Adult-FanFiction.org : Movies

The Quiet Moon	By : LadyOfTheSouthernIsles Category: G through L > Hellboy Views: 1028 -:- 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-The Quiet Moon
- 1
Silence. The world poised on the edge of Eternity. Even the songs of the land and sea have stilled their murmuring voices.
High above, woven into the vast mantle of night, an infinity of stars, their glittering light giving no hint of the blazing furnace raging at the heart of each. And all around, on the bare, grey limbs of the trees, on the stones, on the earth, scattered amongst the blades of tall-grass, lie a million crystals of ice, shimmering in the silver light of the Quiet Moon.
One lone figure stands at the centre, arms outstretched, head thrown back, face to the skies. He stirs restlessly before the gaze of the world, open to it, straining towards it. A gleaming ripple of hair, gilt-tipped strands caught in the caress of the night wind, and dark lips parted, breathing in the air. He presses the soles of his feet into the earth beneath him. He would sink into it, be one with it if he could.
A tremor reaches up from the ground, a whisper of noise reaches his ears, and the spell is broken. His head whips round, flame-gold eyes piercing the dark. The faint thud of galloping hooves and the barest jingle of bells reaches his ears, and the Elven king turns fully now, towards the ancient forests to the east.
The time of silence and solitude is at an end; the time of Magic is nigh. The Faerie Court rides, and tonight, they will say the old words - words not said for six thousand years. They will chant the Songs of the Earth, fall into Nature, and remember the Ancestors in one of the Deasghnátha Naofa, thought, until now, to be lost for all time. Tonight, they will call on the Goddess - draw down the moon - and the Wild Hunt will ride.
… … …
As Nuada scanned the forest, the thudding of hooves and the jingling of bells grew louder. He spied the horses and riders, flashing between the trunks of the trees. In another moment, the Wild Ride burst into the clearing, the Queen of Elfland - of Na Tailte Nua de Bethmoora - at its head. She bent low over the withers of her black steed, hair flying behind her in the wind, and with the bright light of the moon shining full on her face, Nuada could see the dark flush of excitement on her cheeks and the sparkle of life in her eyes. His pulse quickened in answer. She slowed her mount as she approached, and pulled to a halt before him with only three or four feet to spare. The Elven queen's spirited mare tossed her head and set the silver bells on the bridle to ringing as she whinnied her greeting to the waiting Elven king.
He took hold of the bridle and stroked her forehead. "Be easy, Blythe," he said, his voice low and soothing.
Leaning forward, Elfraine patted the mare's neck then swung down from the saddle. She handed the reins to her husband and slid into the curve of his outstretched arm. A few whispered words in the ancient tongue of his people and, with a flick of her tail, Blythe trotted off to join Enbhárr, Nuada's great war horse. The moon-white stallion was grazing on the fringe of the forest and lifted his head to nicker in welcome as the mare joined him.
Nuada looked down at his wife. Her breath was coming fast after the exertion of her ride, her breasts rising and falling against his side. The warm, heady scent of her rose up and ignited a slow-burning heat in his belly. He flexed the muscles of his arm and swung her round, lifting her off the ground for a moment. Soft, leather-clad curves pressed flush against him, moulding into the hard planes of his body… a fit that felt like Heaven. A quick adjustment of his arm, and his hands slipped in through the opening of her thick, fur-lined cloak to settle on the flare of her hips. She stirred restlessly against him, open to him, straining towards him, and desire sparked along his veins. Questing hands slid lower, over the suede-trimmed softness of her riding leathers and cupped the full, firm curves beneath. The corner of his mouth lifted in a wolfish smile as he realised her hands were similarly occupied with his backside. And then she started slowly circling her hips against his and his smile vanished. Blood pounded through his veins; his body hardened in readiness. With a groan, he bent his head to hers and claimed her mouth. Pink lips parted, inviting him in, and the flames of his desire were fanned higher. He'd sink into her if he could – be one with her.
But the time for such pleasures had not yet come and the sounds of the other arrivals claimed their attention. One final taste, an aching press of bodies – a promise for later – and they drew apart.
Amongst the thronging Faerie Court, Nuada spied his sister and her husband, she on her milk-white steed and he on the brown beside her. Behind them were Medh and Aibell, their oldest twins – seventy summers, on matching grey steeds. Their younger twins, Finnabair and Fionnuala – fourteen summers, were home in bed, as were all the younger ones. It was not a night for them, despite their spirited protests, though in the fullness of time they too would take their place with their kin.
Nuada’s gaze cut to the faint, red glow lying far distant on the western horizon, beyond the archipelago, across the endless ocean. Though Finnabair and Fionnuala were more than capable of looking after the children, including Nuada's own sons, Lugh and Azenzêr, a guard had been posted to watch over them all the same. This new home was, for the most part, peaceful but the dark spectre of the old world still stalked them. Sometimes, as the whim took him, the Beast of the Apocalypse would flex his muscles and reach out over the divide to remind the Fae that though he had taken the humans to his heart and reigned over them now in their misery, he had not forgotten the magical races – and nor would he forget them. He had consigned them to oblivion once and would do so again if he could. Nothing had changed in that respect, and so the Fae stood ever ready to defend against the threat and no precaution was overlooked.
Nuada turned back to his sister's retinue. The fall of the Beast had gone hard on her husband, Abraham, and with each incursion by the hordes of his former friend against Na Tailte Nua, a little bit more of the ichthyo sapien's spirit sapped away. Nuada wondered if Abraham found it as deeply ironic as he did that Anung un Rama had finally met his destiny by way of the very same man who had once done so much to keep him from it – Bruttenholm. The twists and turns of fate…
He pushed aside the thought and looked at his sister once more. She was every inch a princess, a woman secure in her happiness, confident in her power – so different from the one she had been all those years ago, when she had borne the suffocating weight of both father and brother. Even then though, her spirit had proved strong, her will unbreakable – as Nuada had found to his cost. He noticed that she wore his present to her. Nestled between her breasts, luminous in the moonlight, sat the Rune of Woden. She was Mistress of the Hounds now, a fitting gift for a heart so fierce.
At the reminder of gifts, he looked down at his wife and found her staring up at him, a soft expression on her face. He was hard-pressed not to kiss her again. She'd once told him that when she didn't have to look at anyone or anything else in particular, she could think of no better place to rest her eyes than on his face and form. He liked the thought and a teasing wave of delight coursed through him. Elfraine's caressing gaze reminded him, as if he needed reminding, that he wore her gift to him, a silken shirt with her love woven into every thread, every stitch. The soft, smooth material sat snugly across his broad shoulders and clung lovingly to the muscles of his chest and arms, and when he wore it, as now, it was as if she was holding him in her own arms, pressing her body tight to his – touching him everywhere with her lips. The idea had been hers, likewise the pattern and the sewing, all hand-stitched, and the elf-witch Gràinne had helped her work the magic. When she'd given it to him, Elfraine had told him that no matter how far distant he was from her, he had only to wear it and she would be there with him. She always was anyway – in his heart and in his soul - but there was no doubt that the shirt was a pleasure to wear. And a torment too, as he'd found out in the ten days he'd had it. He suspected his wife was well and truly aware of that; when she had given it to him, she'd murmured something about a pair of pants for next year. His lips curved in a carnal smile as it occurred to him that she might need some new clothes herself – perhaps some silken undergarments to remember him by – and his eyes lit up with a predatory gleam as he started planning next year’s present for her…
He stopped short, struck by a sudden thought. In the space of only three years, he had gone from loathing even the mention of Christ's Day - or Christmas, as it had been called in the old world, before the coming of another son, the Son of the Fallen One – to being a willing participant in it. Looking forward to it, by Aiglin! It was the one human tradition his wife had insisted their family observe, cheerfully consigning the rest – apart from birthdays! - to perdition. That first year, he had told her 'no' in the strongest possible terms but she had just smiled at him and gone ahead with it anyway. Anyone else would have feared for their life but that was never going to be a concern for her, and not just because she was immortal. As her cousin liked to point out, there was nothing more certain than Nuada's love for his wife, and Lord Henry - Hal – secure in his cousin’s affections, certainly took that as license to be as annoying as he pleased.
Nuada had shunned the first year's celebrations; he was the only one in the wider family who had done so, and though he had attended their gathering in the second year, he had been a dour and grudging participant. It was only this Christ's Day just past that he finally managed to put a better face on things and that was mainly for Lugh's sake – and Elfraine's too, he supposed. To his surprise, he had mostly enjoyed the observance of the day even despite its human origins, and the best part for him had been the look on Lugh's face when he had given his son the present he had made for him: a small, perfectly scaled and beautifully carved wooden replica of the Silverlance. He had worked the magic into it too so that like the original, the oaken one also extended and retracted. And he hadn't told anyone, but he had also crafted an enchantment to make the spear grow as his son did; it would do until Lugh was ready for a real weapon.
As per the Elf Queen's edict, the only presents exchanged were those between husband and wife, parent and child, brother and sister – or cousin – and so he had also gotten presents for Elfraine, Azenzêr, and Nuala. And as in previous years, there had been nothing for his father, though he had thought to give the old Elf King something this year. But his wife had made him understand that his one idea – the scintillating job of the castle plumbing, as she'd so cuttingly put it – was in no way a good idea. It had been the same for his father in respect of himself: nothing. Elfraine, in her usual manner, had eased over the awkwardness when it became apparent that nothing forthcoming from either father or son, and so he had retreated to one side of the solar and Balor to the other, where each had stayed for the remainder of the grey, winter afternoon as the rest of the family gravitated between them according to inclination.
The movement and noise of the Faerie Court claimed Nuada's attention now as the magical beings of the land, sea and air - elves, faeries, djinn, kofewalts, trolls, goblins, merrows, alseids, and many more – gathered around the menhir at the centre of the meadow, in readiness for the rituals. There were no bonnefyres or wakefyres to tend to; this night belonged to the moon.
Nuada saw Ælfweard and Fand amongst the crowd, with others of Ælfweard's Daoine Sìth kin. Cearul was also there, and his lady and her kin of the Tylwyth Teg. His old comrades Ailill, Uileog and several others who'd served with him in the Cosantóirí Bethmooran an Fae during the time of Rí Balor's reign, they were there too, as was Éadaoin, with others of her clan – and her irritating husband, Elfraine's cousin, Hal.
A series of low, threatening growls issued from somewhere behind the thronging Fae and Nuada looked beyond them, to the forest, where the Hounds of Woden, Nuala's pack now, ranged in the trees. With them prowled his own, the madraí cogadh. They would keep watch tonight and stand guard during the sacred rites.
Nuada turned seaward and spied the fierce, striking forms of his wife's Álfar – Viking elves, she called them - emerging over the rise of the cliffs. They strode across the land, horned helmets glinting, breastplates shining, battle axes, broadswords and war hammers gleaming under the silver light of the moon: Elves of Light – Bringers of Death.
A swift movement, high in the sky, caught Nuada's attention next. He looked up and his heart soared. Above him were the two stars in the crown of Na Tailte Nua de Bethmoora… the young dragons his wife had found in the forest of Carterhaugh. Though nearly five centuries had passed since then and they were no longer hatchlings, the dragons were still young; they would attain neither adulthood nor the full measure of their powers for many thousands of years yet.
The wondrous creatures, each one some seven or eight feet in length, and thin, darted and swooped in the cold night sky, black silhouettes against the silver orb of the moon. Not even his keen eyes could make out their details now but Nuada knew that earthy browns of every shade entwined with black to make up the colours of their shining, glistening, iridescent scales, and that all were threaded through and tipped with antique gold, the same colour as their translucent, gossamer-thin wings. Their eyes were emerald green and beneath their red-tinged mouths lay pearl-white teeth… razor-sharp and long, like daggers. They would be a force to be reckoned with once they had –
His flight of fancy came to an abrupt halt, and his dark-gold eyes sliced to his wife. She was watching the dragons too. A brief scowl marred his face. It turned out that she had been the first to give each of them a name of any sort and so she had given them their true names – names of magic, names of power. And the names she had chosen were – he could barely stand to even think of them – Moppet and Poppet! Her only defence had been that the young hatchlings had looked too adorable to be called anything else. He was certain he would have had no such trouble. Admittedly, she hadn't known the true import of what she was doing, but even so – Moppet and Poppet. Playmates for a daughter she would never get back. He shook his head and heaved an inward sigh. He couldn't fault her. It was done now and there was nothing he could do.
A new voice distracted him from his grim thoughts. Above the noisy hum of the crowd, he heard the unmistakeable tones of Balor – his father. He turned, and almost immediately spied the old Elf King on the far side of the clearing, with Máistreás Gràinne at his side. Others had noticed Rí Balor's arrival and ceased their talk now to look at him. The old Elf King started towards his son and as he progressed the crowd fell silent, one by one – a mark of respect for their former sovereign. For Rí Nuada, the new King of Elfland, had given strict instructions that his father be accorded every courtesy this night.
Balor reached his son, stopped before him, and waited.
As was his way once his mind was made up, there was neither hesitation nor indecision in Nuada's manner. He held out his hand to his father.
Balor hesitated only slightly before taking it, and the two elven kings clasped forearms and shoulders in greeting.
No words were spoken; none were needed. Each knew his part and each now took up position. At a sign from Nuada, the rest of the Faerie Court fell into place. All were silent as they looked to the sky and the great celestial orb that would soon fill its vault, at midnight, the witching hour – the moment when magic would sing in the skies, sweep over the seas and hold sway in the land.
As he waited, Nuada reached down and took hold of his wife's hand. His mind travelled back nine days, to the day after Christ's Day. She had said something to him then which had startled him – infuriated him, if he was honest – but which had also caught on his mind. They had both been wrong, she'd said, amongst other things. That night he dreamt, and the next day he had awoken with a burning desire in his heart.
Unable to ignore it, and not wanting to, he had swallowed his pride and sought out his father, sought the advice of the one living being who could answer his questions, who could pass on to him the secrets of the ancient, forgotten rite – forgotten by all but Balor. For though the old Elf King had not performed the sacred ceremony for six thousand years, he still remembered it.
When they had finished talking - reasonably and without rancour, for the first time in over two thousand years - Nuada knew he had just made a gift to his father. The old elf's eyes filled with tears, and whether it had been at the revival of the ancient ceremony or the thawing of his son's attitude, or both, Nuada didn't know. But he did know he had just given his father something of value – something better than the castle plumbing.
And did he but know it, the old Elf King had given his son a gift in return. For as Nuada had taken his leave of Balor that day, he had seen something in his father's eyes that had almost brought him to his knees, something that he had waited nearly all his adult life to see: respect.
It might have been the hum of nature or the murmur of the land, or the soughing of the sea; Nuada couldn't say but his thoughts were drawn back to the present. It was time to begin. As he squeezed Elfraine's hand, his eyes lit on his father once more and the thought whispered through his mind that there might be a special magic to this season after all. And then it was time.
At a nod from Balor, he stepped forward. Raising his arms to the sky, Nuada began to intone the ancient words of magic – words that had last been said a millennia before he'd ever been born.
Silence. Waiting under the Quiet Moon. The world poised on the edge of Eternity...
.

.

References:
Quiet Moon: Celtic name for the full moon in January.
Deasghnátha naofa: (Irish Gaelic) sacred rituals.
Drawing Down the Moon: a ritual in Wiccan traditions in which the High Priestess of a coven draws down the Goddess to speak through her. In Ancient Greece, it was believed that Thessalian witches controlled the moon. For the purposes of my stories, human pagan practices, such as those found in the Iron-Age Drudic and modern Wiccan traditions, have evolved from the ancient traditions of the magical races, and the magical races still practice such rites in their original, unadulterated form.
Na Tailte Nua de Bethmoora: (Irish Gaelic) The New Lands of Bethmoora.
Enbhárr: (Irish mythology) Enbarr of the Flowing Mane was the name of the horse lent to Lugh Lamh-fada. It could travel over both land and sea.
Djinn: Arabic spirits, or genies, who inhabit an unseen world in dimensions beyond the human world in Islamic mythology. They are made of a smokeless and scorching fire, and they have the physical property of weight. Like human beings, the djinn can also be good, evil, or neutrally benevolent.
Kofewalt: (German – variant of kobold) Sprite or house spirit, most commonly depicted as humanlike creatures who are the size of small children.
Merrow: Irish and Scottish Gaelic mythical creature. Like a merman, it's human from the waist up and has the body of a fish from the waist down. Merrows can live above the sea, and according to some accounts, the males have short, stumpy legs and scaly bodies.
Alseid: (Greek mythology) grove nymph.
Daoine Sìth: (Scottish Gaelic) one of the Fae peoples of Scotland.
Tylwyth Teg: (Welsh) "Fair Family"; faerie folk corresponding to the Irish Sidhe/Scottish Sith.
Cosantóirí Bethmooran an Fae: (Irish Gaelic) The Bethmooran Defenders of the Fae (the army).
Rí: (Irish Gaelic) King.
Madraí cogadh: (Irish Gaelic) war dogs.
Álfar: (Norse mythology) The Light Elves.
Carterhaugh: a forest in Scotland, it features in the Ballad of Tam Lin (Child's Ballad #39) and is where Janet met Tam Lin.
Máistreás: (Irish Gaelic) mistress.
- 1
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

The Quiet Moon