Rowan O'Cleary (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
medicalling) wrote2025-03-26 01:38 am
medicalling) wrote2025-03-26 01:38 am
World Info - Personal History (WIP)
There are plenty of worlds that exist; some of them even run parallel to each other. In some, humanity has blended with technology so you can't tell one from the other. In others, they've spread out across the universe, found other planets, other beings to live and war with. In this world, the stories told to children late at night about brownies and pixies are based on more than just the imagination or bad sight of old storytellers. To the wise, they're both history and warning, a guide to dealing with the Fair Folk. This world has mostly forgotten magic, explained its existence away as swamp gas, hallucinations from rye bread gone off, or the imaginings of clever minds and even cleverer tongues. They imagine the fae as pretty things. Small things. Harmless things.
Fools.
Oh, there's those, mostly from the old country, that remember the warning behind the tale. The ones who were born with second sight, who had a member of their family or village taken by the fae and a changeling left in place. Who wandered off and were lost, last seen near where a ring of mushrooms had sprung up. They're fewer than they used to be, but they still keep a weather eye on the fae and what they do within the human world. The creation and mass production of iron has kept the weakest from infiltrating cities overmuch, but sithens and their magical doors have cropped up across the wide expanse of ocean, going where fae foot dared to tread first to be able to welcome them home. The first settlers to the Americas weren't all entirely human, and those brave few made way for the rest of their kind to have access to new lands. But Under the Hill is a place for the fae to stay in safety, most of them immortal and unageing, but vulnerable to the wounds made by man's greatest weapon against the Fair Folk. It's that weapon, and the fact they procreate more quickly than the fae that had them outnumbering them, had them feeling secure in themselves and their hold on the land so that as the fae hid their existence, the humans thought them nothing more than fables.
Fae still flit among humanity; some to take as lovers, to keep as pets, or to torment or consume. Not all fae are fair, you see. There are plenty of smiles that hide teeth and maws large enough to eat half a man in a single bite. So for now, in this world, there is a secretive balance, for the majority of humanity know nothing of the Others that sometimes live among them, and the Fae know better than to stir up the ire of a species that outnumbers them and has those within it that can see them for what they are.
~*~*~
Rowan O'Cleary was born on the cusp of a winter storm in February, 1629. The only child of his mother, and third child of his father, Rowan learned quickly where his place was. At the back. He was born seventeenth in line to the throne of the Winter Court, but as the years passed and he grew, the machinations he avoided as much as he was capable of took out three of those ahead of him, placing him at fourteenth. Likely the only reason he wasn't already dead was that he was the third to last royal born to the Winter Court, and the youngest only just leaving childhood behind themselves. The fae's ability to propagate had been waning for the last few centuries, which led to more attempts to lure humans that may have a drop or two of fae blood further down their line to breed with. Better a weak child than no child, but that didn't save the weak child from the heavy weight of disappointment of their parents.
His mother cared for him, but he was a constant reminder of her being unable to return to the Summer Court, which was where his father had claimed her from. A contractual marriage, one that lasted for five hundred years if there was a child born from it in an attempt to gain more from a prolific pairing. She had a hundred and one more years to wait out the pairing until she could end the marriage and return to where she truly wanted to be. She found the Winter Court cold. Dark. Unwelcoming. Her unhappiness there was what brought Rowan to spend time with her in between his living in the mortal world, where he felt more comfortable than in his own land with his own kind.
When fae came of age, they were given a testing to find out their abilities. He had held high in shielding and warding, which gained him refuge from many that might try to torment him, but they'd somehow missed the one ability that he refused to show while he was within the bounds of Underhill. He'd taken more than his colouring from his mother- he'd taken an ability from far back in her lineage. Rowan could heal. It was more a Summer Court ability than the Court he'd been born to, but healers were coveted and claimed, and the last thing he wanted was to be owned by a higher Royal master. To heal wounds made to "pets" that had displeased their master. To be kept as a thing that was taken out as needed. To be a thing and not a person.
He'd left Under the Hill as soon as he was able, finding his way among the human world. But the ability he hid had a life of its own - it craved to be used, to help and heal was in his blood and he could no more deny it than he could quit breathing. He sought out what sort of medicking humans used and landed himself among those that called themselves physicians. Doctors. Healers. It was easier to get away with using his abilities before the age of technology, but as the years passed and he had to keep shifting locations, changing his features just a smidge with glamour to avoid being recognized, he found ways to heal with magic and skill both. Emergency rooms and departments were dens of chaos and trauma. Too much happening too fast for most to be able to keep track of every little thing. Especially in disaster situations. The more chaos there was in the main department, the more he could let a little of his magic free to do what it wanted most to do. To mend flesh. Close wounds. Remove poisons and toxins.
When too much of his abilities were built up from too little use, he'd volunteer to do runs in the homeless encampments, treating those with nowhere to go with the magic that the rich would kill for the privilege of. He took a small bit of joy in the knowledge of that.
Ireland would always be in his voice, always colour his words with that lilting song, but he found that it seemed to work to his advantage most times. Especially when he was looking for a warm body to keep him company for the night. Rowan was definitely not shy about his body or his wants and needs. Fae were touchy in general, more so when their moods were high, either with fear/anxiety, or pleasure/affection. It wasn't sexual in general, unless there was an offer and an acceptance. Humans took everything sexually. He mostly remembered that fact, but once in a while he'd slip up under times of stress or release.
Rowan fidgets quite a bit with his hands, and while he can be found twirling a pen between his fingers, he's more apt to be rolling a worn silver coin end over end along the tops of them. It was one of the first coins he'd earned out in the land of Man, and he held it as a memento, a keepsake of easier times.
Currently, he's in Seattle, enjoying the rain and sea, working as the Chief Resident of one of the mid-range hospitals. He spoke softly when the worst news was to be delivered, and he remained calm in the middle of chaos. He was kind to those that needed kindness, and firm with those who pressed too hard. Royal Sidhe, even low royals such as he, usually had a House. Fae under them that they were close to, relied on, took care of. Because he couldn't have that among the humans, he often found himself making bonds within his medical staff. The nurses, the maintenance, the other doctors. The young, fresh-faced interns that hadn't gotten their hands bloody yet. His little circle of folk that were his to mind and care for.
Somehow, without fail, there was always some fae that found him wherever he settled. A pixie, a brownie, a hobgoblin. One time, a kelpie had taken up residence in his property when he'd been working at a burgeoning town in Montana after the west had been established. It was generally a mutually beneficial settling; lesser fae were more stable, felt more close to Underhill if they were around a sidhe royal, and this particular sidhe royal felt a familiarity that reminded him of who and what he really was. He'd been in Seattle for five years, having 'transferred' from another residency program, and he hadn't had any of the little folk set up too close to him yet. Though, his walks in the forests always had him seeing some of the older fae that hadn't yet been chased from the old trees that had kept them for centuries.
So he worked, he played, and he did his part in the weaving of this world. And he kept praying to the Fates that the line between him and the throne would stay long and unending.
Fools.
Oh, there's those, mostly from the old country, that remember the warning behind the tale. The ones who were born with second sight, who had a member of their family or village taken by the fae and a changeling left in place. Who wandered off and were lost, last seen near where a ring of mushrooms had sprung up. They're fewer than they used to be, but they still keep a weather eye on the fae and what they do within the human world. The creation and mass production of iron has kept the weakest from infiltrating cities overmuch, but sithens and their magical doors have cropped up across the wide expanse of ocean, going where fae foot dared to tread first to be able to welcome them home. The first settlers to the Americas weren't all entirely human, and those brave few made way for the rest of their kind to have access to new lands. But Under the Hill is a place for the fae to stay in safety, most of them immortal and unageing, but vulnerable to the wounds made by man's greatest weapon against the Fair Folk. It's that weapon, and the fact they procreate more quickly than the fae that had them outnumbering them, had them feeling secure in themselves and their hold on the land so that as the fae hid their existence, the humans thought them nothing more than fables.
Fae still flit among humanity; some to take as lovers, to keep as pets, or to torment or consume. Not all fae are fair, you see. There are plenty of smiles that hide teeth and maws large enough to eat half a man in a single bite. So for now, in this world, there is a secretive balance, for the majority of humanity know nothing of the Others that sometimes live among them, and the Fae know better than to stir up the ire of a species that outnumbers them and has those within it that can see them for what they are.
Rowan O'Cleary was born on the cusp of a winter storm in February, 1629. The only child of his mother, and third child of his father, Rowan learned quickly where his place was. At the back. He was born seventeenth in line to the throne of the Winter Court, but as the years passed and he grew, the machinations he avoided as much as he was capable of took out three of those ahead of him, placing him at fourteenth. Likely the only reason he wasn't already dead was that he was the third to last royal born to the Winter Court, and the youngest only just leaving childhood behind themselves. The fae's ability to propagate had been waning for the last few centuries, which led to more attempts to lure humans that may have a drop or two of fae blood further down their line to breed with. Better a weak child than no child, but that didn't save the weak child from the heavy weight of disappointment of their parents.
His mother cared for him, but he was a constant reminder of her being unable to return to the Summer Court, which was where his father had claimed her from. A contractual marriage, one that lasted for five hundred years if there was a child born from it in an attempt to gain more from a prolific pairing. She had a hundred and one more years to wait out the pairing until she could end the marriage and return to where she truly wanted to be. She found the Winter Court cold. Dark. Unwelcoming. Her unhappiness there was what brought Rowan to spend time with her in between his living in the mortal world, where he felt more comfortable than in his own land with his own kind.
When fae came of age, they were given a testing to find out their abilities. He had held high in shielding and warding, which gained him refuge from many that might try to torment him, but they'd somehow missed the one ability that he refused to show while he was within the bounds of Underhill. He'd taken more than his colouring from his mother- he'd taken an ability from far back in her lineage. Rowan could heal. It was more a Summer Court ability than the Court he'd been born to, but healers were coveted and claimed, and the last thing he wanted was to be owned by a higher Royal master. To heal wounds made to "pets" that had displeased their master. To be kept as a thing that was taken out as needed. To be a thing and not a person.
He'd left Under the Hill as soon as he was able, finding his way among the human world. But the ability he hid had a life of its own - it craved to be used, to help and heal was in his blood and he could no more deny it than he could quit breathing. He sought out what sort of medicking humans used and landed himself among those that called themselves physicians. Doctors. Healers. It was easier to get away with using his abilities before the age of technology, but as the years passed and he had to keep shifting locations, changing his features just a smidge with glamour to avoid being recognized, he found ways to heal with magic and skill both. Emergency rooms and departments were dens of chaos and trauma. Too much happening too fast for most to be able to keep track of every little thing. Especially in disaster situations. The more chaos there was in the main department, the more he could let a little of his magic free to do what it wanted most to do. To mend flesh. Close wounds. Remove poisons and toxins.
When too much of his abilities were built up from too little use, he'd volunteer to do runs in the homeless encampments, treating those with nowhere to go with the magic that the rich would kill for the privilege of. He took a small bit of joy in the knowledge of that.
Ireland would always be in his voice, always colour his words with that lilting song, but he found that it seemed to work to his advantage most times. Especially when he was looking for a warm body to keep him company for the night. Rowan was definitely not shy about his body or his wants and needs. Fae were touchy in general, more so when their moods were high, either with fear/anxiety, or pleasure/affection. It wasn't sexual in general, unless there was an offer and an acceptance. Humans took everything sexually. He mostly remembered that fact, but once in a while he'd slip up under times of stress or release.
Rowan fidgets quite a bit with his hands, and while he can be found twirling a pen between his fingers, he's more apt to be rolling a worn silver coin end over end along the tops of them. It was one of the first coins he'd earned out in the land of Man, and he held it as a memento, a keepsake of easier times.
Currently, he's in Seattle, enjoying the rain and sea, working as the Chief Resident of one of the mid-range hospitals. He spoke softly when the worst news was to be delivered, and he remained calm in the middle of chaos. He was kind to those that needed kindness, and firm with those who pressed too hard. Royal Sidhe, even low royals such as he, usually had a House. Fae under them that they were close to, relied on, took care of. Because he couldn't have that among the humans, he often found himself making bonds within his medical staff. The nurses, the maintenance, the other doctors. The young, fresh-faced interns that hadn't gotten their hands bloody yet. His little circle of folk that were his to mind and care for.
Somehow, without fail, there was always some fae that found him wherever he settled. A pixie, a brownie, a hobgoblin. One time, a kelpie had taken up residence in his property when he'd been working at a burgeoning town in Montana after the west had been established. It was generally a mutually beneficial settling; lesser fae were more stable, felt more close to Underhill if they were around a sidhe royal, and this particular sidhe royal felt a familiarity that reminded him of who and what he really was. He'd been in Seattle for five years, having 'transferred' from another residency program, and he hadn't had any of the little folk set up too close to him yet. Though, his walks in the forests always had him seeing some of the older fae that hadn't yet been chased from the old trees that had kept them for centuries.
So he worked, he played, and he did his part in the weaving of this world. And he kept praying to the Fates that the line between him and the throne would stay long and unending.