Chapter Text
Hey guys!
So I'd like to first say that this idea was sparked from the user Allie16_queen and her work A Court of Spring and Stars. I've switched some things around to make it my own, but a lot of the broader ideas and plot points originate from her fanfic. It's really marvellous, go check it out!
Secondly, this fic does contain some heavy topics like physical/emotional child abuse, domestic abuse, suicidal ideation and other topics that may be triggering to some readers. Many of the chapters contain mention of emotional/physical abuse, so please if you are sensitive to that, be cautious. I will specifically enter any other major trigger warnings before each chapter that contains content that may be sensitive.
Finally, I really hope you enjoy this and go give me a follow on Tumblr! My handle is illyrianwingspans
CHAPTER 1
Keorah
Calloused, slender and careful, those hands drifted across the page, filling in whatever spaces they deemed fitting with fine brushes of charcoal.
The surroundings were blurred around the edges, only a pale-stained wooden table littered with thick, creamy stationary, some new and waiting to be used, others crumpled up at failed attempts. A set of the finest charcoals gold could buy sat carefully poised near the unknown artist’s right hand, always within reach in case they felt the need to switch. Though it was a little messy, just by the care and precision those hands handled their tools, I could tell that they worshipped this art.
One moment, there was only shading and vague figures and shapes, coming together to reveal awful, black hands that seemed to be reaching into the artist’s very soul, an evil, ancient and malicious aura to the fingers that only aimed to taunt and terrorize. Darkness surrounded them, thick opaque darkness that made me want to scream out to the artist, to wrap my hands around his, protect him from this pain that gripped his mind. But one sweep of his hand over the page and the lines were completely rearranged to portray a naked female body dead beneath the surface of bath water, dark juice lining her lips pale lips.
My eyes snapped open. I gulped down choked breaths, unable to shake the image of that drawing from my mind, and cursed the Cauldron for ever creating nightmares.
Before I even knew where my feet were taking me, I was ripping back the sheets and stalking to my wardrobe to pull on my fighting leathers, strap my knives into belt, then winnow to the forest as far from the manor as I could possibly be.
The wind tore at my hair as I ran through the forest, my leather-clad fae thighs pushing off the ground far faster and more powerfully than most fae I knew. It seemed as though hours passed as I dashed by tree after bush after meadow. The leaves from the tall trees rustled in the night breeze and the moonlight guiding my path was fractured by the canopies that hung above. As those canopies became thicker, I shifted my eyes into an animal's, my view instantly becoming accustomed to the dark of the night. I barely had time to register the strong, steady beat of my heart pounding throughout my body as I cleared the forest and was left with a grassy strip of land that separated myself from the jutting cliff that overlooked the torrid sea thrashing a hundred feet below.
I accelerated as the jut was only feet away, then pushed off as hard as I could from the rock ledge and dove down, down, down into the dark chaos.
Just as my fingertips touched the water’s surface, I folded myself between the pockets of the world, the smell of sea brine and roses tangling together until I was slouched and panting underneath a willow tree, my favorite spot in my court.
Its branches swayed softly in the wind, and I closed my eyes, picturing those moments with my mother that'd happened ages ago, feeling as though they were yesterday.
"C'mon, my rose petal," she chirped, beckoning to sit with her under the shady refuge of the willow offered from the beating sun. It was a warm spring day, and the smell of the blooming roses filled every puff of breath I took as my infant legs waddled over to my mother's side. Slumped against the tree, I nestled myself into the crook of her shoulder, then gazed down at the book in front of us.
“Alright, Keke,” she murmured encouragingly, “just as we practiced.”
I nodded my head hesitantly. Her finger pointed to a sentence halfway down the page, and shockingly I began, “The…y-young boy stared up at the dark sk—” I paused for a moment, then, remembering the feel and sound of the word in my mind, I completed, “sky.”
“Very good!” She exclaimed, a beaming smile donning her face, then her finger jumped to the next line.
It was interrupted though by the booming sound of my father’s voice. “Lyra! Keorah!”
By the growling undertones that laced those two words, I shot my mother a panicked look, and she only planted a kiss to my temple before we tore off across the meadow, towards the sound of his voice, exactly the opposite of where I wanted to go.
Those moments alone with her—those were the only ones that’d kept me sane these past seventeen years. And now, they’d be gone forever.
Because my mother died last week. And tomorrow was the funeral.
* * *
Minutes later I found myself in my washroom, stripping down the worn, foul smelling leathers and quietly climbing into the tub to wash away the remaining sweat from tonight’s workout. I’d lather properly tomorrow morning before they stuffed me into yet another dress.
Sitting against the white porcelain of the bathtub, the warm water soothing the endorphins running through my veins, I wondered once again what my mother thought and felt those last few moments of her life. Before she’d taken those berries and tore herself away from me. Before she’d fallen unconscious, then drowned to her death. I wondered if she thought of me. The life we’d built together. The life we’d survived so far together. I wondered if she felt any guilt or remorse as the sour juice of those deathly things touched her tongue.
She’d left nothing behind. No note, no explanation, no last words. I knew because I’d been the one to find her dead, cold body—
I shut the thought out and abruptly stood up, water splashing at my knees. There was nothing I could do about it now. Just play the perfect mourning daughter tomorrow as the rest of Prythian came to pay their respects.
Towelling myself off, I watched as the cold rustling breeze whipped at the black banner hanging from my window, resisting the urge to snarl. Though she left no note, though she offered no explanation, I knew why she’d left us. Though I despised her for leaving me, I still had a small part of me that understood.
Especially when I peered over my shoulder into the mirror that reflected the image of five claw marks slashing down my bare back from right shoulder down to left hip.
* * *
I didn’t mind the primping. My head-lady, Vesna, was excellent at what she did: she could make braids out of tangles with a brush and her nimble fingers, beauty out of dullness with fine powders and expensive stains. All the while cheering me up as I scowled at my reflection each morning. Her jokes and bawdy-tune singing always managed to crack a grin from me. But today, as every other day this past week, she worked in silence with two others, carefully arranging my blonde hair under the black chapeau that bit into my scalp
Vesna applied a thicker layer of bright cream beneath my eyes to conceal the bags, the product of my late outing last night. Though she would normally go a little extravagant due to the presence of all seven courts today, she kept my face plain for the simple fact that she believed that maybe today would be the day I finally wept for my mother. So far, I hadn’t yet. I didn’t feel the rising urge to do so. Ever since I felt the absence of her heartbeat, something within me had broken so immensely that I believed my mother had stolen my emotions along with her life. Everybody was waiting for me to break down. I could tell by the way the servants silenced as I walked by. By the way guards stood a little more alert when I entered a room. Even my father was cautious this week during our brief exchanges. Though those were few and far between. He was out half the time wreaking havoc on the acres of land behind the manor, trying to keep the destruction out of the house. I knew with absolute certainty the white walls and marble floors would be in ruins if he’d unleashed himself upon them.
Not me. No, while papa angered and raged at the world, I tamed the imploding of my life to the confines of my mind and body. And I would continue to do so, if only to try to grasp and preserve any bits of sanity I had left.
“I think that is all, my lady,” Vesna murmured softly as she adjusted the black mesh material that fell over half my face and covered the chapeau in tufts.
I only gave a brisk nod, then pushed off my chair, taking one last look at the flowing skirt of my dress that hugged my waist and torso, the billowing, long sleeves that always managed to get snagged on everything.
A brusque knock at the door had me releasing a long sigh. It was time.
* * *
“Keorah, was that you I heard last night stomping about your room?”
Papa’s voice filled the cracks and crevices of the manor as he escorted me from my room in the west wing down to the throne room. My stomach dropped to the floor. I thought I’d been careful, but his sensitive fae ears must’ve picked up on it.
“Yes Papa,” I answered, keeping my eyes trained on the ground.
“And what could you possibly be doing at all hours of the night?”
“I went for a run, Papa,” I answered truthfully. “I needed to exercise. I couldn’t sleep.”
He let out an angered huff. “How can you expect to be High Lady when you can’t follow a simple rule?”
Those words, High Lady, always sent a shiver down my spine. There had never been a High Lady of Spring Court. There were only two High Ladies currently in power: Vivianne, High Lady of Winter Court, and Feyre, the first High Lady ever in Prythian, of the Night Court.
Keorah, High Lady of the Spring Court. I could only assume my father had been roiling when Mama gave birth only to see she’d had a daughter. And though Mama told me they tried countless times again, Mama never had another child, let alone a son.
And now she never would. And Papa was stuck with me as an heiress.
“When I’m High Lady, Papa,” I countered quietly, “they’ll be my rules.”
He snarled. “You will keep the laws of this court as I have done, and every predecessor before me—”
“Can we not, Papa? Please. Not today.” I hated that word. Please. I hated whimpering it every time those claws unsheathed themselves.
“You keep quiet,” Papa ordered. It seemed as though he’d allow me some peace, if only for today.
Despite the alarming amount of people in attendance today, there was barely any noise sounding throughout the manor, only the echo of our quiet footsteps across the empty halls. Guards were far and few in between within the manor. They’d been concentrated outside to keep any ill-meaning people out, rightfully so. Today was not a day for trouble amongst the people.
“You say what we practiced, you thank guests for coming, and you say how wonderful Mama was.” Right before the grand oak doors of the throne room, he stopped, then gripped my shoulders, and a slice of panic tore through me as I felt those claws creep out, only an inch, from his knuckles. They sat threateningly on my shoulders, ready to pierce the skin and ruin the dress, and it all but livened the storm brewing within Papa’s eyes.
“Do not,” he breathed, “speak a word of what she did. If I hear those words leave your mouth, you will find yourself without a heartbeat.”
Though the words careened within me and tore at the very heartstrings keeping me from completely falling apart, I only gave a curt nod, then, “Yes, Papa.”
Resuming our initial position, our elbows hooked around each other, the doors opened merely from one thought of Papa’s mind.
As one, the people stood from the pews that lined both walls of the throne room. As one, they bowed their heads.
I did not meet their eyes as Papa and I sat at the front and Nevanthi, the High Priestess, began the ceremony.
* * *
“Tamlin, our sincere condolences,” Vivianne, High Lady of Winter murmured, clasping hands with Papa. Tears lined her eyes, and I let out a wheeze of a breath, remembering how well she and Mama used to get along. One year, when we went to Winter to celebrate solstice festivities, they’d invited me to play an old game of cards with them. They’d been heavily intoxicated by the time I’d joined them, and I’ll never forget the howls of laughter that’d radiated from the both of them at the stupidities they said.
Kallias, High Lord of Winter, echoed similar words, and Vivianne’s tears spilled over as she turned to me.
“You look so much like her,” she breathed, then collapsed into sobs, arms hooking around me so tightly I thought she’d bruise me.
“Lyra was the best female I’ve ever known, best mother I’ve ever known,” she cried, cupping my cheeks with her palms. “You don’t understand how sorry I am for your loss.”
“I miss her with every heartbeat,” I whispered, laying my hands atop hers to retract them from my face, and close them within my own. I brought our hands and held them to my heart. “You were her dearest friend, Vivianne. She loved you so much.”
“Cauldron bless her,” Nevanthi added quietly from my right. I bit back a scowl.
It seemed Vivianne did as well. Though our court respected High Priestesses despite the havoc Ianthe had wreaked upon our court, it seemed that my father hadn’t learned his lesson, and let yet again a problematic Priestess slither in. Nevanthi was deemed as an important leader within our ranks, yet other courts seemed to…frown upon her. Though in the end, she hadn't necessarily done anything wrong—just a few distasteful comments at past gatherings.
The High Lord and High Lady of Winter gave me one last quick embrace before the endless tide continued on, and my voice became scratchy from the never-ending exchange of words between myself and people Mama barely knew. High Fae and lesser faeries alike filed up the steps and embraced us over and over again before heading outdoors to the final part of the ceremony where my mother’s ashes would be scattered amongst the budding rosebushes, injecting her essence to transfer her life force to theirs.
A familiar flash of red hair bobbed up the steps until Lucien was before us. My breath rushed out of me and I almost sagged in relief at the familiar sight of his ruggedly handsome face and metal eye. He wrapped Tamlin in a one-armed embrace, promising to talk later, before turning to me and practically tackling me in a hug.
There was silver lining his eye as he pulled away just enough to scan my face, then pull me once more against him. I buried my face into his chest, clutching his dark tunic with all my might.
“I’m so sorry, Keo,” he murmured into my ear, then pressed a kiss to my forehead. “I would’ve been here so much sooner, there was just some business I needed to take care of in the Day court—”
“It’s okay, Luci,” I assured him, resting my hands on his upper arms, “you’re here now. It’s all I need.”
“Just fulfilling my blessed-fatherly duties,” he smiled weakly, and I tried to mirror it, but failed miserably. I knew he needed to move along so we could finally have this ordeal over with. He stepped away, and with a purse of his lips at Nevanthi, faded back into the crowd.
Instead of more mourners, Bron and Hart, captains of the guard marched up the stairs with urgency and began whispering sinisterly with Papa.
“They weren’t invited,” Papa hissed. My eyes darted down to see claws inching their way out of his knuckles, as I’d suspected. Concern made my eyebrows furrow. Who wasn’t invited?
“…made it through the wards…just the two of them…waiting at the entrance.”
A growl from my father. Then, begrudgingly, “Let them in.”
Nods from both of them and they were off.
Half an hour later, after nodding along to tearful words from Fae of the nearby village with high enough status to attend, only two people remained at the bottom of the steps. When my gaze settled upon them, the breath was ripped from my lungs.
There, at the bottom of the dais, were the High Lord and High Lady of the Night Court.
Feyre Cauldron-blessed was dazzling despite her plain dark gown. Her hair hung in soft curls and framed the high cheekbones and plucked eyebrows of her face. Her long thin nose was perfectly symmetrical, and those bright blue eyes pierced through my own as we locked gazes.
Then my sight shifted to Rhysand, and something within me halted.
I’d never met the High Lord and High Lady of the Night Court, nor had I met either of their children. I’d only ever heard stories and descriptions, myths and legends surrounding their many triumphs through the safe-guarding of Prythian through the second war with Hybern, and the recent news that their son had been captured in the night by lingering enemies across the sea, but was safely returned home.
Yet as I gazed at Lord Rhysand’s jet black combed back hair and electric violet eyes, I felt as though I’d seen that face before, somewhere far off and distant. There was this feeling in my stomach that drew me toward those violet eyes. I ignored it as best as I could as Papa began to speak.
“Rhysand,” my father said tightly. “Feyre.”
“Tamlin,” Lord Rhysand replied, a grim expression on his face, “our sincerest condolences.”
Everyone knew the stories behind my father and Feyre. Vesna told me they whispered them around Mama and Papa’s wedding, saying how history would repeat itself, that those tendencies don’t go away. They were right. They didn’t go away. He just got better at hiding them.
Though the High Lady of Night, Feyre Cursebreaker, Feyre Cauldron-Blessed, did not show a hint of the history between Papa and her as she and her mate climbed those four steps and stood before us. Lady Feyre was clad in a simple black gown that hugged her curves, Lord Rhysand a complementing tunic. Ethereal swirls of darkness seemed to dance around them sombrely, only a hint of what their magic offered. I held back the urge to run my hands through those tendrils, to snatch the starlight that encompassed the both of them.
“We’re very sorry for your loss,” Feyre offered quietly, but with vehemence, “I couldn’t imagine the pain.”
Papa nodded, only the tiniest hint of disgust lining the features of his face. I knew the topography of those features, how they danced and contorted together.
“No politics, no masks, no history,” Rhysand added softly. “I wouldn’t wish this sorrow on anybody.”
Tamlin only let out a huff, mumbled what seemed like words of thanks, then stalked off through the oak doors we’d entered in, leaving only myself and the Night Court family on the dais. For a moment, we stood in silence. Feyre’s gaze wandered over the throne room as if remembering her time spent here all those years ago. Rhysand only watched her intently. He curled a hand around her waist in a supportive manner, and she turned to him, some unreadable expression dawning their faces. Their eyes finally tore away from each other, as though they’d been speaking in some silent language, before their gazes turned to me.
Feyre’s eyes softened as she took me in. People often seemed to do that: with my soft blonde hair and doll-like face, to them, I was seen as the pretty little flower of Spring, Tamlin and Lyra’s pride and joy. I let people indulge in that mask. I didn’t let them see the fierceness that burned beneath, the scars that lined my body though I hadn’t been alive for any war. I let them see the primped, dolled-up blonde stuffed into dresses and bonnets, learning to play housewife.
I gave a deep bow of my head. It was no secret that the Night Court was the most powerful court in Prythian. The denizens of Prythian owed a great debt to the Night Court and its Inner Circle for all the efforts they contributed to stopping Hybern from invading seventy-five years ago. Showing respect to the pair that stood before me was inked into my very blood.
“Please, there’s no need.” Feyre smiled softly. Rhysand remained neutral, scanning me head to toe, assessing.
There was a beat of silence before Feyre finally offered, “We never knew your mother very well.”
I blinked. Of course, they didn’t. Papa wasn’t very keen on visiting the Night Court. Neither was he keen on having the Night Court visit us.
“It can only be expected with the…strenuous relations.”
Rhysand nodded solemnly at my words. “Nonetheless, my dear, we know you’ve probably heard condolences and sorry’s a thousand times this week, which is why I will only say that I too know what it is like to lose somebody so important to me. You are not alone. Though it may feel this way, you are not alone.”
There was something in the way he said it, something about the words he offered me that had sobs rising up my throat. I only put a hand to my heart and replied, “Your words are much appreciated, High Lord.”
There was more silence, and the hall was quickly emptying. The oak doors opened once again, and Papa, red-faced and claws out stormed back onto the dais. He was breathing heavily, and I did not want to see the state of his study after this whole ordeal was over. Feyre only blinked as she stared at the claws, claws she’d probably grown to fear just as much as I did.
“Excuse my absence,” Papa said dryly as those mighty claws retracted once more. “It is time for the Rebirth.” He waved a hand to the entrance of the throne room.
The High Lord and High Lady of the Night Court nodded once more before stepping down the dais and heading for the doors. I was about to follow suit until thick, calloused fingers wrapped around my upper arm and pulled me roughly back, causing me to nearly trip in my shoes.
“What did they say to you?” Growled my father, eyes full of rage and wrath.
I swallowed, used to the anger, used to the temper that consumed him. “They only offered their condolences, Papa.”
“You swear—”
“I swear it,” I interrupted him, tired of the constant back and forth, just wanting to get this day over with.
My impatience only earned a squeeze of his fingers, tightening so hard that I winced and tore my arm away from him.
In silence, we walked to the front doors. I hated that silence. Because I knew, I knew that if my mother were here, it wouldn’t be silent. She would’ve protected me. Calmed Papa down.
But she was just a pile of ash now. A pile of ash and roses.
* * *
Dinner was taken to my room. I peeled myself out of the black dress with Vesna’s help. Her eyes skipped over the purple bruise lining my left upper arm due to the simple fact she couldn’t see it. I kept the glamour on my skin thick and solid at all times, even going to the extent to teach myself to have it on while I slept.
The servants knew full well the wrath that boiled within my father’s veins, and when that wrath surfaced, they were quick to turn a blind eye. Obviously, they didn’t know the actions that rage drove him to, nor the pain he inflicted on Mama and I. Even if they did, they couldn’t defy their High Lord, no matter the brutality he may wreak upon the manor. But the less they knew, the better. They needed to feed their families, to keep a steady lifestyle for themselves, despite what it may mean for me, or others around him.
Once I was in my beige cotton trousers and soft white knit sweater, I settled into the wooden rocking chair beside the window overlooking the front gardens with my mutton stew for another night of loneliness and shifting my food around my plate.
Then there was a soft knock at my door, and Vesna opened it to an auburn-haired head poking through to reveal Lucien’s smiling face.
For the first time in a while, a full smile danced on my features, and I set my tray down on a nearby table and ran to him, giving him a proper greeting as per our tradition. He scooped me into his arms and swung me around, just as he did when I was about as tall as his hips, then set me down, clearing away the hair that fell into my face.
“Tell me everything,” he murmured. “I can’t believe she’s really gone.”
I looked down at my shoes, my hands curling to fists, before breathing a long sigh through my nose. “Me neither. It seems unreal.”
He joined me where I was in my rocking chair, pulling over a plush velvet chaise and slumping back. I picked up my bowl of mutton stew once more, more for the heat if offered my hands than the food itself.
“It was just like any other ride, you know? We were out in the woods near the border when they attacked. One minute we were both laughing, galloping along.” I swallowed. “The next she was ripped out of her saddle. Before I could even blink they’d bit her head clean off her body. Then, before I could draw a breath, my power misted the seven of them.”
“Naga,” he swore. “Bastards.”
It was the story Nevanthi had concocted to cover-up the ‘sin’ behind my mother’s true cause of death. She said the people would respond negatively if they knew she’d taken her own life, because the Cauldron heavily cursed those who committed ‘such atrocities against its gift of life’. Though I knew it was because it would reveal the true state of this court and the person ruling over it.
“Bastards,” I echoed.
“You truly misted them?” Lucien murmured in wonder.
I couldn’t blame him. Misting was a very, very rare and deadly gift that few and far in between possessed, but I nodded my head anyway. It hadn’t been a complete lie. With a snap of my hands I conjured an orange, plucking it from the kitchen and tugging through those pockets within the fabric of the world, then once it sat in my hand, only one thought and it turned into a citrusy mist where the full, ripe fruit used to be.
His eyes widened in wonder. “When did you learn? How did you—”
“Mama, it seemed, kept the power a secret from Tamlin,” I said quietly, “and taught me discretely. Your silence is appreciated.”
A frown, then a clench of his knuckles, and finally a sigh. “He hasn’t changed, has he?”
I’d never told Lucien of the abuse. I’d never shown him the scars or bruises, which I kept constantly glamoured, I’d never hinted at the notion he would lay a hand on me. The show my mother and I kept up was exhausting and took a toll on ourselves emotionally, but she convinced me it would keep us safe.
And look where that got us.
“No,” I admitted, then grinned. “But look at how wonderful I turned out.”
Lucien snorted. “Yes, a snot-nosed brat with enough power to tear life away with the blink of an eye.”
“Now, now Lucien, those are hurtful words you’re directing towards your beloved—and might I add only—blessed-daughter!”
“Believe me, Keo, I was forced into it. It didn’t seem so bad when you were a diaper-soiling baby, but once you grew that mouth of yours—Cauldron, did I regret it.”
I only rolled my eyes in response, giving him a vulgar gesture. When I was Blessed by the Mother as a child, my head dipped into the soft rose-petaled waters that filled Nevanthi’s sacred basin to represent the Cauldron, Mama and Papa had chosen Lucien and his mate as well as High Lady Feyre’s older sister Elain to be my blessed-parents. If anything were to happen to my parents before I turned of age, the pair would take care of me until I reached maturity and could rule my court. Yet now that I was of age, or nearly in a few weeks, the role seemed useless. But I cherished it if only for the fact that it created a special bond between Lucien and I.
Elain and he had tried to figure out their messy relationship. Mama, Papa and Lucien never gave me the full details, only that she was there for my Blessing, then gone a year later once they mutually decided it wouldn’t work out between them. Well, mutual is a strong word. Nobody ever broached the subject with Lucien. Especially once the news reached us that Elain had married a member of the Night Court’s Inner Circle. Lucien left the Spring Court soon after for the Day Court, where his true father was, and took up his life he never had there, claiming he couldn’t stand to be around so many flowers after being with her. I was barely five years old. But he’d visited regularly, teased me, raised me, trained me. Sometimes I wished that he’d been my father instead of Tamlin.
“How are you holding together?” Lucien wondered after a few moments passed, the humour leeched from the conversation with those five words.
I shrugged my shoulders. “As fine as I could wish for.”
He gave me a pointed look. “You know I don’t believe that for a second.”
“I know. But maybe if I say it enough I’ll believe it.”
“Fair enough.”
“How long are you staying?”
He sighed. “Not long, unfortunately. A few days at most. Internal affair issues concerning trade deals with Dawn popped up and we’ve been trying to charm their pants off to keep them in our good graces.”
“Why do I feel as though Helion takes the saying ‘charm their pants off’ literally?”
Lucien shuddered. “Because he does. I still can’t wrap my head around the fact that my father is an orgy-powered walking library.”
“Don’t forget the powerful thighs,” I smirked.
He poked his own. “Doesn’t seem like I inherited those.”
I flashed him a grin and finally reached over to set down my plate. Lucien looked down at my outstretched hands and frowned.
“So it’s still happening then? The engagement?”
Ah, yes. The engagement.
I’d worn the ring for so long now that my mind filtered it out every time I looked at my hands. If only it could filter out the misogyny surrounding my husband-to-be’s words and actions.
Carrick was a High Fae of wealth and haute social class in the nearby village. Papa had decided that when I was to turn eighteen, the age of maturity, I’d be betrothed to him and have him as consort once I was High Lady. Though the idea was mighty appealing to Carrick’s family in terms of power, and for Papa in terms of the wealth they’d be giving to the kingdom in thanks for the union, the real catch was the fact that Carrick was the most powerful High Fae in the village. Offspring from our shared genes would likely be of incredible strength, power and capability.
Carrick had extreme strength, shapeshifting abilities, air and wind manipulation as well as winnowing and other minor powers.
Combined with my extreme strength, shapeshifting abilities, wind manipulation, misting powers, winnowing, fire manipulation, spell-cleaving and healing powers…
The results would be incredible.
I’d earned few of my powers from Papa. Lyra, a denizen originally from the Dawn Court, had a mixed bloodline of powerful males and females from all over the courts. Her lineage seemed to dilute the more it expanded, yet for some reason she’d been gifted many of it: fire manipulation, spell-cleaving, air and wind manipulation, healing abilities, misting powers… a blend of autumn, day, dawn and night carefully crafted and siphoned into one female, who then handed it down to me.
People murmured how I was stronger than any of my predecessors. As a young girl I never believed them, yet as Mama and I practiced in the thicket near the willow tree, I finally began to believe them.
Carrick though, as a male, was definitely not the choice I would’ve made for myself. He was handsome, sure—ruggedly so, with short sandy coloured hair and hazel eyes. His body and shape were as expected: pure toned muscle hardened by decades of rigorous training and constant toning. Yet his personality fell flat due to the fact that he held no respect for me. Or any female, for that matter. Marrying him would be signing myself away like a piece of property, something Papa had no qualms over doing. Not to mention the fact that I didn’t have a say in it, that’d been decided when I was still a young girl, not even past my first bleeding.
“Yes,” I finally answered the loaded question, “it was supposed to be the week of my eighteenth birthday, a few weeks from now. I’m only hoping that maybe I could feign needing more time to mourn.”
“Surely you wouldn’t have to feign it, Keorah,” Lucien’s brows furrowed together, and the words had an accusatory lilt to them. “What happened was tragic. It’s normal if the grief is overwhelming. Nobody will blame you for taking the time you need to mourn your mother.”
And I wished I could tell him the truth, I wish he could scream with me at the injustice of it all. So I settled for a half-truth instead. “It just hasn’t set in yet, I think. Mother’s arse, Lucien, I haven’t even cried. Does that make me a monster? Does that make me abnormal?”
“Two things. No, three things.” Lucien pushed himself to the edge of his seat and gripped my biceps. I hid my wince at the uncomfortable pressure on my left arm, still sore from the invisible bruises beneath. “Firstly, not crying doesn’t make you a monster. We all grieve differently, and what you saw was extremely traumatic. You’re probably still in a state of shock. Seeing your mother die like that?” He scoffed. “That would likely dredge away anybody’s sanity for a little while. Secondly, no, it doesn’t make you abnormal, and even if it did, you are abnormal anyways. You are abnormal in the best way possible. If you were normal, you’d be boring as hell, and I wouldn’t be able to live with myself knowing my blessed-daughter is so mundane. And thirdly,” he chuckled, “if I ever hear you say Mother’s arse again, I’ll throw you into the rose bushes, thorns and all.”
I shook my head at the incredulousness of his words yet still smiled. “Why can’t you visit more often?”