl’s knees weakened and she fell to the floor, shaking.
“Chantée!” Alex cried out, bolstering the girl’s weight with his torso.
“I-I c-can’t,” the girl sobbed, scared. “I-I c-can’t.”
Both Alex and Doctor were ready with their encouraging, consoling and soothing words.
But they would be hindering progress.
Men knew not what to do, but to hinder progress.
Nocte would not allow it.
“Why?” she asked the girl.
Both Alex and Doctor looked at her as if she were mad.
The girl hiccupped, her cheek pressed against her brother’s chest, her watering eyes staring into nothing. “B-Because I-I’m scared.”
“Why?” Nocte prompted.
“B-Because I-I’m j-just a g-girl.” Tears flowed from the girl’s eyes. She was close to shock. Alex was about to carry his sister away when Nocte placed a hand on his shoulder, halting him, much to his helplessness and anger.
“Chantée,” Nocte address, firm and no-nonsense. “Look at me.”
The girl stilled.
“Look at me,” Nocte repeated, this time with a press of chi.
Slowly, the girl’s head turned, in jerky, uneven movements, to stare listlessly at Nocte.
“Do you see fear?” Nocte asked the girl.
Chantée’s brows furrowed at the question, and then slowly her eyes focused to search Nocte’s face — the unwavering line of her lips, the unmoving curve of her cheek, the unfaltering glaze of her eyes. Chantée’s eyes widened and she was astounded. “No,” the girl said. “You’re not s-scared.”
Nocte held the girl’s gaze and said, “Then there is nothing to fear.”
Chantée swallowed, uneasy and, all at once, assured.
“You know my name now,” Nocte said. “I trust you with my name.”
“Noc-”
Nocte placed several fingers on the girl’s lips to quiet her. Chantée faltered, closing her mouth and stopping the name from forming whole in the air.
Taking Chantée’s hand, Nocte instructed, “Call me when you need me.”
Chantée nodded.
The girl being the Singer was well-played.
It hurt that it was the girl.
It hurt all of them.
#
White Bishop to E4.
Doctor pulled the blanket up to Chantée’s chin before slowly, carefully drawing back from the sleeping siblings. He settled, heavily, into his seat, frowning at the way the girl had her brows furrowed, and how Alex, even in sleep, had a perpetual uneasy expression on his face. Running a fatigued hand through his hair, the Lucent moved, slightly, enough to watch Nocte from his peripheral vision. Nocte was looking out the window again.
She was admiring the clouds, so light and airy and insubstantial, before tapping her armrest twice. Lightly, Doctor cast a Sleep over the Earthlings to ensure their not wakening, and then he, too, looked briefly to the sky. Sighing, Nocte straightened from her seat and, as one, both she and Doctor turned to face Witley — silent, inconspicuous, loyal Witley.
The auburn had her hands on her lap, eyes downcast in a demure and lady-like manner. She was patient, having been quiet throughout the girl’s crying, the charm maker’s panic, and the Light’s guilt. She was waiting, ever waiting, for her mistress’ acknowledgment and command. The Witley was ready, had been ready since she had first landed on the foreign planet, to debrief and complete her mission — to be the spy she’d been born to be, been born as.
“Melissa,” her mistress called.
The Witley didn’t even twitch. Her mistress almost never used her given name, barring times of gravity so weighty that they could hardly influence a dire situation in a positive manner. A situation where they could hardly breathe.
“Tell us about Erisire,” Nocte said. “And Xon.”
It wasn’t that Witley couldn’t raise her gaze, but rather she wouldn’t. There was a severity in her pose: spine straight, neck stiff and chin bowed that spoke without speaking. Neither Nocte nor Doctor indicated any discomfort or curiosity, waiting, just as the spy had, patiently for natural progression, for threads to tie together.
“Mistress,” Witley began, low and even. “Forgive me for having been unprepared for the following events.”
Nocte did not respond, allowing the spy to continue. She refused to acknowledge the Witley’s shame and self-depreciation. Nocte could only imagine at this point.
“After you did not return within the first twenty-four hours of your scouting of Earth, as instructed within the Final Project’s procedures,” Witley said, “I knew that it was no accident, or that you had forgotten.”
Nocte nodded, even if the spy could not see.
“I immediately set the Four Winds to search for answers. I did not know what had happened or why.” There had been no bitterness colouring her tone, merely a levelness that masked Witley’s disgust of her own lack of knowledge. Nocte understood this to be her fault, withdrawing them to the countryside where the intrigues of the court and the secrets of the clans had been too far to hold onto or to excavate. “It did not take us long to find the reasoning for your disappearance, or who the culprit was.”
“Blackthorn,” Nocte filled. Doctor narrowed his eyes, recognizing the clan.
Witley nodded. “Princess Vanessa Blackthorn,” she confirmed. They had spoken of this before, but were reiterating for Doctor’s benefit. “After verifying Blackthorn’s involvement, the Winds and I discovered that she had interfered with your Keys — more importantly, that she had somehow managed to seal off all the Gates to Earth.”
Doctor jolted. “My Keys…”
Witley nodded, finally raising her eyes to meet Doctor’s, eyes penetrating and unnervingly still. “I know that you, Doctor Lucent, cannot return to Erisire either. This is because the Gateways have been sealed. Not only the ones between Erisire and Earth, but all Gates of all Gateways. Gates between planets. Gates between continents. Gates between countries, cities, towns. All the Gateways have been sealed and made unusable.”
Nocte’s grip on the armrests became destructive and tense; Doctor had a hard time holding back the dread that was causing him to shake. It had been a suspicion — Nocte had only assumed, but if Blackthorn had been able to seal a Gateway between planets, then rendering Gates between continents useless seemed like child’s play.
“How?” Nocte pressed darkly.
“Princess Vanessa Blackthorn is not nearly as powerful to do so herself,” Witley confirmed. “However, her power does not rely on physical strength or magic, but rather in how well she can use and manipulate those around her. She had, somehow, rallied numerous minor and common clans to her cause. What her ‘cause’ is, is unknown.
“With the Gates barring our access to certain locations, the Four Winds and I had employed much of our time in mere travelling. We were not, of course, alone. Alexander reassigned many of Laurel Tree’s guards and scouts to my authority. Our first priority,” Witley emphasized, “was — and always will be — you, mistress.”
Nocte knew this as well.
“We did not know when; it seems that events have been set into play long before your removal,” Witley said, jaw tense and eyes lighting with fury. “It was only after you were truly gone did the minor and common villains move. Why they waited for your absence is unknown, but by the first week of your missing, all the Gateways were sealed. Within the second week, several senior members of the Xonese Court had been eliminated: Advisor Bā being one of the victims.”
Nocte closed her eyes bitterly; Doctor taking a sharp intake of breath. Advisor Bā had been one of Prince Zhé Lóng’s closest supporters, loyal enough to devote himself to Empress Mĕi Fèng once Prince Zhé Lóng acknowledged her legitimacy to the Xonese throne. Despite different mothers, Prince Zhé Lóng was trustworthy to Empress Mĕi Fèng, and thus Advisor Bā was also. The loss of Advisor Bā was a loss to the Xonese Empire.
“By the Tenth Month,” Witley continued solemnly, “most of the villain clans have rallied to Blackthorn’s unknown cause; the hero clans were only now beginning to assemble.”
“What?” Doctor voiced incredulously.
“After the Xonese Civil War,” Witley explained, “the hero clans have become dismayed; uncertain of whom to follow: Yang,” she looked to Doctor sharply, “or Lucent.”
Doctor clenched his teeth. It was a hard decision for all heroes to swallow. The Lucent’s victory, was also Xinque’s undoing.
“Simultaneously,” Witley said, “news of the other countries reached us much later. The Blackthorns had regained the capital and palace of Yhaemel in the first few weeks of the Ninth Month. Tenth Month: they’ve recaptured Yhaemel and now sit as the ruling clan of the country.”
“And Dire?” Nocte hissed. She could not comprehend her brother being unresponsive. Yhaemel was his — theirs for the past three years!
“The Blackthorn has been in talks with the Yin,” Witley whispered, a sentence that hit Nocte like a fist. Witley bowed her head. “Forgive me, mistress, for not having intercepted the folly.”
Nocte breathed in deep, held it for a moment, and then exhaled. She let it fall away because there was more left unsaid. “Continue.”
“A civil war erupted in Zyrith,” the spy said. There was a pause, as if the Witley did not want to say, but then she swallowed and continued. “The Bloodstone led the charge…” She closed her eyes, and then forced them open. “…with Blackthorns within their ranks.”
“Fuck,” Doctor swore heatedly.
It was unexpected of him, but neither Nocte nor Witley blinked. He had summed up their situation well.
“The waters of Iavindine were still, but Iavindat was stirring,” Witley said. “The Khefteys did not move, but other villain clans moved against their governments. Iavindat has always been an unstable continent — numerous countries having warred with each other for generations; it did not take much for several to fall. Namaraste is now a colony of Aegyate.”
“And the Khefteys did not protest?” Nocte demanded, almost gritted.
“No, mistress.” Witley shook her head. “The Kheftey is an ally of the Yin’s.”
“It always comes back to the Yin, doesn’t it?” Doctor questioned bitterly.
Nocte did not want to admit it.
It always came back to the Yin.
There was no escape.
“The Blackthorns have been talking to the Yin. I do not know how long.” Witley was both ashamed and furious at her shortcoming. “The situation in Yhaemel — Namaraste and Aegyate — are related the Yin. The Yin gave Blackthorn Yhaemel. The Yin bound the Kheftey’s hands as their country was defeated. The Yin stayed Lamise’s politics from interfering.”
Nocte felt herself falling — crashing — burning-
Witley met her mistress’ erratic eyes and said, “The Yin have joined Blackthorn’s cause.”
Nocte flung her glass of water onto the floor. It did not shatter on the carpet, much to her annoyance, but she stood at once, wanting to punch something — someone. What had the Blackthorns said or done to tame the Yins? She sneered. The very idea that Yins could be tamed was an insult — a sacrilege.
“In Mid-Tenth Month,” Witley sounded hollowly, eyes downcast and forlorn, “the Yin began to march against the Xonese Empress-”
“Fuck them!” Nocte screamed, just as Doctor spluttered, “What?!”
Her nails dug into her palms, but Nocte did not notice the stinging or the imprints. Witley dared not speak, and Doctor was too overwhelmed to translate words either than expletives or nonsensical babble.
With great care, Witley highlighted, “The Hēis are playing along, but they are also stalling. Fog Mountain — those who are still loyal to the late Lord Yin — are unresponsive, but the Dark Moon sect and several others stand by the Yin indefinitely. The Bright Sun sect has been halved in their numbers-”
“Where are the Lucents?” Doctor demanded, standing, the room shrinking under his weighty stare. “The Yangs? Prosperitas and Freesias? Where are they?!”
“The Lucents are floundering in their leadership; the heroes are still divided as we speak,” Witley said. “The Prosperitas are struggling to maintain whatever order is left on Zyrith, and the Freesia’s hold on Iavindine has always held strong. Iavindine dares not to assist in fear of losing control of their own lands.”
“And Yang?” Doctor pressed.
Nocte twitched, but turned away from the two. She pinned her gaze on the clouds.
“The Yangs, they are too concerned with their heir to act appropriately,” Witley said.
Nocte’s heart leapt — in dread.
“What happened?” Doctor feared the answer.
“Lord Delano Yang is,” the spy announced, “in the same situation as both you and my mistress.”
Nocte turned sharply to face Witley, who did not flinch at the darkness in her mistress’ eyes. “Explain.”
“The Blackthorns have also sealed the Gateway to Esrat, where Lord Delano Yang is currently contesting with his Final Project,” Witley said. “He is Esrat’s hero.”
Doctor gasped, bowing over, unable to get enough air. If Delano was gone, the Yangs would care of nothing but their heir. Their strong, talented, powerful heir — their pride and joy.
But Nocte didn’t care, didn’t seem to register Delano’s fate, but rather she was focused on the way Witley was looking at her expectantly, almost urging her silently to enquire, to dig further, to pull it the damn out of her. And Nocte knew — knew — what the spy wanted, what the spy wanted her to deduce. Nocte felt her stomach churn and her circulation slow to a painful heartbeat — her head growing light and sickening.
“Tell me…” Nocte choked hoarsely. “Who is Esrat’s villain.”
Witley did not hesitate when answering:
“Lord Necrosis Paine.”
#
White Rook to D5.
“You don’t have to stay,” he said at length. “This place no longer applies to you.”
There was truth in his words, and she so badly wanted to heed them, to take them and to fly with them-
But she could not leave.
Not when the board was already so scattered and jumbled and impossible to unknot.
Nocte could tell, from the frown he fought back, from the tightening of his eyes, that he felt he had erred and somehow bound her to this foreign planet without her consent. He felt that he may have burdened her, however unintentional that may have been. After all, he was the Light — he was destined to be on Earth, but she was not even the Darkness, dragged into the mess simply because she was his villain and was placed here for the Final Project.
But Doctor did not understand that it was she who had burdened him — had burdened all of them.
They were in the Galley; the Earthlings had awakened. She could hear Alex giving Chantée words of encouragement, and the girl being unusually quiet to her brother’s cajoling. After fourteen hours into the flight, none of the Erisirens have slept, not even for a second. Words had been exchanged, ideas put forth, answers coaxed from the spy, but there was nothing any of them could do when they were on Earth.
“I am here to return you to your rightful place, mistress,” Witley had said. “I have the Key that bypasses the sealed Gateway.”
And so Nocte and Doctor found themselves alone in the Galley, away from the rest of the group. The Earthlings did not need to know the tragedies of another planet, and Witley only wanted one thing. As she had said, Witley’s first priority — and always would be — her mistress, Nocte. The fate of Earth did not matter, the fate of a paranoid charm maker did not matter, the fate of a little girl did not matter. In the scheme of things, it shouldn’t for an Erisiren.
But it did for Nocte.
For Doctor.
They mattered a little too much for them.
“I cannot go,” she responded solemnly.
“Don’t,” Doctor cut in, unable to look at her from both fury and guilt, one fisted hand on the counter. “Do not think of them. I will deal with them. You must return, if only to stall the coming end — if only to stop the end. Go with Witley. Do not look back, it will be harder. This place is mine; home is yours.”
She was hurt. She was hurt with how easily he tossed words like “I,” “you,” “mine,” “yours,” when there was no him or her, no his or hers. How could this place — Earth — be his, when she lived and breathed and loved it as much as he? How could home — Erisire — be hers when he called it home. His unbending distinctions felt like a knife cutting a rope between them.
It was as if he thought of her as a being without feeling or love. It was as if he was erasing her image and placing another false one over her. How could he not know how much — how good — it felt not to be alone anymore?
It was as if he was breaking her so that she could float away in pieces — as if he deserved to fall with Earth, and she deserved to live.
She closed her eyes as they welled.
As if he was worthless.
Nocte had never thought herself fragile, thought herself a girl — a damsel in distress, until he had pulled her out of the earth and began to lead her out of the woods. He had smiled at her as if to say that it was all right, that everything was going to be fine and that he would ensure it no matter the method or consequence. He was so reassuring, sure and courageous, that she had never known how much she would need him until he was there to hold her hand. She had never thought that she would need a hero until he was there to tether her to the light and warmth and life, until he was there to save her from being buried alive.
She opened her eyes to regard him — steadier, fuller.
If this was a chess game, then Doctor Lucent would be her rook. It was the most inconspicuous of the leading pieces, in the corner, cast far off on either side of the king and queen. It did not have a lot of room to move. It was unnoticeable, almost inconsequential, straying in the background. It did not have attractive features or feats. But because of its unobtrusive placing and limited actions, the rook was oftentimes overlooked. The rook did not hide its whereabouts or its actions, but it was a castle tower, fortified and ready to defend itself and its own. The rook was a faithful and constant companion.
“I cannot go,” she repeated, hard and resolute.
Doctor was ready to protest.
“I have bound myself here,” Nocte said. “I will not go.”
He faltered, in half agony and half disbelief.
“I understand the troubles on Erisire.” Her eyes sharpened. “But I will not leave Alex or Chantée. I will not leave you here.”
“You-”
“You cannot always be the only hero,” she interrupted him.
He was bowled over.
“There is no ‘you’ and ‘I.’ There is only ‘us.’ You came for me, and I will come for you, and neither of us can persevere at this point without the other,” Nocte insisted. “If I return to Erisire alone, I cannot guarantee victory. If you face Earth’s fate alone, you cannot guarantee victory either. But if we — you and I together — face both these endings together, we have a better chance of surviving, don’t you agree?”
Doctor wanted to argue, wanted to do the self-sacrificial, hero method, but the way she growled in disapproval, as if reading his thoughts, had him backtracking. He knew — of course he knew — that she had bound herself here as much as he had. He knew that asking, begging, her to leave would be selfish, for if he were to leave her behind, he would regret and destroy himself for the rest of his living years.
“Yes,” he decided, reluctantly and with compassion. “You’re right.” The corner of his lips twitched. “As always.” He looked to her. “We’ll face both together.”
Nocte breathed easier, relieved and certain. “Thank you.”
Doctor smiled, soft and obliging. “Don’t be too happy; it won’t be easy.”
“I wasn’t thanking you for letting me stay,” she felt the need to clarify.
Doctor caught her in the eye, the eye that now (temporarily) had perfect vision, and said, “I know.”
“Thank you for staying with me,” was what they did not say. “Thank you for saving me.”
Nocte refilled her glass of water at the sink.
“We will look back on this day fondly,” was what they wished.
For they should not — could not — would not think of afterwards…
An hour.
…because there might never be an “afterwards.”
The world could end in the next hour.
#
White Pawn to H5.
Witley did not ask, and Nocte did not say. A mutual understanding had been reached between servant and mistress: they were not to return to Erisire… yet. There was still unfinished business on Earth, and Nocte had never been so grateful and fond of Witley than that moment when the spy stepped aside for her, allowing her to exit the plane first. The spy did not question her mistress’ reasoning, or even doubt whether or not her mistress’ most recent trial would end in success or just… end altogether.
The Witley was not so crass as to rebel against her mistress, not so undisciplined or unseemly.
Not so disloyal. Never disloyal.
If Doctor was her rook, then Witley was her bishop. It stood beside the king and queen on the field, the most intimate and sly piece among the ranks. It was close enough to whisper in its monarchs’ ears — far enough to catch what others were speaking of its monarchs. It had no qualms in using its power and status to its advantage, twisting laws and rules to muffle discontent and revolutionaries. But despite its noticeable position on the board, it moved fluently in the shadows. Its most prominent feature was how it struck, like a thief in the dark, like an assassin in the night, when it stole upon its victims without a sound and slit their throat clean. It was the eyes and ears of the king and queen, the perfect spy hidden blatantly before the court. The bishop was the most cutthroat and cunning of the pieces.
Nocte squinted in the glaring sunlight, the snow reflecting blinding rays into her eyes. She almost didn’t see the werewolves carrying crates from the planes and setting them down on the snow. Alex held Chantée close, and Doctor stood at Nocte’s side. They watched as the crates were pried open and the vampires ascended from the innards like shapeless corpses.
For moment, Nocte expected them to burn to dust, but finally confirmed their magic when they merely stood; Seth stretching his limbs. Similarly, the crates from the other planes were opened and a legion of vampires was unwrapped into the sun like deadly presents.
With the werewolves and humans, their numbers proved substantial.
“Mistress,” Witley said. “A Fae is watching us.”
Witley sensed the Fae before the werewolves; the shifters noticing a minute too late.
Nocte placed a hand over her eyes to shade against the sun, and peered off into the distant white. Doctor followed soon after; the werewolves already tense and ready to do battle. Pàn, who had travelled in another plane, immediately drew out his ji.
They watched as the singular Fae in the distance was joined by another.
Nocte tensed, recognizing the curved horns. It was the phooka from the Unseelie Court.
“Unseelie,” Doctor voiced.
Soon, a crowd of Unseelie Fae were moving toward them. Weapons were drawn from their side, but the Unseelie were unfazed. Nocte hesitated in assembling an Ice Sword, more curious than cautious. The Unseelie did not seem aggressive, but rather resigned instead. Doctor seemed to understand as well, lowering his Ice Staff at the nearing mass.
Slowly, Nocte began to make out the Unseelies’ features. One, in particular, caught her eye. He had long brown hair, tied back into a low ponytail. He had a grace, much too graceful to be human — much to perfect to be human, that allowed him easy travel along the deep and soft snowy ground. But it was eyes, a violet so shadowy, so slippery, that resounded in her memory.
The Unseelie paused at an invisible line, close enough to speak with, but not close enough to invade the werewolves’ territorial space.
Achindra was ready to step forward, but Nocte had to confirm.
She looked to the violet eyes — the grace that was not human — and with a nod she acknowledged, “Nahele.”
“Somnium,” he returned, no longer indulgent or tranquil.
It was not her name.
White Queen to B6.