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Shadows crawled down the walls between the towering buildings, devouring the light, creating deep pools of doom in the alleyways that stretched before the old man. One place as good as another; he thought mirthlessly, eyeing the human detritus that marked their boundaries with overflowing garbage bins and soggy cardboard boxes. Dull, defeated and feral eyes stared back at him as he staggered past, seeking some spot to spend yet another night cold, alone, outcast. The sour smell of cheap whiskey and the acrid reek of urine followed him, punctuated by the crackle of discarded wrappers and crunch of broken glass underfoot. Passing a section of dark window, oddly unbroken in the sea of things cast off and unwanted, he caught a ghost of his ragged reflection. Face too thin, straggly beard and unkempt hair, eyes pooled into blackness and unknown depths by the shadows. Not a face he recognized, yet he knew it was his. He pulled the thin protection of his filthy raincoat tighter around himself wishing he had gloves or some way to make a fire. His frosty breath plumed out ahead of him, and he thought longingly of the bowl of soup he'd devoured at the homeless shelter the night-no, two nights-before. Should have stayed there or stolen a blanket. Just too damn honest, he winced. It’s a death sentence in there. Too many broken people; too many broken dreams. ..
In his wanderings, as he turned corners randomly, searching for an empty doorway or a cul-de-sac where he might curl up out of the wind and nod into restless sleep, untroubled by other homeless souls or the gangs attracted to the sort of beating the helpless. At least the shelter folk gave me a name. Niall. Something to call myself besides ‘street bum.’
He laughed bitterly and thought, Something besides "Hey, you, move along. We don't want you on our street." Dimly, as if spying upon someone else's memories, he recalled a war, a battle, the feeling of. ..what? 'Fear? Anger? Sadness, perhaps. Yet the picture slid into a misty haze, too unstructured for him to make sense of what he saw. I was younger then, he thought, and more resilient. He stood another moment, trying to force himself to recall lost details, to remember who he was. Finally, he bowed his head, his shoulders slumped and he surrendered again to the gray opacity that was his past. It doesn't matter anyway, there’s nothing better for any of us in this world. He stopped uncertainly, wondering what he meant by that thought. For any of who?
He'd almost passed the alley when he heard a whimpering cry of pain. Even his foggy brain recognized the sound of a child in trouble.
'Who's there?" he demanded, lack of water and a touch of unease roughening his voice. He heard the sound of a shaky, indrawn breath, then silence answered him. Shaking his head at his own capacity for stupidity and fearing an attack at any moment, Niall shuffled down the dark alleyway, easing his way along the wall until he reached the area where he thought the child might be hiding. "Come on out, " he said. "I won't hurt you. " Yeah, that would certainly convince me if some filthy street bum had me trapped back here, he thought. "Are you okay, kid?"
For answer he felt a small hand tug on his sleeve, a hand that held out something that caught just the tiniest sparkle from the streetlight at the end of the alley. "Here, mister," a young voice -probably a boy- Niall surmised-offered, "it's all I got. Take it." The child pressed the bauble into his hand. Incongruously, the child giggled as Niall bent closer to see what the child thought of as payoff. "I enchant thee, stranger!" the child's voice piped, sounding gleeful. "Now you have to help me get away from them."
Niall's world turned sideways as lights and colors exploded inside his head, sending him to his knees. Odd bits of dreamlike memory stirred and whirred as he tried to find his balance. He felt that he had changed somehow, grown taller perhaps or taken on some new power he didn't understand. The truth of his existence remained frustratingly elusive. Hardly daring, he opened his hand to see the child's marble lying in it, a marble that glinted and shone with the Glamour infused within it.
He just had the strength and presence of mind to firmly grasp the child and crush him to his chest. Stumbling to his feet, Niall moved toward the lighted end of the alleyway, carrying the child in his arms, and got his first good look at what he held. The child's dark, curly hair covered his head and goat-like legs. His green-brown eyes held first mischief then fear as he gazed at Niall. Satyr! The word came to Niall from deep within, cresting and flowing into his thoughts like an ocean swell. I know what he is! He marveled, even as the rest of his usually quiescent brain took in the blood on the child's flank and shoulder, noting the gashes there.
"NO!" screamed the childling. "No, let me go, lord. Don't kill me!" He kicked out with his good leg and almost connected with Niall's elbow- the kick would have broken the arm had it landed. He thrashed in Niall's arms, trying to free himself from the older man's grasp.
"Stop that," Niall said, not with anger, but firmly. He gave the childling a stern look. "No one is going to kill you. But you may die if nobody takes care of those wounds. What happened to you?" Gently, he set the child down near the streetlight, turning him to look more closely at the cut on his shoulder. "Here, sit down and let me see what I can do. What's your name?"
The young satyr looked up at him, distrust written plainly in his small body's refusal to relax. Niall pulled a flat bottle from his pocket and unscrewed the top. He looked at the inch or so of whiskey left in the bottom, then sighed and poured the liquid over each of the child's wounds. The boy gasped but bore his primitive doctoring. Reassured that the child wouldn't bolt if he let him go, Niall reached underneath his raincoat, tugging at an area of his shirt that still looked vaguely clean. Ripping the cloth free, he looped it around the child's wounded shoulder and pressed it into the oozing wound. He did the same for the leg wound.
Slowly, the childling seemed to lose his fear and finally whispered, "Ronaly. My name is Ronaly. You aren't like the others, are you?"
"I don't know," Niall answered, carefully. "What others?"
"The ones who're after me, the sidhe."
"That would be us!" A new voice intruded, a voice of silken culture tinged with irony and threat.
The child jumped, panic warring with anger as he shouted, "Why don't you just leave me alone? I hate you! I hate you! You all deserve to die!"
Niall turned and saw the most beautiful creatures he'd ever seen. No, I've seen others like this before, he mused, but where? Taller than humans, with long, thick hair; fabulous jeweled clothing; and bright, compelling eyes, the three sidhe males lounged at ease a few feet away from where he crouched. He sensed their amusement yet knew they sought the child for more than sport. Slowly, he stood to face them, shielding the boy behind him.
"What do you want?" he asked, trying to assume an air of command he didn't feel. He eyed the slender swords each sidhe carried in a jeweled scabbard hung at his side. Now he knew where the boy's wounds had come from.
"Stand aside, traitor, and perhaps we'll let you live," replied the one who had first spoken. Niall assumed he was the leader of the group.
"What are we waiting for?" asked an arrogant-looking blond Niall identified as second-in-command. "Look at him. He's nothing but a burnt-out old grump. He doesn't even have a weapon," he said to the spokesman. "Just take the childling and leave this one to rot. I can smell the whiskey on him from here. He'll forget all this in an hour."
Ronaly tugged at Niall’s sleeve. "Please, don't let them take me. They'll kill me or make me a slave again. You 're a sidhe, too. Can't you fight them?"
"Can't you fight them?" The blond sidhe's voice mocked the satyr's words, twisting them into a whining parody. "Give up, boy. This old rummy won't fight to save anything but his whiskey bottle. He's hardly even a sidhe anymore." He turned his gaze on Niall raking him with his eyes and sneering in contempt. Then he faced the child again and scoffed, "Besides, since when did the nobility bother themselves with commoner scum like you?" He returned his attention to Niall "We'd loan you a sword, old grump, but you've probably forgotten how to use it, if you ever knew."
"Take the boy!" the leader ordered, speaking to his companions.
"No," Niall spoke quietly. "Give me the sword. If I win, the boy goes free; if you win, well, you must decide what path to follow then."
The second sidhe snorted, "Not likely. You're outnumbered. We don't need to fight you at all. Now move or I'll run you through."
Niall felt the smooth marble lying in the palm of his hand. He could feel the Glamour stored within it, Glamour that had returned him to some sense of himself. It had not, however, forced him to rescue the satyr child. He didn't know why he championed the childling, it was just something he had to do. But no one was forcing him. Caution and time spent on the street looking out for number one argued for him to give up and walk away. What was this boy to him?
The trio of sidhe moved closer, seeing his hesitation. Hardly feeling it, yet surprised at its fragility, Niall crushed the marble, feeling Glamour well up within him. And from some source deep inside his muddled consciousness, he drew forth words he hadn't known he knew, directing them to the leader. "By the power of the Dreaming, I invoke the ancient rules of honorable combat. Let us cross blades one to one, forswearing knavery and following the customs of our kind to first blood, which shall decide the issue."
The leader smiled slightly, almost unbelieving, then took a sword from his third follower and tossed it to Niall. "So be it! Know that you battle Justeridan ap Ailil." he replied. "Let it begin."
The young sidhe leapt forward even as he finished speaking, almost catching Niall off guard. The older man brought the blade up just in time to parry, then launched his own attack, surprising both his opponent and himself. The younger man laughed as he slipped out of range of Niall’s flashing blade.
"So, you can fight after all," the wilder said. "I doubt you can last long, though. Swordplay takes conditioning, and you haven't got the wind for it." Justeridan thrust forward suddenly, nearly impaling Niall before the older sidhe could recover. Niall realized the brash young sidhe was right. If he were to have a chance to win, he'd have to go full out and hope to overpower the wilder before his own strength gave out. Quickly, he made a feint toward an overhead blow, switcfiin8 to an undercut midway. His opponent met that attack, then drove him back two steps. Again Niall parried, then stepped sideways and brought his sword sweeping in to make a quick cut on the younger man's arm. Simultaneously, Niall felt the sting as his opponent flicked a light wound across his wrist.
Niall drew his sword back, panting heavily. The young sidhe eyed him with a combination of annoyance and amusement.
"A hit," Niall noted.
"A hit. For both," Justeridan admitted, then smiled like a predator sensing helpless prey. "You're done, Graybeard. You'll never get another touch. En garde!" With that he swept his sword outward, forcing Niall to jump backward to avoid the whipping blade. Niall could feel his breath wheezing in his lungs and throat as their deadly dance continued. His arms and legs felt leaden with fatigue. His time on the streets had weakened him considerably, leaving him ill-suited to wage battle, especially with a younger, stronger foe. He felt himself slowing and knew it was only a matter of time until he failed to parry quickly enough. With that knowledge came determination.
I will not be defeated; he promised himself. His world shrank to one opponent, one battle. Everything outside the flashing blades disappeared from his consciousness, and he felt his body responding without having to think. Without realizing he did so, he grinned with such feral exuberance that the younger sidhe was momentarily thrown off guard, stumbling backward to avoid a sudden thrust from Niall’s weapon.
It couldn't last. Too many cold, sleepless nights, too much cheap whiskey took its toll. Niall’s rasping breath became a fire in his lungs. Each inhalation seared him inside; each breath expelled left him weakened and shaking. He felt on the verge of collapse.
Fool, he rallied inwardly. Who do you think you are? You can't beat this foe. Even as he formulated the traitorous thoughts, his body moved to press the attack, unwilling-or unable-to give up.
Niall smelled his own stale sweat and legacy of poor food, no sleep and few opportunities to clean himself or his clothing. In truth, he thought the stench more the result of shattered dreams and lost hopes than any physical cause. I've sunk as low as I can go, he mourned.
As the Ailil’s sword carved the air less than a finger's breadth from Niall’s left eye, the older sidhe realized he was losing focus along with consciousness. The unequal battle was almost at an end.
"No!" Niall refused to surrender. Something buried deep within his innermost soul sprang to life, snarling its denial of defeat. I will not be overcome, this new raging being inside him asserted. I will not! The angered part of him took over, forcing Niall to even greater effort. This inner self moved his leaden feet, brought his arm up to parry another blow, countered with a blistering array of feint, attack, riposte and attack again as Niall’s muscles screamed in protest.
Suddenly, his opponent fell back, staring in astonishment at the blood that sluggishly welled from a cut on his sword hand. Barely realizing the fight was over, Niall almost failed to pull his next thrust, which would have pierced the other sidhe's heart. Gasping, Niall dropped the sword and leaned over, hands on knees, desperately sucking in breath after breath.
For a lone moment, he heard nothing but his own pained breathing. The silence tugged at him, prickling his senses. Street life had taught him to trust his instincts, and they told him something was amiss. He raised his head: looked beyond his opponent, and saw the satyr child slowly topple over, eyes glazing in death as the blond second-in-command grimly wiped the boy's blood from the knife with which he'd cut the child’s throat. A cold iron knife, he knew, and he shivered with dread though he couldn't remember why.
Screaming his outrage, Niall recovered the sword and leapt toward the blond wilder. Justeridan stepped between them.
"Enough, old man," he said. His eyes sought and found Niall’s, and his strong hands held the weakened elder in place. "It's done. You're just going to get yourself killed or undone if you pursue this. I don't condone what Elisar did; but there's no point now. You fought well, but conserve your strength. You'd never win another battle, especially against a Balor. You’re shaking."
"With rage. With disgust," Niall spat. "What is happening here? Why do you speak of honorable battle, then murder children? We are-" his clouded mind sought words he barely recalled-"changelings. We are of kind. If this is what it is to be a changeling, I’d prefer to be just a man, a drunkard, a street bum." Niall ran out of words and slumped in defeated sorrow. "Just go away," he whispered, throwing down the borrowed sword and moving to the dead child. "You've got what you came for, so go."
Paying no more heed to the trio, Niall knelt painfully, then sat on the cold, blood-soaked sidewalk and cradled Ronaly in his arms. He felt the tiny remaining grains of the child's Glamour-soaked marble in the palm of his hand. Tears ran down his seamed cheeks, mingling with weeks of ingrained dirt and old sweat and straggling into his unkempt beard.
The other sidhe stood uncertainly for a few moments as the old man rocked the child's lifeless body. Elisar half-drew the iron knife, raising an inquiring eyebrow towards Justerian. The Ailil shook his head.
"There’s no threat. If we leave him alone he'll probably forget what he is in a few hours-if the police don't arrest him for murder first." Shrugging, the blond noble sheathed the knife as the third sidhe retrieved his sword, which lay near Niall and the dead satyr boy.
"We don't need either of their kind anyway," Elisar sneered "A sidhe who's forgotten his nobility or that commoner scum."
"He isn't the one who has forgotten the meaning of nobility," Justerian commented, glaring darkly at his subordinate. "Let's go."
Long after the sidhe had left trailing their tainted beauty like gossamer, Niall remained holding the child. Head bent, he sat as if made of ice, feeling the chill penetrating his bones, reaching through his inadequate raincoat, clutching at his heart. The child lay in a pool of congealed blood, dark eyes staring into eternity, curls fluttering slightly in the biting wind slowly, the old man smoothed the boy's hair, closed the eyes. The child's satyr legs wavered in and out of Niall’s vision, first furred, then jeans-clad. He realized he was losing touch with his true self: ~his fae self~. Momentarily, he sagged with relief. These strange beings, their hatreds, their passions, their wars, would not be his responsibility, his problem. He could return to whiskey-soaked oblivion and forget it, douse the pain of this brief meeting and wander down all the empty days remaining to him, free of obligations.
He looked at the child's still face, sighed But, I'm no one, Niall thought. What difference can I make? Slowly, he eased out from under the child's body, knees and aching back creaking in protest. He arranged Ronaly's body to reflect a peace he did not himself feel. Niall forced himself to see the childling's furred legs, the tiny horns. But I will do all I can, he promised silently. Not to wage war; but to bring peace among those who should not be enemies. I may not know who I was, but I know who I must become- The Peacemaker. He gazed down at Ronaly a final time, felt again the dust of the childling's marble on his palms. "I will not forget again. I've slept too long and winter is here, but I vow to you, child, if it takes my dying breath, I will see that spring and peace return."