2nd Installment.

Sand and stone. Living earth, but dead matter. There's nothing in the grotto to feed on the life that the Sidhe will shed " nothing to explode in lush growth from that feast, eclipsing the view of the audience. A web of precisely woven energy, as invisible as it is tenacious, weaves around the winged fey to lift him upward. Suspended in the center of the grotto " in the center of the column that had been cut cleanly from old stone, reducing it to sifting grit. A year, two at the most, and that grit will be dirt " probably much sooner, for the fertilizer it would soak up over the next week.

There's no change in the light of Faire, other than the swirl of dawn hues across the sky as rain builds and falls. In another world entirely, seven nights will descend and linger, seven days will be born and fade. The ancient Cu sits still and calm as a marble statue " she has no hands, to wield tools. Her teeth are designed to shred and savage, not for precision and delicacy, though they've been used for both. The danger of the Gloamin Hunt is not just their physical skill " but their mental refinement. It may be the first time that Ruaidhitu has taken the price of such a large Debt from Ciar, but it's hardly the first time that the price had been claimed at all " and Cu, Aos or Daoine, it always begins with the wings.

Logic, and nothing more. Even for Ciar, they are an unwieldy burden " he's far easier to manipulate, physically at least, without them. Energy weaves through the bones and membranes, stretching them to their full span. Just enough to fill the grotto's width " which is not an accident at all. There's no smoke of burning, not that he could burn. No spray of wanton blood. Just the steady drip and drizzle of liquid pattering down onto the sand below, to be swallowed with nothing more than a stain. Iridescent with concentrated living energy and crimson with the truth of blood that's almost, but never quite, human in nature. Black strands, prehensile and more sensitive than the skin of most creatures, are systematically shredded from tip to base until the removed matter is more liquid than not itself. All of it, fed to the sands below.

There's not a sound from Ciar. Not a sound since he had arrived on Faire. Eyes wide and unblinking, the sidhe keeps them oriented directly on Ruaidhitu. It's only the beginning " the first step of a leisurely dance, one that he's become intimately familiar with throughout his life. A debt, a Favor owed, was no light price to pay on Gloamin " nor will it be on Faire. A feast before, to feed a dying world. A feast here, to enhance and promote the thriving vibrancy of a living one. The sidhe's gaze is finally broken as his head tips back, the empty numbness and scalding pain " though a heat scald is nothing that Ciar can ever experience " a chaos of contrast as his wings are stripped of sensitive tendrils to leave the bare membrane slick and glossy with iridescent life. The slice of controlled energy playing over and through him doesn't cease there.

Narrow slits carved between Ciar's torso and wings, that energy slithers into the layer of blood and slender bone, sinew and muscle, that supports and controls the broad surfaces. It's a psychological torture as much as a physical one, a sliver boring into the Daoine's mind for the Cu to slip through and sink her teeth into far more personal meat. Beneath Ciar's ingrained mental shielding, Ruaidhitu moves as inexorably and as brutally precise as she does with his physical flesh, but it's not Ciar who is torn to shreds within. Pain and the anguish of knowing that even if he survived, he'll be grounded are the emotional and physical keys to far deeper locks " bindings that the sidhe himself cannot be aware of.

Silence, other than the slither and drip of liquids from systematically mangled flesh, the sigh of wind through treetops above, as one by one the bones are extracted. Connective tissues severed and stripped, leaving nothing but clean white to slide from the slits previously placed. Those bones are not crushed to feed Faire, however" unspoken though Ciar's desire had been, it is acknowledged as each long, slender blade of clean bone settles to the side of the focused Cu. Pale Hounds materialize to watch, or fade back into the living pulse of Faire's perpetual wilderness, but Ruaidhitu never stirs. Shapeless slabs of tissue and blood " all that remains of the sidhe's wings, by the end of the first day-span. Muscle slithers from within that useless mass, carved and torn free, treats for those who watch. Those who relish the taste of their own kind, whether it wears the same shape or not " many of whom had never tasted meat other than that of other Gloamin Sidhe, prior to coming to Faire. Far richer and more vibrant than the flesh that they've come to expect from other races.

As deliberately as the prehensile tendrils so vital to controlled flight and climbing had been removed, the wings themselves follow. Inch by inch, skin and cartilage, sinew and veins, they're shredded and dissolved to dribble into the sand below as though soaked in acid. A peculiar sight, to anyone observing unaware" a slow, almost graceful melting of flesh, rather than the brutal violence that would have made short work of the task. Unconsciousness is not an escape that Ciar can depend upon. Every nerve that flares and spasms, then dies, is a stark reality to the fey. A systematic and controlled destruction of his body " different from experiences before, but no less effective. As the last droplets of liquified flesh soak into the sand below, a dawn rises on another world.

A day and a night to rest, to be restored by clean water, to dull the trauma that might have stolen away the vivid sensation of pain into the numbness of shock. The Cu lacks the one necessary quality that could have kept Ciar from locking his mind away from the worst of the sensations" but he remains fully aware of them, even if they lack the strength to have made his pain audible.

Blades of thought, sharp and graceful as any obsidian shard, sink deep into the sidhe's mind. Slicing through bindings placed there while the flesh he calls his own had been shaped and changed, molded into a receptacle to hold something never intended to be locked in a physical form. Needles of energy, sliding across nerve endings, delicately burrowing and carving a precise shape within a shape. The body no longer bleeds, strips of glistening iridescence stretching from Ciar's neck to his thighs where the wings had attached before, but sealed by time to mend. Raw hollows, pale with the gleam of cartilage, leave stains of dried life snaking down the sidhe's back and legs " the wing bones had not been cut away, but separated at the shoulder joint and removed intact. Now it's the skin that sheaths the rest of his body which sags, like a stretched bag unable to hold its shape. A wet pouch, filling and pooling with liquid" slowly swelling and deforming as that liquid strains for freedom. Somewhere, a sun sets.

Slowly, precisely. Eyes closed by no choice of his own, Ciar could well have been dead but for the energy that still swells and pulses within him, staining crimson with raw, primordial, liquid life. Inch by inch, limb by limb, and finally digit by digit' Another night fades to light in another world. In Faire, there is nothing to mark the moment when a clean line slices from head to toe, raining bright blood to soak and blacken the sand again as the loosened skin curls back, peeling away from living flesh and bone in a single piece. Twisting inside-out as it slides away, the hide is not destroyed as the wings had been. This time, it is nothing to do with Ciar's wishes " but rather a pale Hound's sense of humor. Head and hands, feet and genitals will be removed, destroyed. The rest will be tanned " and kept, for the moment. A raw and naked thing, near-genderless and unidentifiable, drips a steady stream of blood to feed Faire.

A day, a night. Suspended, glistening with oozing fluids, but still silent. While Ciar's body gains time to seal away the damage somewhat, to soak in the rain that drizzles softly against the red and white gleam of raw meat and throbbing, bared veins, ties and bindings are severed and reconfigured within his mind, fused back together in a pattern that had been disrupted centuries before. Not that the fey is conscious of it " only that the Cu is taking her price far more deeply than anticipated. The physical damage had been entirely expected.

4th Installment.

Silence. Internal, if not external. Animals chatter, the wind whispers to itself. Sentient energies too alien to living flesh to comprehend the concept of physical pain stir, watching dispassionately these new intruders into their existence. The wind always has a name, the storm, the deep, pulsing energies of the earth. It just may not be known yet. Faire has no Bolc"n, however. Within the sidhe's mind, the necessary threads have been reconfigured, anchored back to where they had originally woven. The rest will follow, strands of memory and awareness pulled back to their original patterns by the tension of the warp.

The seventh day span begins with conversation, a torture in its own right. *You do realize that this could have all been avoided, yes"* The Cu's thoughts hold nothing more than dispassionate curiosity. For all the work she had done within the Daoine's mind, the ancient Fey hadn't touched personal thought. Flesh is nothing more than a vessel " it will either heal, or Ciar will prove himself unfit for survival. It takes longer for the fey to focus his own mind, every pulse of his hearts a torment to be endured until the brief moments when their rhythm creates a fractured moment of stillness.

~I know, Ruaidhitu. I knew before. The choice was made " it was mine to make, both in refusing your price and in withholding full information. In coming here alone. You would not have bound me to the city, if your only interest was in gaining information on an individual who you have no viable reason to concern yourself with, other than that I enjoyed his company. Choice was made, and the price was, is mine to pay.~ Harsh and raw, though thoughts remain focused, as inexorable as flowing magma despite Ciar's inability to project them beyond the surface of his own mind.

Acceptance. Not approval, but acceptance of the Sidhe's choice. Bone crunches softly as it rebreaks, vestigial healing having begun to seal the ends despite their inability to pull gaping ribs shut. Grinding harshly, the flared bones fold inward, energy coiling and flowing around them to seat each in its proper place again. A thin sheath of shielding binds them together at the breaks and sternum, until they can repair enough damage to bind themselves. The same energy slices across the sheets of muscle and tissue that had been flayed back away from those ribs " and, as neatly as any butcher, carves the fibrous flesh away.

*You will remember what it was to be Bolc"n again, if you survive. You can still choose to remain here, or I will return you to that place. Your likelihood of survival is higher here, if you relinquish your aversion to hunting prey that cannot understand why it must remain alive until you are finished eating. A deer is no more capable of feeling pain than a more intelligent animal, Ciar Aed. Athar integrated that necessity too deeply into your Shaping for me to extract it without entirely destroying your body, and I do not think you are ready to cease existing.* Idle conversation, as strip after strand of muscle is torn away, shredded and peeled from ribs, back, arms, neck, legs and skull" a languid, systematic destruction.

To concentrate on the present enough to converse is, perhaps, the greatest test of Ciar's ability to control himself throughout the process that had begun a week before. It requires a full consciousness of his current situation, rather than burying himself behind a veil of mental distance. Difficult indeed, to form words, and not let them voice his pain audibly " but to make a sound would lower his status among the Hunt. ~I am already remembering. I know why I missed the feel of the earth's heartbeat, now. I still choose to go back, Ruaidhitu, and I will not hunt what cannot at least be made to understand why. A deer does nothing more than exist. Intelligent races at least make a willful choice which places them in a position to become food.~

~I remember, as well, why it is dangerous to trust. I came alone: better that, than to have had someone who held my trust present. Better to have none to speak for me, than to risk their touch if they chose not to.~ Unnecessary, quiet, pulsing with the sharp shred of agony as piece after piece of his body is torn away to feed the pack of pale Hounds watching. It's hardly necessary " they have more than enough prey to sate their needs, in Faire's wildlife. But it is expected, anticipated " and to have done less would have been to indicate that Ciar was too weak to survive the trauma.

Silence, internal if not external. The old bitch is satisfied with the answers " and there's nothing but a sense of acceptance, and disapproval, for the last remark. Precisely, exactingly, Ciar's body is demolished. Muscle and sinew, rubbery veins and slimy connective tissues, the sidhe's flesh is carved away in strips and strands. Like an artist sculpting a minimalist statue " everything that is not a vital requirement for survival is pared away, as a day drags through its span. The hands and feet are left nearly intact " there's little to take from them, anyway. The rest is not. Day falls victim to night, in another world, and muscle is steadily shaved down until nothing remains but the vital requirements of survival. A skeleton, in essence " sparingly held together by the absolute necessity of muscle to permit at least crude control and to bind the joints in place. Tendons, just enough to fuse the parts into a whole.

A blind, genderless, crawling thing " without his wings, Ciar's balance is too deeply compromised to walk, even if he had the strength to do so. Not voiceless, however" Knowing the denizens of the City, if only distantly, Ruaidhitu leaves him a tongue to speak with. Doing so without screaming will be Ciar's burden to bear. An emaciated corpse that doesn't know when to lay down and die " veins remain, only those necessary to feed the muscles and keep the bones from drying and dying. They pulse visibly with every staccato contraction of dual hearts above a hollow, empty abdominal cavity.

And that's what is lowered, as night dies again on another world. Not to the sand, but to stain the pale hide of a Cu Sidhe with smears of dimly iridescent crimson. Talon hands curl to grip that hide with more strength than the ruined creature should have been capable of, but the Hound ignores it. Body as smooth and efficient as natural design can make it, Ruaidhitu glides through the wild paths of Faire too smoothly to dislodge her burden. It's not the first time that Ciar has ridden the Hound " not the first time that he's been reduced to bare survival. Just the first time that it had been Ruaidhitu, the closest thing he's known to a mother, to have inflicted that much damage. She holds his affection' just not his trust.

Energy swells and flares, and silent paws pass from one world into another. The stench of pollution, of technology and tightly packed living creatures, is a slap in the senses as they pass through the Window into Rhy'din. At the edge of the city, where a patch of woodland offers sanctuary to a few animals and plants. A pale wisp, sliding through and past the trees and brush as fluidly as a shred of mist. A shrug of broad shoulders sends Ciar slithering off Ruaidhitu, leaving a smeared stain of blood on the Hound's hide. A mangled, feral bundle of bones, but alive. Other bones scatter across the ground, into the brush " long and slender, clean and pale. All the pieces that had made up the structure of his wings.

As easily as a billow of mist whisked away on the wind, the Cu is gone. Ciar still has his claws " and just enough muscle to use them. Slowly, painstakingly, the sidhe climbs, dragging himself up along the trunk of a tree to seek the sanctuary of the branches. There, he can build a cocoon of obsidian and basalt to protect his body " eventually. For now, a cage will have to do' enough of one to keep larger predators away from damaged flesh, even if it won't keep the insects out. A few birds, a squirrel or two are the only living creatures who observe that torturous ascent. But there's another as well" not a living creature, but a spirit. And one who's encountered the fey before.

"Something did a ****ing number on you, didn't it?" The words may not be audible to anyone who can't see and hear the disembodied soul, but that doesn't keep someone who used to be alive from wanting to speak. A moment later, the spirit is gone ? but not without being noticed. Blind and silent, teeth bared in a perpetual involuntary snarl by the absence of lips to cover them, the raw skull of the sidhe turns to track the departing spirit as it flashes away to whisper into ears fully capable of hearing its message.

Vadriel probably could have saved himself a great deal of trouble if he'd just brought Bolsillo with him when he responded to that message. Plunk the kitten on Ciar, and he'd have been too frozen with concern for hurting the tiny creature to have argued about whether or not he'd let himself be helped.

—- End Scene.