by Emma Hamm
Sorcha nodded. “Then you and your children misled me.”
“We needed you to get Eamonn, and I knew he would follow you.”
“Why?”
“He always had a weakness for pretty girls. Even more so for humans. I remember when he was a child, he used to watch your people through that mirror of his. He was fascinated by the choices you made, the stories you told, and the world you had built.”
She could believe it. Eamonn had been too comfortable with her, too easily swayed when the others still did not trust her. They respected her, but they would not allow her to stay in their homes.
“Why did you lie about the cure?” Sorcha asked.
“It was not a lie. We would have given you whatever we could and then told you that there was no true cure. Only bandages to wrap around a gushing wound.”
“You were wrong.”
Macha curled her hands into fists. “I could not have known the druids hid a relic.”
“They didn’t hide it. They kept it safe for all these years because your brother asked them to.”
“My brother has much to answer for, but that is not why I am here.”
Sorcha spun, her feet confident and sure on the edge of the cliff. “Then why are you here? The great Macha, one of the trinity which makes up the Morrighan, stands upon a cliff side with a midwife. What could you possibly have to say to me?”
“That I am proud of you.”
“I do not want your pride!” she screamed. “You and your people took everything from me. My life is in ruins, and you say you are proud? Do not be proud that I have discarded all sense of self.”
“I have watched you grow from a child, to a woman, to a queen.” Macha reached out, her hand hovering in front of Sorcha and then closing into a fist. “You are more than the midwife I found in a glen with honey on her hands and rosemary in her hair. Look at you!”
Sorcha hated it that the Tuatha dé Danann was right. She wasn’t the same person she had been at the beginning of this journey. She had changed so much that she barely recognized herself.
And she expected that. Who wouldn’t? Making a deal with a faerie was bound to affect the way she saw the world. The way she saw herself.
She could never have seen this future for herself. If she was being truthful, she had dreamed of a quiet cabin on the edge of the forest. A family who loved her, a tiny baby that bounced on her husband’s knee.
Macha looked at her with pity. “You wanted a family.”
“I wanted a life.”
“Is being queen not a life?”
“No,” she shook her head. “It is living a life for others. And while I do not resent them, I wish to be selfish, to live by my own choices without affecting so many others.”
“There is no such life.”
“Yes, you are right,” Sorcha said with a sigh. “I didn't think I would walk this path alone.”
“Are you alone? There are hundreds of souls standing around you, even now.”
“The support of the dead is not the same as a loving touch, nor can they warm my bed at night.”
She missed him with every breath she took. Though he would have been proud to see her accomplishments, Eamonn could not.
And now he stood as a trophy at his brother’s throne. She wanted to bury him. To plant roses on his grave and tend to them every day. Sorcha would gently guide them into blooming all year, through snow and sun. She could do the impossible for him.
Tears pricked her eyes, and she cleared her throat. “It does not matter now. I have no choice.”
“I cannot gift you a relic of the Tuatha dé Danann,” Macha said. “I cannot even fight beside you on the battlefield as I am not supposed to alter faerie lives. But, if you will accept my final gift, I would give you all the knowledge I have.”
“How is that possible?”
“I have watched thousands of battles, killed more men and women than those that walk this earth. It is my penance and my desire to see you win.”
It could only help, although she did not want more screams of the dying in her head. She sighed. “It is another choice I make for others. Yes, Macha, I accept your gift.”
The red haired woman reached out, tapped a finger to Sorcha’s forehead, and all her battle knowledge flowed between Sorcha's eyes.
She understood the formations which worked and those that didn’t. She saw through the eyes of the dying and the victors. Blades formed as red hot hammers struck them. Shields dented before her great strength, and blood flowed like a waterfall from her palms.
Sorcha landed on her knees with her hands outstretched. “Take it back,” she cried out. “Take it back, I do not want it!”
“You will need it to protect yourself and your people. No matter how hard it is to bear.”
She hated it. She hated the screams, the guilt, the wonder if the warriors had families. Macha didn’t feel this worry. She saw the cold, hard truth of war and filtered it away.
How did the Tuatha dé Danann carry all this within her?
Macha knelt and took Sorcha’s hands. “You must not let it overwhelm you. War is dark and dangerous, there are many who fall prey to its nightmares. But you will not let it devour you. That is not your destiny.”
“I do not want to know all this.”
“You must know it and use the knowledge well. You will carry your people into battle and you will fight by their side as a leader should.”
“I will only slow them down.”
“Not with this knowledge. You will wield a sword, you will fight with a shield that will drip with blood, and you will make your next decisions knowing you have done it their way.”
Sorcha heard the hidden words in Macha’s speech. She looked up through eyes ringed red with tears. “You do not want us to go to war.”
“I have seen the outcomes of countless battles. I have seen what the Fae are capable of. I believe you need to see it too.”
“Are the memories not enough?”
“You may share my memories, but you still have not experienced it for yourself. War tears at the strongest of creatures and breaks them into raw materials. You will only find your true self once you are in the heat of battle.”
Sorcha searched her gaze for an answer. “And if I don’t like what I find?”
“No one likes what they find at the end of a blade. But it will help you decide for yourself what the future of the Seelie Fae must be.”
Macha stood, dusted her skirts, and held out a hand for Sorcha to take.
She wanted no more of the faerie’s help, but realized she was being petty. Sighing, she reached out and let Macha lift her to her feet.
The scent of grass was overwhelming this close. It smelled of home, of kind things, of summer days that never ended. These were not memories Sorcha had the time to dwell upon.
“Are you ready, child?” Macha asked.
“No.”
“But you will be.”
“Yes.”
“When will you give your army the answer they wait for?”
Sorcha looked up at the sky and saw the sun was already dipping below the horizon. “Tonight, at the feast they have prepared. They will expect such news to be announced then.”
Macha nodded and released her. “And so the Druid Queen begins her war.”
The Battle To End The War
“Oh, dearie,” Oona said as she tightened a strap of Sorcha’s armor. “Are you certain of this?”
No. She wasn’t certain of anything. But Sorcha knew she could not stand by while her people fought. She refused to stand atop a hill and watch people die when she should fight with them.
She was a queen now. That was her duty.
“Yes,” she finally said. “I will fight by their sides.”
“He wouldn’t have wanted this.”
Sorcha chuckled. “No, he would’ve tucked me in a corner and told me to wait until the screaming stopped. That isn’t me, Oona. And you know that even if he were alive, I would have found
a way to go.”
“But you would have been healing people, not fighting with them.”
“I will admit that is the difficult part of this. I wish very much to heal, not harm. However, this is my only choice. I took these people as my family, as my wards, and I will not be a coward in their eyes.”
Oona smoothed her hands down the ornate breastplate covering Sorcha’s chest. They had chosen an armor to rival all others. Hammered swirls created a pattern on the flat plate covering her chest and belly. Interlocking pieces lay smooth over her arms, shoulders, and thighs.
It did not hinder her movement, the most important part of a good piece of armor. They found the set hidden deep within the bowels of the castle, and Oona claimed to remember it from long ago. It was not faerie made, but the Druids had worn such armor long ago.
“Dearie, someone has come to see you.”
Sorcha glanced over her shoulder, expecting to see a member of the war council. Instead, Elva stood in the shadows of the doorway.
“Enter.”
She gracefully stepped into the light, and Sorcha locked her jaw. Elven armor covered Elva in gold from head to toe. She remembered it well from the attack upon Hy-brasil.
“Are you joining us then?” Sorcha wanted to ask if she were joining Fionn’s army, wearing their symbol so blatantly.
“I am. I wanted to send a message to my beloved consort.”
“Which is?”
“I may bear his name, his marks, and his love, but I am not his.”
The fire blazing in Elva’s eyes was enough to set an answering flame crackling in Sorcha’s own breast. She nodded firmly. “Then select your weapon.”
“Thank you Oona, I can prepare her from here on.”
The pixie ducked her head and left the room.
Sorcha watched the elf circle the room, testing the weight and balance of sword after sword. “My council has warned me not to be alone with you. They do not believe you are to be trusted.”
“I am certain they believe I am here to assassinate you.”
“Could you?”
“Easily.” Elva selected a rapier thin blade and tied the strap over her shoulder so the sword hung between her shoulders. “I have no wish to kill you.”
“You say you are here to gain your freedom. How does starting a war with Fionn gain you that?”
“I am not starting a war. I am ending a war.” Elva’s gaze locked with hers. “Eamonn and I were very close in our youth. He protected me even though I didn’t want him to. He was like an older brother, and then someone I could put a pedestal and fall in love with.”
“And then Bran showed up.” Sorcha said, thoroughly pleased with the shocked expression on Elva’s face.
“How do you know that?”
“Eamonn mentioned something of your back story, and I pieced it together. Bran was here, you know.”
Elva nodded slowly, ducking her head until shadows blanketed her expression. “A long time ago, he and I would have made a powerful pair.”
“A long time ago?”
“I am weary of men. Their hands are grasping, their needs are great, and my mind no longer wishes to bend to their will.”
“I do not believe Bran would ask that of you,” Sorcha declared. “He seems an honorable man for all he is Unseelie and his family is unsavory.”
“It is a good word for them.” A small smile spread across Elva’s face. “I wish I had become a different person as I aged, but I did not. The woman residing inside this physical form no longer wishes for the attentions of any man. Even one I might have loved.”
Sorcha vividly remembered the state Elva had been in. The opium stains on her fingers, the glassy eyed expression, her fear when she thought Fionn might return. Although Fionn loved her, she had still been abused.
Stepping forward, Sorcha reached out an armored hand and grasped Elva’s. Metal scraped against leather in a harsh grind. “When I was little, a woman on the street told me that women were created to suffer. It was the card life dealt us, no matter our station or purpose. I never believed it, and I see now we make our own path in life.”
“If we choose to.”
“You have made that choice, Elva. I will fight at your side for your freedom. I will support your choices after this war is over and will let no one stand in your way.”
Sorcha meant every word with a power that vibrated through her body.
Elva nodded firmly, squeezed her fingers once more, and stepped back towards the weapons. “Have you selected a weapon, Your Majesty?”
It was the first time someone had addressed her as queen. Sorcha’s spine straightened. “No. My skills lie with the bow, but my war council has advised I must also adorn myself with a sword.”
“It is good advice. A bow is superb for long range combat, but a sword is the only thing that can protect you once his armies reach ours.” Elva pulled a small sword from the rack. “This will suit you well.”
It was much smaller than the sword Elva had chosen, but it felt good in Sorcha’s hand. It was not too heavy as many of them were. She slashed through the air.
“I like this one.”
“As I expected you would. It is a Druid blade.”
Sorcha tested the weight in her hand again. “It feels right.”
“That’s what you want in battle.”
“Have you fought in many?”
“Every Tuatha dé Danann has fought in many battles. We are a warring society. It is what we are good at.”
“That’s sad,” Sorcha said.
“Is it? Our men test their worth through blood and fire. Our women learn kindness through small acts of kindness.”
“Do any of you know how to love without the need to harm?” Sorcha shook her head. “I count my blessings that Eamonn was banished to that isle. For all the harm it did, he is a better man for it.” She caught herself. “Was. He was a better man, but no longer.”
Elva winced. “I envy you. At the very least, you carry him with you wherever you go.”
“Love is like that.”
“No,” Elva shook her head. “I didn't plan to fight with you until I walked past you in the hall. There are two heartbeats inside you.”
Sorcha blinked, not quite comprehending what Elva said. “Excuse me? Are you suggesting magic is at work?”
“Magic in the most earthly way. You are a midwife, Sorcha. I thought you would have recognized the signs before I did.”
It wasn’t possible. She couldn’t be carrying his babe, could she?
She tried remembering the past few months, but all she could think of was the stress and fear. Her spells of nausea were brought about by the yelling of the war council, the memories of Eamonn’s death, the responsibilities that rested on her shoulders. Not from a child.
“How is that possible?” she asked, pressing a hand against her armored belly.
“I suspect much in the same way my child happened.”
“But I am not Fae.”
“That has never stopped children from being born. There are plenty of half breeds, even in the Otherworld. Eamonn comes from a lineage of Fomorian and Tuatha dé Danann, as do you.”
A dizzy spell made Sorcha’s head spin. “I need a few moments.”
“Of course, Your Majesty.” Elva paused as she walked by and placed a hand on her shoulder. “I will fight by your side, to protect both you and the babe. Nothing will touch you. You have my word.”
Her hand slid from Sorcha’s shoulder and the door closed quietly behind her.
Sorcha stared at the racks of swords, the hanging crossbows, the shields leaning against the wall. A loud sob echoed through the weaponry, and she pressed a hand against her mouth to hold in any further sound.
A child? She was to bring a child into this life?
Still, it was the last bit of him she had left. She stumbled backwards and leaned against the wall.
“I am so sorry,” she sobbed as she pressed her fingers to her belly once more. “You deserve so much mo
re than this life. So much more than war and violence. You deserve a father who loves you and a mother who will kiss your bruises.”
She couldn’t fight now. She couldn’t go into battle with thin armor and expect her child to live. What kind of mother would do that?
Rustling caught her attention, slicing through her fear and anguish. Looking up, her tear streaked cheeks turned cold as she saw a glimmering portal open on the ceiling.
A long, bristled leg reached through. It held a small clay pot in its claws, which it let drop onto the nearest hay bale.
The Unseelie Queen’s voice boomed through the portal. “A queen makes many hard decisions, and you will not be the first pregnant woman to march into battle. We fight many wars. With our bodies, with our minds, with our words. Go and be safe, Druid Queen.”
Sorcha watched the leg withdraw and the portal disappear.
Scrubbing her cheeks free of tears, she lurched towards the pot and wrenched off the top. Blue powder coated the inside. She recognized this, although she did not remember why. Sorcha dipped a finger into the substance and rubbed her index finger and thumb together. They both stained bright blue.
A druid voice sighed in her ear. “It is the symbol of our people.”
“Why did the Unseelie Queen have it?”
“None know the reasons why the Unseelie Queen collects anything. Woad has always been a druid symbol of anger and war. Our women and men paint their faces and bodies before battle. It brings the ancestors with them.”
“You will come with me to war?”
“We will guide your hand.”
Sorcha blew out a quiet breath.
She could make the choice in this instant to fight. Her people would charge towards Fionn’s and meet with them fierce pride, with or without her at their side.
But they would fight powerfully if she was with them. She would lift her blade and champion their injustices. The offending armies would fear the Druid Queen, rumored to control the whims and minds of the Fae.
She couldn’t force them to do anything. She hadn’t been able to since Eamonn left.
Sorcha dipped her fingers into the pot and swiped one across the high peak of her forehead. She glimpsed herself in the reflection of a shield. Each pass of blue paint made her anger grow stronger, louder, and all the more fierce.
