by Emma Hamm
“Stories can be that.” A bench materialized before them. Ethniu sank onto it, skirts puffed around her. “You know that Nuada and I were married?”
“It is a legend I know well.”
“The human stories never do it justice. Nuada and my father had battled for centuries. They ravaged this land, and all who lived in it. The Fomorians did not want to give up the Otherworld, and the Tuatha dé Danann refused to allow them to remain.
“The easy solution was to unite our people through marriage. I had seen Nuada before. He was handsome and powerful and everything I had ever desired in a man. Even to the Fomorians, the Tuatha dé Danann are beautiful creatures. I desired him like no other, and it blinded me to all his faults.
“I married him on a cold spring day. He pleased me for a time, and I gave him many sons. There were other women far more beautiful than me. Not cursed with animal features, but gifted with beauty that only the Tuatha dé Danann have.”
Sorcha swallowed. “Are you saying his attentions wandered?”
“Wandered is the kind way to say it. I might use such a term if it were but a handful of women. He found pleasure in the arms of many before I discovered his infidelity.”
“Why are you telling me this story?”
“You cannot trust the Tuatha dé Danann. They are a strange lot who see themselves as lords above all. You have seen it with your lover, how he refused to see reason even when his people were fighting to the death.”
“He explained that to me. It was their choice.”
“The fires of war can be fanned with the slightest of breaths.”
Sorcha stood and shook her head. “No. I will not think ill of him. He was a kind man, he wanted the best for his people, and though I did not always agree with his decisions, the motives behind them were pure.”
“No one can know the intentions of a faerie.”
“I will not let you twist my mind!” she shouted. “I love him!”
Ethniu reared back. “We’re not try to twist your mind, Sorcha. We’re trying to ground you.”
“By insulting him?”
“By telling you his lineage. Even the greatest of them all had his faults. That is why I left Nuada. That is how you were created. There are a great many things in this world you do not know.”
“I know that I trusted him and he was far more capable than any other to rule his people.”
“Would he have been alone?” Balor asked. “Or was he great because you stood at this side?”
“Both. The answer you seek is that we were both better when we were together.”
The two Fomorians shared a glance and Ethniu smiled. “She sounds so much like me.”
“She is more than you were, more than you are.”
“She believes in him, where I did not believe in Nuada.”
“Then we will help you.” Balor turned to Sorcha. “Your lover is not a man easily liked, nor do I respect his family line. But I do respect you. If he has earned your trust, then he has earned mine as well.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I did not know I was trying to win your approval with the haunting memories of my dead husband.”
“You weren’t. We came here because your soul cried out for help, and you must forgive us for blaming him. We have not had good experiences with those of Fae blood.”
She slowly sank back onto the bench. “It seems that not many have. Even their own people are distrustful of each other.”
“With full right. Fionn the Wise sits upon a throne he has built from lies and rivers of blood. His twin would have helped for a small amount of time before he too turned towards the wickedness existing in his soul.”
Sorcha recognized the words of a prophet. Balor could see the future, or perhaps he knew one who could. Her mind whirled, and she said, “That is what the Unseelie Queen saw in my future.”
“Your path has always dripped blood.”
“What would have happened if I hadn’t thrown away the sword?” The Fomorians did not even blink at her question. “Balor, what would have happened?”
He hesitated for a brief moment before relenting. “What dripped blood would become a river. A war unlike any other would spread across Tir na nOg. The Unseelie would join the battle after fifty years when the refugees spilled into their lands.”
“And Eamonn?”
“He would be known as the Bloody King. His armies would win the war after you died of old age.”
Sorcha’s mouth went dry. “The Unseelie Queen was right. The fate of the Fae rested upon my decisions.”
“It always has.”
“What now? Nothing has changed. Eamonn is dead, Fionn sits upon the throne, and the Seelie Fae have seen no positive change.”
Ethniu leaned forward and grasped her hands. “They have seen change. They have seen you.”
“I am not Fae.”
“The Fae do not need a faerie leader. They need someone who will guide them through this difficult time, who will right the wrongs, and fight on their behalf.”
“I don’t want to fight anymore.”
“Sometimes that is not a choice,” Ethniu said. “We must do what is right for our people. And your people are still spread across Tir na nOg with no one to bring them together.”
Sorcha’s hands shook. She did not want to be the person who did this. Eamonn’s dream was to lead his people. Hers was to be a healer, not a queen.
“I am not ready to lead the Fae.”
“We will help.”
She couldn’t help but feel suspicious of the druid souls swarming around her. “Why would you want to help? All your lives you have tried to control the Fae. I wonder if you are just trying to fulfill that desire.”
Balor scoffed. “We are dead. Even if we control the Fae through you, what good will it do? We want to see one of our lineage repair the rift between our species. A single person has a difficult time healing old wounds throughout all the Fae. But a queen? A queen could convince all the Fae that Druids are worthy to return.”
“I ask again, grandfather. How many Druids still breathe?”
He pondered her question for a few moments as though he were reaching out to the remaining souls that still flared bright with life. “Many. Although most do not know they are Druid.”
“Where are they?”
“Spread across the lands, handling magic as much as they can without humans growing suspicious.”
A plan laid out in her mind. She wanted to help Eamonn’s people, but she desired her own as well. “If I do this, if I lead these people, you think they will become more tolerant towards druids?”
“Yes.”
“I need you to guide me. To help me in every choice I make because I desire to bring our people together. Both druid and Fae.”
“That will take a long time.”
“Then I suggest you bring me more water from Dagda’s Cauldron.”
Resolve settled into her soul like a sword sliding free of its scabbard. She had a purpose again. A reason for living. Even if Eamonn was gone, she could continue his work.
Balor shifted. “You wish to become immortal? Even though your lover is gone?”
“I will not share my body with another, and I trust no one other than my own line to continue my destiny. Bring me the waters, Balor, and I will devote my life to bringing home our kind. I will see these halls filled with Druids once more.”
Ethniu lifted her hand and souls tangled around them. Sorcha saw their faces in the green hued smoke. Men, women, even children staring at her with approval or fear.
Her grandmother smiled. “Then we will whisper in your ear and guide your hand as you lead your people. But first, you must gather your armies. Spread word that though Eamonn is dead, you remain.
The crowd teemed with faeries. Dwarves, pixies, will-o'-the-wisps, and countless others who feared for their lives. They did not know whether they should stay when the king had disappeared.
A month had passed, then another. One entire year since Eamon
n had lost his life, and they became leaderless. Their queen remained in the castle, her wails carrying on the wind. They mourned with her, shrouding their bodies and homes in black. But the time for mourning had ended.
The queen called for them.
Sorcha stood on the ramparts. The wind whipped her hair, creating a swirling mass of red like a cloud of blood. She waited for them to quiet. Their jostling ceased, their whispers ended, and they all stared up at the woman they knew to be sweet, kind, and giving.
“The king is dead.” Her voice lashed across the crowd, carried by magic and souls of Druids who repeated her words to the far reaches of the crowd. “But his work is unfinished. A usurper sits upon the throne of the Seelie Fae while his people toil and die. We will not stand for this.”
She felt the excitement of the crowd like an electric current. They stared up at her with hope in their eyes, and she finally understood what Eamonn felt when he walked into battle. This was a heady feeling, one which could run away with her senses.
“We have spent one month in mourning. A full moon of regret, sadness, and fear. No more! Now is the time for action, and we will not let this attack upon our people go without response.”
A few will-o’-the-wisps trilled, dwarven hums joining their approving song.
“Let it be known, I call for war.”
Her people began to shout. They lifted their hands into the air, some brandishing swords already. They desired revenge just as much as she.
Sorcha curled her hands into fists and the druid magic grew stronger as they lifted her voice even louder.
“I call for blood. I call for vengeance. Fionn the Wise shall know our names and feel the ground tremble beneath his feet as our armies march towards his city. We will destroy the nobility and replace them with our own!”
They screamed unlike anything she had ever heard before. The resounding shout of a people who’d suffered their entire lives.
Sorcha understood their desire; she felt it boiling in her own breast. She needed them to feel it too, and then she needed them to understand the truth of their situation.
“But we will make smart, calculated decisions in every step we take. I will not lose a single one of you to men and women who do not care we exist.” She stared at all her people and sighed. “You follow a druid. I know many of you personally, and some I do not. I say to you now, I am not human.”
Ethniu had suggested a show of power, and Sorcha had not been pleased with the idea of it. The faeries needed to trust her, not be frightened. In the end, all the druids had agreed. Sorcha was not one of them, and they would fear only what they did not know.
The crowd silenced again, staring up at her in expectation of something great.
She breathed in and pulled on the threads she could see connecting them all. It was the slightest of tugs, the kind they wouldn’t even feel. And then she tied all their threads to herself.
Sorcha argued this was the gravest of insults. She took all their names, all their memories, all their dreams and threaded them through herself. Weaving them into her very soul, knotting the tapestries of time. All without their knowledge.
Now, she saw that it wasn’t harming them at all. The warm glow from her own soul, the part that still wanted to heal, spread throughout the crowd. It lifted their hearts, eased the torment and fear, breathing life into faeries who were very much afraid of the future.
They felt it. The crowd stirred, spines straightening, faces lifting to look at the woman who stood apart from them. The same place she had judged Fionn for taking.
“I cannot do this alone,” she said. “I am a midwife from the human world who has no experience in war or battle. Ordering you without such knowledge would lead to devastation. I ask two things of this crowd.
“First, any of your leaders who wish to join my council are welcome in my great hall. For the rest of this moon I shall plan our attack upon Fionn and his castle. All who come to advise will be heard, fed, and housed.
“Second, all others must spread the word. Our army is already great, but I wish for it to be a thunderous wave crashing down upon the golden army. We will snuff out every inch of the Castle of Light and fill it with our magic. Tell others there is a haven for them here. The wounded and the weak shall be healed. The old shall find a safe place to rest their heads. All others will train for war.”
Exhaustion sank nails into her bones. She stood strong and regal on the ramparts as her soul crumbled even further.
Eamonn would have loved to see this. The crowd screaming out as their champion spoke for them. As they took steps towards reclaiming what was theirs.
She had led him wrong. These creatures didn’t want political talks. They wanted blood, gore, and death.
Sorcha felt more distant from them than she ever had before.
Turning from the crowd, she descended the stairs and made her way towards the great hall. She would remain there for as long as it took.
Oona and Cian waited for her. Their faces wrinkled with worry, for they knew what this meant.
The pixie held out a cup of tea. “Here, dearie. For your nerves.”
“Thank you,” Sorcha took the offered drink and drank it in one fell gulp. It burned her tongue and the roof of her mouth, but the pain was welcome. “Will they come?”
“I believe so. They desire retribution from the king who took Eamonn’s life.”
“Have I made a grave mistake? I do not wish for them to think me weak, but I cannot do this without them.”
“They will decide upon your character once they have met in your war council. If you appear weak there, then they will believe you weak. If you do not, then they will support your decisions.”
“Wonderful,” Sorcha sank onto a table. “There is little I can do to control that outcome. If their suggestions are overly cruel, I will not support them.”
“And if you do not support them, then they will fight without you.”
“There are many factions of Fae,” Sorcha said with a sigh. “They do not all fight together very well.”
“No, they do not.” Oona agreed.
Cian stepped up onto the bench seat and then onto the table. He sank down beside her, short legs dangling. “It’s the first step towards doing anything at all. They are likely to be feral. And will want to test you.”
“I expect that.”
“Do not give in to all of their whims. They are good people at their core, but they wish for their people to be safe.”
“Did I agree to another century-long war?” she asked.
“I do not know. You won’t last for more than a century, so for your sake I hope you are not an old woman fighting a battle that may never be won.”
Sorcha reached into her pocket and palmed the small vial of liquid the druids had left at her bedside. She had never thought she would drink it. It could heal thousands.
Drawing it out, she lifted it to the light and watched the rainbow reflections of the milky moon. “What if I didn’t have to worry about age?”
“Is that–?” Oona gasped.
Cian gaped at the bottle. “Where did you get that?”
“Does it matter?”
“The relics of the Tuatha dé Danann disappeared before we even had the second generation of kings. When the first generation disappeared, they took their relics with them. Dagda was very careful where he hid that cauldron.”
“The druids have it. I suspect they always have.”
“Why?” Cian shook his head forcefully. “Why would he give it to the druids?”
“Maybe he trusted them. They’ve kept it secret for all these years, and no one knew they had it.”
“Now they give it to you? For what purpose?”
Sorcha palmed the bottle, squeezing gently. “The first time they gave it to me, it was to cure the blood beetle plague. They told me it would heal thousands, or make one person immortal.”
“Immortal?” Cian blinked rapidly. “You could become long lived? Like us?”
&nbs
p; “I think it’s more than that.”
“Why would Dagda give that to the druids? Foolish faerie, they would only use that against us! They would become all powerful!”
“They didn’t.” Sorcha breathed out a long sigh. “They didn’t use it all. Only in gifts to those who would alter the future in a positive way. There is so much mending needed between our people."
She stared into the glass for a moment, popped the cork, and drank deeply. Like the first time in the druid hallucination, it bubbled in her throat and settled cold in her belly. She didn't feel any different. The world looked the same through her eyes.
But she wasn't the same anymore.
Cian cleared his throat. “My apologies, m’lady. I don’t mean to speak ill of you or your people.”
“I will help in whatever way I can to restore this world to its original purpose. Kindness, honor, respect. All the laws that Seelie Fae live by have been twisted to suit Fionn’s vision. I want to see it go back to the way it was originally intended.”
A new voice joined them, booming and deep. “Bravo. I couldn’t have said it better myself.”
Sorcha leapt to her feet. The newcomer was handsome, tall for a dwarf although still not quite to her shoulder. Beads decorated his fashionably short beard. A golden crown sat atop his head.
She nodded. “Master dwarf, it is a pleasure to meet you. Have you come to join the war council?”
“Indeed I have. If you are to lead my people into battle, then I would have a say.”
“Your people?” She glanced at the crown. “You are the dwarven king?”
“I am. But you, pretty thing, may call me Angus.”
“And you may call me Sorcha.”
He raised his eyebrows. “I’ve never met a human who so willingly gives her name to a faerie. You know that might cause trouble in the wrong hands.”
She tugged on his thread, enough that he lurched forward in surprise. “I have my own tricks up my sleeve.”
“Weaver,” he breathed. “I thought all of your kind were dead.”
“Many thought the same. It is not so.”
“And glad I am of it. My father had many friends among your kind. We were frightened of them, but always pleased when they fought on our side.”