The Sorrowful Ballad of Jonathan Brooks

From Changeling Venue

The autobiographical song of Jonathan Brooks, this epic masterwork is as yet uncompleted and lies only within the mind and journals of its composer.

One day, perhaps, the song shall be sung, and the world shall weep with every note....

(This is a work in progress as the background evolves and is changing all the time. Consider this barely a first draft.)

The Story

If one were ever to hear the details, they would probably add up to something like this:

Born in 1991, Jonathan was only 12 years old when his Keeper abducted him in 2003. He had been a rapidly developing guitarist and vocalist, and his skills were desired in the realm of the Fae.

His Keeper spoiled him, or attempted to; every whim was met and every desire satiated, but for one. Jonathan missed his mother, and when his Keeper coddled him, he only came to resent her further. His mother had spoiled him, and every excess bestowed upon him by the Fae only served to remind him of his absence from home.

Jonathan would sing, to perform when required, and for himself to fill the silence of unnatural nights. Most often, he would sing of his mother. He would sing, but his voice was not hers, and he slept uneasily without her lullabies at his bedside. He would eat, but the food was thin and unsatisfying against memories of savory aromas from his mother's kitchen. He would hug his Keeper, but her limbs were bony and her skin clammy when he thought of the supple curves of his mother's bosom.

Years passed, but Jonathan's well of inspiration never ran dry. His mother's memory was his perfect muse. And one day, for whatever reason, be it sympathy, curiosity, or some more mysterious purpose, his Keeper entered the castle that was their home, and at her side was the boy's mother.

The months passed, and Jonathan and his mother spent their days together, performing duets for Fae audiences both small and large.

It seemed a dream, but it was truly a nightmare.

One morning, Jonathan awoke strangely. He was in bed, but it was not his bed. His Keeper lay beside him, watching. And he was allowed only a moment for thought before the sheets ensnared him, tendrils of cloth twisting round his throat and choking the breath from his lungs. The world went away.

When life returned to him, he was completely naked. His mother was standing naked, twenty feet away at the other side of a circular, sand-floored pit. She was holding a black-bladed sword; just like the one he held as well.

The noon-day sun burned brightly from overhead, sending rivulets of sweat tricking down his brow and back. The sand burned his soles when he stepped from his small spot of shade near the wall. At the pit's rim, some dozen yards above, the silhouettes of Others could be seen.

It was the voice of his Keeper that called down the terms. They would fight, and one would slay the other, or they would both be slain. Her voice held neither compassion nor malice; it was simply a statement.

A gong sounded, and the sword in Jonathan's hand shuddered in echo. It was quiet, with a light breeze whistling over the pit, but in that quiet, the sword was screaming.

His mother was crying, he realized, but she was not sobbing. Her eyes were set like dark wet marbles, and if there was one word that he could have chosen to describe her right then, it was *resolved*.

She released her sword to the ground and walked slowly toward him. The sandy rocks were crying softly, incomprehensible mutterings begging for something horrible. Jonathan could only watch, frozen, his own tears sizzling where they fell to the scorching floor. His sword was shaking in his hands, but his arms were so stiff that he could not lower them.

It was only moments, and then his mother was before him, standing over him. She reached up, grasping that heavy black blade in both her palms, settling its point between her breasts. She did not say anything, but smiled sadly, and she fell forward, the iron length penetrating her flesh all the way to the hilt. She wrapped her arms around his naked form, her warm lifeblood flooding over his chest as she whimpered briefly, whispered his name, and then died.

Her weight dragged him to the ground, and he lay atop her, unable to move, his tears raining against her pallorous cheeks. Thunder roared overhead; perhaps it was applause.

Jonathan did not know how long he lay at the bottom of the pit, only that the sun rose and set by turns more numerous than he could count. His lips were parched, his skin burnt and bubbling from the sun, and he was sure that he would die soon; he welcomed death.

It was as the sun was setting one night that his head was yanked back, cool water poured down his throat. He gazed into the eyes of his Keeper, and he could see the scorn behind them. She placed the water pitcher aside, and raised a knife. His last sight was the sun gleaming on a sharpened edge, and then his world turned black.

When he next awakened, there was only a throbbing ache in place of the light that should have reached his eyes. He raised shriveled fingers to his sockets, finding only a mass of scars. Crickets chirped from somewhere in the distance. He could hear a river. He was in the glade miles to the east of the Castle.

Jonathan would find no easy way home. His change in circumstances had broken his catatonia, and he now found within himself a desire to *live*. This was no easy task without his eyes, naked and alone in the wilds of Faerie, but he managed. And for whatever reason, he still had the sword.

He called upon Contracts with the world, and though he could not see, he could force the world through its obligations to guide him. And so he ate, and healed, and clothed himself in the skins of animals. When he would stumble lost, he found inspiration to continue, and he imagined it to be his mother's spirit lending her hand.

He braided cord from tree bark, and he tied knots for each of the days that passed, their passing known only by when the sun warmed his skin. He lived, motivated by a singular desire: vengeance. He would find his way to the Castle, and he would avenge his mother with the death of his Keeper.

His rope no longer had room for knots, and he was forced to braid another. And then another, and another, and another. And it was after tying the twelfth knot on his ninth rope that his hand touched metal, his fingers tracing the ornate relief work. It was the gate to the Castle, and he had been wandering for more than two years.

In the cool of night, he sneaked through the doors, wandering corridors he knew so well that they provided no difficulty even now that he was blind. He listened for the footsteps of servants, and avoided them with surprising ease. He knew that she would be sleeping now, as she always had at this time of night, and so he entered her room through the servant door. He would plunge the blade into her throat.

When he opened the door, however, laughter floated out to greet him. Delighted laughter. The cool hands of his Keeper gripped him solidly, and he was not strong enough to resist her. He was dragged to the silken sheets of her bed, and there she had her way with him; and though he determined not to respond to her touch, his body betrayed him, and he found himself breathless and staining to match her.

When he awoke in the morning, he was in his bed, in his room of the Castle that adjoined hers. And he could see! He had almost forgotten what it was to see.

Wandering to the washstand mirror, he looked at his haggard form. His hair was raggedly cut; he had blindly trimmed it with his sword when it became unmanageable. He had a short beard, as well, and it looked odd on him; he had never seen himself with a beard before. His left socket was still an empty, scarred-over mess, but his right....

He stumbled backward. It was not his eye that gazed at him. His eyes were soft and whimsical and brown, but this eye was dark and blue and severe. It was his mother's eye. He felt sick in his stomach, and he heaved into the washstand, bent over double.

He did not spare another moment. It seemed that he was already dressed, and so he ran from the Castle. He could feel the sword clattering against his hip in its scabbard, but when he looked down, he could not see it there.

He ran as fast as his legs could carry him. Minutes later, when the Castle was far in the distance, he risked to glance over his shoulder. None pursued him, no servants poured from the Castle gates to fetch him back, but his Keeper stood atop the battlements, looking back at him, her impossibly long hair stretched on the wind.

Jonathan thought that she was smiling. It was an impossible thought, because he was surely too far to see something as small as a smile, but there it was. And so he trod off into the forests, bound for the Hedge.

Compared to his time in the world of the Fae, his escape was relatively tame. To be certain, there are many dangers in the Hedge, but by happenstance, he managed to stumble upon Gaius Arctorus and his motley after mere days of wandering, securing a rescue.

His reintroduction to the mortal world was troubled. He had been gone better than six years to his recollection, but the world had advanced a mere two.

Near tragedy struck when Jonathan sought out his home, only to find the Fetch that had replaced his mother was living a happy, ordinary life with his own Fetch. Jonathan was driven to despair by what confronted him, and he committed his first attempt at suicide. After this incident, he was sent to live with this aunt at the House of Thorns

Later, solace was found within the changeling Courts, and more specifically with the camaraderie offered as part of The Praesidium. His storytelling and musical abilities found a niche amidst the need to retell the deeds and exploits of the group, and his martial abilities increased in time under the tutelage of the other Knights.

A major revelation was had when Jonathan and Gaius Arctorus learned their true relations; Jonathan was Gaius' grandchild, and this discovery was yet another bond that would help Jonathan to accept his new place in a world that was now so strange.

Jonathan, now a Knight, pursues his duties with an almost fanatical vigor, similar to the singular-mindedness with which he loved his mother. His duties and fellowship with his fellow Knights have replaced the void left by the death of his mother. Additionally, he spends a great amount of his time attempting to repair the rift between his often quarrelsome family members.

Vengeance still burns at his heart, however. He blames himself for his mother's death, but he blames his Keeper also, and one day, he will fulfill his vow to slay her, or he will die in the trying.