by Emma Hamm
The stone slid easily back into place, and the heavy door receded into the wall. Sorcha longed for the day when the grinding of stone against stone would cease. When it had been used so much that the passage was smooth and silent.
She toed off her shoes, moss soft against her aching feet. She hadn’t run this much in ages, between her bolting steps in the dark castle and then the rush through the portal. Her body wasn’t certain how to handle the rush of adrenaline followed by bone deep exhaustion.
Along the way to the bathroom, she pulled off each piece of her clothing. The outer kirtle dropped to the ground, the heavy skirts and belts holding each piece in place. Underclothing stuck to her skin where blood and fluid had leaked through each layer of fabric.
Sighing, she brushed aside the ivy and found Oona waiting by the door with a brush in her hand.
“Relax,” Sorcha said. “It’s just me.”
“Oh, thank heavens,” the pixie dropped the brush to the ground. “I wouldn’t have hit him, dearie. I just… I just—”
Sorcha lifted a hand. “If his intent was to hurt you, then you have every right to protect yourself. Now if you don’t mind, I’m very tired.”
“Of course, dear.”
Oona reached for the final ties of Sorcha’s underclothes, quickly untangling the strings, and stripping the heavy weight from Sorcha’s body. She stepped into the hot spring, sighing as her muscles eased.
“Did you bring the water from here?” she asked as Oona turned to put her underthings away. “The first day?”
“No. No, this is a royal room. These rooms are off limits for lesser Fae. Not without permission or company.”
“But I’m not a high Fae.”
“Perhaps you are,” Oona looked at her intently. “You’ve the pointed ears, although far smaller than any I’ve ever seen. Are you sure you aren’t a changeling?”
“My mother would have told me. She was a friend to the Fae and would have raised their child with pride.” As much as she wanted to be Fae, Sorcha doubted there was the barest hint of it in her bloodline.
“And you have no ancestors who came from Underhill?”
“Not that I know of, and I’ve never had any sway with the elements. The earth is just earth, the air just air.”
“Then you must not be Fae.” Oona shook her head. “I don’t know what you are child, but you aren’t entirely human. This room was not meant for creatures such as me. It’s said that all living things would grow ill and shrivel if they weren’t meant for such a room.”
“Are you certain it’s not just a myth?”
“Most things are myths, but there’s a shred of truth in every story. The magic here has deemed you worthy of staying within its walls. How, or why, I have no way of knowing.”
Neither did Sorcha. It didn’t seem right that she stayed in a room like this. It was too fine, too beautiful, and she had never lived in beauty like this before. Why should she start now?
Oona bustled out of the room, muttering about masters and faeries, and Sorcha could hear her opening chests for sleep clothing.
She didn’t have much time then. Sorcha’s fingers ghosted over the tips of her ears, wondering if perhaps she had a bit of Fae in her, after all. But wouldn’t they know?
Perhaps it was something she would never know or understand. Sorcha scrubbed her skin with a brush, the thick bristles turning her skin bright red and digging out all the crust underneath her nails. The water hardly changed color at all, it moved so quickly out the crack at the bottom.
Oona brushed aside the ivy, a light silk nightgown in her hands. “Come on then. You’ve had a busy day.”
“I’m sorry.” Sorcha looked up at her, wet hair tangled at her shoulders and spread out in the water like a fan. “I’m so sorry that I used your name without permission. I didn’t want you to get hurt, but it’s no excuse for treating you like that. I keep using faerie names even when I know how powerful they can be.”
“There’s no harm done, child.” Oona’s lips quirked to the side. “You saved my life.”
“Still, I would like to give my name in apology. I trust you to use it well.”
Oona’s eyes nearly bugged out of her head. The nightgown fell from her hands and landed on the floor like a dying butterfly. “Why ever would you do that? Dearie, that is a dangerous thing to do. You should not give any Fae your name! Ever!”
Sorcha stood from the water, wrapped a cloth around her body, and held out her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Oona. My name is Sorcha of Ui Neill. And it would please me greatly if you would refer to me by name from now on.”
Tears slid down Oona’s cheeks. “I couldn’t. It’s not right.”
“Please. I’m so far away from family and friends, and I consider you as close to me now as any other. I would like to hear you call me Sorcha, for it is my given name and should be spoken often.”
“Sorcha,” the faerie whispered. “You are the first human to ever give me their name.”
“Use it wisely.”
“And only with love,” Oona said. She stepped forward and wrapped another cloth around Sorcha’s shoulders, rubbing briskly. “Now let’s get you dried off and into bed.”
“Do you want to talk about the Queen?”
“Let me take care of you. I have no wish for nightmares, my dear.”
Sorcha could almost feel the aching pain of loss. Oona was banished here, and likely would never see her family again. The resolve set inside Sorcha grew all the more strong. She would find a way to send Oona back home. To send all of them home.
They deserved to see their families. They deserved to be free.
Eamonn stormed into the highest tower of the castle, rage simmering underneath his skin. How dare she? How dare she defy him, in his own castle, without even a hint of fear in her eyes?
She should worry that he might snap her pretty little neck. And he could!
He held his hands out, staring down at the palms that had taken so many lives in his long life. He could feel the shifting of flesh, the crack that echoed through his fingers when a spine gave way. There was not a gentle bone in his body.
At least, that was what he believed.
But even with the multiple bottles of whiskey clouding his mind and judgement, he had been gentle with her. The crystals on his hands hadn’t broken through her speckled skin.
He tossed his head, shaking the long braid down his spine. Speckled wasn’t the word. Flawed, as he had told her, wasn’t the word either. Those freckles were captivating little stars decorating her skin like the splatter of a painter’s brush. She was the most unusual creature he had met.
The voice of his twin brother, Fionn, echoed in his mind.
“But you always loved the humans, brother.”
Eamonn growled. “You have no place here.”
“You’ll hurt her, like the rest of them. Those hands weren’t capable of preserving such delicate bodies even before you broke. Ruined, maimed, beast that you are.”
The old doubt filtered into his conscience. He wanted to be the kind of man who was capable of touching a woman and not worrying that she might break. He wanted to stroke soft skin, to squeeze and pet, but he knew what dangers lay down that path.
And it infuriated him.
Roaring out a frustrated call, he swung a heavy fist at the newest chair in his living quarters. The wood splintered beneath the weight of crystal and bone. Small shards burst into the air, slicing through his forearms.
The now familiar ache forced him to pause and tilt his hand. Meaty flesh split farther and crystals grew through muscle and skin. They glimmered, reflecting the light as if to mock him. They were beautiful, yes, but they were ugly at the same time.
He dropped his hand in disgust.
“That temper tends to you get in trouble.”
Eamonn’s jaw ticked at the familiar voice.
“Why were you in Unseelie Lands, Bran?”
“Am I not supposed to be looking after your newest lady con
quest?”
“Why?” Eamonn added steel to his voice, not allowing the other Fae a chance to argue further. Bran would talk around a subject until he was blue in the face.
“I had business there.”
“You should not be following her.”
“Why not?” Bran stepped out of the shadows, a sly grin on his face. “I do what I want, Prince. Just as you do.”
“You should have been protecting her if you were there.”
“She was fine. Managed well if you ask me. The only thing that caught her up was the portal.” Bran’s raven eye winked. “And if we’re being honest, opening that on her own was an impossible task. She wouldn’t have gotten it open without any Fae blood.”
“You don’t think she has any?” Eamonn wasn’t so sure.
“Dry as a bone, that one. I thought perhaps she might, but any power would have surfaced on that ship we came over here on. She’s not Fae.”
“Then what is your explanation for the ears?”
Bran shrugged. “Physical deformation. She is strange though, I’ll give you that. She knows how to manage the Fae and always says ‘thank you.’ I haven’t had a human thank me in what feels like centuries.”
“They forgot about us. That’s why we left.”
“All but her.” Bran nodded towards the now broken furniture. “I’d hazard a guess you did something you’re regretting?”
“Go away, Bran.”
“I’m here now. I don’t think I want to leave until the end of this story. What do you plan on doing with her?” Bran walked towards one of the lounge chairs, splaying his body across it without a care in the world. He pointed towards the comfortable seat. “This one is off limits. Break the others.”
Eamonn sighed, tension and anger giving way to annoyance. “I’m finished.”
“You say that, but then you always end up flipping the chair I’m seated in.”
“That’s because you annoy me so much.”
“I don’t follow your rules, Seelie. It’s just the way I live my life.”
“And you waste your time annoying me?”
Bran kicked his feet in the air, holding his hand out for a drink he knew Eamonn would share. “It’s not like there’s much going on back in my court. And here you are, on the brink of making the next step towards your future.”
Eamonn lifted a glass and the whiskey from his desk, pouring a healthy amount into the crystal. “You think I’m on the brink of something? What other future do I have than rotting away on this isle?”
“Well, you don’t have to stay here.” Bran leaned out and grabbed the drink. “You’re just choosing to.”
“That’s not true.”
The raven eye rolled in its socket. “If you haven’t put that piece of the puzzle together, then there’s not much I can do to help you, brother.”
Eamonn narrowed his eyes, glaring down at the reclining faerie. “Do you know something?”
“I know a lot of things.” Bran sipped the whiskey. “This is quite good.”
“And you will not share?”
“You already know it Eamonn, you’re just refusing to admit that you know it. Use that brain of yours. If the crystals haven’t affected your head yet that is.”
Eamonn stared for a moment, his mind whirling with possibilities until it settled on the information Bran was using. He shook his head. “That was a long time ago, and I am no longer king.”
“Ah, but you are the oldest son.”
“And unfit for the Seelie throne.” Eamonn held his arms out, crystals sparkling in the dim candlelight. “Do I look like a Seelie Fae? Do you really think they’d follow me?”
“I think all the things you used to say were compelling to the faeries who only knew slavery. If you kept whispering in their ears of freedom, they might just follow you rather than your brother who treats his subjects like cattle rather than people.”
“There is still the matter of the Tuatha dé Danann.”
Bran drained the rest of the glass. “Do you think that’s an issue? They always chose you, Eamonn. You were the favored son from day one. Or did you think your brother hated you simply because he was born with darkness in his heart? Hatred is learned, Eamonn, and it festered inside Fionn for years before he stabbed you in the back.”
“I would have been a good king,” Eamonn said. “But I never would have been a great king.”
“Times change.” Bran hopped onto his feet, circling the room, and eyeing the crystal decanters on Eamonn’s desk with a calculating raven eye. “What are you going to do about the girl?”
Eamonn slumped onto the remaining chair. “I haven't a clue.”
“Send her home?”
The glass in Eamonn's hand shattered.
Bran cocked his head to the side. “Unlikely then. Well, if you will not send her home, then just what do you plan on doing with her?”
“I have yet to decide.”
“I have an idea.”
“Do you?” Eamonn’s head thumped against the back of the chair and he stared up at the ceiling. “Please, advise me Unseelie Prince.”
“Remind yourself what it feels like when a woman wants you. It might do you a world of good.”
“She doesn’t want me. She’s frightened of me, yes. But any other emotion has never passed through her at the sight of me.”
“Curious. It didn’t look like that when you tried to consume her.”
“I what?” Eamonn’s face flamed with embarrassment and anger. “You were watching.”
“I’m always watching,” Bran tapped the black feathers circling his eye. “But more importantly, I could see what you did not. Alcohol may cloud your mind, but it does not mine. She wants you, my friend. Almost as much as you want her.”
“And what do I do with that? You ask me to plan for war, and then to distract myself with a woman!” Eamonn tossed the remaining shards of glass onto the floor. “A man can only do so much, Bran.”
“I can help if you want. Although, I’d much prefer the task of distracting your lady.”
Eamonn growled.
“Calm yourself.” Bran lifted his hands in surrender. “I jest. You need to wait for your brother to make the first move, and trust me, he will. Why do you think I was in Unseelie?”
Eamonn wanted to throw something at him. “Was this entire conversation a way for you to circle around to what you found out in Unseelie? Out with it, Fae!”
“Not yet. I want to know what you’re doing with Sorcha first.”
“I don’t like you using her name so freely.”
“I think she’s hardier than you give her credit for. No faerie blood runs in her veins, but there’s something else there that gives her a spine of steel. What are you going to do with her?”
“I don’t know,” Eamonn groaned. “Give me peace and perhaps I will find out!”
“You gave her the queen’s room, yet you do not know what you want her for.” Bran tsked. “You’re a confusing man, my friend. A supple woman, willing no less, just floors away from you and you hide in a tower.”
“Are you quite done commenting on my love life?”
“That will never stop.”
Eamonn stared at the ripped portrait of his mother and prayed for patience. He’d never been good at waiting. The battlefield wasn’t a good training ground for patience. “Bran.”
“Fine. Your brother has been keeping track of you, you know, and this girl worries him. He thinks a happy life might coerce you into returning.”
“He is a fool.”
Bran snorted. “A fool who is correct.”
“She has no sway over my actions or decisions.”
“You’ve left this tower more since she arrived than you had in your entire time here on Hy-brasil, and you are considering going to war with your brother.”
“I considered that before she showed up.”
“And now you have meaning behind the action. She would look pretty with a crown atop her head.” Bran mimed placing a tia
ra on top of his half-shaved head.
“She’s human.”
“What’s that got to do with anything? For once in your life give up that stalwart honor and foolish sense of right and wrong! War is coming whether you choose it or not. Enjoy your last days of freedom. The bloodshed will begin soon.”
The feathers on Bran’s face ruffled and spread across his skin. His form shifted, morphing from man to beast. He let out one croaking scream before lifting into the air and flying out the window.
Good riddance, Eamonn thought. He couldn’t handle one more minute of the Unseelie’s constant suggestion he go back home.
What was left for him? A stolen throne, a twin who hated him, a kingdom who assumed he’d abandoned them! At least here there were people to take care of.
He clenched his fists as the pit of his stomach clenched. He missed home. It was a strange thing, to miss a place so profoundly that his heart ached. But this place held none of the beauty that Tír na nÓg could offer.
Standing, he paced in front of his mother’s portrait. “Even you wouldn’t want me home. You, who did nothing when Fionn hanged me in the square. Our own people cheered for days as I dangled, unable to die because the crystals on my throat protected me.” He jabbed a finger towards her. “You didn’t even cut me down.”
The memory was a jagged thing, harsh and cutting even after a hundred years. She had tears her in eyes when their gazes met, but she had not helped her son. Her first born. Her beloved warlord prince who had cut down the world for her.
His mother had shown her true colors. As had his father, who hadn’t even looked as his son hung from a fraying rope. Three days. Three days he swung in the breeze and endured the never-ending pecks of crows, the cries of vultures waiting to feast.
He had defied them all.
Death would not come for him. He would not submit to those who had betrayed him. Eamonn survived. He had always been good at that.
Fionn hated him, of that he was certain. Something festered deep within his twin’s gut, and there was nothing Eamonn could do to change it. What brotherly love there once might have been, was long gone.
Eamonn braced his arms against the wall next to his mother and let his forehead touch the cool stone. What choice did he have?
