The Lonely Ones

Chapter Seventeen: Thorn Hill

Thorn Hill is as it's name describes; a ferocity deep in the woods for those who aren't invited. The hill sits lower than the treeline, surrounded by oaks that bend inward. Thorns thicker than a fist ebb and flow through the roots, although Wren has always found the ones thin as needles to be more annoying than any.

He approaches Thorn Hill dressed in the finest fashion; sharp silver and consuming black from head to toe. A path creates itself before him, reaching deeper and deeper until coming upon a supposed dead end. He steps through the dead end, falling into darkness. Down, down, down the rabbit hole until his feet meet solid ground and darkness explodes into light.

A great hall stretches before him, arched ceilings made up of entangled roots covered in ivy and wildflowers. The sweet scent of wine carries over drunken laughter, hideous roars, and shrill screams. Long tables decorated in gold and silver line the hall, each once filled with food and drink that will soon lay scattered across the floor and walls. The revel has only just begun. Glowing orbs of light dance above, twisting through roots and hovering in dark corners where fae snicker over their catch. A human girl sits frozen in a chair, hair in a painfully tight braid. Pixies move her limp limbs like a marionette while a troll tries to barter a price. A man dances to the rhythm of a flute even as he lurches from side to side in utter exhaustion, but his eyes are bright and wide with glee. The servants shifting through the throngs of fae bodies are humans too, their eyes dull gray and faces expressionless even when injured.

The chaos of the revel grows eerily quiet when the hall grows cold. All eyes turn to the winter price moving elegantly through the high columns. An air of frost and cold circles around him in an invisible wind. The fae make a path, their whispers growing into a roar. Wren basks in it; finally, the attention he deserves.

The deeper one goes into the hall, the wider it gets until it opens up into a throne room. The ceilings stretch twice as high, eight sided and meeting at a point where a chandelier of roots twist into pointed antlers. One table sits before the High King's pedestal where the children of Grim preside, looking upon the throne. There are twenty seats in total, each taken by one of Wren's siblings. Above them, atop a pedestal, are five thrones. At the very center sits the grandest throne of all, made of the same roots constructing Thorn Hill. The back stretches across the entirety of the wall, every root aching to reach the one who sits upon the throne, the High King of Grim, Emrys.

"My High King," Wren says, bowing to the father who watches him as disinterested in all things. But that doesn't bother Wren, as he would have been worried had Emrys reacted any differently. Standing tall, the prince beams at the family looking upon him in a mixture of disdain or disinterest.

"You've awakened," Emrys states. His deep voice echoes in the hall, over all the soft chatter and song, as if the very earth speaks for him. The High King is power itself, a creature of ancient lore that resembles the finest beauty with hair as golden as sunlight and eyes green as the forest. Not a wrinkle or blemish dare to appear on his sun kissed skin.

"I have, after quite a long time, so I've been told."

"How?" asks the autumn princess, Aurelia. Her composed voice brings Wren's attention to the remaining four thrones, one of which is empty, until he takes his rightful place.

Aurelia sits at Emrys' right on a throne of autumn leaves. They sprout from the branches of thin trees that braid themselves into a chair perfectly fitted to her thin form.

Wren approaches to stand at her side where his throne sits. His hand rests over the roots that have thawed since he has been away. With a single touch, they freeze into the threatening icy wonder he remembered.

"I was hoping Father could answer that," Wren admits when taking a seat. He looks to his right, first at Solana, who's heat washes over the room. "Keep that up, Sister, and you'll catch fire to the hall again."