Away with the Faeries

Chapter Thirty-four

 "I'm afraid you're sorely mistaken if you think you can waltz back in here and reclaim the throne," Aera gritted coolly, gazing down upon us from her place on the Throne of Fae.

All the palace servants had congregated in the shadows of the room, watching with wide eyes and bated breath. Birdy stood protectively wrapped beneath a sunken maids wings, both of their startling green eyes gazing at their returned queen. Lyra smiled fondly at my mother, her eyes uncertain.

"Again I thank you dearly sister for keeping it warm while I was gone," my Mother said pointedly, her eyes narrowing, "but as we agreed on I am here to retrieve what is rightfully mine."

"This throne, nay, this kingdom stopped being yours the moment you fled to Bloed with your little lover boy," Aera sneered her knuckles bleaching as she clutched the armrest of the throne.

Shocked murmurs rippled through the crowd that had formed in the shadows of the room; left Erde for a boy, they whispered, abandoned. My mother took in a steadying breath at the mention of Otis, Aera had cut low.

"We had an agreement," my mother began her voice even, a calm rage frothing at the words.

"Mere words," Aera waved a dismissive hand, her lips tight, "are you, not the one who told me that action speaks louder than words? What you did to this kingdom spoke in bold."

"I did tell you that," my mother agreed. "Yet, here you are going back on a promise you made to me twenty years ago," she waved a hand to the servants and Fae that gathered before her, "what kind of example does that set for the people of Erde?"

A murmur rippled through the crowd again as Aera's face flushed red, her jaw tensing and knuckled growing progressively paler.

My mother lifted her chin gazing down her nose to her sister; "Actions speak louder than words, little sister, " she said, "you were never meant to be Queen. Step down."

"You were never meant to be Queen either," Aera spat bitterly, "You hated the crown, the responsibilities."

Bobbing her head in agreement my mother's eyes slid to me, "It's not me who I am placing on the Throne," she declared. "It's time my daughter rule and it's far past time for this war to be put to an end."

———

It took far longer than anticipated to remove Aera from the throne. After Rowan intervened she at last relented and bitterly stormed from the palace. I sat now in the same room I stayed at during my first visit here. Studiously my mother watched from the plush feather bed as Lyra plowed thick braids through my uncut hair. I've never seen a single Fae with cut hair, the exception being Marcel. My mother avoided Hair Salons like the plague, growing up I was never allowed to cut my hair.

Freshman year of college, my friends and I were playing truth or dare. I was dared to let them cut my hair. They did and that was the first time I had ever seen my mother cry. Her blue gaze followed Lyra's fingers as she twisted my hair into an intricate pattern and then she stood, coming beside the dainty Fae.

"May I," my mother asked the startled servant.

"Is there a significance of hair to Fae culture," I asked my eyes meeting my mothers as she threaded her slender fingers through my dark hair, continuing where Lyra had left off.

She puckered her lips, contemplating; "People of Fae are sacred creatures who hold many ties with Mother Earth. We believe there is beauty in the natural," her fingers slipped through my inky hair as she spoke, "Hair is sacred to Fae's and must never be cut, it represents a deep part of you."

"Like wings?"

She nodded, "Wings however are a bit more complicated," she murmured.

"How so?"

"A wingless Fae who chose that life for themselves is to be shunned as they have committed a grave sin," she paused her voice catching, "whereas a wingless Fae who had no voice in the matter is to be mourned for they have lost their identity."

I swallowed hard, closing my eyes to the words. Marcel had both his hair and wings forcefully stripped from him. His wife was dead and his identity taken. It was no surprise he was walking the line; and I still had the audacity to ask him to fight, for me. Who was I to a Faery with nothing? A soft hand cradled my cheek brushing away a tear I hadn't realized fell.

"Marcel is strong," my mother whispered but there was an air of uncertainty to her words, "He will be okay."

A lie.

"They took his wings, Mom," I cried.

"I know," she murmured soothing, her mirrored features contorting in grief.

"They cut his hair," sobs filled my chest as I mourned for a Faery I hardly knew. Pine and ash. Far away eyes and fresh scars. Stupid smiles that bloomed when he thought he had bested me. This was the Marcel I knew; not the one my mom or Lillian had known. This was the Fae I recognized, this was the Fae I yearned to know more of. 

Topping off the braids my Mother leaned down, wrapping her arms around my shoulders. "We must leave it up to him now," she soothed, "For now we have a war to focus on winning, Queen Rayne."

Bobbing my head I wiped the tears from my face, relishing the short second in my mother's embrace before we both stood; "We have to gather the military forces," I began my head fluttering as I was thrown into action mode.

"It's been done," My mother said, "If you wish to speak with them they are in the courtyard training."

"No," I chewed at my lip, running a hand down the smooth braids, "There is something I need to do first."

She quirked a brow, her hand mindlessly toying with the gold cuff at the top of her ear as she headed for the door of the room. My eyes traced the shimmering gold clip warily.

"Why do you still wear that," I asked. Personally, I would have melted the damn thing by now.

Her hand fell heavily to her side, "It is difficult to simply forget thirty years even in a lifetime of innumerable ones."