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The following morning was one for the record books. As sunlight poured into Nero’s bay windows, loud voices were heard from downstairs.

“I demand to know where I am! You have no inkling of whom you are dealing with!” came the irritated low timbre from downstairs.

It was of course, met with silence. 

What in the hell is going on? Nero thought groggily, rolling over in his bed.

“You are treading on thin ice, wench. I will not stand for impertinence.”

Oh great.  Last nights memories came flooding back to him, and it took everything Nero had, not to stay right there in his bed until everything blew over.  He sat up, heading towards the door, paying no mind to his boxer-clad body. As he trudged downstairs, he could smell Emela’s cooking wafting from the kitchen.

“You will tell me what I need to know, wench, or I will end your—“

“Hey, hey there, Legolas. That’s my mom you’re talking to. Show some damned respect.” Nero frowned at the Elf looming menacingly over a now human looking Emela.

The Elf turned on his heel, glowering at Nero. Sharp, clear, cold blue eyes regarded Nero with distaste.

 

“You will tell me my whereabouts, whelp,” the Elf ordered, leaving no room for argument.

“You will kindly calm the fuck down, sir.” Nero snorted. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but last I remember, I was the one who dragged your sorry ass up the beach last night. My mom saved your life, so a little gratitude would be nice.”

Emela shot him a chastising look for the language, but at the moment, Nero really couldn’t bring himself to care. She’d lied to him; he could swear in front of her. Fair trade.  “I know you can talk, mom, so. Just. I don’t know, tell him something so we can get the Elf out of our kitchen.”

Said Elf, didn’t look too happy with Nero’s flippantness, but hey, fuck him too. As far as Nero was concerned, all of this was his fault anyway.

“We should wait for Krisian to rise, he will tell you all you need to know, treasure.” Emela thought-spoke to him, or them, judging by the Elf’s expression. She turned back to the pots and pans on the stove before placing a couple omelets on the island counter with a bowl of grits for Nero and a…salad for the Elf.

“Eat, your Highness. My healing magic will have drained much of your strength. You should be famished.” Emela said, before turning back to the stove.

The Elf prince stood haughtily, staring down his nose at the woman.

"Rivenir Etneloim. Have. A. Seat." Emela growled at the mal who looked surprised at her words. Gingerly, he lowered himself down to the barstool and glowered at her.

“You know my name,” he said, staring at her.

“I know much more than that. Eat, Your Highness, so we can see to getting you home,” Emela said, rather flippantly now, as if to say ‘and out of our hair.’

“And how will we go about doing that?”



~*~*~*~*~

The witch looked up from her novel and glanced towards the door. They would be coming and they would be nothing but trouble. They would be here soon.

She stood and ambled over to the bathroom, grabbing a bottle of Tylenol. Downing half the bottle, she went to pour herself a nice tumbler of whiskey. She reckoned she had about three hours—then she could kiss her peace and quiet goodbye.

~*~*~*~*~

“Don’t you think that the people might have a bit of a problem with a seven foot Elf wandering about the city?”

“I have glamoured him against the eyes of humans. He will be fine. No one will notice his Otherness. Go now, Krisian is returning. You will seek out the witch Evete and she will explain to you, Nerorin, and take you home, Your Highness,” Emela spoke with a sigh.

“Home?” Rivenir scoffed. “Home is what brought me here. There are traitors in the Dark. Those who wish my father evil—and greater still, there is a greater evil mounting in The Blackness.”

“You mean to tell me you came here of your own accord?” Emela asked, her focus trained on the Elf.

“No, but neither do I intend to return until I know what I face,” Rivenir said with a frown.

Nero was mildly impressed. He thought these fairytale princes were all valor and honor and save the realm, warn my father—but this one was surprisingly intelligent. He’d always had a problem with the men of those stories rushing headlong into certain danger.

Rivenir frowned as Emela turned from him. “You know full well what you face, Etneloim, don’t try to run from it. Face it, and this world may yet survive.”

Nero frowned. That did not sound good. He had a sinking feeling that he was going to be much more involved in this fairytale story than he would like to be.

~*~*~*~*~

The bell to Tea Time rang pleasantly as six feet tromped upon her sanded hardwood floors. She stood, tightening her apron and heading downstairs and to her store.

“Welcome to Tea Time,” she said, with a small smile. My, they were more handsome than she’d gleaned from the small vision she’d been allowed. But that still didn’t mean she wanted them here.

She sauntered past them, flipping the closed sign and the lock for her Marketstreet shop. She turned to them and sighed. “Get on with it,” she said curtly, her voice was light, though strong, and carried a faint English accent. “I don’t want you three here all day pestering me. What is it that the Dragoness sent you to me for?”

The three boys—well, one boy and two men who were older than this city—looked thunderstruck.

“You? You’re the witch, Evete?” asked one of them—the blonde boy with the strange haircut and the Magi’s eyes. Power swirled within him—dangerous and crackling. He was an old one—and he was powerful indeed. But he was very much still a boy, and could do with some learning.

“I am,” she nodded, sauntering over to a chair behind her tea counter. That’s what women with hips like hers did. They sauntered, swayed and generally bounced with no small degree of appeal.

“You’re…prettier I expected.” The blond one said, eying her form. The youngest, with skin like coffee and Seers eyes simply stared between her and the blonde boy. The tall one—the Elf Prince, remained silent, but she could see impatience brewing within him.

“Yes, yes. Three thousand years and I’ve still kept my figure,” She snorted in reply. “Now, what. Do. You. Want?” he frowned.

“We were sent here by—“

“The Lady Emerela, Dragoness of the Western Keep. I am aware,” Evete snorted. “She is my blood sister, after all.”

The boy, the Seer gasped. “You’re my aunt?” he asked.

Evete snorted. “No. I am your mother’s blood. We are bonded, by our blended blood. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Nero frowned. “I don’t understand—“

“Did you come here to ask me useless questions, or did you come to glean knowledge of how to return to the Dark?”  Evete frowned. She had been right to stave off the headache beforehand. These boys were quite dull of wit.

“You, Elf Prince. How did you come to be here, in the World Above the Dark?” she asked, folding her arms across her ample bosom.

“I have a feeling you already know how I’ve arrived,” Rivenir replied. This witch was…dangerous. She had no alliances to his kingdom—and could not be trusted.

“I do, but to hear it from those pretty lips of yours would just make my day,” she smirked.

Rivenir felt his dislike of the woman grow, but hissed out a sigh. “I was attacked, by a shadow, in the High Gardens of Le’uinr Keep. I was wounded, and thrust through a portal of shining light, to the World. That is where the whelp found me.”

“My name is Nero, you twat,” Nerorin frowned. He didn’t like him—the Elf prince. She could see that. He didn’t know of their impending bond, of their coming trials. They would need to grow to like each other—and they would grow to like one another. She grinned.

“You will not address me as such, you bastard,” The Elf Prince shot back.

“Children, I do not have time for your bickering,” Evete sighed. “You were sent to the World Above the Dark for a purpose, Elf Prince. And that purpose was to return the Seer to the Dark.”