The X-Project

When the Grande Dame attempts a last minute renegotiation, Pixie takes it upon herself to troubleshoot.


“We can’t thank you enough,” said the thrall. “Some of the others wouldn’t have lasted much longer. At least now we can rest.”

While Meggan was glad that she could do something to help them when it came to seeing the energy, it just didn’t feel like it was enough, to just give them rest.

“You’re welcome, but...you’re positive you have to stay?” Yes, she had asked before.

She had just begun wondering if there had been incidents of people trying. If so, how would word have reached them again, about the binding? Had the fae told them, or was it just something they presumed to be factual, passed down by word of mouth by the ones that still had some bit of themselves remaining? And if the fae had told them, could they have been lying to keep those thralls doing their jobs?

The man shrugged. "We've seen it. Every few decades the Gentry turn out the used-up folk, and time catches them up. I saw one when I was a kid. He only lived a few hours. He couldn't remember his own name. Mum said he couldn't tell whether he was asleep or awake." The grey man gave her a faint smile. "This is our home, now. Maybe now that we're not being worked some of them will be able to come back to themselves. Then they can decide whether they want to stay or go."

Meggan nodded. Not just stories, then, but something that had actually been witnessed and confirmed among them. It sounded like an awful thing to experience. “I understand, and really hope they can get some peace, too.” She resisted the incredible urge to hug him goodbye, since that might not be the best thing to do right about now.

"We shall honour Our pact. After all, their labour is no longer required, and the humans have served us in good stead. Their comfort shall be assured."

The thrall jolted as the Grande Dame appeared beside the group as soundlessly as a spider weaving its web. She glided to Namor's side without even a glance at the man.

Her smile was sunlight on shattered glass.

"And," she continued, laying a hand against Namor's arm, "the Atlantean shall be accorded the same."

“What? No,” Meggan managed, even as her wide eyes flicked between the two of them. She could guess the implications, wondering desperately what could have happened that might have left him chained to Otherworld.

Arguing with the Grande Dame might be a very bad thing, and she held her tongue for a moment while she got her thoughts in order. Meggan wasn’t sure if she would be given an answer to the question of how even if she asked. “When?” she asked instead, not concealing her worry. When had it happened?

The Atlantean certainly didn't know, but a sudden rigidity of his posture matched with the fact he had sucked in his cheeks in concentration gave the impression that Namor had just been dealt a punch he wasn't anticipating.

"Foolish," he said, "the terms of our agree –"

The fairy woman leaned into him and breathed, "On your knees."

A resulting clang filled the small antechamber as knees hit tile. The raging reply that started in Namor's lungs might have begun life as a scream, but only found its way toward mumbled, noiseless grunts as the man found he could only obey.

The thrall scrambled away from this display of power. The Dame paid him no mind, only smiling down at the helpless man before her.

"The terms of our agreement," she continued, "were for the freedom of any not under Our power. You, Atlantean, partook of Our drink. Your feet shall not bear you through Our gates. An your companions manage to carry you away still your body shall wither, no matter what you eat. No matter what you drink." The Grande Dame caressed Namor's head like a prized hunting dog. "Leave this place, king, and know thirst . . . eternal."

Meggan was as horrified at the display of power as she was disgusted by the words. The Grand Dame was unimaginably cruel to inflict such a fate on him. She desperately cast about for some loophole that might work to give him some reprieve from it, but was coming up empty so far. He was assuredly bound, and she was haunted by the earlier revelations of the thrall.

Pixie's hand clenched instinctively around the hilt of her Soul Dagger. Her wings quivered, a hum building as her fury mounted. Her black eyes darted between the Grande Dame and Namor, who knelt beneath her command. I should have said something. The thought screamed in her mind, bitter with self-recrimination. When Namor had taken that glass of wine, she'd hesitated, assuming he knew what he was doing. That maybe fae rules didn't fully apply to the King of Atlantis. Now she had to act quickly to prevent the mistake from becoming permanent.

She took a few steps toward Namor, unsheathing the Soul Dagger. It felt heavy in her grasp. She'd only ever used it against enemies, breaking the magic that held them together--like those creepy slendermen. Never on a friend. Now, she knew she must use it to sever the Grande Dame's cruel hold on Namor.

"Namor," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "I'm sorry, but I have to do this. I can't let her keep you like this."

The Grande Dame glanced at Pixie as if only just recalling her presence. "Let me?" she laughed. "As if one of such thin blood could allow me to-"

Pixie cut her off. "Allow? This blood is far stronger than you know, so don't think for a second that I won't do this!" The Soul Dagger flared in her hand, its pink glow contrasting against the green, otherworldly light of the chamber.

She closed the distance, the weight of the moment pressing on her, giving her the sense of moving underwater. This wasn't just a weapon--it was a piece of her soul, and she was about to use it in a way that terrified her. It seemed to take ages, but in mere seconds, she was kneeling beside Namor. "I'm sorry," she repeated in a whisper, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes.

The pink glow of the Soul Dagger illuminated bands of purple energy, just barely within the range of vision when the light of the dagger caught them. The vines of enchantment flowed from the Grande Dame to Namor's chest. Pixie slashed at them, severing a few, but she knew it wasn't enough. However, it revealed a dark blot in the middle of their mass, centered on his heart.

Blinking away the tears that threatened to blur her vision, she drove the tip of the Soul Dagger into the blot. With a sick twisting motion, she rooted out the anchor of the enchantment.

A searing light exploded outward as the threads of fae magic unraveled. It felt as though the magic were fighting back, tearing at Pixie's soul as they snapped and sizzled around her, but she called upon her own magic to withstand the assault with every ounce of her will. When the light faded, Pixie collapsed to the floor, her breath ragged, still clutching the dagger. For a moment, she couldn't move. She turned her head weakly. "Namor?"

She didn't have to turn far. Namor laid right beside her. Being that close, Pixie was privy to an up-close lesson in regaining composure – the pain evident in trembling muscles and gritted teeth was burned away and replaced with the cold focus of directed, murderous wrath. His face twisted like a screw.

"All according to plan," he snarled. "Dame. The pact still stands."

There was a moment of stunned silence as the faerie woman's reaction teetered on a knife's edge. Then, suddenly, the Grande Dame threw back her head and laughed in delight. Kneeling before Pixie, the woman lifted the panting girl's chin with something almost like pride.

"Well done, daughter, well done indeed! Witchbreed, fae, both or neither, today you have given me the most precious of gifts: you have shown me something new. New vulnerabilities to consider, aye . . . and new possibilities as well." For an instant the woman's eyes turned as black as Pixie's own. "Tricks which amuse once easily lose their luster, however. An you bare your soul to do it, you would do well to have a care what you intend to break."

Flashing one more swift, sharp smile at Pixie, the Grande Dame rose to regard Namor. "Very well, Atlantean," she said, "The pact shall stand, with no debt or grudge incurred."

Meggan found herself quietly sighing with relief, once the shock of things were no longer quite as stark. She had never thought she would find herself grateful to have seen Namor end up with a knife in the chest; she was happier still that the Atlantean was not bleeding out as a result everywhere, or bound eternally with the Grand Dame.

She just managed to refrain from commenting on grudges, since she really thought that might just start things bubbling up all over again. She glanced between her two friends, before she swiftly knelt near Piixie, planning to see if she required either a hand up or an arm to lean on; once those royal attentions were off of Namor, then she would be more comfortable with getting closer.

Pixie gratefully took Meggan's arm to pull herself up. Her knees trembled and her face still burned with cold where the Grande Dame had touched it. "It worked," she said softly, more to herself than to Meggan. She sheathed the Soul Dagger, releasing the rush of adrenaline--and fear that she'd caused irreparable harm--with a sigh. One glance at Namor's composed, indignant expression was all the proof she needed that he'd be fine. Probably.

"The pact stands," she repeated, crossing her arms. "No more tricks or games." It was true that she'd had to expose her soul, and it wasn't something she wanted to do again in a hurry.

Namor had spitefully clawed his way onto one knee. There was only a modest amount of trembling, but also a clear lack of wincing. Whatever wounds he might suffer were hidden away inside along with, perhaps more painful to set aside, his rage.

"No debt," and this came between gritted teeth, "or no grudge. We are agreed. Now, of being free from this place . . . "