The Offering

“A dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world.”

Oscar Wilde

Darkmere is the realm between our world and the world of Dreams. It is where the monsters that lurk underneath our childhood beds dwell when not filling our innocent heads with their frightful visions. It is where the impish Sandman and the delicate Good Fairy meet when not making their respective rounds.

It is where beings of ethereal beauty or horrific ugliness congregate and conduct affairs that have little to do with humankind. The denizens of Darkmere view us with either passing interest or with casual disdain. They are ancient and immortal, sons and daughters of chaos-thought; we are transient, fleeting.

However, there are mortals who travel easily to Darkmere, and while not always welcomed with open arms, are allowed to wander freely. And at our own risk, for the safety of mortals is not necessarily their concern.

There are times in which the insouciant beings of Darkmere are moved to pity, especially by the plight of a tormented child. Some of those children are taken away to be raised in this place between the dream and the tangible.

My name is Phaedra Garrett. If you are a lover of urban fantasy, then you know of me. So far, I have four books to my credit, with a fifth needing only to be transcribed from a handwritten notebook. I’ve yet to join the ranks of those I consider deities in my genre, but it has been said of my tales that I infuse such realism in them that one could almost be convinced that magical beings indeed exist. I write often of Darkmere, but I give away none of its secrets.

I do not write for approbation, nor do I write for material wealth, though both have often come my way. I write to live. I write because the stories within me insist upon being told, and I obey their every command. I write in order to infuse this cold world in which I live with some semblance of magic.

Writing is as necessary to me as food or shelter. Pen and paper are my spiritual sustenance. I cannot imagine what I would do if I did not write.

How do you know when someone has visited Darkmere? Think of a song that stays with you, close to your heart, or a work of art that touches your soul. Chances are that artist somewhere in their lifetime, has been there. Children come to Darkmere all the time; for them the line between fantasy and reality does not exist.

Those of us who visit often are never the same. There's a look about us, some people call it ‘fey’, others call it ‘abnormal’. It's as if live we in a dream even when fully awake. When we return to this world, we are filled to bursting with ideas and images that simply must be expressed. We are the intense, the dramatic, the passionate, the romantic and the visionaries.

Yes, we are even the mad.

I often journey to Darkmere, not always seeking inspiration. There are times I go to renew myself, to seek solace from an increasingly hostile world.

Darkmere is easily accessible, just close your eyes, and want to be there. No road maps, no complicated directions, no incantations.

Oh yes, Darkmere is quite easy to find, but not quite as easy to leave.

And with every journey to Darkmere, a price must be paid, for a place such as this never yields its gifts without cost. Those who foolishly try to cheat this world between dreams find themselves suddenly blocked. And the inability to return is often enough to cause one to become despondent, to even take their own lives in the hopes that their soul will find its way back.

I actually enjoy the company of the myriad creatures who make their home here. Contrary to popular opinion, one need not be virgin to touch a unicorn (and I could tell you stories about their horns that would most definitely change your view of them forever). Werewolves do not always change at the light of a full moon, and there is indeed a reason why one sock always disappears in the dryer.

As is my want, I tend to be solitary by nature, and those of Darkmere respect my solitude. They find me refreshing.

I am in Darkmere tonight, sans notebook and pen, a highly unusual occurrence for any writer. This can be a dangerous place for the unwary, but I wander at will and unmolested. The winding paths and smooth cobblestone streets shift and meander, sometimes leading up to the magnificent castles of jewel-like stone that are the homes of the both the Unsidhe and the Sidhe courts; others lead to sacred hills and forests, and some of the roads go absolutely nowhere.

My own sojourn finds me in front of one of my favorite haunts—The Ash & Oak.

The Ash & Oak seems to be Darkmere's nexus. Like a fabulous bazaar of beings, whatever you seek, more than likely could be found here.

Lilting, ethereal music from a variety of instruments swirl around me, and the sounds and fragments of conversations stroke my ears as tenderly as a lovely elven shaman did with his lips once upon a moonlit night beneath Darkmere’s skies. Even duels of honor are conducted without a single voice being raised.

On one side are a group of young dwarves, obviously influenced by human adolescent fashion; baggy pants, sweatshirts and steel-toed boots. One even had a baseball cap turned backwards, and several silver rings ran up the side of one large ear.

I casually wave my hand at a shaggy lycanthrope, whom I remember was a friend of my long-ago shaman. Long canines formed a friendly, if slightly feral smile.

The space of the Ash & Oak defies every single law of physics. Outside, the building is rather small and unprepossessing, built of stone, much like pubs and inns from days gone by. Inside, it becomes an MC Escher painting, endless stairways, rooms and corridors, as complex as any labyrinth. Every time I come here, it seems as if something has been added.

I delve deeper into The Ash & Oak with a set purpose to my seemingly endless meanderings. A tankard of something brown, rich and sweet was handed to me by the diminutive pixie lad who tended the bar, his wings like stained glass.

I have come to offer payment at last, for what Darkmere has given me.

Some who come here pay in gold, others in blood, still others barter their souls.

This night, I give my body as recompense.

Ironic then, the one being whose advances up to this point I’d spurned, turned out to be the very one who would exact the price of the creative bounty I’d gained from time spent in Darkmere.

Silverthorn, the High Prince of the Unsidhe Court.

Imagine a being whose beauty is so painful that it is frightening to behold, and to stare too long at it can cause such madness in one’s soul.

Envision that, and still you cannot fathom just how impossibly lovely he is to behold. Extremely tall, thin yet powerful, regal, and arrogant—these words do little justice to the image before me.

His is a face of harmonious transcendence, defying gender, chiseled and sculpted to inhuman delicacy. The eyes are wide, glittering emerald drops with thin sweeping brows and feather-fringed lashes. The ageless cast of his features belies the ancient knowledge contained within those disturbing crystalline orbs.

Those eyes imprisoned me with their undisguised hunger. A mere gaze and already I ached for his touch, though too, I feared him.

I wanted to drink deep of his mystery. And I wanted to run and hide.

His hair is like the night sky with luminous strands of starlight. It flowed down his back, a shimmering vestment on its own. Living tendrils my fingers have always longed to touch.

Silverthorn had forsaken his usual whispering robes for denim and leather. The clothes are strangely fascinating; they flatter the tall elven prince. He glided towards me with effortless grace, a Baryshnikov in blue jeans. The cascade of black velvet swept away from his face, revealing the telling points of his fae heritage. He favored me with an inhumanly erotic smile, blinding in its perfection, blatant in its desire, and from that moment, we both know that I am his. Forever, should that be his wish.

“Come, my dear Phaedra,” extending a slender, silver ringed hand out to me, “You have a debt to pay, and I wish to collect it.” His voice shimmers and coalesces around me, like pure music. “In full.”

I placed my hand in his; he enfolds it in a silken steel clasp. “And in private.”

The Ash & Oak has shimmered and faded from sight. I am now in a large chamber of soft, muted colors and delicately carved furnishings. A fire blazes orange gold-blue in a marble hearth. Swords, shields and lances grace one wall, intricately woven tapestries line another. The carpeting beneath my feet is like sinking into air. A massive bed, seemingly hewn from a single giant piece of highly polished dark wood dominates the room, a not-so subtle reminder of what I will give in exchange for Darkmere’s gifts.

Silverthorn stood before me, tilting my chin up, searching my eyes for either fear or resistance. “Other men might woo you with sweet words, my darling mortal, but only I will possess you in ways they cannot.”

The alluring smile on his full, sensuous lips dazzles wrecks havoc on my senses. Yes, I am afraid. What will happen to me once Silverthorn has indelibly branded my entire being?

Still, fear can be a most potent aphrodisiac.

“I have been giving much thought as to what I wish from you this night, dear Phaedra,” he says, regarding me pensively, a fingertip lightly skimmed my bare arm. I flinch as if touched by electric current. “I considered many exquisite pleasures, things your poor mind, no matter how imaginative you believe yourself to be, could not even conceive of. At least for me, there would be pleasure.”

Why does menace sound like invitation?

“Then again, dear Phaedra, perhaps my pleasures would be yours as well. You seem to have an interesting penchant for pain.”

He undressed me as I stood, as still as a child's doll, bewitched by his nearness, enraptured by the dizzying scent of him. My nipples hardened, awaiting a kiss from his beautiful lips that surely must come. Not kisses, but intoxicating little bites that make me catch my breath. He pulled me closer and bit harder, almost breaking the skin, and I hoped that he will.

My jeans and my panties are removed expertly, without the normal awkwardness such garments usually engender. The panties are practically soaking wet, evidence of my desire.

“So willing, aren’t you, my dear little Phaedra?" Silverthorn asks with sensual amusement as he drops to his knees and blows hot breath against my shaven slit. “You human females are like that, I know. I've visited many of your kind in their dreams. They always welcome me, just as you will.”

Silverthorn parted me with his fingers, exposing me to the jade fire of his eyes. His tongue scraped gently against my swollen labia in long, languid feline swaths, then plunged deeply inside of me. My thighs trembled unsteadily having turned to liquid and my only support are my hands gripping his shoulders convulsively as I rocked my body against his mouth. Several times release was within my grasp, only to have him pull away, keeping me on the knife edge of orgasm.

“Not quite yet, sweet Phaedra," his fingers stroked my g-spot, as I tried to bring myself down harder. Silverthorn takes great pleasure from inflicting this mindless torture upon me. “If you gain release before I allow you to do so, I swear you shall regret it.”

He removed his fingers from inside of me, and places them upon my lips, glossing them with my essence. Raising himself to full height, the jewel-toned eyes hold me spellbound. He began removing his own clothes, slowly, teasingly, and the sight before my lust-filled eyes would have made Michelangelo weep.

My Unsidhe lord stood gloriously, luminously naked, his body a perfect symmetry of line and shadow. My gaze dropped to the smooth marble texture of his cock, stretching limitlessly from a shining thatch of black curls. I wanted it inside of me, everywhere.

Silverthorn took me in his arms, kissing me as our tongues shared my taste and scent, expertly kneading my pliant body with strong, soft hands.

Those hands guided me downward, to my knees, face to face with the potent and magnificent length of him. The weight of his cock filled my hands with its silken texture and the pulsating beat of blood surging through it.

There was no hesitation on my part as my tongue snaked out to taste the salt musk of his flesh. I buried my nose deeply into the thick softness of those curls, thick yet soft as down, inhaling a scent unfamiliar yet intoxicating. My lips slid along the smoothness of his cock, my tongue dancing around each ridge and pulsing vein. A groan rumbled from deep within Silverthorn’s chest, and I gained a certain amount feminine satisfaction that I was pleasing him.

I opened my throat muscles wider, taking every solid inch of him. I bit the head of his cock, grazing it with my teeth. His reply was to grasp me by the hair and fuck my hungry mouth harder. Each breath surrendered from my lungs I swore would be my last, but I would neither yield nor show weakness.

Moreover, I wanted this, this intense assault of my senses. My fingers strayed between my legs, thrumming my clit and filling my aching pussy. It was not enough. I was nothing more than swollen orifices needing desperately to be sated.

I felt him shudder, and I moved faster upon him, intent on bringing him the climax he cruelly denied me, but he tore me away. Pulling me to my feet, Silverthorn bore me backwards towards the immense canopied bed in the middle of the room.

“Little vixen,” he growled as his knee parted my thighs. “Did you really think that I’d spill my seed so quickly?”

Spread-eagled, my thighs over his shoulders, Silverthorn took me with one single shuddering thrust that threatened to rip me apart. Never before had I been filled so completely. Stretched wide to accommodate his length and his breadth, he hammered at me, demanding mastery. I met the rhythm of his hips with my own eager thrusts, which again, made him toy with my spinning senses.

I sobbed and begged, pleading both for release and for it never to end. Silverthorn bent his mouth to my nipples once again, biting each swollen point as he took me deep, hard and relentlessly. I was dying from an arousal so fierce, so powerful that I wasn't certain if my mortal shell could contain it all.

It was the most exquisite ravishment, the strokes alternating in their intensity, sometimes violent and fast, sometimes slow and gentle. His voice thrilled me as deep as his fiery caresses, as much an instrument of my pleasure, carrying me to heights I had never known were possible.

Even his hair, that thick velvet curtain of shimmering midnight, came alive, wrapping itself around my nipples, squeezing them as if an extension of his hands. Those silken strands found their way between my legs, parting my lips, stroking my clit relentlessly, only to cease when Silverthorn sensed my nearing climax, and then continue their sweet torture once the moment passed. Those wicked, sentient tresses would caress me again, until I knew nothing but sensation.

At one point, he pulled nearly all the way out of me, holding his cock at the threshold of my dripping center. I tried in vain to rise, to bring him back to me. His laughter mocked my entreaties, and he imprisoned my hands over my head.

“Please, Silverthorn...” I lost all semblance of control, reduced to nothing but sensation.

“Please what?” His lips grazed my earlobe, ignoring my pleas.

“Let me...” I writhed underneath him. “Please, let me come.” I was in the throes of something more powerful than myself, and as the tears ran slowly down my cheeks, Silverthorn licked them away.

“Right now, my little strumpet?” my cruel elven lord asked, as if my orgasm were an imposition on his pleasure. “And what of your promise to me? You are mine to do with as I please, or had you forgotten?” He did not expect an answer, nor was I in any state to give him one.

“Oh no, my sweet Phaedra. You aren’t even close to what I would consider an acceptable exchange for service thusly rendered. But perhaps,” and he watched as my body struggled in vain to bring him back. “Perhaps we can come to an understanding?”

Anything, my traitorous body cried, writhing in unbearable torment that only such unrelenting passion could engender. Anything, just don’t leave me here like this.

Silverthorn was completely unconcerned with the condition I was in. “If I allow you release, I will come to you whenever and wherever I wish. You will permit me to do with your body as I will, for as long as I will. Are we agreed?”

“Yes, my lord, oh yes!” I didn’t have the first clue as to what I had agreed to. I could have been signing away my own soul, and in a way, I was. And it didn’t matter, as long as he filled me again, taking me far past madness.

With my affirmation still hot on my lips, Silverthorn drove himself deep within me once again. His relentless pounding battered down whatever shred of resistance might have remained.

My arms ached from his sensual restraint, but he would not let go. My body was his plaything, and he played me as expertly as a musician does with a cherished instrument. His kisses drugged me, his body impaled me, and the moment the stars inside of me exploded, my own response damned me.

It has been less than a week since I’ve made my second pact with Silverthorn, and already he has made live up to my word.

The unpredictable Unsidhe lord doesn’t visit me every night, nor does he come when I expect him to. He prefers to keep me in a heightened state of arousal. Whether or not his nighttime sojourns interrupt my work makes precious little difference to him.

That first time was only a prelude to what my elven prince had in store for me. Name the pleasure, name the instrument—and he would subject me to it. He took me far beyond my insignificant threshold for pain into a realm in which pain and pleasure held no meaning.

I long since gave up trying to ascribe human attributes to someone who isn’t even human. Silverthorne has shown me both tenderness and savagery, and I derive great delight from both.

With each visit, he leaves a little of his magic behind, and that little piece is enough for me to create my wondrous tales.

Perhaps my offering was to his liking. And perhaps the price wasn’t too high after all.