The Mousetrap.

In the end you put your foot down: damn the second opinion, the trap must be laid now. It takes time to arrange for the materials you'll need and even that is proving to be too much for your taste. You hear the peasantry whispering of "the madness of king Donmal" and it makes your skin itch with anxiety. You have to end this. The sooner the better.

Tara is wary of your determination but she helps you to the best of her abilities. Even your simmering desire for the elf outcast is overshadowed by your frustrations, you can't bring yourself to make even the most token of advances. It would probably be wishful thinking to say she missed them but you suspect she's noticed the difference in your attitude.

When the two of you finally manage to bring the trap to a passable state, even her sylvan patience is beginning to wear thin. You are far worse, the paranoia of being a hunted man beginning to drive you mad. You haven't slept well in days, hyper-analyzing the trap in your waking hours not spent avoiding your own guardsmen.

At its core it is a simple dart trap: a series of silver-tipped prongs to be speared into the space where the demon will appear. You both have compiled something of an armory in case it doesn't work, your sword edged with silver and dipped in vervain being one of several sharp edged objects you planned to keep close on hand.

There was a glaring divide in your mind: the part that obsessively planned this usurpers **** and the part that dreaded facing you mother. You'd done your best to ignore the second part but it was growing increasingly more difficult as the hour of the summoning approached.

As you approach the mechanism you pull Tara into a surprised embrace, "Thank you. For seeing this through with me." She nods solemnly, gracing your cheek with a short kiss before taking her place next to the trap.

Taking a shaky breath, you ready your sword, and speak your mothers true name.

You blink.

Of all the things to happen, you didn't expect to find yourself sitting across from your mother in front of one of the castles many hearths. She wore a favorite nightgown, one that had always made you uncomfortable with how very form-fitting it was.

She raises an eyebrow at you, reclining in her seat and sipping wine, "That was a very bold move my son. I didn't think you had it in you."

Your mother was crystal clear but the room around you was hazy, blurred and abstract like a dream, albeit an incredibly lucid one, "What is this? Did I summon myself to you?"

She chuckled darkly, "No. You issued a challenge, as only one of the blood can. A mortal mage can summon and bind a demon through great personal risk if they are given the demon's name. You are my son, you know my name instinctively. When you choose to speak it, especially as brazenly as you have, it is a direct challenge to my dominance that I must respond to. It's risky, even between full blooded demons, you never know what you might find." She fixed him with a glare, features warped by shadow and flickering light, "So what do you demand, boy?"

You narrow your eyes at the demon, fingers tightening on the armrests of your chair as anger overcame your fear, "How could you."

She grimaced, lowering her cup as the menace fled her tone, "I didn't have a choice Donmal. You..." She briefly seemed to morph before his eyes, something sad and tired piercing through her youthful image before vanishing, "You aren't a demon. You don't know the urges, the drive for change, for experience, for excess... your father refused to sate my needs. You and your sister..." Her voice dropped to nearly a whisper, "...had to go."

"Is that it?"

Her eyes flared with anger and she leaned forward in her chair, leering at you through sharpened teeth, "Is that all you've come to do Donmal? Nag me with irrelevant questions? This is a challenge, neither of us can leave until one of us overpowers the other."

She stood up and you reciprocate, your usual height not seeming to apply as you meet each others gaze evenly, "I won't deny that this is a more personal end than I could have hoped for, certainly more than I offered your father." Her humanity was slipping, her skin shimmering over taught muscle, nails extending into blackened claws as she bared a nightmarish set of teeth at you, "How are we to settle this, hm? I'll let you decide, maybe I owe you that much."

Time stretched as your mind raced for an answer.

You were still angry, furious over how meaningless her excuses were, but the fear was beginning to edge back into front and center. Apparently you were about to face a demon in the arena of your mind, perhaps the part of you that had weakened the most in the past weeks. Not to mention the trap had been all for nothing, which you were trying hard not to dwell on.

Could you overpower your mother through anger alone? Doubtful.You'd never bested her in a battle of will, her ability to manipulate you was uncanny, and she clearly had the advantage of experience here.

Was it a battle of wits? It didn't seem like it, you felt you were rather imminently about to have your throat torn out. It didn't lend itself to strategic thinking.

There must be something, some weakness that you could exploit. She seemed saddened over the loss of your father and sister but she clearly wasn't conflicted enough to not try and **** you. What would it mean if you lost? She said the battle was for dominance... would you even be yourself anymore? Or just a puppet? What would happen to Tara? Was time passing outside?

"Enough Donmal, finish this!"