A Pale Shade of Night

A Pale Shade of Night

Chapter 8: Shadows Falling

The light of the rising sun bled through the dense fog to warm Slytherin's Valley. Nocturnal creatures crept back into crevices and dens while other equally dangerous beasts awoke. They watched Arcana as she walked beneath the trees, cloaked in black, returning from the hunt. Deadly black leaf fairies trilled their beckoning call, seeking prey to trick and devour. Arcana passed their tree without concern and brushed past a hole under the roots, where coils of red fur and scales twisted about themselves, and a black tongue flickered between sharp fangs, tasting the damp air.

The thick fog had begun to clear near the fortress, revealing a few thestrals standing at the edge of the woods, waiting to see if a meal would be brought to them. They scattered, neighing angrily as a snorting nightmare charged from behind, determined to take any free meat for itself. The Dark Lord had found tossing out enemy corpses at the forest's edge both useful and amusing, prompting the more daring creatures to get somewhat comfortable with their human neighbors.

The nightmare stood taller and broader than the thestrals, and though it bore no wings, it proved to be the better steed, stronger both physically and magically. It was also one of the few creatures that could Apparate with a wizard, if it could be broken to ride. It was just as well that nightmares were near untamable, she mused. They tended to drive their riders mad.

The main doors opened soundlessly for Arcana. Ever watchful carved snakes slithered through the wood, tongues flicking toward her as she crossed the threshold. The old fortress felt less menacing in reflection of the Dark Lord's faded anger. Arcana resolved to maintain the careful equilibrium they had established. With the Dark Lord pleased and busy, she might live long enough to find a way to break free. She could not give up, even if it meant pandering to the wizard's whims on occasion.

After scrubbing off the dried sweat and grime, Arcana donned more comfortable robes and then sought out the Dark Lord in his study. She was glad he was not holed up in his laboratory again, since it meant his war was occupying his time. The castle was still quiet in the early morning. Not even Wormtail was up to bother her, which was a nice change. The rat had been watching her, even daring to follow her around the castle during her late night strolls. Since Arcana had not devised a suitable deterrent, she simply ignored the idiot, taking to the forest if she really needed solitude.

Arcana halted, hand raised to knock on the Dark Lord's door, when she realized that he had company. She lowered her hand and decided to come back later, not wanting to risk a potentially messy meeting. As she turned away, her Dark Mark seared sharply, and the door unlocked with a click. Apparently the Dark Lord did not mind an interruption today. Arcana's breath caught in her throat as the Mark burned hotter. She let the air out with a controlled hiss, her anger rising as it always did when the impatient wizard exerted his control.

"My lord." Arcana entered and bowed her head to the Dark Lord, keeping the irritation out of her voice. The Dark Lord, ensconced in his large ornate armchair near the fireplace, nodded in return. The dancing flames painted everything in eerie fiery tones as fewer candles were lit than usual, keeping large areas of the room in shadow.

Two lavishly dressed vampires stared back at her from beside the Dark Lord, lounging comfortably in their own armchairs. On a nearby table there sat several empty crystal glasses and a half-empty bottle of firewhisky, glinting in the firelight. The smell of smoky alcohol irritated her nose.

The vampires exuded a dark, regal presence and relaxed attitude, but their bleak auras of cold death were overshadowed by the Dark Lord's sheer power. Beneath all of their trappings, they were just creatures of death and decay, predators that kept their undead flesh from rotting by taking the lifeblood of the living. The two vampires, a man and woman, assessed Arcana, as if considering her for their next meal. Disgusted, Arcana bared her teeth, challenging either to try to take her.

The Dark Mark burned again, and Arcana broke her stare, clutching her left forearm and clenching her teeth against the pain.

"She is mine, vampires," the Dark Lord hissed dangerously. Seeing that the two were not openly perturbed by his tone, she knew she was on dangerous ground. The Dark Lord stood and gestured to Arcana. "Come here, hunter."

The pain faded, and Arcana obeyed, keeping her eyes lowered, unsure whom she hated more at the moment: the Dark Lord, the vampires, or herself. The female vampire watched Arcana curiously, and she knew what the undead was wondering. The Dark Lord's mind reached out to her, commanding her to kneel at his feet. Arcana threw off the suggestion, barely resisting the desire to counterattack. He should have warned her about the visiting strangers.

The Dark Lord scowled, displeased with Arcana's behavior. He lifted her chin with one cold hand, forcing her to look him in the eye. A muscle in Arcana's cheek twitched. The Dark Lord was angry.

"Don't make me remind you of your place, hunter," he warned over the crackling fire, tightening his grip. From the corner of her eye, Arcana saw the bloodlust on the male vampire's face. The Dark Lord advertised her as untouchable prey. Reading her open thoughts, the wizard's eyes flashed with glee. He released Arcana, and she warily stepped back, pushing her horror deep into her mind where he would not see it.

The woman leaned forward, thrilled. "Lord Voldemort," she spoke with a thick Eastern European accent, "wherever did you find one?" The vampire's dark eyes took in Arcana hungrily, much to the fae's disgust.

"The fool mageborn sought me out, Lauxela," the Dark Lord lied smoothly. "She is troublesome at times," he said, smiling cruelly, "but useful." Arcana remained still, her face blank despite her revulsion.

Lauxela seemed deflated at this news. "So she is not a pure fae then," the vampire sighed, tilting her head to the side in regal disappointment. "A pity. I never tasted one."

"You know very well that they cannot cross the Barrier," the male vampire spoke for the first time, his deep, soft voice revealing long-suffering familiarity with Lauxela's airs. He reappraised Arcana with a glance and then promptly dismissed her.

"You can never quite know with the fae, Iraunor. At least that is what the old ones say."

Cool leather creaked as Iraunor reclined and sighed. "Lord Voldemort, the sun has risen and we are both tired."

"Yes, you must be." The Dark Lord gazed toward the east, eyes half shut, and then turned back to the vampires. "I should have adjourned this meeting earlier."

"It is better that we understand each other, my lord," Iraunor said and rose, offering his hand to Lauxela, "than to be sleeping at dawn's first light." Lauxela took his hand and stood, her dark silks shimmering. Arcana remained still at the Dark Lord's side, wishing he would conclude this meeting quickly.

"I am pleased you see it that way."

The vampires gave the Dark Lord matching dangerous smiles.

"Wormtail!"

The study's door opened, and Pettigrew tentatively shuffled inside, cowering before the Dark Lord. He stuttered and cringed, his eyes repeatedly darting toward the vampires. "Yes, my lord?"

"Escort our guests to their room, Wormtail," the Dark Lord commanded. "Their meals are awaiting them, as I ordered?" The vampires brightened at his words.

"Oh, yes," Wormtail stuttered. "Of course, my lord."

"I would not let my guests go unfed," the Dark Lord explained lightly, "though I cannot offer the choicest of delicacies." His piercing red eyes burned into Arcana for a moment before refocusing on the vampires. She looked away from the undead pair, knowing they could still see her hate and shame just as clearly as the cruel Dark Lord looming over her.

"I hope to have your decisions at nightfall, Iraunor, Lauxela."

"You will, Lord Voldemort," Lauxela replied languorously, gathering her skirts. "Allegiance with the clans would be advantageous for you and perhaps for us as well. We will consider your words," the vampire said with a vicious smile, "after breakfast."

The two vampires strode over to Wormtail, who looked very worried about becoming the first course. Lauxela's gowns trailed behind, slithering across the floor as smoothly as Nagini. When they had left, the Dark Lord shut the door with a wave.

"You should be thankful for my protection, hunter." The Dark Lord glowered down at Arcana. "Giving them a taste of your blood would have surely sealed the pact." Fear touched her heart, but she brushed it away, refusing to cower before him tonight.

"My existence is far too precious a secret for you to simply throw away on an alliance with some vampires," Arcana shrewdly pointed out, knowing the Dark Lord would not give up his advantage. "Especially when you already know their answer."

"It is for now, hunter," the Dark Lord warned. He stepped closer, silhouetted by the firelight. Arcana held her ground, but felt ice twist in her stomach.

"Don't forget I know your fears, my fae." His fingers brushed against her chin and she shook them off. He scowled darkly, but said nothing, only holding his gently curved fingers under her chin, forcing her to look up or step back to avoid his touch. The latter she regarded as a retreat, as a defeat, in their odd game, so she stood her ground and raised her head, staying unnaturally still.

"You have seen your own death at the hands of the Ministry," he hissed coldly. "If they find you, that is." His hand lowered from her face. "Remember, Arcana." The Dark Lord grasped her left hand and pushed up her sleeve. Arcana froze, knowing what was coming and loathing her weakness. She wished she had stepped back, but dared not pull away from him now.

"Defy me," he hissed, tracing the Dark Mark. Arcana looked away, cringing at the sting. "And you will wish you were dying on a sword of wizarding steel." The Dark Lord pressed his thumb against the Mark, and it seared Arcana's flesh anew. The pain radiated along her entire arm, winding and writhing under her skin. A whimper escaped before she silenced herself, willing her legs not to give out under the strain.

The Dark Lord removed his thumb from the Mark and admired the now bloody brand before licking his thumb clean. "Best stay clear of the vampires, my hunter," he warned softly. "Were you at least productive last night?"

"Yes, my lord," Arcana managed shakily. Tendrils of pain continued to writhe along the bone and muscle in her left arm. Eager to redirect the Dark Lord's attention, she withdrew a leather pouch from her robes. The Dark Lord still had her box and did not seem keen to return it. The wizard took the pouch, released Arcana, and stepped away to examine his new prize. Arcana cradled her left arm and glared at his back, wondering why she even tried to appease the Dark Lord when this was her reward.

Immediately after the Dark Lord had Marked Arcana, she had fought him at every moment, refusing to succumb to his power no matter the punishment. In all her years, she had never been subject to the kind of bondage that the Mark inflicted, and it provoked vicious instincts that she had long forgotten. Even the Dark Lord had been surprised at her unyielding ferocity and, she smiled, his old body had a set of scars to prove it. It was painfully shameful to be brought down by a human, a wizard so similar to the many she had once killed with ease.

It did not take long, despite her disgust, for exhaustion to win over pride, forcing her to give in just enough to stave off the worst. Needing a steady supply of souls, the Dark Lord settled for the level of submission he could achieve without hindering Arcana's effectiveness. Of course, that didn't mean he stopped nettling her to surrender more ground. The fae frowned and shoved away that set of bitter memories. There was no going back, especially with the inflexible nature of time in this world. A tug on her magical connection to the Dark Lord brought Arcana out of her reverie.

"Such an aching sadness in your eyes, my hunter," the Dark Lord said quietly as he set aside Arcana's box, now full from the night's hunt. "And it is written that only madness shines in a fae's eyes." He approached her, rich black robes sweeping against the stones, and returned the empty leather pouch, his crimson eyes never leaving her silvery ones. "I wonder what lies beyond that impenetrable shield within your mind. Reveal your thoughts, Arcana," he hissed softly.

Arcana closeted her emotions, reinforcing her defenses in case the Dark Lord took the initiative. "Just remembering my place, my lord." She shuddered involuntarily, mindful of his warnings of providing her a more tangible reminder if he deemed it necessary.

The Dark Lord brushed his long cold fingers against Arcana's cheek. Her eyes closed, sensing the vibrating power awakening in the connection. Gentler than usual, his magic touched her own. It was corrupted, Dark, but so strong and so familiar.

"As always, you tell me so little, my hunter, picking and choosing a few choice phrases to divulge." The magic beckoned to Arcana. "Never unrestrained and open. Never telling me the whole truth." The hand slid lower, gaining a firm grip under her jaw. His fingers slipped into her hair, while his thumb continued to stroke her cheek. Arcana slipped away into the magic, cradled in the Dark Lord's power.

"Creature of magic," the Dark Lord hissed softly. "It is not so terrible to belong to me."

Arcana's previous musings flashed back, and she tried to jerk out of the Dark Lord's grip. The magic held her in place, and she gasped in shock.

"Ah, my hunter, I was right as usual. You never have let that go." The Dark Lord wrapped Arcana in raw magic, and she flailed against its embrace, trying to escape the probing touch, infuriated that he had used such dirty tactics. A twist of his power found her adrift in the magic once more.

"You see that you cannot hide from me, my fae." A muscle in Arcana's cheek began to twitch, and his other hand came up to brush against it, deepening the connection. "I know more than your fears. I know a great deal about the fae." Arcana used her anger to steel her mind against his, revealing nothing more, fighting to pull away from the magical contact. She sensed his annoyance that his bait was ignored. Arcana's fingers twitched as she fought the urge to dig her claws into the Dark Lord's scaly flesh.

"At least you don't need a reminder yet," the Dark Lord said, observing her restraint. "Though," he said curtly, abruptly releasing Arcana and watching analytically as she collapsed on the stone floor, "it appears that I have much work to do."

Arcana seethed, gasping against the cool flagstone, hate and sadness welling up to crack her cold heart. She clenched her clawed hands into fists, numb to the wounds she gouged in her palms. She was fae, and would not slink away fearfully to nurse her injured pride.

"Why do you always torment me?" she growled at the wizard, voice shaking with a burning tangle of emotions; emotions that should have been lying dormant under ice, emotions that the Dark Lord easily brought forth to use against her.

"I have fulfilled your demands, have done more than you have any right to ask. I even healed your precious apprentice." Her angry words sounded hollow, echoing off the high ceiling.

"I hunt for you!" she exclaimed, her voice cracking. "I challenge you to find another who can do that." She slammed a fist on the floor, splattering blood on the stone and on her robes. "Why isn't that enough, wizard?"

"Because I want more of you, fae, as you very well know." The Dark Lord raised a hand in warning, and Arcana silenced her retort. The hearth fire flickered behind him, framing him in flames - red-gold bleeding over the white skin of his bare head and hands. Fear sat like a heavy stone in her stomach; a familiar burden, invigorating in its own way.

"And I will get what I want." The cold, hissing voice crawled across her skin and the Dark Lord's own fury began to burn. Dark power crackled dangerously between the fingers of his raised hand, but Arcana was undeterred.

"You can never have me, Dark Lord," she defiantly avowed, dearly wishing she could simply tear his throat out and watch as the life left those blood red eyes. "I will die first."

"That I doubt, hunter," the Dark Lord mocked, lowering his hand. "You are a survivor. Fae will do anything to avoid death, and you will be no different." He drew his yew wand and leveled it at Arcana. She hastily scrabbled backwards, leaving a smeared trail of blood in her wake, as if that small distance would lessen the pain of the Cruciatus Curse. Memories of agony sent phantom pain racing through her limbs as the instinct to flee flared to life. The Dark Lord's fingers twitched in anticipation, and she flinched.

She stilled. This was not Arcana. This could not be her.

Disgusted with her cowardice, Arcana stood shakily, meeting the Dark Lord's gaze with the challenge of a sorceress, not as the slowly dying captive soul hunter.

"Foolish fae," the Dark Lord hissed.

Tension thickened the air between them, and Arcana wrapped the High magic around her like a silver cloak, remaining cold and unaffected by the Dark Lord's growing wrath. The dripping blood from her palms slowed and then stopped completely as Arcana's hands healed. Magic wove and whirled about them. Arcana watched the Dark Lord closely, waiting for him to strike her down. He was ready to cast.

The Dark Lord's eyes narrowed. "Go," he angrily ordered, wand still directed at Arcana's heart. Startled, she hesitated for a moment, unsure of what had happened, and then quickly backed away. An unidentifiable flicker passed over the Dark Lord's face, and he lowered his wand with a scowl. When she crossed the threshold and entered the corridor, the Dark Lord waved his wand, slamming the door shut and locking it, leaving Arcana alone and confused.

Unsteady footsteps echoed through the corridors as Arcana stumbled back to her rooms. She did not understand why the Dark Lord had dismissed her without the cursing she was sure to receive after that outburst. Perhaps the High magic she brought forth reminded him of Lestrange's healing. She hoped that was the case. His apprentice seemed to be nearly the only one that commanded any feeling from that monster.

If there was one sure thing in this world, it was that she was no mageborn. The mageborn had been created when the fae discovered that they could breed with certain humans to increase their extremely low birthrate. The addition of a few mages to a powerful family could shift the course of politics, or war, but not all unions produced viable mages. Many offspring showed fae talents, but nothing near what was needed to become a realized mage.

The lucky ones, the ones who could truly realize their gifts, were taken to the fae realms. The others had to attempt to blend into magical society in the mortal world, sometimes welcomed and sometimes shunned. Those witches and wizards with fae-tainted blood were subject to Wild magic more than their purely human relatives and tended to be unstable. Madness that would be tolerated in the fae realms, or tempered by training, went unchecked, and since mageborn were almost always powerful magically, they could be quite dangerous. Many tended to get lost in the Dark Arts - especially those that had managed to work with High magic to some degree.

In the early part of the millennium there was a surge in the number of Dark wizards and witches among the mageborn, and they fought amongst themselves, sending Britain and Northern Europe into chaos. After a time the fae blood eventually reached the Muggle population where it lay virtually dormant, passing from generation to generation, waiting for the right combination of genetics and fate to revive in the form of a half-blood or Muggleborn witch or wizard.

Most witches and wizards with fae blood had been culled during the Dark Days, nearly eight centuries earlier. The little fae blood left in the magical community was hidden well out of fear of summary execution. A few of the old families had dealt enough with fae that none were purely human. At least one Death Eater was proof of that, but the fae blood ran so thin that Arcana doubted there were any practical differences in his magic or soul from those of purely human wizards. It was unlikely that fae blood ran strong enough in any human these days for them to be considered mageborn. That was better for them, and for her, in the long run.

The comfort of Arcana's quiet rooms soothed her irritated nerves. She carefully held her arms under cool water in the bath to ease the sting of the Mark and let her anger wash away along with the dried blood. The Dark Lord was unreasonable and insane. While it was tactically a good move for him to forge alliances with the currently oppressed Dark creatures, all that really mattered was that there were now even more foul magicals, strangers too, wandering about the castle. Next time, she would make sure the Dark Lord did not have outsiders with him before she set foot anywhere near his door.