Citizen of the Night

Evenfall brought with it the shield of darkness that Sorro found himself craving more and more, so often in fact he felt his desire for it's protection as soon as the sun had risen; a place to learn, a place to hide, but mostly- a place of escape. There was freedom in this blanket of stars which fell each night, oh yes...but he'd remembered his teachings well enough.

"Nine turns. No more." The Maester's had told him in his youth.

He speculated often whether anyone at the castle came knocking against his chambers late at night, only to find his bedsheets empty and sound the bells in alarm and search for his whereabouts. During his tenure as a guest at court at Castle Whitehall, he'd so far been undisturbed at his request, and it seemed apparent his secret was well hidden. The odd feather or two found by the chamber maids was mistaken easily enough for the fine goose down that filled his duvet, which was an amusement. It was the shy one, Lida her name was; who mostly cleaned his rooms. A slip of of girl not quite his age. She had a wild, bushy braid of straw-blonde hair and kind eyes. She was rather unperceptive besides, and her shy glances towards him continued, along with the occasional lemon tart or sweet roll squirrelled from the kitchens and set upon his nightstand after he returned from table in the evenings. Needless to say her affections were not returned. It wasn't her lack of beauty or sweetness, no. It was fear. Fear, of the expectations placed upon him as royalty and on the cusp of marrying age. Entwining himself in a scandal with a castle maid would only sour his reputation, or perhaps enhance it who could say, but Gwenda he suspected, would be unimpressed. He wasn't oblivious to the way she felt about him either, but he liked to pretend to be. And she might be inclined to make things difficult for him should the castle walls begin to talk. Regardless, he didn't wish to be paired off with a Princess or some highborn girl, or any such other girl for the matter but he knew one day in the coming future, his father would call for his expected return home to their kingdom where he would surely be matched. But Sorro had other plans. He wanted adventure, he was born for it. Had the Gods not gifted him the ability to change for a reason?

On this night, the winds were still, and once he had transformed, Sorro splayed the magnificence of his wings, released his whetted, four-pronged grip on the balcony and leapt into the night, as silent as a star. He moved with ease across the upper bailey, over the battlements and down into Whitehall's main residency, through dimly lit thoroughfares and dark alleys, over the outer wall and off into the farmlands that supplied Whitehall's extravagant bazaars and bustling marketplace. Only the glow of torches held by the city guards on duty hinted at life, and the yowl of two stray cats entangled in a duel of tooth and claw. As Whitehall disappeared into the darkness, Sorro soared gracefully atop long grass as he flew over the plains, ears attuned to the chirp of crickets, the scurry of field mice, the infinite legs of an ant colony marching in the soil in pitch black. He hunted then, plucking a vole from the field mid-flight, as effortlessly as a solider takes a sword in his hand, and carried the rodent into a tree on the boarder of the forest. After crushing it's skull, he swallowed the vole whole.

The Haunted Forest, the folk of Whitehall and the nearby township called it. The forest was the largest in the land, an immense, dark expanse of root and limb that subsisted across the boarders of four kingdoms. To cross its breadth he imagined would be like sailing a great ocean, and the notion of flying above its endless thicket tired him. No true exploration of the forest had ever been recorded, and it was well named with it's historical yet sinister reputation for lost travellers and missing children who went in one day and never came out, queer sounds and anomalous lights. Ever a thirst for knowledge, Sorro knew the Haunted Forest's true name to be Arrangmarr, of the old tongue, and it was in fact a collection of forests; thickets of ash, elm and oak, and many other species grown into one over millennia. It seemed to whisper to him as he stood statue-still on his branch. But he was not afraid. He was a citizen of the night, and it had called to him since his mother had first held him as a babe in her arms.

His first transformation happened not long after his fourth name day- early for Skyfolk who were gifted with the winged blood. The Guardian of the Stars, his father had called him- for his gold and silver backed feathers. It was a strange enough feeling, as if there were two spirits inside of him, his own content, the other ready to burst forth. It was a knowing. A familiarity. The gift had been in his bloodline for centuries, both by way of mother and father, and he'd watched them both morph into their feathered forms on many occasions. His first flight had been...unexpected. He hadn't shaken, faltered or fallen. He'd simply, flown. Like he'd been hatched from an egg and knew not of hair and skin, five fingers and toes(where the fifth one of those went during transformation he couldn't say). As a child this had been one of many, endless questions to which the Maester's would take to their amusement and say:

"Such is the way of things."

Did any of the Skyfolk who possessed the gift have the same burning questions about their forms as he did? Homosapien or avian? As he'd grown older, Sorro could not often discern between the two, and he found himself wondering at times -Were he a man that could transform into a bird? Or was he a bird who could transform into a man? His own thoughts remained with him in his feathered form, lying beneath that bestial instinct, and he could remember the events of every transformation which somewhat soothed to centre his identity as a person, and not a beast. That and his entrance to the world one where he kicked with legs and screamed with lungs. All but a thread of clarity. His youngest Uncle he was told, was an exceptionally talented flyer, and he too had gained his wings early just as Sorro had. His mother spoke of him frequently when she was alive, and those around him in his youngest years would make comment of how much he resembled this Uncle. And yet, Sorro had never met the man, for one evening his Uncle had turned into an owl, and never morphed back.

Nine turns. No more.

Of course, he now knew those words had been guidelines, given specifically and strategically to young owlets so they would know when to change and when not too, lest they be stuck forever as nocturnal, never to return to their human life. The truth was he could remain as an owl for longer than that -a lot longer, learning from King Tyton and the other, more experienced shapeshifters. His father, and his King, a mighty horned owl had spent an entire moon in his other form once, and Sorro had imitated him in a desperate bid to prove himself, disappearing for a week from their home in the Mountain Alcazar of Strigholm. King Tyton had tracked him down easily enough and thrashed him violently for his carelessness. Sorro was sent away to Whitehall then, after his eighth name day, where he had remained at court ever since. He'd attempted to fly home on more than one occasion, but Tyton had spies in the city and they snatched him from the air with little effort each time. Back then he wouldn't have known how to survive on his own in the wilds. Now, almost a grown man four moons after his seventeenth name day he did, but he'd given up trying to leave Whitehall years ago, and had become quite fond of the city, the women, his friends. But he did know this. There was a point of no return.

He pondered how it worked. Once one shapeshifted into an owl (and could no longer transform himself back), was he stuck with his human mind or did that too, slowly fade away as his original body did- only to be replaced by the creatures own? Would he remember that he had a name or would he simply just be an... owl? It was a frightening reality, one's mind locked in the body of an animal, with the desire for human connection, which is why the Maester's had instructed him:

Nine Turns. No More.

There came a sound then. Language spoken, the common tongue. It was unmistakable. He swiveled his head at the sickly angle he could not achieve in human form, in the direction of the sound. It was coming from within the forest, yet not so deep that he dare not enter.

Arrangmarr...the trees talk, the trees walk...

But the trees here were ancient, and the voice sounded young, babbling away with all the fearlessness and excitement of youth. He followed it. How was it that someone was out here in the night? Folk were too spooked by Arrangmarr, even those who were involved in unsavoury business and the black trade. Sorro also highly doubted it was one of his father's spies- there had only been two of those, and both had been retracted long ago when the King was content his son would stay put within Whitehall. The forest was eerily silent, and so full of secrets. He felt it understood him. As the voice became clearer, a faint blue glow appeared on the ground, and he saw them before alighting on the branch of an ash.

"What was that?" a high voice spoke.

Did they hear me? Impossible.

"It's nothing, stop fretting- we weren't followed," came another, more dominate.

Sorrow looked down. There were three of them, gathered around the mysterious blue light, the source unknown. Magic. He couldn't believe his eyes. Small folk they were, the kind from the old tales that could talk to the trees, and fit in the palm of your hand. He had read tales of how they rode upon armoured, winged insects, and some could even read your mind. Forest folk, the old ones called them, and from the ancient scriptures; he remembered them as Fey. Very little was known about their history, their peoples, their powers, and Sorro had believed they had long left the forests, well before his time. They were thought to be extinct. And yet, here they were. It was unmistakable, persons of this size. The night was a place of learning indeed.

These Fey were not primitive looking by any standards, their hair was shiny, and their skin was smooth. Pretty, for beings who inhabited such wilderness. Of the two that had wings, one male, and one female; they were both dressed in what looked to be a type of forest-hewn garb. Sorro could not say for sure, but they looked in the fashion as the lowborn would dress but with a unique texture and quality to them. The boy wore what Sorro could best describe as some manner of laced, green-brown leather jerkin, the arms bare and collar standing. His breeches were of similar colour, and sewn from an unknown fabric. The girl was dressed much the same, only her garments were darker and revealed more skin, and she also wore a type of hollowed out nut for a hat. Finery, that wasn't finery. There was something different about the third Fey however. Of wings, he had none to speak of, and his ears were covered by a liripipe hood that seemed to not quite suit him. Sorro could not ascertain if his ears climbed to a pointed tip like the other two. In honesty, he looked as though he were in costume, swimming in an ill-fitting tunic in again, an unnamed fabric. He had brais that flowed down past his ankles held up with a string of...rope? That appeared to retain the soul responsibility for holding his entire ensemble together.

Certainly an odd creature indeed.

The three of them looked little more than children. But then again, the Fey were indeed queer folk, and even their babes could be ages old, or so the legends told. The two winged ones did most of the talking, mainly to one another and not in the common speech. He could not understand whatever fairy tongue they used, but listened all the same. He thought it a luxury to be small, so insignificant that you could disappear from the world for eons so that time forgets you exist at all. Sorro envied them. He stayed for over a full turn, and listened to these strange folk conspire about whatever it was Fey conspired about. He gathered that the odd one was either some kind of house-pet or slave. Either that or the three of them were playing a peculiar kind of game that youths played at night, like he'd watched the riff-raff of Whitehall do in the streets on occasion. The girl Fey was saying:

"This is never going to work."

And the boy Fey said the opposite:

"It will. We'll sneak him in; the fools won't know the difference, trust me. Then we can fix this little problem of ours."

"Yours. Problem of yours." the girl Fey was not impressed. They continued to bicker in the unknown language.

What in Gallimndor were these two on about? Regardless, Sorro had over stayed, and decided it best to return to his chambers, get some sleep. He left the mysterious forest folk to their activities and flew East in a straight line.

The Fey.

He was thrilled at the discovery, and knew immediately that he'd spend the next day pouring over the old tomes in Whitehall's library. It was on his mind the entire way back to the castle, even when he spied another vole, prey larger than his last meal; darting through the plains grass. He swooped low undetected, but abruptly endured a hard tug on his body so violent the air was knocked from his lungs and out from underneath his wings. The vole disappeared into the grass as Sorro tumbled to the ground, feathers knocking around him, instinct forcing him to get back on his feet. He shook himself, but it came again, this strong tugging and a slash to his right side, sharp and hot. It was a prairie cat, a young one but not so young that it wouldn't kill and eat him. He writhed in its grip while the beast struggled to get a firm hold of his little body, and flapped his wings about madly, screeching in part anger, part pain. He pinched the cat in the face with his beak as it came at him again, and it let him go for all but a moment, a moment all he needed to gain enough speed to launch himself back into the night air. The prairie cat jumped, but Sorro was now out of reach, maintaining his focus on staying airborne. A close call.

*

Upon the next morn, Sorro lay stretched out in the silks on his bed. He'd slept deeply, and long into the morning.

BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG.

"Get up you lazy ogre! Its almost halfrise."

Morven's jovial tones were muffled behind the great oak door to Sorro's chambers. He uttered a response, but was cut short from a stab of pain sharp in his side. A reminder from last night. He touched it, and saw it had bled through his bedding, but not absurdly. Ugly purple bruises had bloomed above his hip bones, across his ribcage and shoulders. Morven continued to bang on the door, harder this time.

BANG BANG BANG.

"Come on you cox-comb, hurry up! We're going hunting."

Sorro gathered himself enough to step out of his silks and dressed at his leisure in slate breeches, and ivory tunic which was an effort with his injuries; forcing his arms through the long sleeves. It was loose against his body which was relieving, but he'd need to patch up the wound later. He rolled his bed silks together hurriedly, and threw them in the corner, began to lace his boots on. Morven practically fell on top of him when Sorro finally opened the chamber door, stumbling back a stride. Sorro caught the Prince as he tripped.

"Easy does it." Sorro smiled down at him, a whole head shorter. His friend regarded him, and sniffed at the air as he recollected.

"You're as stale as a week old chamber pot...what have you been doing in- " Morven's eyes fell to the stripped bed, and then to the silks on the floor. "You cheeky bastard, who was she this time?"

"Nobody, its for the maids." Sorro scowled.

"You've always been a terrible liar." He walked over and snatched up the bedding, what small blood Sorro had hidden clearly visible against the white of the fabric. He grinned in that annoying way he had, like he thought he knew everything. "And you took her maiden head to."

Sorro sighed. "Leave it be Morven."

"Alright, alright. No kissing and telling. I'll get it out of you before the end of the day."

He could be like this. Demanding, impatient, oft times impractical. All the characteristics of an entitled, ego-driven, over-enthusiastic prince. Morven was his best friend. Sorro said nothing to that, turning away to cover himself further in a black surcote, embroidered around the cuffs and collar in spun silver. It had the insignia of his kingdom embroidered in the same on his left breast, an owl encircled by a full moon. His was the barn owl. The Prince in contrast wore his finest hunting garb; green brocade and ornate belt fittings. His favourite coronet was perfectly placed atop his dark mop of hair. Sorro thought him silly for wearing such a pointless piece of junk for outside activities, but that was just Morven. He noticed the Prince of Whitehall wore a new dagger, jewelled with jade stones on a golden hilt.

"Like it?" Morven unsheathed the dagger, flipping it into the air casually and jabbing at invisible foes. "A gift from Tintoth. I've been practising my quick-thrust. Mannering says I'm like to trounce the smith's son now." It looked like Sorro wouldn't be doing any reading today after all.

*

"Another successful hunt Sky-prince," Ser Dendos Mannering, one of Prince Morven's personal guard clapped Sorro on the shoulder as he passed.

"In..deed," Sorro replied courteously, masking the renewed sense of pain where the man's hefty hand had hit his bruise hard.

It was late noon, and the hunting party had returned home, servants taking their trophies to the kitchens for blooding and skinning. Sorro had dismounted and was handing the reigns of his courser to the stable hands.

Morven snorted. "A pretty boy catches a pretty bird." He laughed.

Sorro was unfazed. "Jealous?"

Morven frowned, he had killed nothing today. Sorro, in comparison had put an arrow through seven hares, a fallow deer and the fattest, juiciest and admittedly the prettiest pheasant, receiving accolades from the royal hunting party. The bird would be stuffed and presented at the feast tonight. Their coterie were forever remarking at Sorro's natural skill with a bow and arrow, and proficiently trained he was, but it was his inhuman hearing from the winged blood which made him exceptional. Morven hated it so, without knowing truly why Sorro was so clever and only saw to fiercely compete with him at everything. Morven's father, King Renaud of Whitehall who would usually be present, attended court instead today. It had been a busy Spring, and Sorro could see King Tyton doing the very same, loathing to think of himself as someone who would one day sit a mighty throne, talking politics and listening to peasants whine. He'd suffered through his own pains today, and very much desired to hunt that young prairie cat down, only the party had hunted the woodlands to the West, which teamed with fresh game. In the quiet, walking bow in hand, Sorro had listened carefully not for beasts, but for the Fey, of which had occupied his mind all day. He did not find any.

After he and Morven had washed up, Sorro returned to his chambers to dress before table. He was surprised to see Lida in his room, and she jumped as he opened the chamber doors.

"M'lord." she lowered her head demurely. "I was on my way, beggin' y'pardons. Sorry to disturb."

Sorro noticed his old bedsheets had been taken away, the bed remade with new ones, candles freshly lit. The room smelled of patchouli with a hint of lavender, and something spicy. Lida had also left him a present from the kitchens; a sweet pudding. He smiled. So she brings it before table, not during. His chambers looked warm and inviting enough for him to fall asleep this very instant, for his body felt as stiff as a wooden shield. Lida made to pass him in leave, but he grabbed her arm unexpectedly.

"I'd like your help with something." She stopped, her cheeks rosy. She wouldn't meet his eyes, a sign of her lowborn status. Sorrow had heard the Steward tell newly employed maids not to look the lords and ladies in the eyes before.

"Y...Yes M'lord, what is it you require of me?"

He let go of her arm, deadbolting the heavy chamber doors so they would not be disturbed. He removed his surcote and tunic, sweat visible from the hunt. Lida shifted uncomfortably, blushing as she ran her eyes over his well-muscled torso. Her eyes widened at his bruises, darker now and his wound beginning to fester. Sorro had wanted badly to attend to it today, only Morven had been so persistent and he didn't want his friend asking questions. Protecting his secret was important, outsiders were already weary of his people. Some in Whitehall avoided him altogether, believing the citizens of Strigholm involved in dark magic.

"Y've been hurt in the hunt M'lord?"

"Yes," Sorro lied. I need you to clean this up before I attend table. And quickly."

No sooner had he sat down, than Lida had left his chambers and returned with vinegar, honey, oil, fig leaves and bandages. He knew she would not question why he'd asked her instead of the physician. From the way she tended his care so delicately he could tell she was more than content just to be alone with him. He watched her as she finished the last of the bandages, wrapping them around his body, stray hairs from her braid a golden halo glowing in the candlelight. Sorro reached for her chin then, and tilted her face towards him, and kissed her with passion.

"Thank you," he told her.

She smiled shyly and stood to help him dress for table; this time donning a tunic of black and silver brocade with structured shoulder plates. Sorro's features were fair, but he had a predilection for black. It reminded him of the night. He placed his favourite ring on the index of his right hand, a gold inlayed tourmaline. It was a gift his mother had given him, once owned by his accursed Uncle. Lida left his chambers and Sorro waited a moment before departing, descending the flight of stairs that led to an elongated hall. Feasts were held in the Great Hall, where upon his approach, Gwenda was waiting for him. He wasn't in the mood for her right now, but greeted the Princess courteously all the same.

"Your Grace," he held his arm out for her as was custom, and she took it without hesitation. Two servants opened the Great Hall to them, merriment omnipresent.

"You can call me by name you know, like when we were little," she said, resting her head against his upper arm as they made their entrance.

She looked resplendent, her finery a graceful dress of deep blue samite with gold threading and a long train. The bodice was boned and accentuated her high breasts, which was distracting. A mass of black waves tumbled from underneath a delicate tiara set with lapis.

"Yes, well...we aren't little anymore," Sorro reminded her.

She flicked a long lock of dark hair behind her shoulders, "And thank the Gods for that, just imagine what everyone would think."

She loved to do that, play games and speak words with hidden meanings. She smirked that same smirk she shared with her twin. There was a twinkle in her eye, and Sorro didn't like it. She was up to something.

"Where have you two been?" Morven spilled the wine from his goblet as he greeted them both upon their approach. "Sister," he said, kissing Gwenda's cheeks. "Brother," he laid a hand on Sorro's shoulder, better soothed now with Lida's aid. He'd dressed in a blue that matched his twin.

He was drunk already, like most of the men. They sat down, Gwenda separating the two Princes. The King and Queen, who sat on Morven's left were engaged in conversation with the Queen's brother, Lord Genrick visiting from their homelands in the South. Beside him, sat Klyn Tintoth, King Renaud's courtier. The feast tonight was as ever, extraordinarily prepared, his pheasant cut open, stuffed with apricots and spiced with nutmeg and cloves. The smell was delightful. Cassia, one of Gwen's ladies-in-waiting bent down between the twins to whisper something into the Princess' royal ear. She pursed her lips, whispering back. Sorro watched her. Gwenda had been blessed twice over, for she possessed both beauty and cleverness. Morven thought his sister a flower, where her true nature was far more serpentine. If Gwen was a flower, she was nightshade. And was by no means sweet.

The following sunrise, Sorro awoke, feeling rested. He had not shapeshifted after table last night, spooked after his injury, deciding only to fly when he was at full strength. After he'd broken his fast, he spent the remainder of the morning in the the castle library, thankful Morven had been summoned to court and he could finally have solace. None of the tomes here revealed anything new about the Fey, mainly folktales and fairy stories to both entertain and scare children. There was some mention of them in a crumbling account by an outlaw named Cuthbert, who appeared to have dealings with a fearsome type of horned Fey, wielding a spear. The Fey Sorro had seen looked nothing like this creature, but the artist's depictions reminded him of the monstrous Statues of Samiton, many leagues North of here. The account itself had been included into works by a scholar named Byron the Believer. Strange indeed.

Sorro was surprised to find no dessert left in his chambers that evening, and in the day that followed, he returned to his chambers mid-morn to find a maid attending her duties there. She was an older woman, grey hair neatly tucked under her cap. She bowed in respect, Sorro didn't recognise her. He asked after Lida, to which the woman shook her head without looking him in the eye. She knew not of her, and claimed today her first day in the castle. Perhaps the maids had a reassignment of rooms. He'd request to change that if so. After halfrise, he was summoned by the King, unexpectedly. Gwen was waiting for him outside her father's private chambers, that smirk upon her lips.

"Summoned by my Father? What have you been up to?"

"Nothing you need to concern yourself with, Your Grace," he responded politely, with an air of condescendence. She scowled.

"Well, I thought I'd save you the trouble. I hope you like your new chamber maid."

Sorro stopped. "Gwen, what did you to Lida?"

"Lida?" she spat. "I've done nothing to the maid. She was replaced."

"Why?"

"Oh, I don't know... my ladies-in-waiting tell me her dismissal involved whoring."

She had a look of such false innocence on her face, that Sorro fought the urge to knock her tiara off, like he'd done as a young boy. Only now she was a lady, and it wouldn't be deemed appropriate. He glared at her and grit his teeth. He didn't have time for this. He left Gwenda and entered the King's chambers. Renaud was in his solar.

"Sorro, my boy. Sit, join me."

'Thank you, Your Majesty," Sorro sat across the table from him. The man did not inspire fear in him, but he was nervous after Gwen's little exhibition. It surprised Sorro when he slid a letter of parchment across the table, the wax seal broken. It was the seal of Strigholm. Sorro's stomach turned as he read. It was short, and to the point- exactly what he'd expect from Tyton. It was the words he always wanted to hear as a boy, the words he'd dreaded as an adolescent. A royal decree, for his return to Strigholm.

"I know you weren't expecting this so soon, but the day has come."

The King sounded sincere, and told Sorro a carriage would be prepared at sunrise for his journey North. He wasn't listening, and stared out the window. After their conversation ended, the King of Whitehall embraced Prince Sorro and he returned to his chambers. He wasn't going back. Not now, not ever. He would leave in the morning, oh yes; but once night fell, he would fly away and never return.