I won't forget him.
So long as I live, he'll remain a part of me.
I don't know how to let him go.
Nymia holds me the rest of the night, until we fall into an exhausted sleep, still wrapped in each other's arms. We don't speak again. I don’t know what to say, what to tell her, how to explain what to me seems so obvious. It matters little anyway. Without our magic, there's nothing we can do.
Priestess Sytrene fetches us the next afternoon, when the sun is high and hot enough to sting my skin when I step outside. I wonder if Mother is sending me a message, but I can’t tell if she means to reprimand me or to stoke the defiance burning inside my heart. I choose to believe the latter, though judging by the faces of the women all around me, I'm not sure I should.
Word has obviously spread.
The priestesses watch me with scorn, disgust written across their faces. The girls look with a mix of fascination and horror. When I meet Nymia's eyes, they're filled with love. Is it strange that I feel an odd mix of all those things inside my own heart?
For the next week, we're kept in isolation—not allowed to mix with the other girls, lest we taint them. Instead of lessons, we spend our hours in the gardens, toiling with the dirt the way a human might, digging until our nails turn brittle and our muscles ache.
The week after that, we're allowed back with the group, though I wonder if that in and of itself is another form of punishment. The girls whisper, same as they always have, but now it's to our faces instead of behind our backs.
"Did you really meet with a human?"
"What was he like?"
"Did you let him touch you?"
"Were you afraid?"
I don't answer—partly because I can hardly breathe at the mere thought of Erick, partly because I refuse to give them any fodder to use against me. By the third week of our punishment, the whispers have changed, as I suspected they would all along.
"Human-lover."
"Faerie-traitor."
"Worse than a fungus."
"Rotten to the core."
"Cursed."
Good thing Nymia and I have a long history of ignoring their barbs, though I can’t pretend they don't sting a little. Defiance thickens my hide.
It's not until the start of the fourth week that it finally gets to me—not until Priestess Sytrene walks us up to the immortal fire, sticks Nymia's hand inside the flames, melting the metal cuff, and then sends her away. My sister tosses a nervous glance over her shoulder, but I nod in encouragement, relieved at least to see a little life enter her eyes with the return of her magic.
Then I'm alone.
No magic.
No sister.
No hope.
I'm sent back to the gardens to weed and pluck and plant. I sleep alone surrounded by the dark, missing the silver glow of the moon. Priestess Sytrene greets me every morning and bids me farewell every night, never saying a word, yet speaking volumes with her eyes. When those amber orbs study me, I freeze, praying to the Mother for redemption, for release. So far, I've been found unworthy.
Still, the priestesses let me return to lessons. I'm kept separate from Nymia, but the sight of her does more to lift my spirits than I think even the return of my magic would. We don't need words—we never have. One glance and I feel all her heartache, all her sympathy, all her sorrow, and all her joy, just as she does with me. After a few days, the binds loosen a little more. We're allowed to talk, under supervision. They're testing me, trying to make sure I won't force Nymia to use her magic, that I won't cajole her to do my bidding while I'm still powerless, that I won't influence her the way I have before.
In watching me so closely, they neglect to watch her.
Six weeks after that marvelous and horrid night, it's Nymia who comes to me in the middle of a lesson, leaning close to whisper in my ear.
"He's alive."
I'm not at all surprised by the words. I've been waiting for them. In fact, I'm beginning to think I'm the only faerie in the world who'd never underestimate the strength of my sister's spirit and the size of her heart. "How do you know? What did you see?"
"I scried for him in the water," she murmurs, casting a sidelong glance at the priestess leading us across the forest to a den of shapeshifter foxes, injured and homeless after a recent human raid laid waste to their home. "He's uninjured and well. The hound is too. I know you've been desperate for news."
I have been.
So desperate that for a moment I forget how to breathe.
"Don't say anything more," she orders. I couldn't if I tried. "I have a plan."
She squeezes my hand and then breaks away to hurry to the front of the line, leaving me alone in the rear. For the first time in weeks, the solitude is a welcome change. The sun shines brighter. The birds chirp sweet music. The wind sweeps through the leaves, rustling my hair, and even though no magic runs through my veins, I'm at peace.
Erick is alive.
When I suck a long stream of air into my lungs, it tastes of pine and mist and new beginnings. I float through the forest like a cloud across the sky, light and airy, no longer weighed down by rain. While the other girls use their magic to grow food for the shifters and to build them new shelters, I play with the pups. Some are furry and on all fours. Others run around like gremlins, nearly human. When two of the younger pups growl in my direction, I roll onto my hands and knees and growl back. A little shifter boy jumps onto my shoulders, while a girl jets beneath my belly. Soon the whole lot of them are on top of me, a mix of fur and skin and magic and mayhem I can’t begin to unravel. So I don’t try. I tickle one. I nip at another. I give as good as I get, and when I can't take it anymore, I throw my head back, look at the sun, and let go. I'm not sure how long it's been since I've laughed—long enough my cheeks ache from the unfamiliar exertion.
Soon their parents call them back.
I roll to my feet and brush the dirt from my skirts, catching Priestess Ondyne's eyes when I glance up. She's smiling. Not overtly so, just the slightest lift at the edge of her lip, but I know it's directed at me because she nods to tell me so right before she turns back to the rest of the girls and calls for a break.
Nymia rushes to my side, holding out an overgrown leaf wet with dew. "Drink?"
I'm so distracted by that small smile, I don't catch the undertone of her words. When I look down I nearly scream.
"Shh! Try to act normal for once," she orders, flinching as water sloshes over her fingers. I hastily jerk my palms beneath hers, holding the small pool steady as I stare at the image glimmering across the crystal surface.
Erick.
She scried for him.
She actually scried for him.
My sister—the practical, neurotic, rule-following faerie I know and love—used forbidden magic, right here in the middle of a lesson, under the watchful eye of a priestess and a dozen of our peers, in the bright light of the sun. I glance up, meeting her blue eyes, clear with determination, fully aware my own are lit with awe. Is it possible Nymia is even more rebellious than me?
"Be quick." She frowns and pointedly juts her chin toward Priestess Ondyne. "I can't hold it for very long."
I grin and dip my lips toward her palms, pretending to take a sip of water when really I'm trying to get as close to Erick as possible. Though the image is small, I immediately notice how weary he looks. Deep purple bags droop beneath his eyes. A thick layer of scruff coats his cheeks and neck. His shoulders hunch and frown lines pull at his lips. I can't see where he is, the image is zoomed too close, but it doesn't matter. His gaze is fogged over and unseeing.
Is this how I've looked these past few weeks?
Hollow? Vacant? Like a shadow of myself?
Suddenly, I understand what Priestess Ondyne's smile meant and why Priestess Sytrene comes to my hovel every night, staring deep into my eyes as though searching for something. I thought she'd been searching for my virtue, my worth, for some hint that the Mother still approves of me. But she hasn’t been
looking for anything so demanding. She's simply been looking for me. She's been waiting to stare into my eyes and see the faerie girl she knows staring back, the same way I'm looking into Erick's now, pleading for the boy I know—full of wonder and life—to look back.
The priestesses fear contact with a human has irrevocably changed me.
They worry he's warped my mind and my senses.
They're not trying to punish me—they’re trying to retrieve me.
Can they not see that Erick brings out the real me? One word about him, one glance of his face, and I feel more myself than I have in weeks. I've come back to my senses because of him, not in spite of him. Yet if I tried to tell them that, they'd never believe me. None of it makes sense. I want to laugh from the absurdity of it all. I want to cry.
I do neither.
One of the girls says Nymia's name, and she flinches so hard the leaf slams into my face, dunking me completely beneath the liquid and erasing Erick clean away. The other girls snicker, watching what I'll do. If I had my magic, I'd drop a waterfall on her head in retaliation. As it is, I do the next best thing and grab a handful of water from the spring, then launch it at her head. When the cold water smacks her cheeks, Nymia freezes and gasps. I snort, fighting a laugh. I can't help it. My sister grins. A second later, I'm under attack, with no power of my own to fight back. So another girl helps, sending a blast of magic Nymia's way. Soon enough, it's all-out war—a cacophony of magic and giggles and youth. When I look at Priestess Ondyne, her expression is warm with nostalgia and love.
I know how to get my magic back.
The answer is so simple I almost can't believe it.
I just need to be myself.
And then, I'll turn my focus on Erick. I can't cross into human lands. I can't meet him in our cave. I can't even speak to him. But, by the Mother, I will find a way to breathe life into him, the way he's just done for me.
It's another two weeks before Priestess Sytrene finally leads me to the fire so the immortal flames can melt my metal cuff away—more than enough time to formulate a plan.
It came to me one night while I was staring up at the stars. After our time with the shifters, the priestesses let me sleep outside with Nymia again. I'm pretty sure they thought my lack of magic would hinder my ability to cause trouble. They were wrong. I'm a firm believer that mischief starts in the mind. By the time it promotes action, it's already been mulled over and thought about for days, until an itch turns into a scratch turns into a rash only movement can cure. My plan is much the same.
I was lying on a bed of moss Nymia grew for me. She was asleep by my side with her palms folded beneath her cheek, while I lay on my back with my hands cupped behind my head, studying the constellations. My gaze immediately went to the brightest spot—the Lost Lover. The wind ruffled my hair, carrying his voice to my ears, murmurs about doves and horses and letters and assassins. And I realized something—Priestess Sytrene made a mistake. I made an oath not to speak to Erick, but speaking isn't the only way to communicate. Unlike what happened between those two broken hearts immortalized in the night sky, Erick will get my message.
I'll make sure of it.
Now, while Priestess Sytrene gently eases my hand from the fire, I try my best not to smile as my magic rushes through me. My lips remain firmly pressed in a straight line, the expression of a girl who's learned her lesson. My thoughts are another matter entirely.
"I trust you remember your promise?" she asks, not letting go of my fingers.
"Yes, Priestess Sytrene."
Her eyes narrow, trying to find the truth within my words. "And that you're done with childish games?"
"No."
She arches a brow.
"What would life be without a few childish games?" I pause for effect. "But I am done with dangerous ones, I promise."
If I'd said yes too quickly, she never would've believed me. And I'm being honest—I am done with dangerous games. This thing with Erick? It's not a game. Whether or not they choose to understand it, I've never been more serious in my life.
"Good." Priestess Sytrene sighs and drops my hand. "Go. Find Nymia."
I take the opening and run.
My sister waits in our normal spot by the edge of the sacred meadow, nestled in the tall grasses, nearly hidden in the shadows of the trees.
"Nymia," I call when I get close. She jolts and turns to me. I lower my voice. "I have a plan."
She rolls her eyes. "You just got your magic back."
"Exactly." I grin. "I've waited long enough."
With a sigh, she collapses in the wildflowers, crushing a few stalks beneath her back. Her golden hair frames her face, glittering with the same magic that glows beneath her skin—magic I intend to put to good use. "I thought you'd move on by now."
"I've moved on from sulking," I explain as I take the seat by her side, folding my legs as I drop to the ground. "Now, I'm ready for action."
"And what, pray tell, do you have in mind? You can't speak to Erick. You can't get through the barrier. And the priestesses are still watching your every move."
I wave my hand through the air. All that's inconsequential. "I need to send him a message, just to let him know I'm all right. He doesn't know how we escaped. He might fear I was crushed beneath the cave when it collapsed. He has no idea what happened to me, and I know it's tearing him to bits inside, the same way it was to me. I just need to let him know I'm alive." For now.
I keep that last bit to myself, because, well, with my sister it's best to take these things slow, one bit of rule breaking at a time.
"Again, I ask. How? You can't speak to him. You can't go see him. And—"
"I don't need to."
She frowns.
I take the moment and pounce, a leopard on the hunt with poor Nymia my unsuspecting prey. Though, in truth, I'm sure she's seen an attack coming all along. I'm nothing if not persistent. "We're going to learn how to make a faerie portal."
"Aer—"
"Hear me out." She glares. I take her silence as begrudging acceptance. "We already know the words to the spell—we've heard them before. We just need to figure out what they mean. Mither is Mother. Ithir is Father. Aoch is night. See? We're already halfway there."
"Halfway there?" she snaps and rolls to sitting. With a glance in either direction to make sure we're not being overhead, which is ridiculous considering we're completely alone, she whisper-yells, "You know three words—three! That's not even a little bit of the spell. How do you think we'll learn the rest? The priestesses won't tell us—not on purpose at least. How do you know they aren't watching us right now? They could be scrying. I bet they are. I bet they knew you'd come running to me with some ridiculous plan." She shakes her head. "No." She crosses her arms over her chest. "Not this time." She squares her shoulders and glances to the sky, as though trying to spot the eyes of someone watching. "I'm done."
"Okay. Okay."
I collapse back and wait. If the priestesses were watching, I would no doubt have another metal cuff on my wrist by now.
Nymia grits her teeth, then falls beside me, arms still folded, and grumbles quietly.
A bout of thunder roars across the sky.
With a sigh, she finally says, "What message do you want to send? I'm not saying yes—not even a little bit. But you can't speak to him, Aerewyn. Surely you remember swearing the oath. What do you expect to accomplish with this?"
"I don't know," I answer honestly. "Saying goodbye?"
"Do you promise?"
I don't want to lie, so I don't say anything. Nymia sighs again.
"Just help me figure out the spell." I change the subject. "We can send an object through—a flower, so Erick will know it's from me. I'm not saying I need to go through to see him. I'm just saying I need him to know I'm alive. Is that so much to ask?"
I'm almost positive she's going to say no for real this time.
I mean, I'm not even sure if this is a good idea, but I need to try.
"Fine."<
br />
"Thank you. Thank you. Thank you!"
I squeal and roll over, pulling her into my chest. Nymia hugs me back, not quite as enthusiastically, but it's enough. I roll to the side, but keep hold of her hands.
As though reading my mind, she joins me as I murmur the portal spell. "Thi ma chrodhu ni gruon. Thi ma inim ni aoch. Salis otuich ma charpu sothoch. Lu eosgu ni mither, saolluor iges foar. Inn in emhichd ithir fioc mo traomhu."
The words taste sweet on my tongue, ripe with power and full of possibility. A tingle slips down my spine, the gentle pull of my magic itching for release. The priestesses have cautioned us many times not to use the ancient words until we know what they mean. The language has a power all its own, one we're not supposed to tap into until we're sure we can bend it to our will. Understanding the spell is half the battle to wielding it.
I'm not sure what these words mean yet, but I will.
That singular goal pulls me forward.
During the day, Nymia and I are the perfect priestesses-in-training. I don't break any rules. I listen carefully to every lesson. I do what I'm told and I try my best to give off a reformed air. Yet in the back of my mind, I'm whispering the spell, mulling over the words, looking for signs from the Mother to tell me what they mean. At night, we reconvene and whisper what we've uncovered.
Nymia and I have done this before—for the scrying spell and the disappearing spell. My magic responds to the power of the faerie language. Some combinations of words and meanings make it flare. So really, the process is like playing a subtle game of tug—with me gently pulling on words, waiting for a little yank on the other side of the line to silently murmur I guessed right.
It doesn't take long for us to piece together the spell.
My heart is sun. My soul is night.
My faerie body feather-light.
With Mother's water, clear and true.
In Father's power, see me through.
We both know the moment we've got it right. Nymia squeezes my hands and I find her gaze, my excitement blazing. We’re sitting knee-to-knee on a bed of moss beneath the glow of the moon. The words hang in the air around us, as thick as a mist, sparkling silver in the breeze. Every inch of my skin tingles with the power. I can't say how many times we've whispered this spell over the past few days, but for the first time, it's clicked.
Parting Worlds - A Little Mermaid Retelling (Once Upon a Curse Book 4) Page 10