Nil Carborundum Illegitimi

From the vantage of horseback, he scanned the plateau for game. By his side the boarhounds whined and pulled eagerly at their leashes, desperate to hunt the scents that rippled and flowed over the darkening heather.

'Nothing, sire, not even a hare to course.' Gwyn ap Nudd tugged impatiently at the thongs in his hands and the hounds quietened, ears pricked and nostrils searching. The Lord glanced up to the stormy sky, noting the rain that was teeming into the brook to the west, and reined his horse. 'Home, Lord Gwyn. We shall have no success today.' He dug his spurs, yellowy-silver in the threatening light, into the flanks of his steed and cantered down the shallow dip onto the flat ground. Here he let the horse sprint, though the broken fern and gorse snatched at both mount and rider, and revelled in the feeling of speed and control.

The rain hit suddenly, and the Lord screamed in the pure pleasure of riding the finest stallion he possessed in such a wild and powerful storm. The sky, bruise purple and cyan, shook as the roars of thunder shattered the still, humid air. His mount shied violently, a screeching whinny erupting from its throat, as a bolt of electricity liquefied the rock upon which the heather clung. The creature's silver-shod hooves clashed as it reared up, nostrils flaring blood and the long mane slashing back in terror. Thed fod forced the horse onward towards the distant promise of the great hall, using voice, heels and switch. Programmed to obey the one who rode it, the Elf horse pressed on, eyes rolling with fear and froth decorating its black breast and lips.

Hooves sparking on the rough granite cobblestones of the stable block, the Lord flung the reins to an insignificant, swung off the creature, and stalked inside. Avoiding the hall, he de tde towards his Lady's solar.

She gasped as the door was forced open, dropping the delicate needle that ssed sed to embroider the hanging of her Lord on his finest destrier. He stood, hair slicked from pale, thin, aquiline features, eyes shadowed beneath slashed and lowering brows and she knew what he desired. The Lady stood, dress of fire and hair of flame, and slid the gown from her pale slender shoulders.

Lust slashed the Lord's soul; she was his and would never be released from her servitude. Her pose, her modestly lowered eyes, the small white teeth biting the bottom lip, were in marked contrast to the opulent, white hot curves of her thighs and breasts.

He strode towards her, grasping her pointed chin, forcing her eyes to look into his, and she whispered, as she always whispered, "I love you, my Lord, my Arwarn."

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He gasped, sitting bolt upright. Gooseflesh crawled over his forearms and Arwarn felt he had been drenched in a bucket of freezing water. Wiping his brow with the corner of his sheets, he rubbed his temples, wishing the pain would go away but willing the dreams never to leave. In his sleep Aurella was his, and she gave herself willingly. He had never dreamed past that point; he always was disturbed before any activity took place, and Arwarn knew that this was because he saw her as the only pure person he knew. Although he wanted to possess her, he would sully her perfection if anything were to happen.

Scrabbling on his bedside table, he shook a cigarette from the pack and lit it with shaking fingers. The dreams were becoming more intense and real as time passed. Arwarn, dragging deeply on the filter, tucked his icy feet under Wolfie to warm them and stared into the darkness. His watch said it was a little past three, and the next hours would be spent awake, surrounded by blackness, and smoking furiously to calm himself down. The affair that he had with Aurella in his sleep was not the worst. What frightened him were the dreams that involved the Wild Hunt, as they grew more blood-thirsty and violent every time they entered his mind.

The juxtaposition between his human and Elf sides absolutely terrified Arwarn. Having zero self-confidence to start with, the constant petty remarks and snide comments that he had to endure hurt him further, forcing him back into an already solid shell. He had no sense of identity due to Elf ridicule of his human side and wizard hatred of the fey, so could not reconcile himself with any aspect of either culture. Because of this, Arwarn felt utterly isolated. This was exacerbated by the dreams. The uncontrollable nature of his mind at rest, where he slaughtered and devoured human flesh, sickened and disgusted him, although deep in his heart Arwarn admitted that he became a little excited by these events. However, he squashed these thoughts, however much in the dark recesses of his brain, they appealed.

Sighing softly, he crawled out of bed, careful not to wake the snuffling boarhound, and threw the cigarette butt out of the arched window. The chilly night air, fresh and clear, reminded him of the Summer Lands. Elbows resting on the edge of the worn stone, he cupped his pointed chin in his hands and gazed at the stars.

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Malfoy shifted onto his side and saw the glowing orange circle hovering above the half-breed's bed. He had to admit that for someone who wasn't even human he could smoke like the Hogwarts Express. Must be Elven iron lungs that aren't affected by tar, or something, he mused. The past few days he had left well alone; his nemesis, that evil puppy, had made him a laughing stock throughout the school. Mortis had a plan to isolate Sandinista and give him the punishment he deserved. He hoped his father had not been informed - if Lucius discovered that his eldesn han had been nibbled into submission by an eleven week old puppy, well ... it couldn't be possible to think what Malfoy Elder would say.

The glowing circle, and therefore Arwarn, slid out of bed and stood silhouetted by the faint silver rays of the stars. There was something melancholy in his air; his sighs, the looking at the cosmos. Malfoy briefly considered that Sandinista had a crush, but quickly laughed that away. Who would he have a crush on? Most of the Malfoy fortune would have been put on Dumbledore, with a few sickles left over on Professor McGonagall. He managed to stifle a giggle that erupted out of nowhere by stuffing quite a lot of his duvet into his mouth and pretending to be asleep.

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Arwarn almost turned at the sound of the snicker. He froze, hands reflexively gripping at the windowsill so tightly that he did not realise that several of his nails shattered to the quick. It was Malfoy - it had to be him - spying on his misery. Catlike and silent, the slim figure padded over to the four poster where his enemy lay.

Apart from his seeming to be eating his duvet, Mortis seemed asleep. His features seemed less sharp and arrogant, even younger and more innocent as he slumbered. The faint light softened the angled planes of his cheekbones, warming the cold demeanor and making the shadows less harsh. For one fleeting instant, a single passing second, Malfoy looked like an effigy of a marble medieval angel that Arwarn had once seen in a book. His still comliness belied his usual personality, and the boy who stared was transfixed by how such an ugly person inside could be so devastatingly attractive.

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He suddenly started, eyes widening in horror and shock. He had been looking upon the visage of Mortis Malfoy, his most hated adversary, and finding it attractive. Totally confused and not a little disgusted with himself, Arwarn retired to bed and collapsed into sleep.

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Hooves sparking on the rough granite cobblestones of the stable block, the Lord flung the reins to an insignificant, swung off the creature, and stalked inside. Avoiding the hall, he strode towards the solar.

He gasped as the door was forced open, dropping the delicate ivory pick that he used to compose upon his lute songs of bravery and courtly love. His Lord stood, hair slicked from pale, thin, aquiline features, eyes shadowed beneath slashed and lowering brows and his object of desire knew what was desired. The Youth stood, dressed in black silks, hair of silvery cobwebs in the light of the Hunter's moon, and slid the shirt from his pale slender shoulders.

Lust slashed the Lord's soul; the boy was his and would never be released from his servitude. His pose, arrogant, allyally aware, the emerging definition in his chest and thighs, were in marked contrast to the white hot delicate skin of his throat.

The Lord strode towards him, grasping his pointed chin, forcing eyes of ice to look into his own, and the boy whispered, as he always whispered, "I hate you, my Lord, my Arwarn."

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This time he woke up screaming.