Date: Sun, 12 Oct 2014 15:08:21 +0100 From: Enchanting Enchanter Subject: The Enchanter's Storybook: Chapter 18 (Revised) COUNTDOWN: PLEASE NOTE, THIS STORY WILL DISINTEGRATE IN TWO CHAPTERS! I.E. STORY GONNA END ON CHAPTER 20, IT'LL ALL BE OVER, THANK YOU FOR READING THIS FAR, MY PRETTIES. Here are the rules to reading my story (HUH! RULES! HOW SHOCKING! Blame society, kids, ALWAYS blame society): 1: No under-aged kiddies, sexually confused, openly gay, or whatever kinds of people here. Either you're of an appropriate age or get out. But, just between us, I can't and won't stop you. 2: If you're lawfully restrained from reading gay literature then don't read it, but, again, I won't stop you, you know what if you want and if that's hot gay anal, then who can blame you? It's clearly your country's fault (Hi Russia, Hi Uganda, etc) for being so closed-minded. We are, after all, in a post-modern world, I can't stop you, but I have warned you. 3: Read the previous chapters if you want to understand the story. 4: Donate to Nifty if you enjoyed this story. 5: Break the rules if you want, kids, never do what society wants because society sucks. As do my main characters. Wink. 6: EMAIL ME AT THE FOLLOWING: ENCHANTINGENCHANTOR[AT]HOTMAIL[DOT]COM THIS EXACT SPELLING PLEASE LOOK AT IT BECAUSE THE SPELLING IS VERY IMPORTANT, ENCHANTOR NOT ENCHANTER, IDK, IF YOU WANT TO COMMENT THEN DO IT THERE. THANKS BITCHES. BYE BITCHES. The Enchanter's Storybook: Chapter 18 (TWO CHAPTERS REMAINING): Coughing. Everywhere, coughing. Foul, phlegmy, disgusting coughing. Varia could hardly stand it, coughing was a sign of weakness and age, and that was exactly what this room of "allies" were. They were snobbish, rude, old, prude, but they were Marcus's last shot at sanity. If there was any left in him. She hated to say it - but everyone else was thinking it - was there actually any sanity left in this boy? The things that he had done, the people whose lives he had officially obliterated persuaded Varia that perhaps, just perhaps, his darkness was incurable. It was a part of him, a piece of his inner soul, the thread of his heartstrings. His darkness was his life. And sitting down in a germ-sodden, dusty old room at the farthest side of the castle with a bunch of tea-slurping, foul-mouthed, waning old soon-to-be-corpses was unlikely to change that fact. Facts were set in stone, and Varia had come to accept Marcus's dark fate as fact. But still, there she sat behind Grisella's desk, Grisella at her side, idly watching the three foreign dignitaries throw each-other looks of mutual disgust. She refilled their teacups with yet more tea, glaring at each of them equally with her pitiful, tar-black eyes. She gave a huge, fake smile, while running a hand through her long, draped, fiery red hair. It rippled down to her hips like pond-water, gently tickling her skin beneath her tight, black leather body-suit. Everyone wore black of late, she found the colour oddly comforting, yet it did nothing to soothe her worries. Supposedly a sign of respect for the dead, she'd always hated it. She hated customs, traditions of any sort, especially this tradition. It was a tradition of mankind, and why the world still carries on such an antique and useless tradition still baffled her. The dignitary of Elvenholm, home of the elves, sat closest to her. She stank of winter. Elvenholm was a cold and unruly place, the elves' powers come from the cold. They believe in the power of winter, of the snow, of purity and light, and all that other nonsense. Cortenza di Zoarchi, by name, skin as white as snow, pointed ears, tight white lips, and eyes with no pupils at all. All the better to see what lies beneath the surface, no doubt. Elves were tricky creatures, but godly. Very godly. Their religion was ridiculous. And yet they themselves were a blood-sucking, power-hungry people sniffing for any sign of weakness. The elves hold great military power, but their on-going feud with the Feyrie, land of the fairies, ensures the Witchlands remains ultimately on top. Genevieve Antoinette de Baptiste-Henri, what a ridiculous name. No more ridiculous than the fairy that bore it. Small, the size of a toddler, yet feisty, almost definitely, sitting as far as she possibly can from the elf, in a dress of prim light blue silk, and glossy lilac hair. Her wings twinged in the candlelight like the flames of a small blue fire swishing back and forth. The fairies are class in a glass, concerned always with propriety and etiquette. Fairies have no physical power, only mental. The very ability to dip into the minds of others, to manipulate, poison, or destroy. Their magique was like a feather, light and soft, but a feather as sharp as a well-honed blade. Dangerous, when mishandled. She'd told them as much as she could about Marcus, his entire story, in the hopes of gaining their much-needed help. "And you say this boy, Marcus, is of mankind?" the elf, Cortenza, asked peculiarly. "Yes," Varia replied swiftly. "It appears mankind lurk in the shadows of the Trollsturf, beyond the Known World. It is there, from whence he came, the remains of a dainty village they call the Rocky Pass." The fairy, Genevieve Antoinette, sniffed and snorted, drinking from her tea. Speaking fluently and in the eloquent common tongue, she replied, "I thought the world had been free of mankind's filth a thousand years ago. And as such, you come forth and beg - you're practically on your hands and knees - for the assistance of the Feyrie?" She paused, as if expecting an answer. "Well, we are not wanting to give it to you. You seem to be doing fine on your own, having small pubescent teenage boys appearing out of nowhere and destroying your most well-guarded city. Grisella, you are doing a splendid job of showing us that the Witchlands are still as secure as they were before two of your three queens were murdered." "So you won't help?" Varia dared to ask. If anything, these were the only three people in Purgador that might hold the knowledge to helping Marcus - if they denied to help, he was doomed. Varia expected as much from the snobby fairies, yet the elves had conflicted interests all over the globe, and no one is really sure of anything about the orks. Grisella looked as grim as death itself. The fairy spoke up once again. "All I say on this matter is so: we will not be associated with the Witchlands, and we do not condone these direct violations of the Seisou Pact and, as such, are cutting off all trade links and transport between the two states - the alliance of these two states is subsequently terminated." Grisella seemed uneased by this. Cancelling the alliance of the fairies and witches that has remained unbroken since the destruction of mankind would be a political outcry of rebellion against the witches, it would spark outrage, war was looming on the horizon. "Must you be so hasty, Genevieve?" Grisella pleaded, looking more old now than ever before in her attempts to maintain the alliance between the witches and fairies, and to ensure the continuation of the Seisou Pact, the official agreement of alliance made a thousand years ago. "The Feyrie will no doubt be releasing the declaration by the end of the day. With this in mind, I have been given direct orders to issue the extraction of all fairies in the Witchlands back to the Feyrie, myself included. There will be no more diplomatic discussions between the Feyrie and the Witchlands, as ordered by King Jeyjou de la du Voir, his Royal Highness, Grandeur of Belladais, Emperor of All of the Fae, and King of the Empire of the Feyrie." "Just get out," Varia spat at her, disgusted. The fairy huffed, but did not protest, and left. She turned to face the two remaining dignitaries, the last hopes for Marcus. Now she would really have to beg, if she wanted their help. "If either of you have similar speeches to make, do not bother. Just leave." She decided to be daring in a situation that did not at all require it. For the first time, the third dignitary spoke. Thus far, he had remained tediously silent, his black eyes shifting around the room, observing. Orks were very observant. Sir Ivan Tsoviksi of Orkovsk, kingdom of the orks, sat with skin the colour of curdled milk. His wrinkled face remained stern like stone, and gave nothing away but a tight smile. Orks were a secretive bunch, very little was known about their magic, no one was really sure how powerful or threatening they actually were. If anything, orks were good at keeping secrets. "The offer is one Orkovsk is interested in," he spoke slowly, in a deep and hollow voice. He folded his fingers together sinisterly. "For a price." "So you can help?" Varia demanded. "Most certainly." Once again, he gave nothing away. "Name your price. Gold, women, men, whatever it is, we shall pay it - If the knowledge you have is worth it, and of course, can cure Marcus's condition." Varia fumbled with her fingers at the opportunity. Be it within her grasp, she would willingly throw it at the orks, if it meant aiding Marcus in the slightest. The ork sat still a moment in thought, silent and observant. Cunning. "Orkovsk desires the gifts of immortality from the boy, once we abate his affliction." "We cannot promise you this. Marcus's gifts are his alone, they cannot be replicated or stolen, only he can give immortality, and even he is unsure of how to do so," Grisella informed the diplomat. "The promise of immortality will suffice," his voice trembled, soft and soothing, deadly, tricky. "To how many individuals?" Varia asked. "No more than two or three, high-ranking officials in Orkovsk, people we cannot risk dying." "Very well," Varia decided. "This shall be done. And what say you, Cortenza di Zoarchi?" The elf perked up immediately, a smile visible on her face. Electric, ecstatic, even, she began clapping her hands. "Yes, Elvenholm is very interested. After all, the enemy of our enemy is our friend, and it is very apparent that you are no longer friends with the Feyrie." Her smile was smug, and the guarantee of elven support in this matter, and in political matters, was a great reassurance. "What do you propose, then?" she asked. Sir Ivan Tsoviksi spoke first, breaking a long and followed silence. "Evolution has taken the boy captive, he is among the first humans to evolve into his magical abilities. Yet like all creatures, mankind have their own form of magic. And I have been authorised to tell you that the orks are aware of mankind's extant state." Varia smiled. She couldn't believe what her ears were telling her. "You knew all along that mankind weren't extinct?" she dared to ask. "Yes. For centuries, we have studied mankind closely. In some cases, magic is possible, in others, there is nothing. We have been able to understand the magic of mankind better than mankind do themselves. If anything, we know more on Marcus's dark condition than any other race you are bound to find." "You orks have so many secrets, I bet this barely scratches the surface." He smiled slyly in response. "From what you have told us of Marcus's condition, he is unlike any other we have studied. He is a pure breed, you might say, but in all cases, man's magic remains the same. The fairies have their mind-over-matter business, the elves groan about purity and light and all of that (no offence to you, Lady Cortenza), you witches have your spellbooks, and mankind has its own form. It is unusual because their magic is controlled by their... feelings." "Their what?" Varia asked? "Feelings? Do explain these things to me. Feelings. I have never heard of such a thing," Cortenza said, baffled. "Their emotions power their magic," he explained further. "So what emotion do you suppose caused his darkness to seep out and take control?" Ivan questioned, taking a short and curt sip of his tea. He was testing her. "Love," she replied immediately. That one, dreaded, four-lettered word. It has built and destroyed civilisations, crushed and created hopes and dreams. "Yes," Ivan said, smiling. "You told us of a boy named Darius. When Marcus's darkness assumed control of him, it is possible to assume that it was because of the over-powering realisation that he was in love with Darius. It unlocked a part of him, his darkness seeped out, much like a defense mechanism." Ivan sat ridiculously still, like all orks, statuesque like stone, cold as ice, and filled with secrets. Varia knew that was probably what orks were. Living, breathing statues. Unlike winged, toddler-sized fairies or white-skinned, white-eyed, pointy-eared elves, orks assumed many forms. Ivan stood before them as a grey man-like humanoid, but he was far from it. And all knew that orks forms could change. "But how do we stop it, how do we repress his dark side?" "Man's magic is both clever and complex in a way that it needs balance. Marcus's magic is unusual to every other creature on this earth because he does not have balance. He is consumed only by darkness, there is no light within him, his emotions therefore only fan his darkness. The Marcus you saw in the throne room IS Marcus, everything he thinks and does IS Marcus, he is not diseased or inflicted with an illness, no more than you are when you cry or become angry. He is just thinking in a different way, his darkness is controlling him, acting on his impulses, doing his deepest desires, his darkest deeds for him." Varia sighed. "Do not sugarcoat it. Can it be cured or not?" she asked seriously. "It is not a disease, it will pass, and eventually, he will be able to control all of his darkness, with the proper tutelage." She scoffed at him. "And who do you suppose be this tutor? You? Good luck controlling him, Sir Ivan. Marcus is sweet and loving when he is himself, but you were not in the throne room when he broke down. He became engulfed in his own evil, he became something monstrous, something dangerous, and what is worse? He is still in that state, today, lurking around the castle, unknown." Ivan smiled once again, dark and secretive, ghastly, as still as stone, even stiller. He was grey as a ghost, and just as sneaky. "I have a feeling a hunt for the boy will not be necessary," he announced. "And why is that?" Varia divulged, her eyes passing over Grisella, Cortenza, and Ivan repeatedly. "He is outside this very room." One look at the door, and it slowly slid open to reveal a small, lean, blond-haired boy, nude. He smiled defiantly, and paled. His skin turning pallid and white, from his eyes seeped a black, drippy liquid. From his ears and nose, it spewed, from his mouth, it coughed and sputtered, and soon, he collapsed onto the floor like a lifeless corpse, lying in a puddle of black tears. *Slowly, tortuously closes the Storybook, winking seductively at readers* TWO CHAPTERS LEFT MY PRETTIES! Honestly, I hated how political this chapter became, but sometimes I get carried away, and who doesn't love a good bit of fictional politics? OH NO WHAT'S WRONG WITH MY MARCUS BABY BOY SWEET JESUS OH LORDE! (Yes, Lorde, because Lorde is the ONLY lord I'm willing to serve) I liked this chapter, idk about you, but it was fun writing. AND I KNOW I'M A TERRIBLE PERSON FOR NOT UPDATING LIKE I SAID I WOULD BUT OH WELL! I promise it will be done before the end of the year, my pretties. DONE! Tell me what you bitches think. And come back next time, for the PENULTIMATE CHAPTER. Bye whores. Your's Eternally, THE DARLING ENCHANTOR (TAHTAH DARLINGS, SHOW ME UR LUV BY EMAILING ME, DON'T BE RUDE, IT TAKES LIKE TWO MINS (the same amount of time it takes your boyf to climax mm-hmm) AND IT MAKES MY DAY LIKKKKEEEEE SOOOOOOO MUCH BETTER)