Atlantis Betrayed

Chapter 22

Christophe leapt out of the bed and called to magic to clothe himself in pants and a shirt as he paced the room, suddenly feeling like a caged animal.

Like that little boy in the box, so many years ago.

“What happened?” Fiona sat curled up in the bed, her knees to her chest, classic protective body posture. She was probably afraid of him now.

He deserved it. He may as well tell her all of it now. Let her see how pathetic he’d been. How humans had destroyed his childhood.

“We used to walk the land, did I tell you that? Not just the warriors among us but the normal citizens. Scholars who wanted to learn about humanity, for example. People like my mother and father. They could travel through the portal and, maintaining anonymity, travel among humans and even live in one place for a little while. Studying and learning, gathering anthropologic data about different cultures, much like your own anthropologists who travel to different lands.”

She nodded. “Of course. If you have all this magic, we must seem fairly uncivilized to you.”

He laughed. “It’s not just the magic. The magic is maybe the least of it. We had technology and books and treasures beyond all imagining. That’s why humans tried to conquer the Seven Isles in the first place, more than eleven thousand years ago. That’s when we knew we had to escape. Well, that and the cataclysm.”

“Cataclysm?”

“The Ragnarok. The Doom of the Gods,” he recounted. “The gods decided to take their petty squabbles to a world-ending level, and it happened to coincide with an attack upon Atlantis. The king and elders at that time decided we needed to remove ourselves from the battlefield before we were destroyed. So we went for a little swim, shall we say.”

“Okay. Okay. Let me catch up here,” she said, climbing out of bed and pulling on a cerulean silk robe. “You realize that Ragnarok is Norse mythology. Atlantis is Greek mythology. Your stories are becoming a little confused.”

He whirled around to face her. “Do you think the gods care about how humans have classified them? Norse, Greek, Roman, whatever? Gods fight each other, fuck each other—and who or whatever they can catch, actually— and play games with human lives like you’re all chess pieces on a giant board. No, not even as important as chess pieces to them. More like bugs underfoot. My ancestors didn’t want Atlantis to suffer the same fate.”

“But—” She shook her head, more to herself than at him. “No. That’s not important now. Tell me how your parents died.”

She walked toward him, hands outstretched, but he didn’t want to touch her. Couldn’t bear for her to touch him; not now. Not while he told this story that he’d never told anyone before. She was too pure, too perfect. Too good to hear his story of betrayal, torture, and death.

Oh, they’d known. The warriors who’d rescued him had certainly known some of it, suspected more. But he had never spoken a word of it in more than three hundred years.

She touched his arm and looked up at him with those blue, blue eyes. “Please.”

And he was undone.

“My parents were among the lucky ones, in their minds. They were societal anthropologists, content to study farming villages in rural Ireland. Of course I didn’t know that then, I learned about their study later. We lived on the outskirts of a tiny place, I don’t even remember the name, if I ever knew it. We had a view of the sea. I spent most of the first four years of my life there.”

Memories he’d buried for far too long surfaced: of playing in a field with his father, a man who always made time for a boisterous son. His mother telling him stories by the fire. He couldn’t remember their faces. It had been too long. It was more of an impression of warmth and safety.

A feeling of home.

His eyes burned, and he turned away from Fiona, ashamed to let her see his weakness. “They only returned to Atlantis maybe once every few weeks or couple of months. I don’t know. Time moves differently to a child, of course. We’d wait until the village was asleep and then my father or mother would call to the portal.”

He laughed bitterly and ran a hand through his hair. “It always came for them. Maybe even the portal finds me tainted.”

She put her arms around him and rested her cheek on his back. “No. Never. Not the man I’ve grown to know so well in such a short time. You’re amazing. I can’t believe you’ve done your job, protecting us for so long, even with so much anguish in your heart.”

He caressed the back of her hand, but only for an instant; he still couldn’t take her touch. Not now. Not during this story. He walked away from her.

“It was bound to happen. One morning one of the village women stopped by to talk to my mother about something. Some sewing circle, probably. I remember that she always loved the sewing circles.” He smiled a little at the faded and out-of-focus memory of falling asleep at his mother’s feet, tugging on her skirt, as she worked on some garment for him or for his father. She’d liked to sing as she sewed. He remembered that.

Perhaps it was why he never, ever sang.

“This stupid woman walked in as we were coming back to the cottage through the portal. She ran, screaming as if the devil himself were after her. My parents knew it was over, so they hurriedly gathered their few possessions, but—” He doubled over, the pain of it fresh after so very many years.

“Christophe? What is it?”

“It was my fault. I killed them.”

* * *

Fiona put her arms around him, tightening them when he tried to get away. “No. Shh. It’s my turn. Let me comfort you.”

He shook his head violently, his big body shaking in her embrace. “I can’t—”

“Let me be the strong one this time? Yes. You can. I owe you.” She stroked his back and murmured soothing words of comfort, much as he’d done for her in the shower. When his breathing slowed to normal, she let him escape her hug, but she kissed his cheek before he managed to pace away from her again.

“I ran away. Off to the fields to play or something. They called me and I thought it was a game, so I stayed hidden around the side of the barn. I remember the warmth of the sun on my head, and then nothing until a great shouting woke me up.”

“Your parents?” She wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the answer anymore; in fact, she was desperately sure she did not. But she knew he needed to tell his story, so the least she could do was muster the courage to hear it.

“They brought the sheriff. Or magistrate. Or what the hells ever he was called back then. But he was none of those things. He was Fae. Unseelie Court Fae. The murdering bastard killed my parents.” He smashed his fist into his palm and the dark drive to seek vengeance was in every line of his face and clenched muscle in his body. He suddenly seemed taller and wider, and he was glowing again. Not the gentle blue-green of the energy spheres but the scarlet of fire and retribution.

She knew a little bit about retribution herself.

“He and his deputies dragged my parents out of the house. Then they sent the villagers away. I remember watching them go. It was so strange, how they’d come shouting and yelling down the lane to our house, but they ran away in total silence. They knew, you see. I figured that out later. They knew.”

She didn’t want to ask; more than she wanted to draw her next breath she so didn’t want to ask, but she knew she must. “They knew what?”

“They knew the murderers were Fae and that they’d kill my parents. They didn’t want to know, so they ran, but they knew.”

He fell heavily onto her bed and the crimson flame vanished. “I could see, you know. I never told anybody, but I saw it all. They told me—the warriors who came for me, later, more than a year later when they finally found me—they told me that my parents had gone away to the Summer Lands. Silverglen, where Fae danced and animals talked and all manner of beings lived in peace and harmony forevermore.”

“They lied? How could they do that? Who was it? I want to have a stern talking to with those men,” she said, fisting her hands on her hips.