[stmercy2020]

Okay.  This actually falls between Chapter Five and Chapter Six.  It's pretty short, but sets up some of the really weird shit that's about to start happening.  Hope people enjoy reading it at least a little bit…

Interlude (falls between Ch. 5 and Ch. 6)

She had been called Mab or Medb by men, and it was believed that she drove her chariot across the faces of sleeping men to bring forth good dreams.  Less trusting mortals called her Diana, Rhyannon, or Titania, and knew that she was a warrior, a huntress who delighted in chasing and bringing down her prey, her silvery laughter often the last sound an errant youth would hear upon accidentally stumbling into one of her sacred spaces.  To Shelley she had been both his beautiful queen and La Belle Dame Sans Merci.  These were titles she wore with pride, the unreachable goddess, whose unattainable ideal, whose visage meant doom to those fortunate enough to see her virgin form.

Her world had remained unchanged for thousands of years, shaped by her will and the energies provided by her countless quarries.  Now, though, she sensed something new.  A tentative prodding from the other side of the curtain, and a response as the energies of the faerie world rushed like a great wind to fan the spark.  It called to her, as no other breach had beckoned her before, yet she resisted.  She had a sense that this was just the beginning, and she cast forth her senses, sniffing the breeze and making note of yet more subtle shifts in the fabric that separated Die Mythologische Masse and Die Wissenschaftliche Masse.  There were several, she noted.  Most of these were the usual children playing at black masses or occult rites that they had no business attempting, and which would be punished or rewarded purely on her whim.  But there were others, the determined, careful thrusts of skilled and crafty men and women, mortals who took precautions and sought power for their own purposes, and these were converging on the newly awakened avatar that she had initially sensed.

These mortals would be an issue, she decided, and would have to be dealt with.  She summoned her various minions-goblins, haunts, and nightmares-and dispatched them to render the meddlesome mortals harmless.

Next she called for her master of the hunt, a huge man in armor made of the blackest night.  He stood tall before her, his antlers spearing the newly risen moon.  “Yes, my queen,” his voice rumbled, seeming to resonate from the very trees and hills and sky, thunder given form.

She made several intricate gestures in the gentle breeze, conjuring an image before the dark lord of the hounds.  The face was pale, nearly alabaster like a true elf, and the lines were both graceful and strong, framed by hair so blonde as to be nearly white.  The eyes were truly arresting, grey with flecks of green, and so innocent to the world.  “Seek this one in the world of men,” she instructed.  “I wish to know all there is to know of her.  Bring her to me in her dreams, for I would know her true heart.”

[stmercy2020]

Oops.  Crap!  Shelley on the brain.

To Shelley she had been both his beautiful queen and La Belle Dame Sans Merci.

This line should have read, To Shelley she had been his beautiful queen while to Keats she was La Belle Dame Sans Merci.

My bad.

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