Hiya. Miss me? dodges thrown objects I love you, too. Anyway...why have I been absent for a while and started a new story on top of it all? Simple. November is National Novel Writing Month, which consists of a person writing 50,000 words in the month of November with no preparation whatsoever. So, I am a bit preoccupied this month, and will probably not be seen or heard from for quite a bit. Don't worry: I did not fall off the planet. I will resume my other stories (as well as this one, because it is turning out really well so far) in December. Wish me luck.

Prologue

It was a dark night, a cold night, when Fæmen woke from his deep sleep by the sounds of his own breathing, hurried and fast and too loud in his own ears. It was not the first time this had happened to the Fae prince, nor was it the first time that he found himself rising and putting on one of his many silken robes to cover his bare flesh as he brooded and paced through his vast bedroom for countless hours. It had been the Dream, of course, the same as it had been the night before, and the night before that. It was the same dream as he had had countless times in the past few years, a heady dream of sensations and pleasure and joy, a twisted kind of joy that filled his body with longing long before the first time he ever saw the face that haunted the dream, over and over again. Long before he realized that this giver of pleasure and taker of sanity did not exist. But then, it was a dream.

Oh yes, a dream…but it was this dream that had stolen his sleep, taken his peace of mind, and so it was real to him, as real as any truth in his life, realer even than some that his parents, so stiff in their love for him, felt necessary to push upon him. That man who haunted him so…Fæmen knew not who he was or what he wanted, and it was driving him mad. Not, he reminded himself, that he hadn’t been half mad to begin with.

Fæmen sighed, and paced the room with much more determination than before, discarding his robe as the silk began to stick to his skin, slick from nerves, and he arched his back, waiting…waiting…and then they came. He had called forth his wings, and they now protruded from his back in four thin, deep purple and silver wings, two on each side of his spine, graceful and long like those of a dragonfly, and just a fragile. He felt them rip through the back of the shirt he wore at night, more silk, over and over and over again…He felt them hang, nearly weightless, felt the brush of the soft, dry tips where they fell to rest near his calves. He had missed the feeling of them when he slept, and Fæmen believed this was one reason the dream affected him in such a profound manner. He was only so strong of a man, after all, and he could not bear to keep his wings, such an essential part of who he was, caged behind his skin for more than a few hours. However, this could not have been the only reason for the sickness the dream had began to cause him…

Fæmen had had all number of lovers in his life, men, women, even a few humans at one time. But this man, this dark man with a deadly gaze and a hot mouth, a mouth Fæmen felt even as he was awake, and it burned him, his soul, even though he knew it should not. The man’s hands grabbed at him, for him, touching him with callused fingertips, combing them through his hair and murmuring words, sweet lies of words that could not be true, that both Fæmen and the man knew were not true. And then the disgust in himself, the hate that filled Fæmen’s hours of sleep, the self-loathing, descended upon him with a well-aimed attack. As Fæmen twisted in guilt and abhorrence, the man would take him, and Fæmen never truly noticed. But Fæmen knew that it had happened; he knew it. Because, when he woke, he could still taste the hate, the hate he felt for himself as well as the man’s hate, and sometimes he even tasted blood, blood caused from biting his lip or his tongue to hold in the shouts of pain that came from the man punishing him. Fæmen could never know why the man wanted his misery so badly…but he did not need to know. Fæmen despised himself far more than any mystery man ever could. And it was the memory of the dream on this night, like so many others, that caused Fæmen to wonder if perhaps he should kill himself.

It was not the first time he had contemplated suicide; it was not the second, the third, not even the tenth. Sometimes Fæmen had even gone so far as to cut himself, to slit his finger or his flesh, not because he desired pain, but because he could see the faces of so many in his mind, could just imagine what such people would say as they saw the rich red of blood drip from the slit, see it stream down his perfect white skin, see it form a small pool in the palm of his hand. People “cared” for him, after all…cared in that superficial way that meant they desired his power, his face, his body. The other reason he had not bent to suicide, of course, was that he could not bear his funeral. Dressed up, painted like some fragile doll, his wings spread in a plead for forgiveness, and people he neither loved nor cared for shedding tears for his mistakes, wondering why he had done such a horrible thing when he had been so loved…so loved. Even if he did not have to attend such an event after death, the idea of somebody handling his body, pretending he was perfect even if they were his so cold and dry parents…the very idea made him sick, and he made another slice with a knife he had hidden away in the depths of his clothes chest. Not a large cut, mind you; barely even the size of a paper cut, they would never be noticed, for he did not want them to be noticed. And this time, as he watched the blood go from the pad of his finger to leave a small, barely noticeable drop on the sleeve of his white shirt, he was struck by the idea that maybe, maybe the man really did exist, and this pain, this blood, was what he desired of Fæmen, why he tormented him so. Was it the man, Fæmen wondered, that made his parents attempt to marry him off at every turn? Was it the man, perhaps, that made Fæmen hurt the few he had ever cared for, to kill his first love or crush the heart of his former best friend? Was it the man who fed and nurtured Fæmen’s hatred for himself? Fæmen didn’t know, but it cheered him somewhat to think that his sins were not his own, cheered him enough that he bothered to wrap a sliver of cloth around the wound that still bled and set down the knife that he hadn’t even realized he was still holding. A kitchen knife, it was, a paring knife in fact, small and useless for many things, but as deadly as any other when it was held at the right angle and pushed forward with enough force to pierce the bones and muscle that guarded the organs so vital to life. Yes, this knife was not a toy, not by any stretch of the imagination…but Fæmen could almost pretend it was. He could almost see the joy it could bring as his parents pushed younger and younger men and women at him, pleaded with him to take a wife, take a husband. The knife…sometimes he wished that someone would fall while they carried it from his room with a shake of their head, fall, slip…and feel. Fæmen did not want to be the only one who was this dead inside…and a bride, no matter how young or willing, was not the cure for the darkness of his heart.

Fæmen himself was not young, not young in the least. However, he was young enough; young enough that his skin was still soft, smooth, and perfect, and that it clung to his lean muscles and fine bone structure instead of hanging in folds and being weathered by the tasks of harsh living that Fæmen imposed upon himself when he had time. Princes did not do this, princes didn’t have to do this…ha! What a ridiculous notion: Fæmen was cold-blooded, raised to be strong until he finally became a killer for the most ridiculous reason of all, and they thought he could not bother himself by chopping wood, or repairing his own clothes? After the nightmare of parties and idleness that had been his life for so long, it was a blessing to go outside, to fly on his own wings and face the wilderness in his own way. Compared to the fate his loving parents wanted to gift him with, the splinters that came from a well-worn axe handle as it was used to survive a tough life were a gift.

Unsurprisingly, Fæmen’s hands were the only truly damaged part of his body, the cutting and the work that he searched for causing his palms to roughen like a workman’s. Only in his sleep were they normal. Only in that dream were they soft like a pampered rich woman’s hands, as his parents wanted them to be.

Fæmen made a sound of frustration in the back of his throat, and slammed one of those very hands down on his vanity hard enough that the perfumes and face paints that he rarely used clattered into one another and fell to the ground, his fine caramel colored eyes focused on nothing but space until he closed them in irritation. Why, why, why would the dream not leave him, even when he was wide-awake? At this rate, Fæmen really would go mad.

Fæmen sighed, and tried to calm himself, to regain the cool attitude that was virtually a requirement to be a part of the Fae royal family. If he ever saw that man…he would kill him. Yes, there was no question of that. But…would he kill him immediately? Could he do it, knowing that the man held secrets, such secrets, reasons why Fæmen was tormented even though his mind was his own? Could Fæmen honestly say he would tear his heart out the instant he saw him when the man had been with him, almost like a friend, for so long? Could Fæmen murder the man without finding his answers? No, he decided, he could not. But then, if luck was with him and his family remained as delightfully oblivious as ever, than Fæmen wouldn’t have to. These answers that he was seeking, these questions that had to be asked…Fæmen would hopefully have time to torture the mystery right out of that dark-haired man, provided that his tormentor even existed. Provided that Fæmen had not made up such an enemy as a cure for his own lonely, slightly demented mind. Provided that Fæmen could make himself believe that he really hated someone who visited him every night as much as he hated himself.

Yes, so many qualifiers to the bloodthirsty plan that Fæmen had formed…but who could know? Maybe it would all work out in the end; maybe he could find peace and…not happiness, of course, for such a blissful concept was granted only to those pure-hearted men who deserved such a thing, but certainly peace and contentment? Yes, those he could hope for, once this dream problem had been resolved, once his nightmare (for it certainly was not a good dream) troubled him no more.

Provided that his parents stopped trying to push these ridiculous, silly little children who were supposed to be potential spouses upon him, invading his space and annoying him with their inane, juvenile, cheerful chatter. He would marry one day, but that person would be cruel, vicious, or even emotionless as he himself sometimes was, not some innocent who had no idea what they were getting themselves into…Fæmen promised himself this. He could not bear to drag a child, a naïve, impractical one at that, behind him into misery and darkness. He had corrupted more than enough pure souls by accident, and had killed one on purpose; no way would he do such a shameful thing again. The pain he felt…few deserved it other than him.

Fæmen promised this, for the thousandth time, before he sighed, and felt the stress leave his body with that single exhale. He felt his wings slide back into their cold sheath in his back, a special layer of bone just for this, felt the thin muscles relax as he did. That promise…it would save him in the end, he knew. And he wrote it down, made it permanent in ink and paper, and it allowed him to relax, to feel the tenseness fly from his shoulders for a time. It gave him just enough confidence, just enough peace, released him from his loathing and fear and hate just enough that he was able to find sleep once more.

But even as he slept, he could still see the man, come to torment him once more, in the land of dreams where he had no escape…