Person of Interest
The entrance to the Fae court is on Allenby Terrace. Down the first three flights of steps you turn left, through the gap in the fence. It looks like a burned-out shell of a building from the steps themselves, but once you face it directly, you see it for what it is. Still old and overgrown, but also as solid as the day it was built, if it ever was built.
The odd visitor who is paying attention will notice that even in this, its inhabitants are bound by the geas upon them. The graffiti sprayed on the building you see from the steps has the tag ‘Sarda’, repeated over. It is the name of the Lord of the court, the creature who the two humans standing in the atrium were asking to see.
They weren’t as desperate as some of the humans who made their way to the House, but neither were they as foolhardy or arrogant as some others. I wasn’t sure which way they would go. It was interesting to me- and very little, after so long, was ever truly interesting.
The female’s fear response had triggered as I entered the room. She started back and behind the male, eyes darting around her and taking in everything. The room, the objects, the large doorway inlaid with iron, and of course my appearance which, I am told by certain of our bolder slaves, is quite alarming on first viewing. Apparently it’s something to do with the ram horns.
“We w-want to see Lord Sarda,” said the male, trying to hide his own trepidation with his voice. He looked me in the eye, though. Not many of them have the courage for that. I was- vaguely- impressed.
“I will tell his Lordship,” I replied, “but if you do wish audience, there is the question of a gift.” I indicated the objects arranged on every surface of the room.
“Somewhere in here,” I continued, “is something my Lord Sarda will want very much. You have only to cross the iron line with it, and you will be granted your audience.”
I stepped back and motioned them to look around and select something.
The male began examining the objects on the shelves. He shuddered at the sight of the cockatrice feet and the dead weasel. The narwhal horn seemed to intrigue him, and he lingered for quite some time over the phoenix egg.
Eventually and to my disappointment, he selected the goblin crown. “Stay here,” he told the female, and marched through the door.
“Ah,” I heard my Lord exclaim as he stepped across the iron into the court and the doors closed behind him “such a wonderful gift…”
The female looked over at me. Somehow her- partner? sibling?- leaving the room made her remember herself a little. She looked around, and then I heard her repeat my own words under her breath. A thought came to her, and I could tell it was like a shard of ice piercing her heart.
“Something your Lord will want,” she said after a minute composing herself. “You never said it was one of these things.”
“No,” I said, “I did not.”
“It was him, wasn’t it?” she said, her voice even. “Him. Or me. Whichever, or both, of us. If we stepped across the line. We’re the gift.”
I am as bound by the geas as any others.
“Yes,” I said.
“I’m leaving now,” she told me.
“Very well. I can’t stop you.” And I couldn’t.
But just for a moment, as she walked out, not looking behind her even at the first of the screams, I understood why some of my kind create half-bloods.