Barathiel entered the old manor. Empty but for the servants feeding the grand fire pit in the center of the foyer. Three chimney flutes above the pit distributed heat throughout the central halls.

It had the secondary effect of piping his mother's music as she played at the spiderwheel harpsichord. It's muffled but tinkling sound like crystal chimes cracking lovely with every hammer strike.

The tone resulting coalesced into a chilling fugue as the spiderwheel comprised of four programmed zithers repeating chord lines accompanied his mother's lead.

His mother's methodical grace once accompanied the wild and course playing style Tereth had derived from the hillfolk, Jezde and provincial fairies. Barathiel remembered the uniqueness of his parents in instrumental and vocal duet, before the incident that left his mother curséd.

So long time ago that was, and now Tereth likely had fled to one of the outer towers with his latest fling to avoid the music being played by his wife.

Perhaps, that is why she played now, her skill at the instrument still sharp, much more finely kept than Tareth's on. Barathiel doubted it though. Something so lovely and perfect as her fugues could not be born of pettiness. She played to be in the moment with all of them.

If he were to climb the steps up to the parlor where the spiderwheel harpsichord was maintained and approached his mother, her physical body would fade away. The music would pause, and she would disappear. As soon as he walked away, the music would start up again precisely where it previously stopped.

Sometimes he would find a written note she would leave for him on the music stand. Writing notes back and forth was the only means they could communicate. The fading left her mute; the sound from her lips imperceptible.

At thirteen, he had a knock-down, drag-out with Tereth when Barathiel thought himself grown tall, broad-shouldered and man enough to confront him about his numerous infidelities.

After the fight, Tareth took him to the local watering hole. A pub distinctly Nincian in its purpose and clientele.

"A pint of your nastiest single malt for my son. That shite only the friar touches for the purpose of self debasement on Rozzenblunde's Day. My boy's on punishment for giving me this little mar on my cheek here."

Tareth went up to every man in the bar, showing off the black eye Barathiel had landed. Jostling and backslapping along the way, prideful.

Until you could take on your own old man you are not considered a man in your own right by the way of the Ninci.

Tareth was giving him more credit than he deserved. Though Barathiel got a few licks in, Tareth whooped him good.

One of his father's tenant farmers and closest friends, Kaelsot clasped Barathiel on the nape of his neck with huge, ruddy fingers.

"Did he finally kick your ass, Tar, for fucking around on his mother? Good on him."

Barathiel clenched his fists, massaging his fingers into his palms until the skin was near bloody from the nail indentations. The glibness they treated his attempt to honor his mother's good name infuriated him.

"Look at him now, Tar" quipped Kaelsot. "Ready to whoop my ass too for putting his business out there."

The big farmer pulled a chair up to a table and helped Barathiel into it.

"If my oldest boy," Kaelsot continued, "gave even half a damn about anything that fiercely, he would have made something of himself."

With that remark, Kaelsot's eldest son, Mul poked his head up from the bar.

"Your arse be fartin' in the wind too, pops," Mul muttered.

Tareth fetched the two mugs and sat down in front of Barathiel. Tareth's mouth set friendly, but his gaze bore into him with a heated stare meant for Barathiel's eyes only.

He handed over to his son a mug of something absolutely putrid in sent that also smelled liquored-up strong. Tareth sipped from what Barathiel recognized to be the premium reserve stock of a local monastery's dark ale.

Tareth nodded with his forehead.

"Put a quaff to it. You're a man now. Put it down your gullet in one go. Don't make me have to slap your lips bloody. Your mother would not like that. Do it now, in one go."

"You mad at me?"

"Angers got nothing to do with it, my son. I have a responsibility to you. I'm doing my best not to put the piss to it."

Barathiel stared back at his father, nose wrinkled and head leveled askanced. Tareth took in a long breath before continuing.

"You don't get much of this yet 'cause you still have squeamish little boy emotions and sentiments coursing through your blood.

"I assure you son, that is all about to change. That shit there," Tareth rapped the table with his index knuckle in front of Barathiel's mug. "Is only the first arrow necessary in killing what remains of the little boy inside of you. Got to be done. Now, drink it."

With one long gulp, Barathiel threw it back as he stared down his father, contemptuously. A heat swelled in his throat.

He let down the mug and gasped. The whiskey and rot gut mixture stung throughout his nasal cavities and ran out of his nose.

It felt as if his eyes and nasal cavities were bleeding.

"Oh, dear Sisters, it is like liquid fire. Oh, shit, father!"

"It won't kill you quick enough to overly concern anyone who isn't your mother, boy." Tareth said.

He turned his head towards the bar. Kaelsot was busy tending it as the proprietor snored by a corner barrel, passed out drunk.

"Kaelsot," Tareth called out. "Have the girl bring another pint of that shite. While you're over there, bring some of that ditch weed and vermin poison blend your mother is so fond of. Bring a pipe with you, too."

Tareth dugout his own pipe. He stuffed it with aromatic poppy curings and a mild tobacco. The scent of which suggested it had been soaked in a batch of brandy made from apricots and currants.

"Take you a good look at this shit, boy. This is the stuff they ship to Gareen or Nevespora from the D'jestre lands. It will set you back plenty. You have a long haul ahead of you son before you work your way up to ever enjoying something this exquisite.

"It's all part of becoming a man. In the meantime you'll smoke that ditch weed there. That shit is so nasty I would not give it to my worst enemy."

"But you'll gladly give your own son," Barathiel snorted. He could taste the blood in his nose from the fight.

"Quite gladly I do it, too. I have no interest in building the character of my enemies."

Tareth gave his ale a good gulp.

"It gets even better as it warms up," he murmured with his eyes shut and his lips puckered drawing in breath.

He set it down, then continued. "Do you know when it was I, myself, grew up?"

Barathiel shrugged.

"I've never given it a moment's worth of thought."

"Certainly not. Why would you?" Tereth's eyes shifted off into the distance. "Do you remember what life was like when you were young? When we traveled? Think about it, for a moment."

Tareth stopped speaking. Gestured his hands to pause as he heard Kaelsot approach to hand him a pipe.

"Kaelsot, that little matter we talked about the other night."

Kaelsot eyed him with a grin. The farmer's brows raised up knowingly, setting off the striking of belfry bells of alarm in Barathiel's head telling him to run. He was a man now, he wasn't running.

Kaelsot snorted. "Yes, I recall."

"See that it is taken care of," Tareth said.

Kaelsot snorted once more and walked towards the back exit door.

"What was that about?" Barathiel asked.

Tareth ignored the question.

"As I was saying. Do you remember what life was like for all of us when you were young? We traveled from town to town throughout the Midvries and Nin from hoedown to hoedown.

"Your mother and I, and yourself and your big sister, Bae, before your grandfather had her sent away to school. Then your twin sister joined in with us."

Tareth shook his head.

"Such a sickly child." He sipped from his dark ale. "How happy were you then, son? Very, correct? So was I. So were we all. We were all kids back then.

"Your grandfather deemed I could live the wonderlust given I wasn't much fit for the responsibilities of our family station. He had a son perfectly suited for those duties in Thiel, so I was the biggest kid of us all. A royal scion living like a vagabond Jezde."

He sipped once more from his fine ale to gather his thoughts. Sat it back down.

"I was a kid too, son," Tareth continued, "till that day off the banks of the Kiyili. We set up tents between towns one night when I checked in on your mother to see if she was sleeping safe and sound only to catch sight of that fell moth sitting on her lips as my sweet baby doll slept.

"I kept calm and I tried to approach quietly. I was determined not to alarm her as I approached to kill that hideous thing. Two steps away, not a sound I made, ready with gloved hands to smack it dead.

"Two steps from it, I was, two steps more and everything would remain right in the world. Then she has to open her eyes and she lets out a scream. My name on her lips. 'Tareth'.

"The only ugly sound of a cracking note ever to be muttered from those sweet pretty lips. It bit her and floated out of my reach. She has been faded ever since.

"That's the day that kicked my ass into becoming a man, son. You want to make something out of my whoremongering then tell me this, how am I supposed to continue to fuck your mother, the woman I love, when she fades out of existence the moment I enter the room?

"What do you expect of us? Find a long hall with me on one in with my pants down, her on the other end with her skirt up, watching each other ejaculate?"

Barathiel's eyes locked up and his jaw refused to clamp shut.

"Don't look at me like that. Laïdra was a woman with needs long before she became your mother. To be frank, we've done just that, and it ain't a very satisfactory means of maintaining intimacy between two highly sensual individuals.

"So, if you have an answer for me to solve this damn fairy tale parable to which the gods chose to upend our lives, I'll gladly hear it. Otherwise, drink your swill and keep your mouth shut."

They sat quietly together for a few moments as Barathiel was determined to drink the fortified ale slow and smooth so even perhaps Tereth would deem him manly.

The back exit opened once more. Kaelsot entered, smiling as he sauntered up to lean against the stoop at the end of the bar. He folded his arms together but never took his eyes off of Barathiel.

Tareth nodded to his friend.

"I have a surprise for you, son. To be a man, there is a burden you need to be rid of."

Barathiel gulped hard.

"Sir?"

"Don't thank me just yet. You see the lovely thing busking tables and opening taps? I know you do 'cause I've caught you stealing glances. Legs, long and slender curved so beckoning where her loins meet her thighs, breast raised up firm with such rounded symmetry.

"Her pussy still unburdened by child. Son, that one is not for you, just yet. Like everything else, you've got to earn your way to something that good. That girl will be coming along with me. Trust me, her pussy gets so wet, and her skin so flushed and hot you just ain't there as a man yet where you could handle it.

"Now, relax, you. Unfurl those claws. Unclench those teeth. Take a drag on that pipe. You're going to need to be mightily fucked for what I've got in store for you."

'What are you talking about, sir?"

"Take you a drag on that pipe, and settle back down. What am I talking about, you ask. Figure it out for yourself. She lives back there in the bungalow behind this pub with her five little brats."

"No," Barathiel gasped. "She'll squash me like a bug."