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onewhoturnsA/N Oct 2018: The continuation of the faeU! In which we meet Delilah. Elsewhere: my AO3, FFnet, ko-fi preview for 3-3.
Story Title: Iron & Gold
Chapter Title: The Usurper
Chapter Part: 2/3
Story Part: 10/?
Pairing: Emily/Outsider (emsider)
Word count: 2333
Rating: T maybe M
Summary: Ever since she was a child Emily had been cautioned: beware the fae. She’d heard the typical warnings – faerie rings, wishing wells, mysterious lights in the darkness. But they were just cautionary tales... [A Dishonored fae AU]
start here (prelude), previously (3-1), next part (3-3)
Emily felt her head pounding and breath shallow even as she held her head high, irritated but not altogether ungrateful for the unyielding holds of the women who guided her back to the royal palace. Her legs were trembling. Had she been asked to walk on her own, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to stay as composed.
At first the shifting of the fae woman had made her dizzy, but Emily found that if the adjusted the way she saw - or maybe the way she thought - she could stop the constant change, instead leaving a slight blue cast around the woman in her human guise. If only she could acquire the other promised abilities as quickly as she grasped the True Sight.
The fae woman made a soft tutting noise, running a light touch over the raw skin of Emily’s cheek and making her flinch. “Poor girl.”
Her cooed pity was unsettling. “Would you like me to fix it for you?”
Emily didn’t respond. She’d made enough faerie bargains for the day. She was still bitter at being left to fend for herself, nauseated and weak, when she was supposed to have been gifted with power. Worse, the woman gave off an aura that drew Emily to her even as she felt repulsed. It was best to hold her tongue. ...And, apparently, her consent didn’t matter, as she felt a soft tickle as flesh wove together again, her cheek left reddened but healed.
Exiting the maze, she found a few newcomers loitering on the terrace, most occupied among themselves drinking and laughing and staring, their eyes glowing in the hellish light of the bonfire. She tensed at the snapping bark of a hound from across the open space. Nothing implied it was anything more than a particularly vicious dog - not the barghest the women had spoken of - but its rumbling growl didn’t reassure her. Neither did the smirk on the face of the woman sinking a hand into the dog’s fur.
They were all women - young women - at least, all she’d seen thus far. They reminded her too much of her imprisonment during the plague. And nearly all of them had some touch of light on them. Enchanted? Were they being controlled somehow? If Emily could break whatever magic held them, perhaps she could weaken their ranks and escape.
Almost at the entrance back into the great hall she spotted a woman lounging, tipped back in a chair that leaned perilously against a stone column. As she watched, the woman lifted a hand thoughtlessly, and a vine that had wrapped the column curled down to her, blooming in the course of seconds. And it was done so carelessly, so casually…
Witches.
Making a decision, she jerked as though she might break from her captors’ hold, and was unsurprised when they tightened their grip. But she’d done what she intended. And as they crossed the threshold into the hall, she threw her shoulder into the human on her right, knocking all three of them into a jumble, and her newly positioned hand was in just the right spot to lift the blade from the woman’s belt. She shouldn’t use it here - not while she was surrounded - but if they ever had her somewhere more secluded she’d at least have a weapon. In the confusion she tucked the knife into her pocket and winced as the tip poked through the slightest bit, nicking her leg, and spilling a tiny stream of salt as well.
Once they’d forced her into their hold again - head once more held high - she finally glanced around the room. Much of the food from the feast had survived, it seemed, strewn over tables where witches propped their feet, played cards - something was on fire on one table. Vines that hadn’t been there earlier in the day had begun a slow creep through windows and doorways. Emily spotted a couple more fae in the room, though every single person had some touch of magic on them. At the dais - in her seat, the throne made for her to sit in - was an unfamiliar woman. A face cut like stone, all sharp angles and facets, she draped herself across the arms of the throne lazily, one hand buried in the black fur of a dog the size of a bear, the other dangling one of Emily’s crowns from a finger.
Emily kept her expression carefully cool, not glaring even as every inch of her seared with rage at the destruction and disrespect shown to her castle - to her kingdom. Her stare was level, almost aloof, chin raised as the witches brought her before the sharp-faced woman, each of them giving the smallest of bows, the fae grinning as she did so. Only once did her gaze dart to the creature beside the throne -- to its red eyes and eerily calm demeanor. No growling, no sniffing - just a steady stare and a thin line of saliva trailing from its unmoving muzzle.
“My darling niece.” The woman spoke with a lofty air, though acid wove through her words, cocking her head at Emily as her lips curled in a sneer. “You finally decided to grace us with your presence.”
Emily refused to react. Niece? She had no aunts or uncles -- her father’s sister had died years ago in another kingdom, and her mother was an only child.
The lack of response had the intended effect - the woman shifted from her position, looking irked as she sat up in the throne. “You’ve been demoted, I’m afraid.” Emily could sense how she overcompensated with even more arrogance. Good. She wanted this witch unsettled. “But if you’re very good I might let you stay in the palace.”
Emily’s eyes locked with the witch. “I’d rather not.”
A hand clenched into a fist and the high table cracked down the center, ripping apart to leave a clear path to the throne. Emily’s knees locked, even as the sound made her stomach jolt. The woman - the usurper - stood with a forced calm, stepping to the edge of the short steps leading to the dais. Now that the way was clear, Emily could see a small pile of her tiaras beside the throne, most somehow warped or broken. “You do not show the proper respect for your queen.”
“You aren’t a proper queen.”
She spotted the twitch of muscle in the witch’s jaw. “I am Delilah Kaldwin. My father was Euhorn Jacob Kaldwin and I have more right to reign that you ever did.” That sneer returned. “Now bow.”
Was it true? Emily had difficulty believing it. She kept her stare cold and clear and ever steady.
“I said bow.”
One of her captors dug a hand into Emily’s hair, scratching at her skull and trying to push her head down for her, but Emily grit her teeth, adamantly pushing back, refusing. A swift kick, though, and she was brought to her knees. Her head spun, the sickness she’d been trying to push back making her hands tremble as she stopped herself from sprawling flat on the ground.
She heard a crack and shift, and the stone by her sides hummed, jagged lines spiderwebbing across them until roots wormed their way through. Emily watched them uneasily, wondering if now was the time to pull out the knife, sitting up onto her thighs to draw herself away from the creeping plants.
Delilah had stepped forward, off the dais. As she placed a hand on Emily’s head Emily realized she wore some kind of sharpened rings. Two iron claws that lengthened her middle and pointer fingers to fine tips that now dug into the back of Emily’s skull as Delilah cocked her head appraisingly at the former-queen’s quickly heating glare.
“Good choice, sister,” she praised the woman who had kicked Emily down. “I think I like her better like this.”
It was getting harder for Emily to contain her anger. Never had she been manhandled in such a manner. At least not for the past ten years. Unable to let the indignity continue, she swatted the woman’s hand away. “You’ll like me best when my blade’s in your-”
Another kick to the back sent her down again, and her vision swam for a moment. The roots that had seeped through the cracks went for her wrists, catching one as she just barely pulled the other free, tucking it back behind her to avoid the grasping plant only to have her arm lifted and levered forward painfully by the witch beside her. She lifted her face to glare at Delilah, refusing to keep her eyes on the ground, even though the position made her neck ache. She wanted to curse, to threaten, to antagonize the witch, but that could only make things worse.
Delilah watched her for a long moment, her anger fading into a chilly calm. A grim and vicious smile came to her lips. “Such time spent on introductions. I very nearly neglected your birthday gift.” She raised a hand, and Emily spotted motion out of the corner of her eye. “I want her on her feet for this,” the witch commanded, and the root loosened as the fae woman pulled her other arm back, hauling Emily to her feet again.
The witch was taller than her, and for some reason that fact alone irritated Emily to no end. Her shoulders were growing sore. “Release me,” she snapped the demand to her captors.
They, of course, ignored her. But Delilah smiled disparagingly. As one root curled around Emily’s ankle, the usurper nodded and Emily’s arms were freed.
She rubbed her aching joints, glaring at her supposed aunt as another woman - shifting like a fae in a manner that forced Emily to immediately adjust her sight - walked forward with a small silver platter. Emily raised her chin as Delilah took hold of the thing.
Six perfectly identical slices of fruit lay evenly arranged on the platter. They looked much like the gilded apples from the earlier feast, but their flesh was a warmer, brassier golden color, reflective in the light of the hall. Just their smell made her mouth water.
“I was gone from this kingdom for many years. I traveled to many lands. I discovered many things.” The woman waved the platter toward Emily, and Emily pulled away. “It’s rude to turn down a gift, Emily.”
She hated the way her name sounded on the witch’s lips. Even more, she hated how tempted she was. She wasn’t stupid - she knew faerie fruit when she saw it, she’d heard enough warnings - but in person it was impossible to ignore a scent that had her licking her lips unconsciously. Her nausea dissipated at the thought of golden juice spilling down her throat.
“Take a bite.”
Her hand was halfway to the fruit before she realized what she was doing. She hesitated, watching the offending limb, commanding it to stop its movement. Eyes flicked to Delilah-- to the satisfied smirk that twisted her lips--
And she’d overturned the platter, listening to the metal ring against the stone floor, the fruit scattered on the ground. Shimmering liquid seeped from each slice, soaking into the stone.
Somehow Delilah’s look became crueler, even as Emily’s hands were once more wrestled to her sides. The witch stood silently for a moment, then spoke in a low breath, “I almost hoped you’d do that.” Emily watched warily as, with a flick of her hand, Delilah stepped back.
The woman - the fae - who’d brought the fruit forward to begin with, returned. She was smiling-- so sweetly, too, with an almost affectionate warmth. Bending gracefully, she picked up a slice of the faerie fruit from the ground.
Shit. Shit. Emily had salt in her pockets, if she’d just spilled some of it on the platter she could have nullified the magic of the fruit. Her arms had been free, why hadn’t she just--
The smiling fae brought the fruit to Emily’s face. She jerked away, wrenching at the hold on her arms, and clenched her jaw closed.
The fingers holding the delicacy dripped gold, more juice bleeding from it than seemed physically possible.
“Shhhh-” A hand tried to stroke Emily’s hair, tried to calm her, but she kicked out-- only to have her other foot pinned to the ground. Still, she struggled. Even with a hand on the back of her head, she wouldn’t open her lips until her nose was held shut, and then her teeth stayed bared as the woman pressed the slice against her mouth, metallic juice spilling down her chin and between her teeth until she snatched at the slice just to spit it back to the floor.
She spat and spat, trying to cleanse the poisonous thing from her tongue, though she felt the honey-sweet nectar coating it. It was delicious. The most delicious thing she’d ever tasted. It made her tongue tingle and her chest warm pleasantly, and she’d barely tasted it at all.
It took three people and two roots to hold her still. One of the witches had her arms, another had one hand woven through her hair to hold her head still as the other dug into the hinges of her jaw hard enough to leave bruises. And then there was the fae. Beautiful, peaceful, even as she held Emily’s nose shut and hooked that same piece of faerie fruit - because why not, who cared if a queen ate from the floor - into her mouth, two fingers pushing the pulpy mess very nearly down her throat. She tried to snap her teeth closed, or to spit the thing out again - she wanted to gag - but the witches were relentless. She pushed pulp back out of her mouth, hitting the fae’s hand and dribbling gold down her chin, but it wasn’t enough. She had to breathe, so she had to swallow. Even once she had swallowed they held her mouth closed an extra few seconds.
But those seconds didn’t feel nearly as awful.
