by Emma Hamm
A shiver raced through all the faeries. Their leaves turned over, revealing silver veins underneath the vibrant green. “We understand and acknowledge your warning.”
“Good. Then you may stay within the castle walls.”
“With all due respect,” the faerie said, “we would prefer to stay in the peat bogs on the other side of the bridge. We are happy to sound an alarm if anyone approaches.”
She could see Eamonn was considering it. “It may be of use,” she murmured. “There is merit to knowing when someone is arriving, rather than when they get to the bridge.”
“Every faerie here has a use,” he declared loudly. “If you will provide us with a watch, then we will gladly provide your food. My dwarven army will also provide you safety should any issues arise.”
“Thank you, High King.” The peat faerie and her kin dipped into low bows. “You are most gracious.”
“Do not forget my warning, for I will not.”
“Thank you,” they said in unison again.
They turned to leave the hall on trembling legs. Sorcha stared at their backs with a troubled expression.
“What?” Eamonn grumbled as he sat back down. “I know that expression, you think something is wrong.”
“I don’t think you should rule through fear.”
“How else should I rule?”
She shrugged. “I’ve never been a queen, I do not know.”
“Then sit back down, Sorcha. I’m doing my best.”
“That’s all one can ask.” Her words trailed off as her eyes caught upon a bright, vibrant color laying upon the floor.
She left the high table without thought. Her feet whispered across the stone floor and the din of the crowd fell silent as she walked to the center of the room. She felt the eyes of a hundred dwarves on her back like a physical weight.
Kneeling, Sorcha scooped up the bright pink blossom that smelled like sunshine and sweet wine. Its oversized petals drooped over her fingers, limp and forgotten.
One of the peat faeries would miss this, she knew it in her heart that a flower was as much a part of them as their vines. She cupped it as gently as possible and rose to her feet.
A soft sound made her look up.
The smallest peat faerie stood before her, wringing its hands and staring at the flower.
“Is this yours?” Sorcha asked.
The tiny female nodded.
“You don’t have to be afraid, I don't plan to keep it.” Sorcha held it out for the faerie to take. “It’s the most beautiful flower I’ve ever seen.”
“Thank you, druid.”
At the word, Sorcha’s vision skewed. She could see all the threads that tangled around the peat faerie. Golden loops that tied her back to her family and far beyond Sorcha’s vision. A thread that Sorcha could tug so easily, and secrets would spill from it like water from a basin.
She did not tug, instead, choosing to leave the faerie privacy.
“You are safe here,” Sorcha said. “All of you are safe.”
“That is all we have ever desired.”
“It is what all of us strive for every day. If you have need of anything, please reach out to me.”
“Thank you, lady.”
She watched the peat faeries leave. The small one affixed the flower back to her person, just above her heart. The head female patted her on the head and glanced back at Sorcha with a soft smile on her face.
All would be well, Sorcha could feel it deep in her bones.
Turning back to Eamonn, she sighed at the scowl on his face. There would be many more battles to fight with him. The faeries were still dangerous to her and to his people. But he needed to understand that this was the path towards growth.
He would come around, she decided.
She walked back to their table and sat down. “They will be a good addition.”
“Are you so certain?”
“Yes.”
He lifted his goblet to his lips and nodded. “Then they will stay.”
“Just like that?”
“You are the one with the golden heart, mo chroí. I trust your judgment even more than my own.”
She relaxed. “You made me worried.”
“That I would not accept them?” Eamonn shrugged. “The more you speak, the more I see the light. You have taught me much, Sunshine, and I would be a fool not to listen.”
The clang of hammers striking stone echoed throughout the castle. Sorcha’s head pounded, pain blooming in the center of her forehead and radiating out in pulsing circles.
“I have to go,” she said to Oona. “I can’t stand this incessant noise any longer.”
“Are you ill, dearie?” Oona reached forward and pressed the back of her hand to Sorcha’s forehead. “You feel a touch warm.”
“I’m fine.”
“Have you been sleeping well? I know it’s been a stressful time for all of us.”
“Really, I am well. I just need to get away from all this noise.”
Otherwise, the headache behind her eyes might explode. She couldn’t stand the constant movement of the castle, the watchful eyes of the faeries, the dwarves who made constant jokes. They were wonderful in small doses, but Sorcha desired a single moment of pure silence.
“There’s a garden behind the castle which needs tending,” Oona said. “I’m uncertain anyone has looked at it. The vines have created quite a mess, and the thicket is large enough to hide a human.”
“Thank you.” Sorcha’s chair squeaked she stood up so fast.
“I understand the desire for freedom, dearie. Get yourself off and enjoy the quiet.”
“Do you need anything before I go?”
Oona gave her a bright smile, lifted two oversized pieces of cotton, and stuffed them into her own ears.
That would certainly do the trick.
Sorcha grinned and slipped out of the kitchen, heading to the one place where she might find a little peace. She knew which garden it was. They had all seen the ominous, overgrown area. It was impenetrable, axes couldn’t hack through the tangled roots and weeds.
There was a small path leading into the center. A few of the younger dwarves had dared each other to race to the center. Sorcha had watched them jostle around, but none had actually attempted the frightening adventure.
Now, it was her turn, and she refused to hesitate.
The ancient castle door shrieked as she pushed it open. The wild scent of autumn air bit at her arms and lifted the hairs. She had missed this most of all. Sorcha enjoyed being outside, away from the stifling, thick air inside of the castle.
Rustling leaves filled her ears with music while chirping crickets overpowered any remaining hammer strikes she might have heard.
“Thank goodness,” Sorcha said, relieved by the cool touch of silence.
Finally, she could hear herself think. She appreciated the little moments when she could be alone.
Brushing aside tangled ivy, she peered into the shadows. It was a perfect place for a lover’s tryst, or for a Fomorian to hide.
Twigs crunched underneath her feet, snapping and cracking as she trod over their fallen limbs. Light disappeared as the thorns and vines arched overhead. The thicket was dark even when the sun was at its peak.
A hand pressed against her back, ghostly and smoother than any she had felt before. It was a comforting touch.
Sorcha wasn’t certain the exact moment she had grown used to the druid souls that clustered around her at any given moment. They were as much part of her daily life as the dwarves. She was just as grateful for their presence as the faeries who toiled throughout the castle.
At the center of the wild garden, a natural altar grew. Purple amethyst and quartz crystals jutted from the land. Each peak was hewn flat, creating a table bare of offerings.
Her heart thumped painfully. No altar should be left untended. It reminded her too much of the faeries her own people had forgotten, and how much the land had suffered.
The gentle hand pressed again
st her spine again and smoke swirled around her. “Honor the dead,” a calm voice whispered. “Wake them.”
She didn’t hesitate. Sorcha walked up to the altar and sank to her knees.
Her fingers curled into the dirt at the base. “I ground myself through the earth,” she began.
She tilted her head back and breathed in the crisp, clean air. “I fill my lungs to clear my mind.”
The brittle thorns shifted, letting a spear of sunlight play across her features. “I connect with the fire of the sun and link it to my own.”
A single drop of water fell from a rose that bloomed above her head. “I heal all wounds with the water of life.”
Her soul settled. Each word pieced together a part of her she hadn’t known she was missing. Sorcha had gone to her own forest altar at least once a week, more if she was feeling stressed. That part of her life had disappeared, and now, returned.
The rituals made her feel whole.
“Well met, daughter.” The warm voice from before was one she did not recognize. “See what your offerings have begat.”
Sorcha blinked her eyes open and stared up at the altar. The crystals had changed form. They grew and stretched towards the sun, creating a figure who was more beautiful than anyone she had ever seen.
The woman wore a druid ceremonial garb. Furs graced her shoulders, a tunic touched the tops of her knees, and a headdress made of deer antlers sat atop her head. But it was her face that captured Sorcha’s attention. It was beautiful, perfect in every way and form.
“It is a fair likeness,” the voice said. “Although I always think they are too kind.”
Sorcha glanced over her shoulder at the real life version of the crystal woman.
Beauty, so overwhelming that it was painful to look upon, made the newcomer all the more otherworldly.
Dark hair curled in waves down to her shoulders. Her face was pointed at the chin, delicate with perfect, smooth skin. Vibrant green eyes, so close to Sorcha’s own, glittered with a smile.
“Ethniu?” Sorcha asked.
“Yes, granddaughter. It is I.”
“You’re alive? Or are you dead like grandfather?”
“I am neither. I exist in a world between life and death, a place where you could never find me.” She reached out and brushed a hand over Sorcha’s head. “But I am real enough to touch you.”
“How is this possible?”
“You look very much like your mother,” Ethniu said. “She was one of my favorite students. So talented, bright, capable, the kind of woman who could take the world by storm.”
“She honored the old ways.”
“And they burned her because of it. Humans can be unnecessarily cruel.”
“They dislike what they cannot understand.”
“To horrible ends.”
Her grandmother wandered over to the altar and pressed her hands against the smooth surface. The ancient Tuatha dé Danann did not hesitate to show themselves to her, now the Fomorians also spoke with her.
“We visit our grandchildren,” Ethniu said with a chuckle. “Even Nuada has visited Eamonn.”
“Did you read my mind?”
“Being ancient has its perks. Druid minds are fragile, easy to peek into.”
“You found nothing that disappointed you?”
“How could I?” Ethniu smiled at her, brilliantly white and blinding. “You are everything I ever desired. The druids were meant to be like you. Kind creatures who looked out for the humans in our absence.”
“Were they not?” Sorcha heard the sadness in her grandmother’s voice. “The old druids?”
“No one can control their creations. We didn't expect the druids to be so unpredictable, but they are two races with anger and pride in their blood. The Fomorians, my people, were beastly and cruel. The Seelie Fae, Nuada’s people, are thoughtless and rule with iron fists.”
“And the combination made druids dangerous. They desired power,” Sorcha replied. She had heard the legends from the other faeries.
“They did,” Ethniu agreed. “And some, like you, were wondrous. They did great things, created empires, healed small creatures, and then they died quietly along with the small miracles they wrought.”
“Witches.”
“Druids. Men and women connected to the earth as no human had ever been before. I am glad you became exactly what I meant for your race to be. The druids were banished from the Otherworld because they wanted to rule. They survived in this castle for a few hundred years, but eventually the faeries overran them. Banished to the human world where the druids nearly disappeared. They were burned at the stake or unable to pass along their knowledge to children capable of great magic.”
Her grandmother reached out, hands hanging in the space between them.
Sorcha took Ethniu’s hands. “I do not know what you wanted me to be. I can only continue to live by my own morals.”
“Healing?”
“And spreading love.”
“This is why your mother was my favorite. She, too, thought the world could change just by a little healing energy sent out the window every night.”
“I remember that.”
Tears welled in Sorcha’s eyes as a memory long forgotten surfaced in her mind. Her mother used to hold her hands out the window as if she were cupping hands full of water. When Sorcha asked, her mother would laugh and say she was letting happiness drip through her fingers.
Eventually, she would toss her hands into the air as throw good feelings out into the world. Sorcha used to find it a rather odd, but entertaining ritual.
Now, she knew it was real.
“Why are you here?” Sorcha asked. “I have not had luck with Tuatha dé Danann telling me things they want me to do.”
“Ah, but I am Fomorian, and I want nothing from you.”
“Then why are you here?”
“I wanted to meet my granddaughter, face to face.”
“Just as Balor did?” Sorcha’s voice grew hard as stone. “I do not trust him, and you must forgive me for having difficulties trusting you as well.”
“My father is a difficult man to trust. He has caused so much heartache in this world he no longer knows how to prevent himself from doing so. You should not trust him, but ask the right questions.”
“Why?”
“The Fomorians are a proud people. We gather knowledge as the Fae gather art. I sometimes wondered why they are so enamored with beautiful things when there is so much more out there. Knowledge is a power that can be turned against anyone. Beauty is merely a talent.”
Sorcha arched a brow. “A talent? Or a gift from birth?”
“Anyone can be beautiful if they love themselves, but not everyone can be intelligent. Which do you want to be?”
Sorcha didn’t know the answer to the question. When she was younger, she would have chosen beauty. Making men fall to their knees because she was the most beautiful woman in the world made her knees tremble.
But then the knowledge of every living creature and thing would provide her with everything her soul needed. Beauty was fleeting, but intelligence meant that her name would remain on people’s lips for thousands of years to come.
“Knowledge,” she answered. “I would choose knowledge.”
“Why?”
“If I measured my worth in beauty, I would live a life full of riches and happiness. If I am valued for the knowledge I impart on the world, then I live forever.”
The smile that bloomed on Ethniu’s face warmed Sorcha’s soul. “Yes, you are correct, my granddaughter. I am proud that you are of my blood.”
“And I thank you for it. I did not come to this grove to meet you, but I am glad that is the path my future took.”
She leaned forward and pressed her forehead against Ethniu’s. They leaned against each other, fingers linked atop the crystal altar and the remains of a once great empire around them.
Sorcha breathed in the magic that crackled around her grandmother like lightning. Ethniu was b
eautiful in a hard way. Perfect, lovely, but so smooth that she seemed made of stone. It was fitting for a creature who had come from a difficult familial line.
“Sorcha,” Ethniu breathed, “There is so much to say. I would give you wisdom if you will listen.”
“Always.”
“Nuada and I did not have an easy life. We made decisions that angered each other and changed the course of the Otherworld. There are things I have done that I regret. But I never feel guilt for staying true to what I love, and the people I hold in my heart.”
Sorcha understood what she was trying to say. Love came in many forms and underwent much stress throughout the course of time. She stayed silent as Ethniu continued.
“I know what it is you seek. The Sword of Light has changed many people’s lives. Though it can bring an army to its knees, destroy an entire race of people with a single word, it can also do much good. My husband used it in such a way, and I would not see you destroy it.”
“I have to. How else can I prevent Eamonn from turning into his brother? He’s hurting his people because he is so blind to his own rage.”
“Then hide it. Leave it in the waters of the ocean, throw it from the cliff and give it back to my capable hands. Let the sword sink to the ocean floor where it will remain until the next generation has need of it. But do not destroy a relic that is one of the few remaining pieces tying our people to the original race.”
The words dug into her heart and twisted. These people had lost enough over the centuries. They wanted to hold on to whatever they could from the old days, the good days, the ones where they had ruled over everything.
Now, their children continued to fight and quarrel like vultures picking through bones.
“I want no one to use it,” Sorcha admitted. “In my generation or the next. No one deserves the power to control.”
“Like you?”
“I will not use my power against the Fae. I do not want to control them, and I see no reason why I should. They are intelligent creatures with the capability to love greater than any other.”
“You want to appeal to their good senses,” Ethniu said with a chuckle. “You know that won’t work.”
“It has to.”
“Fionn has no reason to give you any time to speak. He will listen to your pleas and then he will strike you down.”