Mutants & Masterminds: Lake City Universe - Home of Heroes: A Bargain Struck at Summer's End (Fic)

[SalmonMax]

A Bargain Struck at Summer's End

The view from the Icecrown was spectacular as Sigil mounted the weathered, frosted steps that wound torturously to the peak. From there one could see spread out like a tablecloth, all of the Marches…all the way to the sapphire sea and the distant crystal tower that was Whitespire. The Marches were close enough to the mortal world to have a sun and a moon; a day and night, though the timing of those things was far removed from the clockwork procession of hours fixed by heavenly courses and cosmic forces. The sun was rising now, casting golden light over the plains and forests, and lighting Whitespire itself up as if from within.

It was a contrast to the barren moutains that surrounded her now; the last bastion of Winter in a land that had basked under Summer’s rule for many years. The Icecrown rose behind her now like a jagged, decayed fang in an old tom’s mouth. Black stone caked with white hoarfrost, it’s parapets empty, its carved and en-gargoyled windows staring hollowly. Around it were little piles of ice that lay in broken pieces, and one intact ice sculpture in the shape of a woman in a high-necked gown, face twisted in fury and hand drawn back as if in mid-strike.

Sigil’s radiant green eyes were drawn inexorably from the vista to that sculpture. It pulled at her. Even frozen, Octavia had power.

Not for the first time, she wondered why she hadn’t smashed the statue after her victory at Icecrown so long ago. She’d rescued the others from the ice, and stared up at Octavia’s frozen features…and left her there. Had she known somehow then that one day she’d be back? It would have been so easy to do. It would STILL be easy to do. A flick of the Wand to lift it, another to smash it down again, and Octavia would be gone forever. The temptation to do so tore at her like a sudden arctic blast of wind. The winter witch deserved it, and much worse, for what she’d done during her seemingly endless reign. The reality was that there were a LOT of entities in the Marches that could use a good smashing. She’d been too soft, as a Queen…the respect of the Unseelie would be won not by trickery and diplomacy, but by strength and the willingness to use it.

In her mind’s eye she saw herself holding the turn of the seasons back. When the clouds gathered, she would put up great torches, fuelled with wood from the forests and coal from the bogs, to keep light and warmth in the sky. The Summer would last forever! And if the forests had to be stripped bare, and every sprite and boggart had to work the coal mines, she would see it done!

She saw the Whitespire a lonely tower of ice amidst a snowy waste, surrounded by dead torches and statues of ice, with an eternally frozen sea stretching out behind it…and a part of her whispered, if that is what must be for me to rule, then so be it.

Quickly, Sigil retreated to the center of her, the warmth of her beating heart, where she saw a locked box lay. In the box was the name given to a squalling newborn girl, so long ago that none alive still remembered it…save one. With infinite tenderness and some melancholy, she touched the name, and for that moment the Queen of the Fey Marches was gone, and she was just a frightened little girl, following the funny lights between the great stones again.

The cold wind, both literal and metaphoric…was there a difference here…receded, and the clouds that had momentarily blown in front of the sunrise scudded on out to sea. Sigil looked down and saw another dead leaf at her feet. The fringes of the Mantle were a little browner than they had been yesterday; the curling tendrils and bright green leaves a little less vibrant.

Time was short.

Sigil lifted the Wand; a tapered, fluted spiral of polished ivory that looked like a unicorn’s horn, and concentrated. “Alastor,” she said.

Before her, the stallion of the White Herd appeared, a unicorn of great size and unmistakable ferocity appeared…even though it was just a projection, seeing him again made her want to run and throw her arms around his neck in a feckless hug. Alastor had been one of her first friends among the fey, and his loyalty had never wilted, even when the Black Herd had surrounded him and all had seemed lost.

He bowed his majestically maned head before her, though did not touch his horn to the ground…it wouldn’t be proper now that he was the first stallion. “My Queen,” he said in his deep, resonant voice.

“Move the Herd,” she said. “Gather around Whitespire. The Winter is coming. The new foals will be of the Black.”

Alastor’s nostrils flared at that, and his head tossed slightly. “What of you?”

Sigil smiled. “I’ll be fine. I will be gone for a time, but I will return…and bring Summer with me, if I have anything to say about it. Don’t fight more than you have to. Save what can be saved, and fall back. Wait for the sun.”

The unicorn stared at her shrewdly, and said, “I’d have followed you. Though the world froze, and my hide blackened, I’d have stayed by your side. Ninny and Lunk as well.”

She sighed and rubbed her forehead. “You’ve been talking without me.”

“We’re not blind, Queen Sigil. The days grow shorter. The Mantle changes color. Your rule has been long, but the seasons turn and always have.”

“I can’t be the next Winter, Alastor,” Sigil said softly. “I won’t.”

Alastor gave her an equine grin and bobbed his head in an approximation of a nod that made his silky beard wave. “I know. You never lost your heart, like she did. We will wait for your return.”

With her eyes suddenly full of tears, Sigil moved to put her hand on the stallion’s nose…but he was already dissolving in a mass of wildly looping particles of light.

Sigil stared for a moment at where he’d been, feeling more alone than she had in…she didn’t even know how long. Then she looked down at her fingers, adorned as they were with a single ring set with a wide diamond that had been ground flat and given a polished finish. She touched it gently and said, “You are now one of the heirlooms of the Throne of the Marches, to be passed from Queen, to Queen, by Queens, until the sky dims to Twilight, and the Marches are no more.”

It glimmered, but nothing more.

Now the moment she’d dreaded…the moment she’d come here for. Sigil faced the icy prison of Octavia and lifted the Wand again.

“Queen of air and shadow; of ice and snow and hate,

The death of warm, the oncoming storm, before which all good things flee.

By powers vast and ancient, your spell I shall abate.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Break the ice. Set her free.”

Thunder boomed among the dark clouds swirling just behind the mountains. Were they closer now? Another chill wind blew, and the ice of Octavia’s statue cracked suddenly, making Sigil jump back and raise the Wand. Her heart was stammering in her chest, and she felt she couldn’t breathe fast enough.

Then the ice burst, peppering Sigil with little chunks, and Octavia was free.

To her credit, she adjusted fast. For a moment she blinked, surprised that Sigil wasn’t still in her grasp, and wasn’t covered in ice. Then she saw the woman standing not far away and lifted her hand as if she still held the Wand…and paused when she realized she did not. Her eyes flicked up to the Laurel Crown on her head, to the leafy Mantle around her shoulders. The ivory Wand in her hand. She closed her eyes and lowered her hand, then laughed softly, bitterly to herself and brushed her black hair up out of her eyes where her violent exit from the ice had disheveled her coiffure.

“What do you want from me?” the once and future Queen of Winter asked resignedly.

Sigil took a deep breath. “To negotiate the terms of my surrender.”

Octavia’s eyes were deep and black when they snapped open to regard Sigil angrily. “Is that why you brought me back? To toy with me?”

“No. I will give you the Throne of the Marches, but only if you swear to some conditions.”

Octavia narrowed her eyes and paced to one side a little, always still facing Sigil. Searching for signs of weakness. But Sigil had the regalia, and was Queen still. Without an army, and the force of the turning season behind her, Octavia didn’t seem to like her chances. “To spare your friends, I suppose?" she sneered. "Promise not to hurt anyone?”

Sigil shook her head slowly. She'd considered that, but it wasn't in the nature of Winter to be able to make an oath like that. It would be like swearing not to breathe. “No. These are the conditions. First, you will not touch me with hand, nor weapon, nor curse nor spell for a year and a day from the moment the bargain is sealed. Second, you will stay in Icecrown during that time, not venturing forth into the Marches…”

Octavia peered narrowly at Sigil. “I don’t have to agree to anything, do I?” She waved a hand at where the trailing edge of the Mantle dangled behind Sigil’s feet, now brown and red and orange. “The seasons turn. My time is coming. I could just sit and wait.”

“You could,” Sigil replied, “But I can fight this for some time to come. I don’t have to make it easy for you. Or you can take the Throne now, today.”

The other fey queen watched Sigil closely, try to see what the game was. "You're in such a hurry to be deposed. I wonder if you feel it now. If you understand now. The seasons aren't just about snow and sun here. The Queen is the land, and the land is the Queen."

Sigil nodded slowly.

Octavia's smile was unpleasant. Pretty, but unpleasant, like the rest of her. "Not such a crusader now, are you? Giving the land to your mortal foe, just so you don't have to sully yourself. What's worse, I wonder? Being evil...as you call it...or being a coward?"

Sigil just shrugged. She didn't know the answer to that herself, for all her scheming.

"I have conditions of my own. If I’m to be trapped here, then I won’t have you rampaging around, preparing for war. For that time of a year and a day you will be banished.”

“Fair enough. The Elder Kingdom then. Deep in the Twilight.”

“No. The mortal world.”

Sigil’s eyes widened. She was a good actress. “But…the Ways are closed…”

“You’re bound by blood; follow that tie through the Mists.” Octavia grinned unpleasantly. “Or don’t. Get lost forever. I’m fine with that too.”

“If I’m that far away, then this should be more than a year an…”

Octavia leapt forward, getting in Sigil’s face. “No! This is the bargain! It’s this, or I will watch you slowly decay and wither, as I gather my forces and grow strong! You will give me the three implements of the Regalia, making me Queen again. You will be banished to the Mist, and may not return here for a year and a day from when we make this accord. In return I will not harm you by hand or deed or tool or spell for that time, and I will personally remain in Icecrown for that time.” She smirked. “Though my influence will spread regardless.”

Sigil bit the tip of her tongue in her mouth. Almost done. Almost.

“I’ll give you the crown of laurel, that will turn to thorns on your head,” she said. “I’ll give you the Mantle, which will be as raven’s feathers for you.” Octavia folded her arms, a triumphant sneer on her lips. “I’ll give you the third implement of the regalia; the power that turned you to ice…” Sigil looked at the Wand, remembering how its bolt had struck her polished ring and bounced back at Octavia at the last moment…

“I will be banished from Faerie for a year and a day from the time this bargain is sealed. In return you will not harm me by hand, deed, tool or spell for that time, and will be bound to Icecrown until that time has gone.”

Heart heavy, Sigil extended her hand. Octavia quickly flicked it with one of her sharp nails, drawing a pinprick of blood, then did the same to her own.

“I swear by my name,” they said in unison, locking eyes. “By my blood. So mote it be.”

There was a deep vibration in the earth, like something immeasurably huge settling into place. The dark clouds began to swarm forward, overtaking Icecrown immediately. They funneled down around Octavia, lifting her hair up as she laughed.

The Mantle reared up and outward, like a pair of wings, and flew from Sigil’s back to gather itself around Octavia’s. Dead leaves spun out of it wildly, leaving black feathers in their places. The crown of leaves and vines and flowers lifted from Sigil’s head and turned black, sprouting long, vicious thorns that only curved upward like tiny horns. It whisked across to sit atop Octavia’s head. Already her skin was paling, her lips and eyes darkening, assuming her old power again.

Octavia held out a hand. “The Wand.”

Sigil took a deep breath and held up her hand…and pulled off her ring. It floated across to Octavia and nestled in her hand.

She looked at it. She looked back at Sigil. “What is this?”

“That is what turned you to ice.”

“It is not of the regalia! And it…it’s not! The wand does that!”

Sigil shook her head. “The wand struck the ring, which took the power into itself, then spat it out again…but copying that power was IT’S power, not just the wand’s reflected. And I made it part of the regalia moments before I awoke you.”

“You swore an oath! You owe me the Regalia!”

“I swore to give you three items of the Regalia. It’s not my responsibility that you didn’t know there were four now.”

Octavia’s face twisted from something coldly beautiful into a mask of fathomless, bottomless rage. She threw herself at Sigil, clawed hands reaching for her throat…

…and stopped as if on a leash, less than an inch from her target. Octavia keened inhumanly, trying vainly to find a crack in the oath she’d sworn not to harm her. Her bones fluoresced under her skin, gleaming greenly visible in her fury.

“I will desecrate everything you have ever loved, that you’ve ever done, and make every last friend, every ally, every mean thing that has ever blessed your name look on you with terror and loathing!” she screamed. “There is no peak high enough, no hole nor ocean deep enough, no castle with thick enough wall to hide you from me!”

The Mists began to rise around Sigil as the world itself bent to the force of their oath, and Octavia’s rant began to fade in volume, if not in earnestness.

“Take your year and day, and spend them well! The very hour, the very MINUTE that time is gone, tilt your head and hear the Horn! Hear the baying of the Hounds! You will not know a moment’s peace and I will ride you to every Hell and back again before I let you diiii….”

Then all was grey, and cool, and quiet. The Mists were all, and everywhere, blanketing sight and sound and mind. Everything was indistinct, even the feel of her own body. She knew that the Wand was still in her white-knuckled grip, and she was fairly sure she was either screaming or sobbing. The wrath of a fey queen was not to be trifled with…and facing that as her own power was stripped from her…

Now she was lost in the Mist. Once there had been silver paths linking the worlds…the Ways of the Moon that had made the Fey Marches very important to the fey. Then the Ways had dwindled and vanished; the circles of stone grew quiet, and the Marches were largely ignored now. But Octavia had been correct, and Sigil had already planned on this. She’d been born in the mortal world, by mortal blood. It was HER world.

She held up the hand Octavia had pricked for the oath, and closed her eyes. It pulled ever so slightly…and with an effort of will, she flew in that direction as fast as she could. The Mists were far from safe. Even with her tie to show her the way, this was a big risk. There was no guarantee she’d be able to move from the Mists to the world. There would have to be thin places…she just needed to find one thin enough to breach in her weakened condition.

If not, all she’d accomplished was buying her friends a little time before the end

[Heritage]

Love this so much!