A Court of Blood and Feathers

4

Branwenn

It has been a month. One month too long. One month without Mother.

Snap!

The wooden cooking spoon splinters as my white-knuckled grip shattered it. Blood flushes my face as the rest of the cooking staff whips around, staring at me, pity and sympathy hiding in their gazes. Everyone misses my mother.

One month.... one month since I used magic... one month since the invisible, knife-feathered assassins had invaded the palace and killed half the residents. Along with my mother. 

Yes, I have magic... but not of the Dawn Court. That is certain as other soldiers do not carry this amount of magic, nor have any idea of how to control it.

Onyx wings flare out behind me as I step back. Trying to compose myself, I stride out of the room before I let my wings droop. The gilded end feathers sweeping and dragging on the ground as I walk. The pink, puckering flesh just below my ribs itches. I scratch it absent-minded as I stroll quietly to the garden. 

How am I going to do this?

I exhale a shaky breath. They're sending me away. The High Lord, Captain Aule and the Seraphim ambassador are all in accord. I must be trained. My nerves have been haywire the past week as they won't tell me where or why.

Anger and grief converge, pooling at my core. Swirling mixing. My fingers glow, the light expanding until it encases both arms, up past my elbows. Panic fills me, heart fluttering as sweat springs to my temples. My face grows damp with perspiration as I struggle to tamper down the unruly magic. It pulses in time with my frantic heart. 

"No, no no!" I whisper, trying as hard as I might to be rid of the silver and scarlet swirling essence from my being. 

"Trouble, young one?" Lord Thesan's voice sounds from behind me. I stiffen and a drop of sweat runs down my back. 

"I.. I...." I clutch my arms to myself, trying to shrink into nonexistence. 

Peregryn or any Fae child grows quickly as our growth and aging stop at a certain age. All different for everyone. My growth has shot my height up to be eye level with my High Lord. A few inches short of 6 feet. No muscle; bean-pole thin; black curly hair; and wings of the night- I could never fit in as it is. Even without the magic. Never would I belong.

"I.. I can't make it stop... please... help me," I choke as sobs envelop me.

Cool, mocha colored hands cover my own. The pulse intensifies, my month old wound mirroring the throbbing. I let out another little sob, trying to calm myself but panic has taken my common sense and has whisked it out the window.

"It is going to be fine, Branwenn," Lord Thesan soothes, his own high lord magic glimmers orange and coats his own hands, slowly spreading over mine. It smells like freshly turned earth and mist in the morning. Like home. My franticness fades glacially and I find myself breathing easier. The scarlet and silver glow pulsing recedes back into my skin and I'm left standing pseudo stoically with my High Lord. The only proof of the incident of my weakness being tear tracks down my cheeks, leading to my eyes.

My voice cracks, "I a.. apologize High L-" he cuts me off with a wave of his hand.

"This was not your fault. You are untrained," his eyes of fresh soil meet mine in conformation and sympathy. But not the pitiful look I receive from the kitchens every day as I try to revel and lose myself in cooking the recipes I know by heart. It's a tender look of caring and hope.

"We will help you."

"You will?"

The male winces, "Ah um no. I should have worded that better. Let me clarify. I will not be personally helping you. Tomorrow at dawn, I have made arrangements to have you taken into Night Court territory t-"

This time I cut him off. I shouldn't have, I realize later. But I did anyway.

"What?" I squawk. "Why are you sending me away? Why there? Why can't I stay here in my home?" As much as I believed that I didn't fit in here. It still was my home. Where I grew up. Where mother and I spent our time together.

The High Lord hushes me, "Do not panic, Branwenn. Everything will be fine. Where we will be sending you. They are fully equipped to train Fae like you."

"Like... me?" I whisper, curiosity replacing concern.

"Illyrian."

I feel all of the blood drain from my face until I was sure it was as white as marble. I had heard tales from other Fae of the Illyrians. Of how they were treated and trained as soldiers. Having a reputation of being feral, cruel and predatory. Most of these unexpectedly coming from mother as she told me stories while we take breaks from the kitchen, walking in these same gardens.

"It seems," he continues, "that you are part Illyrian. Not your mother obviously. But from your biological father's side. That's how you have this shielding magic. It's from him. We are still unsure of who he was, unfortunately. But it does explain a few things." He gestures to my olive complexion, dark black curly hair, and wings. 

It does explain a grand amount. Unfurling my wings to their full extent, I inspect them closely. I was not so uneducated to know that the Illyrian fae has wings similar to that of a bat, membrane fully exposed and leathery up to the tips of their talons on the wings. Yes, I've always known my wings have been different. That has always been obvious since I was very young. Now that I truly look at my wings, I can see a hint of my Illyrian heritage. As much as I want to deny it. The proof is there.

Carefully shifting a few of my pitch black feathers aside in a spot, and moving past the underlying golden ones, I find the silken yet hard membrane of the Illyrians. I can tell deep down that it's softer then what it should be that if I were a pure blooded Illyrian female. But I am not. Looking at the top of my wings, I never noticed a sharp barb just poking out at the tips of my wings. Unnoticeable to the untrained and blind eye to skip over. Hidden in the darkness of feathers. Oh the proof is all there

I am a half-breed.