It was early in the evening when I first felt the impulse to go. 
The compulsion on my being that I dreaded, even feared. For centuries 
the Dark One had flaunted his exploits, coercing me to witness his 
gruesome escapades, taking great pleasure from my pain and loathing. 
Even so, I could not deny him. To do so would mean greater suffering 
of those I sought to protect. The last time I had refused his 
company, I had found the children of the house hanging from meat 
hooks in the cellar, mutilated. The memory still haunted my mind like 
a relentless, festering wound. No, as long as I joined him, he would 
leave the family alive. I could only suppose because it was more fun 
to prolong the experience with them and thus lengthen my torment past 
endurance. So long as I cooperated. And so I went, each time hoping 
he would tire of this affair, hoping I could convey just the right 
amount of boredom and disdain to sway him from his brutality, but 
always was my effort futile. 

The call this evening was slightly different in texture however which 
caused me to be more curious than I wanted to admit. It was more the 
gentle caress of a yearning lover than the dreadful, arrogant 
dragging of an abuser. Firm in its resolution that I attend him, but 
non-threatening. What was he up to? Did I really want to know? My 
senses first registered the sweet wood scent of burning hickory logs 
in a fire combined with the rich smell of a freshly tilled garden. 
Then the sounds of the crackling fire embraced me, occasionally 
accented with the turning of a book page. I found myself 
materializing into the house's ancient library. I noted the inches of 
dust and cobwebs that blanketed the room. It had not been disturbed 
in many years. The shadows danced merrily in the firelight, happy to 
be alive once again after so long. 

Facing the fireplace was a large couch with Griffen's feet and plush 
cushions meant for lazy afternoons relaxing away from chores or rain. 
Behind that, back towards the floor-length windows was a large desk 
with its yellowed lampshade illuminated. The desk had been brushed 
clean and there, pouring over several volumes of the house 
collection, was my white-haired knight. His head was bent and an 
eyebrow raised as he perused the contents of a large-leaf book. The 
pages slipped through his fingers, almost as crisp as if they were 
newly bound. His hair slid carelessly over one shoulder in shining 
waves of exquisite silk. He had called me to him? 

I searched the room for evidence of the Dark One, anticipating what 
fresh hell he would reign down, yet there was no trace of malice 
anywhere to be had. Inquisitive and off-guard, my gaze returned to 
the white-haired fey man to find his eye now fixed on me. Again, my 
presence was washed with a warmth of remembered affection by his 
attention. It was a sensation both curious and wonderful. "I have 
been looking for you," he said quietly. The musical texture of his 
voice was so intoxicating, it was as if it could melt in your mouth 
like a fudge too sweet to be endured. A mortal woman would have 
swooned at the mere sound of it. Sadly, I could no longer claim such 
a status. 

He elegantly reached out a hand for me and I glided downward from my 
place beside the hearth's portrait to confront him on one side of the 
desk, even as he lounged on the other. Then he traced a finger over the 
black and white text of the book he held in his hand. "There have 
been many entries made about the 'Lady of the House'," he looked up 
studiously then, "Not all of them pleasant." I knew he could sense 
the sorrow that engulfed me over that sentiment because his face 
softened considerably. "But nowhere do they chronicle your name." 

I gazed at him silently for a few moments, gauging his honor. 
Something about this man just felt right. Then slowly, with a mystic 
grace, I turned and glided back towards the fireplace and stopped at 
a shelf by its left-hand side. I turned again and waited for him to 
follow expectantly. When he stood by my side and met my eyes once 
more, I turned and blew my faint breath on the back of a book that 
had been blacked by frequent fingertips across its spine. He reached 
to remove the book from its shelf and was startled to find that the 
bookshelf itself fell away, creaking backwards on hinges to reveal a 
darker, secret room that had not seen daylight in centuries. 

Immediately memories flooded my senses. There were happier times when 
the torches burned low and a handsome man bent me over the couch in 
this room. I remembered the strength of his embrace, his scent, his 
taste. Other days when that same man's head bent over the house 
account books while echoes of children's laughter from the yard just 
outside sang. I watched the years pass by in my mind, as that face so 
precious to me aged with grace and dignity. And then that final, 
terrible day when I found his mangled body lying in a pool of its own 
blood on the floor of this room, his throat slit. Agony ripped 
through the very core of my being and I drew a deep breath preparing 
to flee. No more of this. Please, I cannot bear it. 

"No, please stay," the voice broke through the assault of grisly 
visions. I looked up and my warrior had lit the torches along the 
walls in between the older bookcases. Several shelves had rotted and 
spilled their contents onto the floor. Leaves of account ledgers were 
scattered about everywhere. He had reached up as if to cup my cheek, 
and trickles of comfort seeped through my pain until I felt like a 
child held close by a parent during a thunderstorm. "Tell me," he 
whispered an enchanted spell, "Tell me your name." 

My gaze wandered over the scattered and strewn books until it fell on 
the one I wanted, perched on the very corner of an ancient table that 
stood the length of the couch's posterior side. Following my gaze, he 
walked over and picked up the book my eyes had indicated to him. Then 
he held my gaze a moment while his fingers flipped through the pages. 
They stopped on precisely the correct page without him ever looking 
at them, but then slowly he dipped his head to examine the contents. 
I watched the knowledge of my past life grow on his expression and 
felt strangely self conscious that my secrets would be laid bare 
before this child of light. A soft smile lifted his bowed lips and he 
looked up, closing the book tenderly. "Lydia." My name spoken after 
so long was overwhelming to me and I gasped at the wonder of 
it. "Lydia," he spoke it again, swirling it in his mouth as if he 
would taste its essence. 

I could do no other than curtsy deep as if called by one who held 
authority over me. I could almost swear he caressed me gently, though 
I knew such physical intimacy was impossible. I drew myself up and 
found he had returned the courtly gesture with a bow of his own. "I 
am most honored to make your acquaintance, Lydia and to be in your 
home. My name is Rhys of the Unseelie court of Fey. I am Lord of 
Relics." That name meant something to me, although the memory of its 
significance eluded my mind. In my puzzlement, I searched his face 
for answers.

As I watched, I sensed him drop his metaphysical armaments and draw 
the power of the earth to himself. More tangent again was the scent 
of the fresh earth like a garden newly tilled...or a fresh-dug grave. 
With that realization, alarm spread through me. I gazed in terror at 
the Fey man before me, drowning in that perfect blue eye. Lord of 
Relics...Lord of the Dead. He had not come to save me, he had come to 
claim me. I struggled against his compulsion in vain. "Lydia, do not 
fear me," he coaxed in silken tones. "Come to me." The power struggle 
thickened the air in the tiny room, making it difficult to breathe, 
to think. Unconsciously, I had drawn closer to him until now he held 
a hand on either side of what was once my face, as if to cradle it. 
The static was excruciating, the air becoming more and more dense 
bearing down on me, squeezing my essence together into a tighter, 
smaller mass. 

The loose leaves of the books began to swirl around the room as if 
caught in a storm. The smells of dust and aged books invaded my 
senses. Light pierced my sight. I felt so cold, so weak I could 
barely stand.


STAND?!

Instantly Rhys' hands grabbed my shoulders and my eyes stung with 
tears. A great tightness panged my chest and all at once I took in a 
deep breath. The breath of life. Shaking terribly, I looked down to 
see hands of flesh. I turned them over in my sight and found I could 
control them. I gasped several times in disbelief. "Lydia, can you 
hear me?" Rhys searched my face until I looked up into his eye. "Can 
you speak?" He encouraged gently. I made to move my jaw a couple of 
times, but no sound came out. Then on the third attempt, an 
unintelligible moan escaped and my eyes grew even wider in fear. They 
Fey man looked pleased with himself. "Welcome back, Lydia" he smiled. 
My lips quivered, my tongue was dry. Still I managed to choke 
out, "What....have.....you......done?"

All at once, the house shook and a mighty roar of rage echoed through 
the halls. He knew...and he was not pleased. I searched the corners, 
waiting for him to appear, but with eyes of flesh I could not see. My 
body was thrust forcefully away from the arms of the Fey and crashed 
into the stone wall of the fireplace. Then all was absorbed into 
blackness.