Away with the Faeries

Chapter Thirty

 Anima was Latin for soul; which is what I felt had just been sucked from my body. Princess. I almost laughed. And maybe I would've were I not standing naked before the pair. Wrapping arms around myself I felt a heat rush to my face. Clothing now, questions later. Slowly I receded back into the shadows of the hall in a lame attempt to escape the dawning embarrassment.

I huffed out a cough at the two that still bowed before me; "Can I have something to wear?"

In unison the two stood, bright smiles set against their faces from beneath their spanning hoods. Entirely indifferent to the scene before them.

"Of course Princess Rayne." The boy on the right said, his face lay painted with a coat of stunning freckles. Quickly he bowed once more before hurrying off in search of clothing.

The second one remained behind, her pooling robe gathered at her feet as she watched me with buggy eyes. We stood in silence for what felt like an eternity. Leaning back into the warmth of the stone wall I listened to the soft dripping of my soaked hair. Visions of the arena began to cloud my mind, taking shape in the darkness. Marcel, and the roaring crowd. What would they think when my body was gone? Would they hurt the spectators for the trick or Marcel? My stomach sank at the thought.

"This all must be terribly frightening for you, your Highness," the young girl said softly before adding, "on behalf of Anima I beg pardon, but it is truly an honor to meet you, Princess Rayne. We have waited for a long time."

Muscles ticked against my jaw; "Sorry to disappoint you," I threw a glance over at the wide-eyed girl before me. Dressed in heavy robes; she must have been an acolyte of some sort; "But someone is pulling your leg. I'm no princess."

I was a little girl with dark pigtails who chased boys through the mulch-filled playgrounds. Dirt on my face, brandishing sticks like steel. I was a little girl who needed help crossing the crowded streets of Paris, who dug up worms in the rain, who childishly giggled as my mother would shower me with goodnight kisses. I was this girl. But the memories felt foreign as if they belonged to someone else entirely.

———

An hour. That's how long I had before I was to stand before the respected High Council of Anima. An hour. My eyes flicked nervously to the clock over the mantle. I didn't have the faintest clue why the high-ups of Anima wanted to meet with me. But if these people had pulled me from the arena then how hard could it be for them to do it again? Marcel was still there. Lana was still there.

Nervously pacing the heated room I glanced down to the lush fur carpet beneath my feet, my eyes roving along the trail I had treaded into it. Running a hand over my face I sank to one of the leather chairs before the hearth. The robes I had been given were about three sizes too big, it drapped across the chair, engulfing us both. After fidgeting in the chair I stood once more, pacing again over the carpet.

Gnawing at my bottom lip my eyes flicked again to the clock. Not even a full minute had passed. I nearly groaned.

"Your Majesty." An older man's voice sounded from the other side of the door, stuttering in shock, "we were not expecting to see you so soon. It is a great honor."

Carefully I slid up to the door, pressing an ear to the smooth wood.

"Don't play coy with me old man." A woman hissed, my stomach dropping at her voice. I knew that voice. I shifted from foot to foot as she spoke on; "Where is she," she spat coldly, "where is my daughter."

Oh, gods. She's come to kill me. Stumbling away from the door I glanced about the room, searching for a quick exit. A window, anything. After minutes of deep contemplation, I set my jaw, ignoring the inviting breeze from the window at my back, before pushing my way through the door and into the cool corridor. Why was she here? Why now? Where had she been the first night I awoke in the snow, or while I marched as a slave to King Otis? Where had she been for the past twenty-six years of my life?

Hot tears bubbled in my eyes as I choked back a sob. I refused to give her the satisfaction of my tears. Crying would mean I cared, which I didn't. Closing my eyes I braced myself for a scolding, a slap even. What I wasn't prepared for were the arms that enveloped me, crushing me into a tight embrace. I didn't hug her back, I seemed to have forgotten how. I seemed to have forgotten how to move altogether. To breathe, to think, to act.

Tears ran free now down my face. My mother pulled back, wiping at the tears as they fell. I just watched, unsure who this woman was before me. Her inky hair lay at the top of her head, caught in a messy bun, loose strands falling across her face. Wrinkles crumpled against her long beige coat, and her typical heels traded for a pair of unlaced boots. Strange. She would never leave the house in a state any less than perfect.

Setting my feet firmly into the ground I willed the words to come, "Are those designer." My eyes flitted over her shoes, coated in mud; "God forbid you be caught in anything less."

The few others in the corridor seemed to melt away. Mascara ran in dark rivers down her olive skin, her striking blue eyes beating into my own. For the twenty-six years I've had this woman as my mother, not once have I seen her cry like now. She wore a mask as she did her favorite lipstick, flawlessly. But there were no pearls now, no bold jewelry, or pinched brows. There was no lipstick.

There was only the anguish that poured from her in waves as she drank me in, mascara still seeping wet down her cheeks. My lips parted, unsure of what to do. Run was the likely answer.

A sad smile crept across her face; "God forbid someone catch you in that robe."