Away with the Faeries

Chapter Eight

The words of allegiance fell from my mouth only to be greeted by a hushed room. The grease popped on the stove where Mrs. Benett stood and the fire crackled behind Marcel's large sprawled form on the floor before the hearth. Mrs. Benett shot a look to her son before turning her imposing gaze upon me.

"Truly," she asked, words caught in a breath.

It may have been stupid or even rash to immediately ally myself with strangers of a foreign kingdom. But if it wasn't for Marcel I would have died that night in the frost-bitten woods. Lana was also from this kingdom, and as much as she irked me she was the closest thing I had to sanity. I almost laughed; a pixie was my tie to sanity. Great. I didn't know why their kingdoms are at war and to me, it made no difference because I felt indebted to help the people who had first done so to me.

Nodding I walked over, sat on the couch, and reveled in the feel of the warmth from the flames on my skin. A small weight landed on my shoulder as Lana situated herself, cozying into the crook of my neck; "What do we need to do?"

"Much," answered Mrs. Benett, the clanging of pans following her answer as she quickly cleaned up what she was doing.

"Bloed has already taken control of most of this realm," Marcel said from his place on the floor, "The monarchy still stands but is weak. Bloed King Otis pushes his troops closer to the capital every day."

"He's a relentless monster," Mrs. Benett chimed in sourly, sitting down on the couch.

Marcel chuckled, his laugh deep and cynical; "That doesn't even begin to describe him."

"You speak as if you've met him," I said.

Mrs. Benett stilled from beside me. The room grew silent once more. A slight frown began to draw on my lips. Foot meet mouth. But to my relief, Marcel began to speak.

"I have." Was all he said, unconsciously his hand to drifted to his shoulder, fingers grazing the thin fabric of his shirt before quickly recoiling as if he'd touched an open flame. A short laugh escaped his silhouetted frame, painted by the dancing fire; "It is a day I try not to think about."

The room stilled once more. Shifting on the couch I stared into the cracking embers. Marcel sat up from his place before the hearth, his hair falling silkily over his shoulders as he moved.

"You're a good warrior. A human," he smirked, "and a woman at that. We can use all this to our advantage."

"How," I asked, Lana, wiggling on my shoulder nestling herself into my hair.

Marcel ran a hand across his face, his smile strained. "I've got friends in high places."

---

The grand palace was a labyrinth to enter, guarded fiercely by hundreds of warriors and protection spells. Because those were a thing. I had been awoken before the sun and thrown into a bath. Mrs. Benett had rushed to explain what was happening as she poured scented oils into the scalding water.

"Marcel has sent a letter," she had said, slight worry to her voice as she urged me to wash.

"To who," I had murmured half asleep, praising the heavens for a bath.

"The King," she said, "you and Marcel are to meet with him at once."

That's where I was now, standing in an old dress and boots of Mrs. Benetts, outside the looming doors that led into the Throne Room. Toying with my emerald cloak I glanced nervously at Marcel who stood unmoving beside me. How did he know the King? Was it the King who was his friend? What were we doing, was it dangerous? Of course, it was dangerous Rayne this was a war for crying out loud! Thoughts rattled my mind, the longer we stood waiting the more they drove me closer to the verge of insanity. I had to say something, I was going to blow. Rolling back on my heels I bit down on my lip.

"Hey, Marcel-," but I was cut off by the groaning of the doors as they opened.

Looking at the servant that greeted us I almost screamed. Almost. By the look on the creature's face I could've sworn for a second I did. Curse me and my damned eyes for giving away my every thought. Marcel glanced between me and the animal thing that stood before us.

Grabbing my elbow with a gentle touch he leaned in; "Don't tell me you've never seen a Satyr before," he mumbled by my ear.

A what?

"Yes once," I whispered back, "His name was Mr. Tumnus and he wore a red scarf." I couldn't help the smirk that played on my lips.

Marcel's brows dipped in a frown his dark eyes gave me a perplexed once over before he greeted the servant; "Bates," he said happily shaking the Satyr's hand as if being reacquainted with an old friend.

Perhaps this was the friend Marcel spoke about. Bates wore a fine button-up doublet, his light blonde hair was streaked with silver. Curved horns protruded from his overgrown hair. But it was his legs that threw me off the most. Swallowing hard I kept my gaze level with his face. Bates had animalistic legs ones that would belong to a beast.

He led us into the Throne Room upon clinking hooves. The fur of his legs was a few shades darker than his hair and curled. I was equally fascinated and horrified, I couldn't seem to take my eyes off him. Straight out of fucking Narnia. Bates bowed in a grand sweeping motion and it was only then did I realize we were standing before two very imposing iron thrones, decorated by two of the most beautiful people I've ever seen.

"Your Majesties, "Bates said, head still respectfully bowed, "May I introduce Sir Benett and Ms. Aubert."