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Isolation	By : LadyOfTheSouthernIsles Category: G through L > Hellboy Views: 1169 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Hellboy or the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story. No copyright infringement is intended.

Chapter List
- 1-Isolation
- 1
BPRD Archives Room (four months after the elves' resurrection)

Nuada was blind and deaf to all but the woman beneath him; a wave of savage satisfaction swept through him as she writhed and bucked up against him, yelling at him to get off her. It was a shame he could only kill the hollow, insolent creature once, he thought as he sneered down into her wide, furious eyes. He was determined to extract every ounce of enjoyment he could out of the deed and didn't want the moment to end too quickly. However, his enjoyment was rudely interrupted as she suddenly twisted her hips and nearly dislodged him. Surprisingly, and to his vast annoyance, he'd had enough trouble catching her and pinning her down the first time; he was not going to go through all that again.
"Bastard!" she shrieked.
Viciously digging his knees into her sides, he tightened the grip of his thighs and used the full weight of his body to quickly regain control. He felt a spurt of satisfaction at the look of pain that flitted across her face yet still she continued to flail at him, trying in vain to push him off. If she hadn't been a hated human, he might have admired her spirit. Instead, he seized her by the wrists and holding them together in one hand, savagely wrenched her arms back up over her head to pin them to the floor. His lip curled with relish as pain once more racked her fine features and she cried out in agony.
It was time to finish the thing. He leaned in close and slid his free hand down to the base of her neck; her pulse beat furiously under his fingertips. With his face only inches from hers, he gave her a cold smile of triumph and started to slowly squeeze, cutting off her breath and her angry screeching. He had expected to see fear in her large, brown eyes - indeed, had been looking forward to it - but as he strangled the life out of her, all he saw was defiance. His own eyes flared with renewed anger and he savagely dug his fingers into the soft flesh and delicate hollows of her neck and shook her. Her head banged against the hard, tiled floor in a short series of satisfying thuds which more than made up for her apparent lack of fear.
Though tears welled up in her eyes once more and she looked as if her head was reeling, the woman renewed her frantic struggles, clawing at his hands and drawing blood with her sharp nails. He tightened his remorseless grip on her throat and pressed his thumbs into her windpipe. She made a harsh rasping noise as she tried to cry out again and in a final desperate attempt to avert the inevitable, reached up and yanked hard on a large fistful of long, gilt-tipped hair.
Nuada swore viciously but kept up the relentless pressure of his hands until at last, her twisting, thrashing movements grew weaker and the life started to fade from her still-defiant eyes. She finally released her grip on his hair, and he knew a perverse sense of pleasure at the thought that his would be the last face she ever saw. It was a shame that her stubborn lack of fear took away somewhat from his feeling of gratification.
A feeling that was suddenly entirely ruined by the sound of a sharp metallic click close to his ear, and the jolt of something cold and hard ramming up against the back of his head. It tore through the haze of his primal blood lust and Nuada froze. He had allowed someone to take him unawares. He bared his teeth in utter fury at the thought.
"Get off Miss Somerled now!" ordered John Myers.
The young agent had reacted without thinking when he opened the door to the Archives room and saw Prince Nuada choking the life out of the new archivist. His training had kicked in and he'd swiftly crossed over to the pair on the floor as he drew his Glock. He'd racked the slide, chambering the first round, and put the barrel to the prince's head, all in an instant. But as he looked down at the silent and preternaturally still figure of the Elven warrior kneeling astride the archivist, an uneasy sense that he might not have handled the situation in quite the right way began to gnaw at John's gut. Even though he was the one with the gun, he suddenly felt uncomfortably - dangerously - close to the elf. His eyes flitted to the alarm on the far wall and then back to Nuada's bent head. He didn't like his chances of reaching the switch if the prince decided to give him any trouble.
"G-Get off Miss Somerled... Y-Your Highness," John said, less sure of himself this time as it dawned on him he'd have to bluff his way out of this one - if he could.
Nuada reluctantly eased the pressure of his hands on the woman's throat and slowly removed them from her neck. However, his fierce, flame-gold eyes promised her that he wasn't done with her yet. He tensed in preparation to whip round and fell the whelp Myers so he could finish his business with the brazen piece of human filth beneath him when another voice – a deeper, and entirely unwelcome one - lent its weight to the young agent's demand.
"Hey, princess! I thought Myers told ya to get off Miz Somerled," drawled Hellboy, strolling into the room. Along with Liz, Abe and Kraus, he was one of the few agents in the BPRD who wasn't afraid of the surly, scowling elf. In fact, baiting Nuada was pretty much the only thing he enjoyed about being back at the Bureau, and it looked like there was a whole heap of fun to be had here right now. The archivist was still breathing – just - and, surprisingly, the Boy Scout had gotten the drop on the prince. If that wasn't cause for a right royal roasting, then he didn't know what was. A half-grin settled on Red's face for a moment as he enjoyed his own joke.
Nuada swore under his breath and scowled again at the woman beneath him. She was rubbing her neck; the colour was starting to return to her face and her lips had lost the blue tinge of death. Given the appearance of that lumbering fool of a demon, Anung un Rama, putting an end to her was out of the question - for the moment. The Elven warrior slowly turned to meet the gaze of his large red nemesis and found the demon shaking his head; the look of cool amusement on his hard-hewn face was tinged with something that came perilously close to pity.
It was suddenly borne in on Nuada just how absurd he must appear, foiled by a callow youth in his attempt to wreck vengeance, and what's more, vengeance on such an unworthy opponent as the woman undoubtedly was. He hadn't thought it possible but his temper soared to even greater heights; he was providing Anung un Rama with a vast deal of unintended entertainment.
"Princess, princess, princess," mocked the demon, still shaking his head. "Didn't think even you'd sink so low. How 'd it come to this?"
How indeed, thought Nuada as his gaze sliced once more to the archivist. Gritting his teeth and clenching his fists, he struggled to rein in his temper as he cast his mind back over the events of the afternoon and tried to work out just how she'd slipped past his ruthlessly-forged self-control and brought him to such a degrading pass as this...
... ...
(Earlier that day)

He leaned back in his chair and looked at the human sitting across the room from him, his cold, basilisk-like stare giving away nothing of the dark displeasure that roiled inside him. She either had more backbone than most of the other BPRD hirelings put together or, more likely, she was simply one of the most stupid examples of humanity he'd ever had the misfortune to meet. Her head was bent and she was tapping away on one of those accursed machines they all found so fascinating, so vitally necessary to their worthless little lives. That they chained themselves so slavishly to inanimate lumps of plastic and metal was yet another measure of their emptiness.
She was the fourth archivist in as many days and so far, against all expectations – his included – she'd lasted the longest. The lunch hour had been and gone, and still she hadn't fled in fright as the three before her had. None of them had lasted much past mid-morning, and they had all been of much hardier appearance than the scrap of vile life presently sitting opposite him. She was about as soft and useless-looking a specimen of humanity as he'd ever seen, and as she had walked into the room that morning, behind the toadish Director, Nuada had fully expected her to take one look at him and run from the room, screeching and squawking and vowing never to return - much as her predecessors had done.
Instead, to his annoyance, she'd stood by patiently whilst that skulking coward, Thomas Manning, had stumbled his way through the introductions. Miss Somerled, he had informed Nuada, and it was the Director who had then precipitately departed, leaving his new lackey to whatever fate awaited her. The archivist had looked briefly at Manning's retreating back, and then she'd turned around to him again and, to his utter indignation, had coolly arched her brow and held his gaze as she waited for him to acknowledge her existence.
By virtue of her being human, he had despised her before he'd even met her and when he had first seen her - so full of human life and human beauty with her hourglass figure, her angelic looks, and her large, sparkling brown eyes – his natural contempt for her had flared into full-blown loathing. He couldn't recall ever seeing a human who was such an abomination to his senses. And now she was standing there before him, expecting him to offer her some polite, empty words of greeting.
He had been about to give her his back when she presumptuously took matters into her own hands. Starting towards him with a confident smile, she had extended her hand to him.
"Good morning, Your Royal Highness," she had said in the cool, crisp tones of an Englishwoman.
He had simply stared at her, his face frozen with glacial disdain at her arrogance in taking the lead.
Undaunted, she'd continued speaking. "Please, call me Elfraine – or Elf, if you prefer."
Nuada could have killed her then and there for that alone. Elfraine! Elf Queen! On her – a human - it was an insult beyond imagining. Unable to speak for the rage that consumed him, he had turned his back on her without a word and resumed his seat on the far side of the room, picking up the ancient tome he had been reading before her unwelcome arrival. After a moment or two, she had dropped her hand and set about her own business.
After that, and unlike the other archivists before her, she had made no other attempt to engage him in the pointless drivel that passed for conversation amongst her kind. Once he'd mastered his temper, however, her silence had soon irritated him; it had deprived him of the opportunity to put her firmly in her place and impress upon her that it would be in her best interests to relinquish the Archives assignment. It had become impossible to concentrate on the book he was reading and his gaze was drawn to her with increasing frequency as he willed her to say something – anything - which would give him the opening he was looking for. But she doggedly kept her head down, not even so much as glancing in his direction from what he could tell, and had refused to oblige him. And then just when he thought she couldn't be any more irritating, she had started humming as she worked.
She was doing it again now and Nuada unconsciously tightened his grip on the book in his hand; he seriously considered hurling it at her bent head in order to shut her up. Battering the brains out of one exceptionally stupid and annoying human archivist could hardly count as breaking the oath forced upon him by Manning four months' ago in Éire. A satisfying image of the woman spread out before him on the desk – her caved-in skull caked with blood, her lifeless brown eyes staring up at him and her irksome humming forever silenced - flashed briefly through his mind and he instinctively hefted the heavy book in his hand.
But before he could turn his fantasy into reality, the door to the room burst open and that great, grinning ape, Anung Un Rama, sauntered in. Hard on his heels was the young whelp, Myers, and behind him were Abraham and that beautiful betrayer of the Royal House of Airgetlám and of all her people, his sister... Nuala.
Nuada slowly lowered his hand and placed the book on the table beside him. As always, he was transfixed by the sight of the Elven princess. What was this power she exercised over him: this power he surely allowed her to exercise over him, even after all she'd done? Four years ago, she had proved herself a stranger to him and made a mockery of four thousand years' worth of steadfast devotion. Though he had spent as many centuries apart from her as with her, and though he'd had many lovers throughout his life – two of whom he would have taken for his life's mate had he had the chance - yet his sister had always held a special place in his heart - a place that belonged to her and her alone. But by her actions in the Chamber of the Golden Army, she had shown him in what little esteem she held him, and it galled him that she could still command his attention so easily.
To add to his torment, she had taken up with that creature, Abraham! He skewered the ichthyo sapien with a hard, auriferous look and then, dismissing him out of hand, turned his gaze back to Nuala. She only debased herself by granting that snivelling amphibious sycophant access to her body and her mind. He remembered the day, two months ago, when he'd finally confirmed his nauseating suspicion that they were lovers...
It was early morning and he was on his way to the Training Room. He was passing through the underground living quarters and had just turned a corner in the corridor when he almost mowed down Nuala as she was leaving one of the rooms. He unthinkingly caught her by the shoulders, to steady her, and for the briefest instant took delight in the softly dishevelled sight of her and the feel of her warm, bare skin under his hands. But as his lips started to curl in an instinctive smile of greeting, he remembered everything that lay between them = and then the sickening realisation that it was Abraham's room she was coming from slammed into him with all the force of a troll's war hammer.
He looked more closely at her then, and a thick, turgid revulsion crawled its way up his gut, threatening to choke him as he recognised the signs of a woman who had just been well-loved. The faintest touch of colour graced her cheeks, and her lips were full and swollen from the kisses she'd just enjoyed, whilst the diaphanous material of her nightgown clung delicately to the tight, jutting peaks of her nipples. And her eyes! By the Gods, her eyes! They shone gold with the light of love, and he felt as if he'd just been slit from throat to groin and had his innards ripped out. For he knew from her look, that Abraham was much more to Nuala than a mere lover; it was painfully clear that the ichthyo sapien was her heart's mate. An impotent fury overtook him as he thought on how she' had acted in defiance of him - yet again.
He inhaled sharply and his nostrils flared as he caught the warm, heady scent of her passion - and the altogether hateful scent of her lover, which still lingered on her smooth, white skin. With a savage snarl, he pushed her away, not caring when she cried out in pain as she fell back against the door handle. And as he carried on to the Training Room, tense, black anger riding him hard, he heard the click of the latch and then the low, murmuring sounds of her lover comforting her...
Clenching his fists, Nuada shoved aside the repugnant, festering memory and thanked all the ancient Gods that his mind's connection with his sister was not what it once had been; there were some parts of her life he would rather not be privy to after all. The life-long reciprocity they'd shared had proved to be the one thing resurrection could not fully reanimate, and it was now merely an ephemeral shade which hovered beyond the reach of conscious thought and effort. He ruthlessly ignored the faint twinge that might have been regret, almost.
With steely determination, he tore his eyes away from Nuala and focused on the group as a whole instead, his jaw hardening as he glared at them in disgust. They were chattering away like magpies, as though they had not a care in the world, but he knew they were only feigning acceptance of their situation. Most of them were as little-pleased to be here working for the BPRD as he was and yet they insisted on pretending otherwise in obedient deference to their human masters.
He leaned his head against the wall behind him and closed his eyes, deliberately shutting out their false cheer; he had no use and no time for any of them. Making a reasonable fist of concealing his anger, he lounged back in the chair and though he looked relaxed enough, his mind quickly busied itself with devising ways in which he could rid himself of the encumbrance of the archivist; stronger measures were obviously called for with someone as dim-witted and obtuse as she was proving to be. A spurt of annoyance pricked him as he realised he might be forced to acknowledge her existence after all... though he'd make her wish he hadn't by the time he was finished with her. He would not tolerate any interference in his search for information on Manning's accursed rune stone and spell, and the continued presence of anyone else in the Archives Room - a veritable treasure trove of information - most assuredly counted as a hindrance of the first magnitude in that respect.
Nuada frowned fiercely, giving lie to his appearance of ease as he thought about the Director. It was a source of unbearable humiliation that a greedy, selfish, hollow creature like Manning had somehow obtained the rune stone and spell, and used them to compel him – the uncrowned King of Bethmoora and a warrior with nearly four thousand years' fighting experience – to forswear his vengeance against the human race and pledge his allegiance to the detested Bureau. Shame bit deep as he thought of how he had been forced to agree to the perverted form of knight-service for such time as Manning saw fit. Though he'd struggled mightily against giving voice to them, he had finally been compelled to say the words, and they had left so bitter and rancid a taste in his mouth that his tongue still burned each time he thought about them. He had been put in an impossible position: humans were incapable of sharing the world with each other, let alone with his kind, and he didn't see how he could be of any use at all to his people... at least, not whilst he was bound by that infernal oath.
And by the Gods, but his people stood in desperate need of guidance and leadership; theirs was now truly a world of decline and decay. Another rush of shame overtook him as he thought about the wretched straits the People of the Earth fallen into after his sister had extinguished the light of the House of Airgetlám, leaving them leaderless and effectively ceding the field to the voracious and indifferent tide of humanity. His father, for all his failings, had at least provided some semblance of order in their fading world, and Nuada had soon discovered that in four years, no clear leader had emerged to fill the void left by their deaths. His people had been cast hopelessly adrift but somehow, against all odds, he had found himself walking this world once more, and never again would he be so foolish as to dare someone to kill him; he understood, as he hadn't before, that he represented the only chance his kind had of ever asserting their rightful claim to the earth.
However, before he could fulfil his destiny he had to find some way to break free of the chains that shackled him to the enemy. He knew Manning must have had some help in obtaining the rune stone and learning how to use it, and once he'd discovered the nature of the help the Director had been given, he would set about putting things to rights - starting with the fatally presumptuous Director himself.
Of course, Thomas Manning's rune stone was only one of his more pressing concerns. He had no idea how or why he and Nuala had been resurrected, and between lapidifying four years ago and coming round to consciousness four months ago, he remembered nothing. Manning could not have been responsible for such a skilled feat of magic as resurrection, and Nuada readily accepted the Director's claimed to have no knowledge of who had brought them back to life or how or why they'd been brought back. No, a very great power indeed was behind that and try as he might, Nuada had been unable to find even the slightest hint of who or what might have done such a thing... and he abhorred the attendant thought that there might also be someone else pulling his strings.
The only anchor in the whole demeaning situation he found himself in was his quest to restore his people to their rightful place in the world; it was the one bright beacon of clarity, of certainty, in the murky seas which otherwise tossed him about. The Fae tuatha would not fade.
.

.
References:
Basilisk: (European legends and bestiaries) a legendary reptile reputed to be king of serpents, the basilisk is said to have the power to cause death with a single glance.
Airgetlám (silver hand/arm): (Irish mythology) the epithet of Nuada, the first king of the Tuatha Dé Danann.
Knight-service: effectively a contract, it was a feature of medieval feudalism whereby land tenure was granted in exchange for military service to the king.
Lapidify: To change to stone [from French lapidifier, from Medieval Latin lapidificāre, ultimately from Latin lapis stone].
Tuath (plural tuatha): (Irish Gaelic) Old Irish word meaning "people, tribe, nation".
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Isolation