Demonic

10 | BLUEBLOODS

THERE IS A tree that sits in the back garden that I adore. Every child has their one favorite tree, and that tree on the manicured lawn is mine. It is taller than the rest, much older too, and rests like an old woman on top of the hill. The branches are long, and the leaves cluster together like strands of green hair that flutter in the breeze.

If you sit against the base in the shade of the canopy, you can see the edge of the sky, the ancient wall that seals the fortress shut, and the lake at the hill's base. Clipped hedges and flowers of every color form mosaics in the grass, creating a clean path towards the water. The tree itself is the only relic left untouched, the wild among the freshly cut grass.

If you are daring, you can climb the tree and when you are just high enough, you can peak out over the wall. The view is indescribable, but not in the way one thinks. The town of Opulentia isn't on this side, so all the eye can see is a plot of farm land.

For most of the year, there are long rows of raised soil speckled with sprinkles of green that stretch to worship the sun. It is more beautiful during harvest season when the fields turn golden and colorful fruit dot the branches and fairies sing with big baskets under their arms. Even when the ground is muddy and rain pummels down on the earth, I still hear the soft hum of song even though no one is in the fields. 

The farmland sings of life and pain; it lacks the ornate beauty inside the palace walls but this fortress lacks its song. Beauty is obvious to the eye here in the palace of plenty, but one must listen with the soul to appreciate what the eye cannot down those hills and past the wall. It is the most tragic form of beauty, one of chained hearts and calloused hands. 

I rested my head against the trunk, perched on a high branch of this tree as my leg swung back and forth. I pulled my cloak tighter around my sides, tucking the feathers of my wings beneath. The wind was blowing and it chilled my skin, my cheeks turning red-- kissed by the breeze, Parisa would say. My fingers instinctively reached up to feel the heat of my cheeks before I snatched it away.

Shuddering, I crossed my arms. I couldn't think of her without twangs of pain and a sense of haunting distance. We hadn't spoken and it had been 5 never ending, tedious days. She had avoided me just as I stayed hidden from her. 

Parisa had been absent from my lessons, leaving me in the hands of Freud, my elder tutor with large, wonder-filled eyes and a crooked nose. She took her meals in her office and I ate alone if Bella was busy, which she had been. She was away in another kingdom on a visit, leaving me to eat alone in my room.

I'd had little contact with anyone more than Georgio, avoiding Xavier and James at all costs besides at dinner where I was forced to be around them all. I'd trained with Georgio three times since the fight and I could see that he sensed I wasn't fully present. 

He would watch me with quiet curiosity as I hacked with my sword in aching, painful blindness. When I picked up my training blade, my anger took over and I let it rage like wildfire. The darkness of it didn't scare me any longer after I extinguished it through exhaustion.

I hardly remembered my training sessions as though a blindfold had been tied around my eyes. All I could do was swing my sword. It felt incredible, and I never ceased until I couldn't pick up my arms from fatigue.

Georgio hadn't spoken to me about my wildness yet. He most likely knew the reason without my own answer, but he was respectful of my privacy, always mindful about our difference of rank. He needed to know that he could treat me like an equal; I was his equal just as he was mine. He was a slave, a fairy to the sylph, and now I knew I could understand him, as I was beginning to see myself only as a slave to Parisa's will.

The faint ring of a horn down the hill and past the wall drew my attention. A long, skinny silhouette of fairies trudged through the mud, flanked by sylphs with heavy sticks and light armor. They goaded the procession on, pressuring them into a faster gait with each stride. But, they let them sing.