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I. The Petals
It is a small blessing that Wuvvy first coughs up flowers alone, in a bathroom at a party. Rue is holding court, and surely they have the audience enraptured. Wuvvy can imagine their concern, and the way they would draw attention, and how Wuvvy would shy into the shadows and pretend she was fine and then Rue would never look concerned about it ever again.
So she washes sodden, ripped rose petals down the sink and pretends it never happened instead. She knows what this is—a fey curse disguised as a blessing, a religious ritual. Every young child receives blessings, of course—a tradition, a practice occuring for as long as fey have existed. Wuvvy was gifted obedience, and diligence, and of course the flowers of love. Here it is no celebration.
She will die. It is an inevitability. She would rather do so than face the mortification of saying exactly the words she has said almost every day for the past five years, since she left her court. She will say them again and again and it will not be a cure, because either they are willfully ignorant or they have never seen her in their life. What a shame that she cannot tell which.
So she washes the petals down the sink, and she washes her hands, and the slightly pink water splashes on the edge of her sleeves. She walks out to the party, and Rue—green-skinned, beautiful, captivating—is entertaining a group of equally beautiful and completely identical fey. They do not notice her walk in.
Wuvvy deliberately enters their direct line of sight, and waits for them to give a small wave and smile. It happens, and she returns the gesture, and the interaction is over in five seconds—maybe less. Rue deals cards to six fey, and Wuvvy drinks.
She is the lowest-ranking fey in the room. She is Rue’s right hand. A drunken fey giggles when she calls herself that, and asks her why she’s dressed so plain if she’s so important.
He reaches out to tap Wuvvy on the nose and says “Love, you could do much better if that’s how they’re dressing you.”
She wants to punch him. She doesn’t punch him. She doesn’t do a lot of things she wants to.
II. The Power
She is often humbled in the crowds. She fools herself, sometimes, thinking she is so important to Rue that she ought to be more important to everyone else. But she is shy. She must remind herself that her job title is ‘assistant’ and not ‘best friend’ or even ‘confidant.’ She likes to think of herself as those things sometimes. She likes to think of herself as more important than she is. It is a heavy weight on her shoulders.
Perhaps not shameful for an archfey. Perhaps only shameful for a fey who hides in the shadows. Perhaps only shameful for a fey who is fooling only herself.
She watches Rue on the stage, accepting gracefully and perfectly the great responsibility of running yet another bloom. She aches to stand next to them—to not steal their spotlight, but share it, to win another smile from Rue, to be appreciated. She aches in her mind, in her heart, in her joints, in her stomach, and it shouldn’t come as a surprise but it does when roiling red petals force their way up her throat and come pouring out her mouth into her cupped hands. The thorns scratch her throat, and she lets out a sputtering cough. (I. The Petals)
She empties her hands into the nearest flower pot, and looks to see if anyone has seen her. They haven’t. They never have.
She looks at the blood on her hands and goes to the bathroom to watch it off. She turns the temperature on its highest setting and only pulls her hands out when they start to blister.
There is roaring applause for Rue outside. Wuvvy does not clap. Her hands are seared. She could only rip them open further.
III. The Praise
Rue calls her to their room to help with their outfit and Wuvvy brightens at the very sound of their voice. Wuvvy knows their glamour, of course—which makes her pleased, to know that she knows something so important—so she is really the only one who can help with the elaborate dresses. (II. The Power) She would like it to stay that way.
She ties buttons and bows in the back on an elaborate red outfit, outfitted in feathers so that the elven, green-skinned Rue rather resembles a red-winged blackbird. She finishes and admires her work.
“Wuvvy, excellent work,” they exclaim. “I don’t know how you work so quickly. I can barely reach the back.”
She ducks her head to hide her face, and pretends that she doesn’t practice tying knots in her room. She looks for more things to do. She has prepared snacks on the coffee table—she has organized Rue’s closet by color—she has cleaned every mirror in the house—in short, she has done everything. She will do everything they need.
She has left her court for them. She ignores the whispers about it, both the right ones and the wrong ones. Some say Rue has enchanted her. Some say that she is cursed.
A roiling wave in her stomach reminds her that at least one is true. (I. The Petals)
She will never raise to a higher place than this because of the way she craves Rue’s smooth voice, talking to her and only her, telling her that she has done everything right. She could never do anything else. (II. The Power)
She’s found her incentive, Wuvvy thinks, and it will be her downfall.
IV. The Exile
The Bloom has just started, and Wuvvy runs around like she’ll die if she isn’t moving, being useful, being a help. (II. The Power) Her ears are perked for the sound of her name. Her hooves are scraped from hours of being on her feet. Her fur—piebald, like her mother’s and her mother’s mother’s—is unbrushed and wild.
She watches for that same piebald fur in the crowds at the Bloom. They might be here, they might not be. Wuvvy does not catch them in her quick glances. She’s almost glad. She knows what they think of her.
She has a mailbox near her quarters for any letters. She received three letters from the Court of Hoof and Claw immediately after her departure. Most of them asked questions. She responded to all of them, and never received another one. She checks it regularly.
Rue leaves her little notes in there sometimes—usually about something she has to take care of, but sometimes just ones with little smiley faces drawn on them. Wuvvy seals them in a box and hides it in her closet. (III. The Praise)
Rue knows better than to have Wuvvy deliver things to the Hoof and Claw chambers. They deal with it. Sometimes they cast spells to have messages taken. Whether Wuvvy wishes to or not, she will not contact them.
She tried to write a letter once, to her mother. She was nervous. She is more dangerous with magic. She tried to write a letter and got her fingers frostbitten, somehow.
She’s better with the magic, now. She’s not sure she’s better with the nervous habits. She’s not sure she’s in better standing, either.
She finds a bell on her cloak. How shameful, to be so absolutely associated with those who want nothing to do with her.
V. The Fight
When Rue makes Wuvvy burn the letter (with a spell so familiar she could cast it in her sleep), she resolves to deliver its contents anyway. No matter how it makes her feel, it will make Rue happy. She only wants to make them happy. (III. The Praise)
She arrives at Hob’s place and hears him narrating his own letter.
It occurs to her that if she delivers this letter, it will only make Rue sadder. This goblin, this brute —is beyond their reach. They have made Rue sad.
So she challenges him. What else can she do, really? She refuses to tell him why, because Rue doesn’t deserve that.
The Lords of the Wing send out invitations— Major K.P. Hob vs. Rue’s assistant, Tomorrow, Tomorrow, Tomorrow! (II. The Power)
The fight does draw an audience, and Wuvvy musters her force to enter her feral form. Her horns grow twisty and sharp, and her fur goes darker and thicker. Her eyes are filled with fire. Her hands must be on fire.
She looks in the audience for the Court of Hoof and Claw. She does not see any except Theodore—her fellow circus attraction, her fellow escapee, her fellow performer. (IV. The Exile). So she musters her strength without a second glance at her audience.
They are not her audience. They are Rue’s audience. Wuvvy is their champion. She will defend their honor. (III. The Praise)
So it goes:
She steps out. She sees red.
Hob is so much bigger than her. He is a snarling, wild beast. He is of the Goblin Court. He will eat her alive.
Wuvvy sets her teeth and her stance. Her head is spinning. She sees red.
There is talking and yelling and it’s all a blur as Wuvvy stumbles forward. The battle has begun. It has not begun. It began yesterday, when Rue was a fool, but Wuvvy was more so for letting them go alone. It has not begun.
Andhera declares that he will fight the duel in her place. Wuvvy bites her tongue. She chances a glance at Rue—resplendent in a coat of animal patterns, in outstanding support of Wuvvy, her best friend. (II. The Power) (III. The Praise)
Wuvvy runs so that she cannot feel the burning that has spread to her lungs. (I. The Petals). It is lucky that all eyes are on the duel—even Rue, even they are so dependent on the spectacle that has been made—because she sheds her feral form as she runs, heavy fur and heavy antlers bleeding off of her. Rogue branches on thorny trees scrape her arms and legs.
Few know this, and those who would know are not in attendance (IV. The Exile), but to enter the feral form is an ordeal, an act of devotion. Or, a correction; to enter is easy. To exit is a thing best done in private, where none can watch.
She goes where none can watch.
She hears later that Andhera has lost the duel quickly and unsurprisingly. She knows she should have stayed.
She coughs and coughs until she has forgotten what it feels like to breathe. She burns the petals with a spell so familiar she could cast it in her sleep. (I. The Petals)
VI. The Envy
Rue hands Wuvvy a love letter, the second in as many weeks. It is like deja vu. She looks into their eyes and sees emotions that she cannot read.
Wuvvy waits for the order to burn. When it does not come, she instead waits for Rue to walk out.
“I love you,” she whispers, inaudibly, again.
She takes matters into her own hands. Wuvvy knows Rue better than she knows herself. (III. The Praise)
She stands on the balcony and looks out at the Feywild around the Bloom. It is different than the Hoof and Claw. (IV. The Exile) Here, things are finely trimmed until they are the precise shape that they are meant to be. In the Hoof and Claw, things were allowed to grow, were allowed to exist.
Here everything is perfect, except Wuvvy. She holds Concentration on Resistance, and Resists the coughing fit that itches at the back of her throat. (I. The Petals) She takes a long drink of red wine, and pretends that that is why her mouth drips with crimson.
She attends the firework show. Of course she attends the firework show, because she organized it, and it will ultimately fall to her to make sure it goes precisely as planned. (II. The Power). Rue drinks, and laughs, and parties in their true form. From the corner, Wuvvy watches as the other fey run their hands along Rue’s feathers. That is something that only Wuvvy has done for years.
Some things feel irreplaceable. Wuvvy stares as one of Rue’s feathers gently drifts to the floor.
When the gaggle of fey moves on, Wuvvy carefully picks it up and tucks it into a pocket in her pants, just over a scar on her hackles. (V. The Fight.) It is no corsage. It is no gift. She takes it of her own accord.
Rue has taken so much from her. She deserves something back.
She sees the light hand of a Lady of the Court of Seafoam rest on Hob’s arm, and feels a burning vindication. She was right. She has always been right.
She cannot say a word to Rue. She will only upset them more, and he has upset them enough already. They do not deserve this.
But she knows privately that she knows best, and has always known best. That is enough. She will die with that secret.
She knows privately that she is in love. That is enough. She will die with that secret.
She retires to a potted plant in the corner to cough, as quietly as she can. (I. The Petals). She does not have to be quiet, if she is entirely honest. Nobody will notice somebody like her, no matter her malady. (II. The Power). Sometimes, her invisibility is more a blessing than a curse.
And so one curse hides another. Wuvvy is remarkably efficient that way.
Hob has disappeared. Rue has disappeared. Wuvvy is filled with a burning panic and an urgency like none other. They are not in the auditorium. They are not on the dance floor (a small grace, at least). They are not out on any of the balconies, until Wuvvy reaches the last one.
She hides behind luscious red velvet curtains. No expense has been spared on this venue. It is all going off without a hitch.
Wuvvy has always been better at listening than speaking. So that is what she does. Until Hob sees her, and she is forced to disappear out of sight entirely.
She feels heavier than she has ever felt before. She falls to her knees with the weight of it all.
VII. The Tragedy
She has her head in her hands when she hears her name called by none other than Delloso de la Rue. She hesitates, just a moment. She could never refuse them. She rushes to their side. (III. The Praise)
Hob is grappled by a spell, clearly cast by the high-ranked Suntar. There is chaos. Some kind of portal is opened—closing, but open.
She looks into Rue’s eyes and sees an absolute terror. (VI. The Envy)
She rushes toward Suntar and tackles her as hard as she can. To the untrained eye, it must look that she is holding back. Wuvvy’s feeble arms—pale with blood loss, patchy with fur—hold Suntar as hard and fast as possible, shifting into the feral form.
Horns grow further from her head. She has claws. Her eyes are wild. Her teeth are gnashing. She is an animal of the woods, at heart. (IV. The Exile)
The spell on Hob ends, and he lifts a heavy sword. (V. The Fight)
Wuvvy lets go and falls to the ground.
The battle is won handily, after that. Wuvvy hazily watches Suntar fall through the portal, into some other realm—perhaps the human, perhaps something else. She cannot tell the difference.
Hob places a large hand on Rue’s shoulder and looks into their eyes. Wuvvy watches from the ground.
They walk back towards the Bloom. The festivities that Wuvvy has arranged are not yet done. (II. The Power) There are excitements yet to be seen.
The battlefield lies empty, save the gilded body of a traitor and the still-breathing form of a satyr.
To enter the feral form is an act of devotion.
To exit it is an ordeal best endured where none can see.
Wuvvy coughs violently, fiercely. She is covered in scratches. She is covered in bloody thorns and ripped-up roses. She feels Rue’s feather pressed between the ground and her body and cannot find the strength to reach it.
She endures it until she cannot.
(I. The Petals)