Iofiel, Lord of Blades
From Changeling Venue
Contents |
In the beginning...
Once upon a time, for all good stories start that way, there was a Lord. Born from the light of the sun and the shadow of the moon, the Lord was a happy child. He grew to be a man, and as all men, he wanted a wife.
So the Lord took to his land, and walked from place to place. He plucked flowers from the ground, and wove her limbs from climbing vines. He gave her eyes that had once been the sprites that sparkle in the river at noon. And then, because he could find nothing more suited, he gave her a heart bent together from rose stems.
The Lady fit well to her Lord, her heart as thorned and prickly as the stems it had come from. And so the two of them ruled from their palace. For an anniversary, who knows which or whether such a detail matters, the Lord began to gather for his Lady blossoms of rare and varying kinds. He planted for her a garden which some say inspired the Gardens at Babylon. And to him, the Lady gave a son.
The idyll trembled...
Their son was a thing of beauty. He was his father's golds and silvers, his mother's life force. And he was more precious to them than treasure. For him they devised the best they could offer.
First they gave him the pits, where he could watch the Lord's Beasts and Ogres fight. He clapped his hands in delight at this, for the bright red of blood was the first colour he came to know. The smash of fist and bone, the grunt of pain and anger...these sounds lulled the young boy to sleep for many years, teaching him what it was to twist creatures to the tools of violence.
When that was no longer enough to pacify him, they gave him the best of the Lady's pets, the Fairest trained in seduction and the social graces. He sighed in pleasure at this, for the petal soft silks in purples and blues reminded him of simpler joys. The sweet laughter of women, the whispers of a thousand secrets...these sounds calmed the youth into peace for many years, teaching him what it was to mould creatures to the tools of flesh.
But as all youth grows, so the boy grew to be a man. A man who sought violence as he sought the pleasures of flesh. And the Lord despaired at this, for the risk to his son, his only child, was so great. And so, in an act of selfish love, he created the finest tool yet for his son. He created the Champion.
The change begins...
Charging the girl with the sword, the Lord thought he had done well. It was a piece of his own soul bound in the steel, for that was how he'd gotten his name, the Lord of Blades. Giving her to his son, the Lord said only, "She is yours, and if she breaks, I will build one stronger."
His son was fascinated by the girl, and so he began twisting her and shaping her with his desire and magic. He shaped her to fight, as the Lord had indicated, but also he shaped her to love. Her heart was so much larger, and redder, and fleshier than his mother's. He wished to know what could be done with such a heart.
But eventually, as all mortal things in Faerie do, the girl perished. Whether under the weight of her own sorrow, or of a mortal wound, no one is sure. And the son went to the Lord, and begged another. And another after her.
The moral...
There is no neat and tidy ending to this tale. No one knows who has brought it out of Faerie, though some say it was the Last Champion, the one who broke the chain. The one who was the death of the son and the ruin of the Lord. Some say it was another, one who followed her out of that hell, and sought redemption in her sword.
I believe we'll never know, for it is just a fairy story, told on the wind from the Hedge...
