Away with the Faeries

Chapter Eleven

"We are immortal until killed Rayne," Marcel began as if teaching a toddler their colors.

Aren't we all, immortal that is, until killed? May it be from old age, a knife to the heart, or the common cold. We are all immortal until we aren't.

"Right," I said stretching the word.

Rowan leaned over to Marcel, brows drawn; "Who is Jacob?"

Marcel looked at him a moment before continuing; "I stopped counting the years a long time ago," he said; "why is this important to you?"

Why was this important to me?

"It's important because I've been thrown into a world where nothing is normal," I stressed; "You have tiny flying people, that's not normal!"

Although now that I had said it allowed I realized that asking an immortal person for their age was anything but normal. I ran a defeated hand across my face.

Rowan stroked his beard thoughtfully; "You say you were thrown into this world?"

If he didn't think I was mad before, he was sure to now.

"Not exactly," I began; "I woke up here about a day ago. On-," I paused at a sudden loss for words.

"On what," Rowan pressed.

"My birthday," I said at last. Yesterday was my twenty-six birthday and I had completely forgotten. I suppose getting fired and chucked into a fairytale will do that to a person.

Rowan chuckled, leaning back into his chair the wood groaned under the shift in weight; "What a strange coincidence," he muttered, watching me curiously.

"You don't think," Marcel began, a sort of underlying worry in his voice.

Rowan shrugged; "I think it is no coincidence that yesterday marked the twenty-sixth anniversary of the Queen's disappearance."

"Perhaps," Marcel nodded slowly; "But the Queen was Fae and centuries old at the time of her vanishing. She was a child at best," he said before adding; "And Rayne is human."

Pushing a lock of my dark hair aside I tugged on my ear; "Human," I repeated.

Rowan nodded, dark eyes contemplating. He waved a hand then dismissing whatever thoughts muddied his mind; "The servants have already prepared rooms for you both," he said; "I apologize if they are overzealous, it has been a long time since we've had guests."

---

Rowan wasn't lying about the zeal part. Moving in excited flurries around me dashed small Faeries. A pretty doe-eyed Fae scurried up to where I had been positioned at a vanity like a doll. I had been told to sit and stay, and like the ever-so-obedient dog, I was I did just that. Her patchy corset held tight to her curvy frame, a large cloak hiding her wings. Small, tan ears pointed out from beneath her dark hair, colorful beads and threads weaved into it in a mesmerizing fashion.

Pointing to her hair my mouth fell agape; "Can you do that to me," I asked in awe.

Smiling warmly she nodded. Spinning in the chair I watched in the mirror as she pulled thread and wooden beads from a pouch on her apron before working at my knotted hair. All around the room servants giggled as they dusted the same patches of the wall or fluffed the same pillow for the hundredth time. Ignoring them I turned my gaze to the Fae in the mirror as she racked tan fingers through my unruly hair.

"What is your name?"

"It is Lyra," she said, fingers working braids into my hair; "I am my mother's namesake my Lady."

"That's beautiful," I sighed; "my mother named me Rayne, like the weather." My mother hates the rain.

Lyra only giggled; the soft pattering of feet hurried up to me, the owner a tiny Fae child with green eyes too big for her face. Lovely blonde hair framed her face in loose braids; a colorful dress hung loosely over her small frame, the fabric stained and wearing. A dark cloak was also drawn over her shoulders, covering her wings.

"I'm Birdy," she chirped clinging to my dress, "I heard the ladies saying you speak the old tongue. Is it true?"

"Birdy," Lyra scolded as she finished off a braid, "leave Ms. Aubert alone. You have chores to be doing, now go."

The small child's face fell, eyes growing sullen.

"Aw," I pouted, "let her stay."

I hadn't even realized I spoke French until Birdy jumped up happily, her face igniting with joy.

"It is true," she said, climbing atop my lap, "you speak the old ways!"

Birdy reminded me of my nieces, she was a tiny ball of pent-up energy and had a knack for getting her way. It really was my own fault, I could never say no.

"How old are you," I asked looking at Birdy in the mirror.

Holding up a hand she began to count her fingers until counted all ten fingers twice over.

"This many," she proudly stated holding up all all ten fingers to me.

"Wow," I said widening my eyes; "That's a lot of fingers, you must be really old."

Giggling Birdy squirmed on my lap until she was facing me, throwing a small arm around my shoulders she played mindlessly with an unbraided lock of my hair; "Do you know any stories?"

Stories, I thought a moment, like fairytales? I did know one and believe it or not it was the one my mother would tell me each night when I was about Birdy's age.

"I do," I said; "I know of one."