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[BLACK JEWELS FIC] Warlord of Glacia- 1/12

Title: Warlord of Glacia
Author: Jourdana Standish/queenmidalah
Fandom: Black Jewels
Pairing(s): Morton/Wilhelmina Benedict
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Mentions of violence; language
Word Count: 16,241
Summary: A tangled web is changed when a certain Warlord takes matters into his own hands; he finds himself fighting for his life instead of embracing death. He also finds love, but could lose it by a few careless words.


Morton’s thoughts were clouded by his worry over Karla, especially as her moontime was bothering her more than usual this time around. He promised to check out the altar that held a gate, as the Priestess was hearing things she shouldn’t.

He froze when he came off the landing web, seeing bodies strewn about.

*What in the name of Hell had happened?*

He grit his teeth as a thrum went through his Ring of Honor. At least it was more of an inquiry and not a call to action. Either way, it snapped him out of the shock of seeing the carnage to properly wrap himself in an Opal shield. He contemplated activating the shield in the Ring, but that would summon the other boyos- and alarm Karla. He didn’t want to do either of those things just yet.

As he probed the area, he was able to sense several living people still, but did not sense any immediate danger to himself. His back stiffened as a memory tickled at his brain. A memory that always remained at the forefront of late.

His first reaction, his instinct, was to rush forward to help any survivors, until his training kicked in. Whatever had happened here was more than he could handle alone. And now he could sense that there was something more than the slaughter felt wrong about this place. Lucivar would have his head if he did anything without someone to assist him.

He took a step back, intending to catch the Winds to head to the nearest village and bring back help, when an Eyrien came around the corner of a building and saw him.

"Lord Morton?" the Eyrien called.

This was not an Eyrien he recognized, and he wore a darker Jewel than he did. He tensed, ready to leap onto the closest strand of the Winds to run.

"Lord Morton!" The Eyrien raised a hand and hurried toward him. "Thank the Darkness, you got
Yaslana’s message!"

The name was enough for him to move towards the Eyrien instead of away. "What happened here?"

"We’re not sure," the Eyrien answered, stopping a few feet away. "Yaslana found tracks heading away from the Dark Altar. He took some of the men and followed them." He looked over Morton’s shoulder, his face stamped with concern. "Didn’t you bring any Healers?"

"No, I—"

He should have realized it was a trap. As soon as he was close enough, the Eyrien released a blast of the Green that shattered his Opal shields. As quickly as his shield was down, three arrows were piercing his body. Two more arrows were heading towards him just as the Ring of Honor thrummed into action and Jaenelle’s Ebony shield was erected around him. As the arrows hit the shield, they turned to ash as they were incinerated by the Ebony.

"There is something you aren’t telling me," Morton said, staring at his cousin’s angled features.

"You do not ask a Black Widow what she sees--."

"To Hell with what I am not meant to do," Morton snarled. "And to Hell with Protocol. I am not talking to you as your First Escort, Karla. I am talking to you as your cousin!"

Karla’s face fell and Morton almost wanted to cave under the sorrow. He almost wanted to beat himself for causing that look, but he would not back down. Something was burdening her soul and he refused to let her face it alone. She was his family and he loved her. She was one of the two most important women in his life.

"I’ve seen my death," Karla whispered. "And it is coming soon."

Morton paled. "When? How soon?"

"Soon," Karla said. "No exact time, but soon." She turned sad, almost hollow eyes to him. "War is coming."

Morton used Craft to keep himself up right. The arrows hadn’t struck a killing blow to him. Nothing would stop him from getting to the Winds and getting the Hell out of there. The wounds were painful, but not life threatening. An arrow in each leg and one his shoulder that was high enough to not have hit any vital organs.

Suddenly he felt a deadly cold filling in his limbs and knew what it had to be. Poison on the arrow tips. But how virulent a poison?

When he looked at the Eyrien, seeing his mouth twist into a cruel smile, he got his answer. The poison was meant to kill.

"High Lord," Morton said. "I need to speak with you."

Saetan SaDiablo looked up from the paperwork on his desk, wearing his half-moon reading glasses to look at the Warlord of Glacia with a critical eye. He carefully removed his glasses and leaned back in his chair. He steepled his fingers, resting them against his chin, the black-tinted nails indicating him as one of only two male Black Widows apparent.

"Is this Court or informal?" he questioned, his voice giving nothing away.

"I do not come to you seeking council with the Steward of the Dark Court or the High Lord of Hell. I come seeking council with the High Priest of the Hourglass."

That had Saetan sitting ramrod straight, a cold seriousness washing over him. Why would Morton need to speak with the High Priest?

"Speak," Saetan commanded in a softly dangerous voice.

"I know you are not a natural Black Widow. Karla explained that. I need you to teach me what you did to adjust your body to the poisons," Morton said.

Saetan’s eyebrow arched sharply, fear spiking in the pit of his belly. He slowly rose from behind his desk, formidable in his appearance. He would not yell, he would not delve into this man’s mind and find the the information he needed. He would be calm. Because this was Morton, and he loved him as he loved all the coven and the boyos.

"Lord Morton, I think you better explain."

Morton stumbled, going to his knees as the poison struck. His fingers tingled as he fell to the ground further. He tried to swallow, but it was difficult. His vision was clouding, but he had enough strength to send out a pulse through the Ring of Honor. He also called out to his Queen. *KARLA!*

"Break the shield, finish the kill. Ensure that once the body is dead, he won’t transition," he heard the Eyrien say. His vision started to darken around the edges and he focused on one of the lessons as Saetan began to teach him.

"Even a Black Widow can be harmed by a poison their body is not used to." He was mixing a small concoction. "A poison meant to kill must be added in such a way to weaken the body. A Black Widow can take on much, but the body will eventually weaken if a poison is introduced and mixed so the body can not fight it off."

"And a non-Black Widow?" Morton asked.

"We will begin slowly. Poison meant to make you violently ill," Saetan said. "Mixed with a drink here and there, forcing your body to build up a tolerance." He glanced at Morton, giving him a serious look.

"A snake tooth may be needed, allowing you to concoct a venom right for your body to help adjust," he said.

"You mean become a Black Widow?" Morton hadn’t thought about that, or what it could mean.

"It may be necessary to keep you safe. And to avoid what you are so diligently trying not to tell me."

"A tangled web, once confided, can not be shared unless the Black Widow wishes it," Morton murmured, his resolve strengthening but feeling itchy under the High Lord’s too-knowing gaze.

"I know."

Darkness finally overtook Morton. He could only pray that he had not made a grave mistake and that he would be found before the poison did irreversible damage to him. Before he succumbed to the darkness closing in on him, he sent a warning to one of the people that mattered most to him. And a message to the other.


’Mina, I love you...


Wilhelmina Benedict felt her heart pound as a soft whisper drifted through her mind. Morton’s normally deep voice sent shivers up and down her spine, even when spoken in the softest of ways, but this felt like a good-bye.

No, she thought to herself. No, you can’t tell me that then...

Even as she reached out towards him, she felt something different, something shifting. Her fingers suddenly felt as if they had no nerves in them whatsoever, and the embroidery she had been working on slipped from her fingers and fell to the floor, forgotten.

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