Author's Note: Alrighty, then. This is the fourth in the series. (Jeeze, how did it get so out of hand?) It's something I've been working on. I hope you like it. Lol. If you're picking this one up as your first read, then that's okay. You don't have to read the others first. But, if you want to, the order is like so: "Seven Secrets", "Seven Colors", "Seven Shades" and then, "Seven Points". I was also listening to "Amaranth" by: Nightwish while writing this.
I don't own the Hellboy characters. Wish I did though.
He's been gone centuries--a millennia--and still, the moment she walks into the Chamberlain's hall, it's like he never left. Her eyes are the same precious amber-gold he recalled from times and dreams long past; her skin looks soft and he aches to touch it. Her hair is a little shorter than she once wore it, but he can overlook that, because she's there and speaking to him; he'd give anything to please her. He turns over his weapon on impulse and she smiles. It's all for her smile. He pledges, to himself, that after this war he will make her smile every moment until the end of time.
His eyes are locked on the marble figure of his regal father, upon his withered throne, seemingly consumed by the realization of it; he's aware, though, that she's gone. He doesn't chase after her, not immediately, because he understands; the echo of her sorrow, her betrayal, was resonating inside him as well despite her best attempts to close herself off. It was impossible of course--they were bound. He's right--has always been right--and now that he's free to chase his own dreams, he feels a sense of accomplishment. However, what lacks is not the crown or the glory, but rather, the presence of his angel, who's love is the only vindication he's ever required.
The earth-creatures tell him Wink is gone, killed by a red demon; he rushes to the site, hoping to save his companion from death, but to no avail. Wink is crushed and unrecognizable in his death, but at least it was quick and he suffered little. The agony rises up in his chest--the anger at the senseless waste. Nuala's scent is in the air; he can smell it even over the noxious odors of the market and the repugnance of charred troll. She is flowery and pure, like driven snow and winter winds. Like a goddess, she reaches out to him in their minds--the first touch since their father's demise--and he can feel the comfort and peace flowing down into his body. He takes it greedily and holds it close, desperate to have her, even now as she stands with his enemies.
She's standing before the fire, anxious. He comes up behind her slowly, in silence. Her hair is hanging free like he likes to see it; her gown is all the endless shades of the ocean's blue. His touch in her mind is subtle--a whisper--but she spins and her eyes go wide to show him the truth. She's so pleased to see him--and still so afraid. He doesn't hold it against her. He presses toward her--touching her cheek, her hair, her lips. He presses his palm flat against the swell of her breast and feels the rapid beat of her heart, like they used to as children. Her lips part for a breath and he leans in to claim it from her, but just in-sight is the red-glowing map to the Army. He takes it from the fire with no trouble at all; it is over-hot, but he finds himself thinking that even heated in fire, the cylinder is no warmer than the flushed flesh of her skin on a winter night. He gives her that thought--sends it to her--and watches the blush steal up her cheeks. Yes, he decides; she'll come along without complaint.
In the remnants of what used to be their home--the subterranean ruins of Bethmora--he holds her as a willing captive. Maybe it is the gift of prophecy all elven children have to some degree or another, but they sense that--for ill or good--this is their only chance. What seemed like minutes was hours--two days--and what should have been something long buried was re-awoken in the darkness of the prince's restored quarters. He removed the blue dress from her body, sliding it down with all the love and care he could gather, so that it pooled at her feet; his sash and tunic were discarded, leaving him in his breeches, which she tugged away with shy hands. He let her do it, let her see every part of him, because this was a night they could not--would not--ever be ashamed of. He took her to the bed and laid her down; he rained kisses on each petal-soft inch of her skin; he whispered to her softly, of magick and destiny. There was no talk of kingdoms and war; not of death or betrayal. That was in the past and for tomorrow; tonight was about them. All night, he gave her pleasure; all night, she reciprocated, giving way to his fantasies. Every secret thought was revealed, each long-held dream fulfilled. With no barriers left between them, they were finally one and whole, again.
The blade was in his palm and despite his wounds, he would see this finished. He raised the dagger high and brought it down, seeing in his mind the death of the demon. A pain in his own chest bit deep, halting him with a breath half-in his throat so that he gasped around it; there was no physical pain, but only the reverberating whimpers of a broken woman in the throes of heartbreak. His body turns, his eyes find--in disbelief--his sister's form on the raised dais; the dagger in her hand is the twin of his own and silver-sharp. It is coated in her blood and blood stains the front of her gown; her eyes find his and for a moment, time is suspended. He reads in her gaze all the things she couldn't say--had no time to say--and her final conviction to save him from himself. He feels despair rear up inside him--that she should have to make such a choice--and the shutters rack through him. She falls, slipping downward with such grace she could have been a snowflake from the heavens. The dagger falls from her hand and his knees give out as her eyes find him, lastly. At that moment, his thoughts are of apology; he gives them to her, his last gift. Through their slipping connection, he catches a smile--and then he knows no more.
The cliffs are high on this isle--the place of their birth--and the stone is white beneath. The ocean pounds against the rocks; the wind whistles upward and all around, touching on the scene below. The two, pressed together in the middle of a grassy meadow, their hands and hair tangled loosely between them. Twins smiles of satisfaction, of joy, on their lips; their eyes closed against the glory of the sun. Overhead the gulls cry and the highest leaves in the trees sway. It's peaceful here, beautifully so; it's an everlasting Summerland. No wars. No battles. No rules. Only them, their love. Her smiles, his dark chuckles; their bodies intertwined under crisp sheets and slick in the crystal waters of the glen. The nights were cool; the days were warm. They slept and laughed all morning; they danced and ran the cliffs all night. It was the kind of life that, as children, they had dreamed of in unbroken hope. Now, it was theirs and they couldn't be any happier. Gods know, they deserved it.