BOUND IN FLAMES

007

Your tear stained cheek was pressed against your bent knee as you sat before the Yew Tree where the Summer Court Faerie was now buried. Fingers pulling and ripping the plush green spring grass beneath you.

Warms tears continued to wet your skin as you sat there and quietly said the prayer usually said when an illyrian passed.

Voice cracking as you recited it, grateful that no one was around to hear the grief that was thick in your throat for a faerie you didn't even know.

"Once soaring through skies with grace and might.
Now grounded and wounded in a fateful plight.
Though grounded they stand their soul takes flight.
Denying a flightless fate welcoming deaths sweet embrace.
May the wings that once soared high carry their spirit to eternal skies.
So let us remember the fallen ones who will now become a star and be one with the night.
May they fly in the beautiful skies of immortal land of milk and honey.
Feel the wind beneath their wings.
The warm breeze a loving caress against skin.
As they lose themselves in the songs of the wind once again."

Looking up at the stars, you searched the skies, as if you'd be able to see a whisper of the Summer Court faerie flying above you. Free from pain and suffering. Free from Amarantha.
Letting out a deep sigh when you didn't and stared at the grave at the base of the Yew Tree.

You sniffled and then let out a shuddering breath, "I am so sorry I was late. Maybe—maybe if I had gone Under the Mountain as soon as I got into Prythian, Amarantha would've been too focused on me to take your wings." Pulling out a small dagger from your pocket, cutting across your palm, letting your blood flow onto the earth. "Before I kill her or before she kills me. . . I'll kill whoever she ordered to butcher you—your wings." You swore.

To drained to care to wrap your hand, you just sat there letting the darkness of the night comfort you. As it always did. But then you heard it: almost like a whisper, as if cloth were dragging over root and stone.

Nostrils flaring as you scented the air, without a doubt knowing who it was. The tall, thin veiled figure in dark tattered robes, came to sit next to you.

Then slowly, it turned to you, the dark veil draped over its bald head blowing in a phantom breeze. "Hello, Darkling." Click, click went its fingers against each other, one for each word.

"Hello, old friend."

The Suriel sniffed the air, once. Twice. "You're bleeding." Its fingers clicking again. You didn't look at them, not even as it's robes rustled as if it was looking for something. Then you heard the sound of cloth tearing. A moment later it's too long fingers gently gripped your hand—carefully—to not touch the cut on your palm. Then it wrapped the piece of their torn robe around your hand. Squeezing your fingers before putting your now bandaged hand back in your lap. "She knows you're in Prythian. She's hunting you."

"I know."

"The faeries she sends into these lands are hunting you, faeries like the naga," It said, its voice was at once one and many, old and young, beautiful and grotesque. "Her ilk will continue to invade these lands on her orders. To find you."

You felt the Suriel's eyes on you as you looked down at your wrapped hand. Then at the Suriel. They had torn the cleanest part of their robe to bandage you. "Thank you," you gave them a small smile, it was all you could muster at the moment and, they nodded their head in understanding.

"You know you're being hunted, so why are you still out here all alone." Not a question, but a mere fact.

As if on cue the grass brush a couple yards in front of you rustled, the Suriel and you looked up and you smiled knowing who was there. Without looking away from the blue glowing eyes that were now set on you, "I'm not alone."