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Description
Philip Haysnworth looking nothing like his dear, departed father. Where the late Theodore was a short, stocky man with a spattering of brown hair, Philip was tall, incredibly thin, and had slightly curled auburn locks. When he sat with the men of his inner circle – all men in their early to late twenties, all a good distance older than Philip himself – he sat stiffly, with no real superiority or flair for politics. Some nearly supernatural force sparked behind his sharp green eyes however, something Jacob could not quite fathom.

The brunet watched from the corner of the small, comfortably plush back room of a hunting lounge. He held on to Elijah’s coat and hat and stood quietly, as the other gentlemen’s gentlemen were. He glanced at his blonde master, frowning slightly at the calculated look on the incubus’ features. Jacob could not understand it.

When the gathering had begun, Elijah seemed to be in his element. The men in the company of the Prince were all well-educated. They seemed to share Elijah’s love of spouting classical and modern poetry, and all shared a great love of Latin and politics. Elijah had fit in, smiling easily and laughing with them all.

It had all changed when the new Prince walked in. The moment the boy was seated with his guardian standing behind him imperiously, Elijah’s demeanor changed. Amber eyes focused in on the young boy, and his lips pursed softly in a manner Jacob could only describe as disgust. Philip was by no means a hard boy to look at either, in the Sidhe’s opinion. His looks were pale, and he did not seem to be completely at ease with himself yet, but he was only seventeen. At nineteen, now immortally, Jacob himself was still not comfortable in his own skin.

The young boy picked up a flute of champagne. He tipped it to his compatriots, before turning to Jacob. They watched each other for a long moment. The odd electricity Jacob could notice earlier was suddenly sparking behind those eyes. He swallowed hard. Eyes still on Jacob, he started to speak in a nearly hypnotic voice.

“Facile credo, plures esse Naturas invisibiles quam bisibiles in rerum universitate. Sed horum omnium familiam quis nobis enarrabit? Et gradus et cognationes et discrimina et singulorum munera? Quid agunt? Quae loca habitant?” He turned to the others and Jacob’s body shook, feeling as if he had been entrapped by something dark. “Harum rerum notitiam simper ambivit ingenium humanum, nunquam attigit.” The room exploded in laughter and applause. Elijah tipped his head, smirking softly at the words.

“I would not think someone of your age would know of such a poet. I tried explaining to my new servant just this morning but he would have none of it. Not one for the fairylands, I am afraid.” He said. Jacob swallowed when Elijah inclined his head in his direction.

“I believe the young Master was quoting from Thomas Burner’s Arcaeoloiae Philosophicae, sir.” All eyes fell on the tall man standing behind Philip’s chair. Elijah’s eyes hardened and he frowned. Jacob swallowed; he had seen the extensive collection of the incubus’ library and knew that any indication that the blonde did not know about a literary nod was a slap at his greatly inflated ego.

“Excuse me, sir?” The incubus breathed with an infinite calm that disturbed many of the young men in the room recoiled away from them. The air nearly shivered in between the two of them. Elijah picked up a glass and brought it to his lips, smirking dangerously. “I apologize, sir, but I do not know your name.”

The man stood up straight. “My name, sir, is Captain Michael Clarke.”

“Ah, under Theodore Haysnworth, God rest his soul, I presume?” When the man nodded, Elijah’s eyes narrowed more. “As a soldier, sir, I realize you happen to be very worldly in the area of maritime academia, but you are not, and I repeat, not an expert of the literary arts.” He grinned, leaning in. Jacob could see him setting in for the kill. “That quote is at the Rime of the Ancient Mariner’s beginning. While I am certain you did not mean to miss this small annotation in the world of British literature, you did regardless. I hate to have to see you admit defeat, sir.” He smirked, leaning back.

For a moment, Jacob was certain Elijah had won. He could tell, from the incubus’ self-satisfied demeanor, that Elijah thought as much as well. Clarke stood there, dumbfounded for a long moment, before a deep, sinister chuckle bubbled out of his being.

“You will forgive me, Lord Meadows, but the works of Coleridge are far too fanciful for my tastes.” He said, eyeing the blonde lord. Elijah did not seem fazed, however. To Jacob, he seemed to settle in to the conversation with a vigor the incubus had never before shown in front of him. He tilted his head, nodding in understanding.

“Yes, I myself find Coleridge to be far too fanciful sometimes. He speaks of faeries and demons as if he has met them at a personal level, when in truth he has simply been affected by his humors. Milton, however, he is a poet.” He picked up his brandy and took a drink. Jacob could still feel the tension in the room. His eyes fell on the prince, who was shifting in his seat uncomfortably, watching the exchange between the two men.

Clarke laughed shortly. “Ah, yes, Milton. I rather find him a bit…old.” Elijah’s eyes flashed, and there was danger in the air once more.

“Old, sir? Simply look at the language that he uses!” He frowned as he shook his head. “For an easy, beautiful example, what of ‘Dear son of Memory, great heir of Fame, what need’st thou such weak witness of thy name?’” He quoted. Jacob was once again struck by the sheer beauty of the lord’s voice, the soft, slight Medieval lilt to his voice was nearly hypnotic. Jacob shook himself, and was caught suddenly in the gaze of Philip once more. He swallowed, trying to focus once more on the quarrel.

“You only prove my point. Where is the slight fantasy, the practical and scientific or the romance? There is nothing but God and Shakespeare in Milton.” Clarke explained. “He was old, even in his own time. He was never the new sensation that our boy Keats was. He was in his twenties when he wrote. And you cannot deny the beauty of his words: ‘for ever panting, and for ever young, all breathing human passion far above, that leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy’d, a burning forehead, and a parching tongue.’” He smirked, watching the blonde with the distinct look of victory.

Elijah sat back in his chair, laughing softly, a deep, enticing laugh.

“Ah yes, An Ode to a Grecian Urn. How delightfully barbaric, if you do not mind my saying so. A woman being chased eternally by two men who vie for her affections? A woman should be so lucky.” The room broke out in to nervous laughter.

A hand touched Jacob’s shoulder. He jumped, turning. The young prince stood behind him, smiling wanly. Jacob fumbled to bow, but Philip stopped him with a shake of his head.

“Sir, I must employ your services for a moment if you will indulge me.” He whispered to Jacob. For a moment, one of Elijah’s multiple warnings to not leave his side from their carriage ride over surfaced in the Sidhe’s subconscious, but he quickly ignored it.

“Of course, sir.” He said. He put down the incubus’ hat and coat and followed the young prince to a private room.

Description
Philip Haysnworth looking nothing like his dear, departed father. Where the late Theodore was a short, stocky man with a spattering of brown hair, Philip was tall, incredibly thin, and had slightly curled auburn locks. When he sat with the men of his inner circle – all men in their early to late twenties, all a good distance older than Philip himself – he sat stiffly, with no real superiority or flair for politics. Some nearly supernatural force sparked behind his sharp green eyes however, something Jacob could not quite fathom.

The brunet watched from the corner of the small, comfortably plush back room of a hunting lounge. He held on to Elijah’s coat and hat and stood quietly, as the other gentlemen’s gentlemen were. He glanced at his blonde master, frowning slightly at the calculated look on the incubus’ features. Jacob could not understand it.

When the gathering had begun, Elijah seemed to be in his element. The men in the company of the Prince were all well-educated. They seemed to share Elijah’s love of spouting classical and modern poetry, and all shared a great love of Latin and politics. Elijah had fit in, smiling easily and laughing with them all.

It had all changed when the new Prince walked in. The moment the boy was seated with his guardian standing behind him imperiously, Elijah’s demeanor changed. Amber eyes focused in on the young boy, and his lips pursed softly in a manner Jacob could only describe as disgust. Philip was by no means a hard boy to look at either, in the Sidhe’s opinion. His looks were pale, and he did not seem to be completely at ease with himself yet, but he was only seventeen. At nineteen, now immortally, Jacob himself was still not comfortable in his own skin.

The young boy picked up a flute of champagne. He tipped it to his compatriots, before turning to Jacob. They watched each other for a long moment. The odd electricity Jacob could notice earlier was suddenly sparking behind those eyes. He swallowed hard. Eyes still on Jacob, he started to speak in a nearly hypnotic voice.

“Facile credo, plures esse Naturas invisibiles quam bisibiles in rerum universitate. Sed horum omnium familiam quis nobis enarrabit? Et gradus et cognationes et discrimina et singulorum munera? Quid agunt? Quae loca habitant?” He turned to the others and Jacob’s body shook, feeling as if he had been entrapped by something dark. “Harum rerum notitiam simper ambivit ingenium humanum, nunquam attigit.” The room exploded in laughter and applause. Elijah tipped his head, smirking softly at the words.

“I would not think someone of your age would know of such a poet. I tried explaining to my new servant just this morning but he would have none of it. Not one for the fairylands, I am afraid.” He said. Jacob swallowed when Elijah inclined his head in his direction.

“I believe the young Master was quoting from Thomas Burner’s Arcaeoloiae Philosophicae, sir.” All eyes fell on the tall man standing behind Philip’s chair. Elijah’s eyes hardened and he frowned. Jacob swallowed; he had seen the extensive collection of the incubus’ library and knew that any indication that the blonde did not know about a literary nod was a slap at his greatly inflated ego.

“Excuse me, sir?” The incubus breathed with an infinite calm that disturbed many of the young men in the room recoiled away from them. The air nearly shivered in between the two of them. Elijah picked up a glass and brought it to his lips, smirking dangerously. “I apologize, sir, but I do not know your name.”

The man stood up straight. “My name, sir, is Captain Michael Clarke.”

“Ah, under Theodore Haysnworth, God rest his soul, I presume?” When the man nodded, Elijah’s eyes narrowed more. “As a soldier, sir, I realize you happen to be very worldly in the area of maritime academia, but you are not, and I repeat, not an expert of the literary arts.” He grinned, leaning in. Jacob could see him setting in for the kill. “That quote is at the Rime of the Ancient Mariner’s beginning. While I am certain you did not mean to miss this small annotation in the world of British literature, you did regardless. I hate to have to see you admit defeat, sir.” He smirked, leaning back.

For a moment, Jacob was certain Elijah had won. He could tell, from the incubus’ self-satisfied demeanor, that Elijah thought as much as well. Clarke stood there, dumbfounded for a long moment, before a deep, sinister chuckle bubbled out of his being.

“You will forgive me, Lord Meadows, but the works of Coleridge are far too fanciful for my tastes.” He said, eyeing the blonde lord. Elijah did not seem fazed, however. To Jacob, he seemed to settle in to the conversation with a vigor the incubus had never before shown in front of him. He tilted his head, nodding in understanding.

“Yes, I myself find Coleridge to be far too fanciful sometimes. He speaks of faeries and demons as if he has met them at a personal level, when in truth he has simply been affected by his humors. Milton, however, he is a poet.” He picked up his brandy and took a drink. Jacob could still feel the tension in the room. His eyes fell on the prince, who was shifting in his seat uncomfortably, watching the exchange between the two men.

Clarke laughed shortly. “Ah, yes, Milton. I rather find him a bit…old.” Elijah’s eyes flashed, and there was danger in the air once more.

“Old, sir? Simply look at the language that he uses!” He frowned as he shook his head. “For an easy, beautiful example, what of ‘Dear son of Memory, great heir of Fame, what need’st thou such weak witness of thy name?’” He quoted. Jacob was once again struck by the sheer beauty of the lord’s voice, the soft, slight Medieval lilt to his voice was nearly hypnotic. Jacob shook himself, and was caught suddenly in the gaze of Philip once more. He swallowed, trying to focus once more on the quarrel.

“You only prove my point. Where is the slight fantasy, the practical and scientific or the romance? There is nothing but God and Shakespeare in Milton.” Clarke explained. “He was old, even in his own time. He was never the new sensation that our boy Keats was. He was in his twenties when he wrote. And you cannot deny the beauty of his words: ‘for ever panting, and for ever young, all breathing human passion far above, that leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy’d, a burning forehead, and a parching tongue.’” He smirked, watching the blonde with the distinct look of victory.

Elijah sat back in his chair, laughing softly, a deep, enticing laugh.

“Ah yes, An Ode to a Grecian Urn. How delightfully barbaric, if you do not mind my saying so. A woman being chased eternally by two men who vie for her affections? A woman should be so lucky.” The room broke out in to nervous laughter.

A hand touched Jacob’s shoulder. He jumped, turning. The young prince stood behind him, smiling wanly. Jacob fumbled to bow, but Philip stopped him with a shake of his head.

“Sir, I must employ your services for a moment if you will indulge me.” He whispered to Jacob. For a moment, one of Elijah’s multiple warnings to not leave his side from their carriage ride over surfaced in the Sidhe’s subconscious, but he quickly ignored it.

“Of course, sir.” He said. He put down the incubus’ hat and coat and followed the young prince to a private room.