The Faeman Quest

Thirty-Eight

Lord Hairstreak had heard of the phenomenon, all right. It had been whispered about in the playground while he was still a child as one of the most amazing things that could happen to a boy. According to the stories, it always came out of the blue when you least expected it. It changed your life because it changed you. It turned you into a simpering, whimpering, well-washed, over-dressed, mouth-dribbling, verse-scribbling, soppy, floppy, stupidly happy, fun-loving factotum in the service of…

Well, it could be anybody, of course, but the playground consensus was it was most likely to be a girlie with whom you would become so instantly enamoured that you would be prepared to kiss her bum! There were gasps at this revelation, sniggers too, and expressions of doubt or disgust from the more squeamish. Young Hairstreak was not among them, for even at the age of six he was aware depravity knew little bounds. All the same, he could never imagine bottom kissing would ever appeal to him.

The phenomenon was called the thunderbolt because of its likeness to a weapon once used by the Old Gods to punish – actually to obliterate – recalcitrant faeries. The original thunderbolt, according to the children’s tales, was always unexpected, always amazing and always absolute in its effects.

The thunderbolt once again became a topic of serious conversation when the young Hairstreak reached adolescence. By now the emphasis had moved on to the interesting myth that the thunderbolt never struck just once. If it happened to you, it invariably and automatically struck the focus of your affection as well. With hormones racing through the bloodstream, this was an important, even vital, point. Aroused young men no longer thought what they might be called on to do for the girl of their dreams, but rather what the girl of their dreams might do for them… and bottom kissing was the least of it.

When called to university, Hairstreak discovered the self-styled Thunderbolt Club, a student organisation devoted to researching the phenomenon. He joined out of curiosity and was only mildly disappointed to discover the society had a strictly academic emphasis and was generally concerned with the thunderbolt as a belief system. At its meetings, speakers presented learned papers tracing the roots of the belief to prehistoric times. One particularly clever young man suggested that the term ‘thunderbolt’, with its undercurrent of violence, might actually derive from the prehistoric practice of clubbing faerie women into submission. When a terminally bored Hairstreak polled his fellow members about whether they believed the thunderbolt phenomenon, as described in the myths, might actually exist, the No camp achieved a solid ninety-six per cent. He was far from disappointed. Even as a boy he had decided the thunderbolt fell into the same category as the Reindeer King of Crippenmass or the Tooth Human.

And now, to his astonishment and consternation, the thunderbolt had struck him.

Despite wearing what was clearly faerie clothing, the woman in the room was human – he could see that at a glance: she had unfashionably short hair, for one thing, without a hint of reddish highlight, and her eyes lacked any characteristic of either Faeries of the Night or Faeries of the Light. He could see too that she was genuinely Henry’s sister. The family resemblance was definite, if understated, and fortunately she lacked the weaker characteristics of his great-niece’s King Consort. There was determination in her jaw, steel in her gaze, a subtle cruelty about her lips. He could imagine her rending her partner after mating, as humans did. Or was that spiders? In any case, the thought excited him.

Hairstreak swallowed and licked lips that had suddenly gone dry. He took a step forward, then stopped. She was staring at him in amazed adoration. The thunderbolt never strikes once! Oh, joy! Oh, bliss! Oh, frabjous day! With every ticking second she looked more beautiful, more glorious, more delicious than the last. She looked cunning and ruthless and brutal and strong – all the qualities he had always searched for in a woman, yet never seemed to find. For once the Gods were definitely with him. Had this incredible meeting occurred as little as a month ago, life would have been an unmitigated disaster. How could she have coped with his wheelbarrow and his cube? How could he have coped?

A thought struck him. Was the passion he felt an aspect of the thunderbolt or a feature of his remarkable new body? Certainly his whole body seemed electrified now, far beyond even the elation he’d felt following the initial transplant. Did it matter which was the chicken and which the egg? On reflection, he didn’t think so.

The woman took a step towards him. She was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen, surpassing even the silk mistresses who were renowned throughout the Realm as examples of feminine perfection. Her eyes had locked on his and there was a single, delightful bead of sweat above her brow. The expression on her face was one of hunger. Her voice was throaty as she gasped, ‘Who… who are you?’

For some reason his own voice locked – or was it actually his brain? He found it suddenly impossible to answer the simple question. I am Lord Hairstreak… impressive, of course, but far too formal. What was needed was warmth, intimacy, hints of future wonders and delights. I am Black… but she might not recognise it as a given name, might think it a colour, might grow confused. I am Blackie… the Duke of Burgundy had called him that, in the days when they were bosom friends, but it was more a military comrade thing. Divorced from the military context, it made him sound like a terrier. Besides, a first-name salutation gave no hint of his status and he knew, instinctively, she was a woman to whom status was important. I am Lord Black? Just as bad, in its own way, as I am Lord Hairstreak. Could he say I am Lord Black Hairstreak, inviting intimacy while trumpeting his own importance? Or was that too pretentious? His mind began to spin out of control. How about a pseudonym? I am Bron Fane… that sounded suitably romantic, but it wasn’t a faerie name, so she might think he was concealing something. I am Papilio Cresphontes… a genuine faerie name to be sure, but unfamiliar and a little working class. Besides, how could he possibly explain it was not his own name when the time came to reveal he was, in fact, Lord Hairstreak?

Suddenly he was back in his kindergarten playground listening to his friend Rubidus joyfully explaining that the thunderbolt left you simpering, whimpering, soppy and floppy with brains so soft they oozed out of your ears. It was happening! It was happening to him now! His mouth was opening and closing like a grounded fish; and emitting just as little noise. Yet the woman, this beautiful, adorable, perfectly delightful woman was looking at him as if he was a god.

Lord Hairstreak found his voice at last. ‘I am your future, Lady Aisling,’ he told her firmly.