by Emma Hamm
“You go with your heart. I can read you like a book, child. You want to belong somewhere, and I tell you now, you belong with us.”
The words soared through her veins and took root in her soul. “Us?”
“Did you think we left you? Or that we brought you to a place that was not as much yours as ours?”
People stepped out of the vines. Each flower, each leaf, each stalk revealing a soul hidden in the shadows.
“We’ve been waiting for you,” Torin said with a smile. “Centuries have passed since the last druid walked these halls. And now, you can take the throne. Nuada is not your ancestor, Sorcha, he left his wife to the mercy of the wilds. But Ethniu with her gracious wisdom, and her kind heart, married another. You are her descendant.”
“You want me to walk in her footsteps?”
“I want you to take up your blood right. This place, this castle, these people are all yours.”
“They are his!” Her shout echoed and a few of the spirits blasted back.
The throne of Ethniu shivered. Leaves quaked and buds pushed forward to bloom into bright red roses.
Torin gestured towards the movement. “This place is no longer that of the Fae. It can be something far more than that, and you are the only one who can take this step. Join us, my sweet girl.”
“What would a Queen look like?” she asked. “What kind of ruler would I be? All I can do is control them.”
“What do you think he plans to do?”
“To help his people.”
“With Nuada’s blade? That sword controls all who stand within its path. He destroyed an entire army on his own because they stood still and let him cleave their heads from their shoulders.”
She swallowed. So that was how he had won. All this time, she wondered just how far he would go to gain back his throne.
Now she knew.
“The queen tempers the Seelie King,” she repeated the words Oona had told her so long ago.
“She always has. But now is not the time for a tempered queen. Now, when the worlds are shifting and time is unraveling, we need a Queen who will speak for us all.” Torin stepped forward and held out his hand. “Speak for the druids, for your people. For those who have a right to the Otherworld just as much as the Fae.”
Sorcha stared into his eyes, wondering just how much of this was truth. He might be her blood, but she didn’t believe for a second he wouldn't lie to her.
Torin had his own agenda. His words tasted bitter and dangerous. Would she go against Eamonn by taking her grandfather’s hand?
He smiled. “I’m not trying to trick you, Sorcha. Few druids draw breath, and I would not see our people die out.”
Something wasn’t right. Brows furrowed, she reached for his hand and watched as hers passed through it. “You aren’t real.”
“I am real to you, to our people.”
“But you aren’t here.”
“Didn’t they tell you the castle was haunted?” The corners of his eyes wrinkled. “Druids are connected to the earth, tethered by their souls. We are not quick to fade from this realm.”
“So you are all…” She looked around, catching the gaze of each druid lingering by the ivy. “You’re all dead.”
“Yes.”
“Your souls are in the plants.”
“And the dust, the glass, the mortar of this castle.”
Sorcha’s eyes filled with tears as she realized the magnitude of this decision. These weren’t just trapped souls, they were her family.
“If I do this, will you be released?”
“No,” Torin shook his head. “That is not what we want. We want to be here, with you, and give meaning to all the sacrifices we’ve made.”
Sorcha lifted a hand and pressed it to her heart. The shifting spirits blinked in and out of existence. Torin wavered in front of her and the throne glowed. “None of this is real, is it?”
A few of the spirits spoke, their words like the rustling of reeds in fall.
“This is very real.”
“No it isn’t. This is the same as the altar, as the snake, as everything else you’ve shown me.”
Spirits sank back into the greenery at her words. Torin’s teeth flashed bright in the white of his beard. “You have never ceased to impress me, granddaughter, but in this you are wrong. The altar was real. This is real. Whether or not what you see is physical, does not make it any less important.”
“Then if I take the throne?”
“You do so in the physical world as well.”
She blew out a breath and weighed her options. Queen was a heavy title to bear, and not one she’d ever intended to have. She hadn’t considered what a relationship with Eamonn would turn into, hadn't wanted to. His choices were his own, and she couldn't control him.
Sand tipped through the hourglass of her mind and she saw their time together dim.
Torin placed a hand back on the throne. “What kind of king will he be without you?”
“A better one.”
“Do you believe that?”
She didn’t. She had already seen what he could do, had heard of his battles, and seen the mark of each sword slash upon his skin.
Sighing, Sorcha picked up her skirts and walked towards the throne. “I never thought I would agree to be queen with a dirty hem.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.” The cold touch of his hand passed over her forehead. “But there is far more symbolic regalia for you to wear.”
Magic shimmered down her body like a cold splash of water. Gasping, she looked down to see her dress had disappeared.
Thick green wool swayed around her hips with golden threads embroidered in the shape of leaves falling to the ground. A leather corset hugged her ribs, ending just below her breasts. The long sleeves of the green underdress hooked around her middle finger, triangles of fabric leaving her hands warm and green.
A magnificent silver fur covered her shoulders, soft and infinitely warm. She tossed her head, red curls falling freely to her waist.
Arching a brow, she looked up at her grandfather. “Furs and wool?”
“The regalia of our people.”
Thank the gods he hadn’t put her in a faerie outfit. She turned with a sigh. All the other druid souls watched her, their faces painted blue and their eyes hopeful.
What was she getting herself into?
“You walk in the footsteps of Ethniu,” Torin said. “This throne does not make you a Queen, but your actions from here on out. Do you accept this title?”
“I do.”
She lowered herself onto the throne with a troubled mind. Was she ready for this? Sorcha could say with near certainty she wasn’t. Responsibilities already weighed heavy upon her mind. And now she had even more people to take care of.
A great cheer lifted in the throne room, but she hardly heard it. Vines closed over her wrists, thorns dug into the sensitive skin of her biceps.
“Torin?” she called out. “What’s happening?”
“Now, we test your lover.”
“What? No! Stop!”
Leaves stuffed into her mouth and roses bloomed over her eyes. She pulled against her bindings, flexing her arms and wiggling her legs until thorns dug into her skin. Blood slicked across her biceps as the vines tightened and pinned her down.
“Eamonn!”
“Sorcha!”
The vines dragged her through the wall and he could do nothing about it. Her warmth still heated his palms.
He growled, lifted his blade, and hacked at the green leaves. They did not move, nor did they break as the sharpened metal slid across them
“Magic,” he spat. “Where have you taken her?”
No one responded. Instead, the leaves bounced as if someone behind them chuckled. Tilting his head back, Eamonn roared as fury turned his blood to fire. How dare they? Ghosts with no form had no right to still be on this land, let alone steal what was his.
He clenched his fists and stilled his breathing. There h
ad to be some sound, some hidden chink in the armor of this place. No faerie had ever built a castle without leaving secrets behind.
The plants snapped vines at him, each thorn dripping green poison. He jerked backwards, holding his blade up as a shield. They left a slick, shiny residue on the Sword of Light. Disgusted, he slid it back into its sheath.
He would have to find another way. He turned and ran his hands over the walls. If it were his castle, he would have put some kind of stone that would shift, opening a door or secret chamber. No magic was completely controllable. Faeries always had an escape plan.
Giggles erupted behind him.
Eamonn froze, hand immediately reaching for his blade. “Where is she?”
“Here.”
“She’s not here.”
“Then she’s there.”
He turned on his heel. The space behind him was empty other than the shadows which danced upon the walls. Eamonn’s lip curled. “Unseelie. Show yourself.”
“No.”
The Sword of Light sang as he pulled it free again. Its sharp edge glinted as he raised it over his head and pointed directly at the shadows. “I command you to answer me.”
The giggles grew louder and one of the shadows pulled off the others. It was human in shape, but he knew how deceptive these creatures could be. When it noticed his gaze, the shadow waved.
“No.”
“I command you.”
“Oh how lovely. He knows how to use a sword.” The shadow twisted into a plant which shook in laughter. “Shame he doesn’t know how to deal with ghosts. Turn around.”
He spun. There was no longer a wall behind him, but a moor filled with fog and will-o’-the-wisps.
“What trickery is this?”
“Welcome home, brother,” a masculine voice spoke in his ear. “Just how long did you think you could avoid me?”
Eamonn twisted, slashing his sword through the air. It passed through Fionn’s throat without leaving a single mark.
He narrowed his eyes. “Are you some kind of mirage?”
“Oh, much worse than that.”
There was something wrong with Fionn’s eyes. Eamonn had seen anger, madness, and fear reflected in those eyes that were eerily similar to his own, but he had never seen such glee.
“You thought you would come here and….what? Take a new throne? Eamonn.” Fionn tsked. “That is so petty. What’s wrong with mine?”
“I have battled you for five years.”
“And you want me to believe you’re finished?” Fionn’s hair slid over his shoulder, a graceful waterfall of movement and gold. “That’s quaint. I know you aren’t done. So what are you really up to?”
“Our people have bled long enough.”
“That’s not why, either,” his twin snarled. Leaping forward, Fionn blasted through Eamonn’s form in a shower of icy pain. “What are you doing here?”
“I’ve told you already,” Eamonn stumbled to the side and stuck the tip of his sword against the ground. What had Fionn done to him?
“You're still hiding the truth. Half-truths, brother, only succeed in making us both angry.”
“I am not angry.”
“But you will be.” Fionn reached for him, fingers curling in the air just before he touched Eamonn’s face. “You and I were close once. As only twins could be. What did you do to us?”
“You know this was not my choice.”
“Wasn’t it? You were always the favored son, the firstborn. While you were out battling, and killing, and maiming our allies, I was fixing all the bridges you burned along the way,” Fionn snarled. “Tell me again, brother, how this was not your doing.”
Eamonn's palms slicked with sweat and the pommel of the Sword of Light slipped in his grasp. He didn’t have a response to his brother’s accusations. They were all true. Eamonn had filled his youth with poor decisions and war. Fionn had spent his learning how to be king, and filling his head with old, outdated prejudices.
“We’re both at fault, are we not?” Eamonn finally asked. “I was a poor brother, but you were the one who stabbed me in the back and let me hang.”
Fionn rolled his eyes. “We’re going back to the ‘poor pitiful Eamonn’ card again?” He disappeared, reappearing directly behind Eamonn. “You deserved to hang.”
“I did nothing wrong.”
“You are not fit to be part of this family. Monster.”
“I am a good man. I have always been a good man, and I will not allow you to take advantage of our people any longer.”
“If you want it that bad, take it.” Fionn’s hand lifted over Eamonn’s shoulder and pointed towards a jagged throne. “Take your new throne, become king of the weak and foolish.”
And there it was. The throne of Nuada, blackened by years of warfare. The metal tips curved and split away, sharp enough to slice the throat of anyone who got too close.
It was perfect for Eamonn. That throne had been through more than Fionn could even imagine, more than Eamonn had suffered.
He felt the imprint of his brother’s hands upon his shoulders for a brief second before he disappeared. Eamonn glanced once over his shoulder. Mist and fog obscured any shape from his vision. Shivers danced down his spine as he felt the gaze of someone, or something, watching him.
Should he take the throne? In this place, he wasn’t sure what would happen.
He worried that he would become someone else. Someone darker, more dangerous, closer to his kin than he wished to be.
His boots struck the ground, solid and comforting in the weightlessness of the bog. The throne was his birthright, and the symbol of everything he had fought for his entire life. He would take it, no matter the cost.
But, as he expected, the spirits were not done with him yet.
The instant his foot touched the first step to the throne, a soft voice echoed behind him. “Eamonn?”
“No,” he groaned. “Not that. Anything but that.”
“My son?” Queen Neve, the most beautiful Seelie faerie to ever exist, walked out of the mist. He stared at her, pain splintering through his chest as if someone had run a sword through his heart. “My beloved boy.”
“Please don’t do this,” he moaned.
“What are you doing in this place, my shield?”
The childhood nickname made him squeeze his eyes shut. “You aren’t real. You aren’t here with me now.”
“Eamonn, of course I am.” He flinched as her hands touched his cheeks, gently tracing the outlines of wounds that had smoothed with age. “What have they done to you?”
Though he knew it was a trap, his resolve shattered. With a ragged sound, he folded around his mother and drew her into his arms. She was so small, so delicate, in his strong grasp. He worried he might break her.
“My shield,” she said as she stroked his hair. “Hush now, Eamonn. I am here.”
“This is impossible, Mathair. You cannot be here in this twisted place.”
“I came as soon as I felt your presence. What are you doing here?” She pulled back to stare up at his face, and something inside him healed when she did not flinch away.
“Fionn must be stopped, Mathair.”
“Your brother is doing his best. It is all we can ask of him.”
“His best is not enough.”
“So you come here? Of all places?” Neve looked around, worry lines forming between her eyes. “I never understood your obsession with your grandfather. He and I never got along.”
He remembered. Their arguments were quiet, as his mother had always been, but powerful enough to push everyone from the room. She had kindness bred into her, but she was one of the Tuatha dé Danann who supported the old ways.
“My grandfather was a good man and brought about much change for our people.”
“Until we removed him from the throne,” she replied. “Eamonn, don’t do this.”
“I must.”
“If you take this throne, how long do you think you will stay upon it? You will show ou
r people it is possible to dethrone a king. They will do it over and over again until the Otherworld is reduced to ruin. Let things stay as they are. It is safer that way.”
Eamonn’s lips twisted to the side. She had said the same things to him long ago before his twin had carved the future into Eamonn’s flesh.
Her hands upon his jaw turned him back towards her. He drowned in her pity, in the sadness of her eyes. “My son. Do not sit upon that sullied throne.”
Every word she said cut him to the bone. He pulled her close and pressed his lips against her forehead. Squeezing his eyes shut, he said against her, “I love you so much. Memories of you kept me alive for so long after I was banished. I remembered you brushing my hair as a child, singing lullabies, whispering stories in the dark after father had grown angry. I wish I could tell you all this in person.”
“You are.”
“You aren’t really here.” He squeezed her. “But whoever you are, you will need to do a lot better than this.”
His mother dissolved into thin air.
Eamonn ground his teeth together and spun in a circle. Spreading his arms wide he called out, “What else? What further evil do you have planned?”
Fingernails clicked as they wrapped around a spike of the dark throne. Ready to pull his blade, to run it through whatever phantom they called upon, he turned on his heel with a snarl.
He fell silent as Sorcha stepped around the throne.
They had clothed her as a princess of his people. Fine feathers slid across her curves, each dipped in gold and carefully sewn into the dress. Flakes of gold stuck to her fingers, tangled in her hair like stars, and dotted across her shoulders.
She was so beautiful.
His expression crumbled, and he twisted away from her. This was worse than his mother, worse than this twin. These spirits had no right to twist her form like this.
“Eamonn?” Sorcha asked. “Why do you turn from me?”
“You are not Sorcha.”
“Is this not to your liking? This is the form you desire most, is it not?”