Away with the Faeries

Chapter Thirteen

 A dwindling fire cracked from within the stone hearth at the far end of the room. Marcel's large crimson cloak lay sprawled across the engulfing feather bed. Shadows were cast from the flames, dancing across furniture. Leaning up against the door was a longsword, bound safely away in its leather sheath. Strange, I didn't take Marcel for the type to go anywhere without a weapon. Aimlessly wandering further into the room smelt heavily of pine and ash. Unlike the other parts of the castle I've had brief encounters with, this room felt lived in.

"Marcel," I called out to the silence, running a hand along the cool wall; "hello, anybody home?"

The stone was slick under my hand but as I called out to Marcel again my fingers slid over a rough indent on the surface. Inching in closer I squinted through the shallow light, examining the strange markings. Tracing my fingers across the jagged edges of the carved lines I realized what I had touched was a warning. Etched in rough lines the French read like static in my mind.

A leader who was never born to lead is like a... But the rest had faded over the centuries, back into its stone enclosure. Entombed forever in an undecipherable message. Grumbling I moved away, I hate puzzles. Racking my brain I thought deeply on the words.

"A leader who was never born to lead," I mumbled quietly, brows drawn, "is still technically a leader."

A light scoff sounded from behind me, startled I sprang from the wall. Marcel stood from where he leaned at the doorway, gesturing to the hidden message.

"You are not wrong but that's not what it says," he clarified, moving into the room and standing beside the fire.

Crossing my arms over my chest I turned up to him; "Then what does it say Oh-Wise-One?"

Marcel was quiet a moment, the light from the fire dancing in a warm glow across his skin; "A leader who was never born to lead," he began, "is like a Fae without their wings, never meant to be."

Embers snapped amidst the silenced room. Why would someone write something so terrible? The words were hopeless. I looked to Marcel, he knew what the faded words were. He was a wingless Fae. Had he written it?

Marcel chuckled lightly; "It was not me who wrote it."

Quickly I turned away, a heat creeping up my neck. Curse this blasted face of mine.

"Who did," I asked.

A slight smile drew at his lips as if he was recalling a long-forgotten memory; "The Queen."

"Queen Aera?"

In the brief time I'd known The Queen I didn't take her for the type to carve such unco messages into her own walls.

"No," Marcel shook his head, hair spilling over his shoulders; "the last Queen of Faeries; Queen Briar or as many would like to call her, The Runaway Queen."

The fire cast a shallow light across Marcel's sullen features as he gazed absently into the hearth. Dying flames twisted in his dark eyes, shoulders stiff and hand rested easily against the hilt of the blade at his waist. What are your demons? I gazed curiously at Marcel who stood like a war-worn soldier ready to spill blood at a moment's notice. A machine, a monster. What did a monster ever have to fear but their reflection?

Crossing the room I wrapped a hand around the longsword that sat sheathed against the wall. All the while feeling Marcel's eyes trailing me.

"How many of these do you own," I asked, brandishing the sheathed sword.

"Enough."

"How about some practice," I said pointing the blade to Marcel who watched me carefully; "You know before I'm fed to the lions."

"It will take a week for the letter to arrive, then another for Bloed officials to show," he waved a dismissive hand, "There is plenty of time."

Two weeks. My heart seemed to fall to my toes. I didn't know the first thing about warfare and I only had two weeks to prepare. How could he act like that was all the time in the world?

"A fortnight," I stressed, "That's no time at all. We're training now."

———

"Fight me," my voice broke from exhaustion, sweat dripping down my forehead; "Coward!"

I had shed the heavy petticoats and skirts of my dress. Heaving now before Marcel in a thin cloth gown that stuck glued to my skin, and a leather corset that dug into my back each time I moved. We stood in a large indoor garden, an array of plants growing in spiraling statures around us. Wispy flora swayed, dusting the air with bright perfumes. The humidity of the room wasn't helping.

Marcel stood rooted to the floor like one of the many plants in the room, refusing to attack. It was driving me mad. Wiping the sweat from my brow I studied Marcel. He refused to attack. Why? My borrowed sword hung loosely at my side as I glared at him. What was he hiding? He was trained, a warrior. A knight. That much was obvious by the way he held himself. So why wouldn't he attack?

"Have you given up already, Dame de la forêt?"

We had been at this for a week now. It wasn't enough. I wasn't good enough for war. We had to keep going. Marcel had also shed his heavy clothes, outside of his shirt. Which remained on, glued by sweat against his skin. Dark locks of hair fell from the mess of a bun he had tied it in, sticking to his soiled skin. The humidity really wasn't helping.

"Never," I called back, chest still heaving.

Marcel flashed me a grin before lifting his blade. My stomach flipped at the sight. Damn. Clenching my jaw I raised my own blade, mirroring his gesture. Focus Rayne.

"Then what are you waiting for love?"