Away with the Faeries

Chapter Twenty-eight

 I need a weapon. I need a weapon. I need a—. My frantic eyes danced along the snowy expanse before landing on a gold-encrusted blade that glinted in the powdery snow. It lay at the center of the arena, far too close to the quickly opening doors. Shit. My feet shifted uneasily beneath me, unsure of which way to bound. My eyes roved across the short dagger, considering. It had to have been planted there, like some sick taunt. A dare. I shot my gaze up to the crowds, where they fluttered with excitement, watching me. Wondering what I might do; wondering how much was I willing to risk for a bit of steel.

Rolling up the sleeves to my gown I locked my eyes back to my shining target, heart leaping with each groan from the opposing door as it opened wider; "I'm going for the dagger."

"That's a terrible idea," Lana sputtered, "you do realize that flimsy piece of steel is bait. They're trying to get you closer to whatever is in there." Her gaze slide warily to the large oak doors which had shuddered almost completely open now.

"What's the worst that could be behind a pair of doors?"

"Gauging by their sheer size, I'd wager a dragon."

Of course, flying lizards were real. "Sweet," I smirked, the words tenser than I hoped they be; "I get to skewer a giant Mushu."

Lana didn't seem to hear the words; "You attract death." She fell to the snow in a dejected heap.

The notion of cessation hasn't caught up with me yet. Who's to say it would now? Fueled by the crowds ear-splintering chants I raced through the slippery snow, holding the skirts of my gown up with one hand as my eyes carefully watched the opening doors. My entire body felt of lead, heavy and slow. Fighting against me at every move I made. At every push, I made closer to the small dagger.

The arena was big, too big. It was clearly built for holding creatures of impressive size. I felt like a mere drop of rain, rippling the water as I crossed the expansive area. To the booming cheers of the raucous crowd, I dropped low, sweeping the hilt of the gold-crusted blade into my hands. Louder they cheered as I hefted the weapon high, the frozen metal burning my skin. If they wanted a show, I'd give them a show.

Turning back on the dark threshold I stared with bated breath into the cascading darkness that loomed within. The doors opened fully, their somber groaning shifting into silence. It drapped a hush over the entire arena, stilling the crowds. Twisting the dagger over in my hand I planted my feet firmly into the ground, waiting. Maybe I should be running. But the thought came too late, from the shadows a figure crept.

That is not a dragon.

Bleeding slowly from the obscurity a cloaked figure took shape, as an extension of the shadows. Painted from the very hands of darkness. As the sun-brushed against their features, the blade fell loose through my fingers, forgotten. A sliver of crimson slid steadily from the jagged scar across his brow. Torn back open again and again. But this, it was different. The scar was wider, longer; stretching now past his brow and across his cheekbone. As if with each reopening of the wound they'd dragged the knife further.

A masked rage simmered in my gut, lips fumbling for words. He drifted closer, quickly closing the space between us in long strides. Pine and ash and blood. My voice caught in my throat as I tried again for words. His bronze skin had grown so pale, pallid. His dark hair grew shaggier now, falling just short of his eyes. Eyes that seemed to be elsewhere entirely, as they watched me. Burning right through me.

His name stumbled from my lips, the dagger lost at my feet; "Marcel."

My voice seemed to bounce off him, he made no show that he'd heard me at all. He grew closer, dark eyes flicking to the abandoned steel at my feet. I tried his name again, stumbling away as he inched closer. But there was no recognition in his hard gaze, my words uselessly passed through him. He briefly halted in his trek for me, swiping up the blade. Twisting it around in expert hands, forming it as an extension of himself.

Stumbling back further on numb feet I placed a hand to my chest, raising my voice above the murmuring stands; "Marcel," I called, words waning; "it's me, Rayne Aubert. We are friends, you know me!"

He treaded nearer, his war-worn face motionless. Lana's words clanged around my head; he thinks you're dead. Marcel was close now, the blade in swinging range. Killing range. Faintly the smells of pine and ash twisted along the sharp air, calming my racing mind even as Marcel shifted into a stance I knew all too well. But this time I was the one on the receiving end.

"You know me," I tried again, hands lifting in surrender, eyes wide with supplication; "you know me," I echoed breathlessly. "You found me in the woods behind your house, you saved me, Marcel." A bitter laugh escaped me at the memory, "From then on I was Dame de la forêt to you."

Lady of the Forest.

Hot tears brimmed my eyes as I searched his own. Looking for something, anything. But there was nothing. There was no one left. Every last scrap of the Faerie I knew was gone.

I don't know where the words came from but they were falling from my lips before I could stop them, "Je suis votre Dame de la forêt."

A muscle feathered in his jaw, "Lies," he grumbled low, the sound tearing through me.

Then quick as light, the blade vanished from his side as he slashed it up, to the soft skin of my exposed throat. Aiming to kill. My legs stumbled away in time, any remaining color washing clean off my face. Shit, shit. Flames seemed to burst through my cheek where the tip of the blade had caught, dark crimson seeped down my cheek, peppering the fine snow red. In all the times we've sparred Marcel never struck me.

I placed a shocked hand on my skin, pulling away shaky fingers coated in a thin layer of blood. Heart racing in my throat my breath came rushed as I took quick steps away from the Faerie. He was only warming up. The stands roared with new life at the spilled blood. Hastily my eyes ran along the towering racks of people until they landed upon a set of golden eyes. Her small porcelain frame trembled and blanched under the overcast skies.

Besides her, raised mightly on a dark throne sat King Otis. To his left was who I could only assume to be Prince Silas, he looked like an exact copy of Jinny. The shallow sun graced his fair skin and long beachy hair. Unlike Jinny his eyes were drawn tight, golden eyes lethal. Yet, before the Faerie, I retreated from the young prince resembled a puppy. Throwing a desperate glance over my shoulder I caught sight of my small Nuea, shoveling snow into her mouth as if it were popcorn, her face bursting with excitement.

"Lana," I called back to her, "I could use some help."

"Screw love," she shouted back, voice buzzing, "I want a show!"

"Lana Venera," I cried my gaze held fast to the shimmering blade, jumping from its path as Marcel swung. "Now is not the time to be feeding your deprived Nuea ass of your thirst for blood!"

Lana grumbled some choice words before fluttering between Marcel and me as a begrudging mediator. Marcel's eyes flicked to the Nuea as he turned the dagger over in his hand; "Marcel," she snapped, "stop trying to kill Rayne, it's no longer entertaining."

He looked once more to Lana, studying the small Nuea, making sense of her presence here; "No," he said slowly, words contemplating. "She died."

Lana gestured to me, "She lives," she said, desperation seeping into the words, "surprise!"

He shook his head at the words; "No," he declared again, "I was shone her body, I saw the death in her eyes. This person who stands here now is a fraud."