Heart of the Fae

by Emma Hamm

  He burst through a side door. She curled against his chest and whimpered, wanting nothing more than for this battle to end. For her life to be back to normal. To wake up in her own bed and have this be nothing more than a wondrous tale for her sisters.

  Wind brushed her hair across her face, cool and calming.

  On the breeze, she heard a haunting song. A cry that trembled from a woman’s lips, speaking of lost love and a death that came too soon.

  Eamonn stood still.

  “Bean sidhe,” he said. “I have no quarrel with the Unseelie.”

  “Where is my brother?”

  “I had assumed he returned to you.”

  “No twisted truths, Seelie king. I want my brother returned safely.”

  Sorcha felt his nod against the top of her head. “I have use for him yet.”

  “He will not fight for you. We do not need another war with the Seelie Fae on top of everything else which has happened. Bran wants a war. He does not speak for the Unseelie council.”

  “I have never thought he did. He gave up that life long ago.”

  “Good.” The banshee wailed, and the wind picked up again. “See that my brother returns home safely.”

  “After he assists me.”

  “The deal is struck.”

  The cold touch of the wind felt like a woman’s hand. It slid across her brow and down her arms. Sorcha heard a quiet whisper on the breeze.

  “Hello, priestess.”

  What did the Unseelie woman know that Sorcha did not? The words weren’t merely an observation. As if she had seen her before, or perhaps her likeness.

  Eamonn touched her chin. “You must walk from here, mo chroí.”

  She touched her toes to the ground and balanced herself on his arm. “What are you going to do?”

  “What I should have done a long time ago.”

  “You’re going to fight him?” Sorcha shook her head. “Eamonn, more bloodshed will not fix this. You need to talk to your brother.”

  “You think he wants to share the throne? It’s not possible for the Seelie Fae to have two kings.”

  “Surely your parents had thought of this? You’re twins, Eamonn! They must have known there would either be two kings, or you would sit upon the throne.”

  A shadow passed over his face. “They had always intended for us to share the kingdom. Fionn made his choice.”

  There it was. Another faerie name she could add to her collection although this one she did not want. The name of the king danced upon her tongue and tasted like soured milk.

  She did not want this responsibility. She did not want this name that branded itself into her mind because she knew this was the first faerie name she wanted to use.

  This was the only power a human had over a Fae. She had his name, and now she could command him to do whatever she pleased. Sorcha could walk into the fields of battle and scream for him to stop and he would.

  But such responsibility meant she chose a side. It meant she trusted that Eamonn would make a better king, and now that she had seen him in battle she was no longer sure of that. He had changed much. All she knew for certain was that he was not his brother.

  She could not decide if that made him worthy of a throne.

  Eamonn stared down at her. “You have chosen?”

  “I will not choose. I came here to save my people, my family. Not to become entangled in the faerie courts and their wars.”

  “I don’t think you have a choice,” he said. He traced a line from her forehead, down her nose, and across her lips. “You’re here, Sorcha. That means you’re involved.”

  “I don’t wish to be.”

  “Wishes mean nothing to the Fae.”

  “I know.” The words caught around the thick knot of a sob.

  “I never meant to hurt you.”

  “Eamonn, tell me what is going on. Where are you taking me?”

  “I’m not taking you anywhere, mo chroí.”

  He leaned down and caught her lips in a searing kiss. He poured himself into her, sinking tongue and taste until she felt the essence of him crawling underneath her skin. Their memories pulsed in her heart, and she knew this was goodbye.

  Sorcha tangled her fingers in the long tail of his braid and pulled him towards her. She dug her nails into his skull, marking him as hers even further than she already had. Their teeth clacked together, blood welled at her lips, but she did not want to stop. If she stopped, her heart would break, and her being should shatter into a thousand pieces.

  He pulled away.

  “No,” she whispered and squeezed her eyes shut. “No, Eamonn don’t do this. You promised to come back with me.”

  “If you stayed.” His thumb traced a line over her bottom lip. “And you aren’t staying.”

  Taloned feet gripped her waist. Her eyes snapped open, and the ground dropped away.

  “No!” she screamed. “No! Please, no!”

  Her soul splintered, shouting that she didn’t want to leave him. He shouldn’t be alone when he faced the battlefield.

  Great wings buffeted air against her head. She struggled, to no avail. The beastly bird did not release its hold upon her waist and soon they were too high for her to escape.

  The highest peak of the castle was nearly within her reach. Everything looked so small, even the armored faeries who attacked the front door and beat back those she loved. She could still hear the screams.

  Eamonn stared up at her. Once she was too high and fell limp in the bird’s claws, he turned and walked onto the battlefield.

  The faeries of the isle parted like a sea in front of him. His tarnished and aged armor looked like stone as he moved through the crowd. The golden army stood in front of him, a wall of power and clear intent.

  Sorcha wondered which one was Oona. From so high, she couldn’t make out faces or traits she might recognize.

  Eamonn’s people were short and squat. Their forms warped and stretched with animal features, strange skin, oddly shaped bodies. They looked so different compared to the perfection Fionn brought with him. These were the Tuatha dé Danann, the great faeries who enslaved those who did not deserve it.

  The twins mirrored each other, standing at the forefront of their armies. Fionn sat upon a great white steed. The long tail of his hair whipped in the breeze. Eamonn stood with his legs rooted in the earth, his braid thin and still. They stared across a sea of blood and did not move.

  “Bran?” she whispered into the wind.

  A booming caw echoed all around her. She glanced down at the talons wrapped around her waist. Each claw was as big as her forearm. Rough grey skin covered them. She hadn’t realized he could turn into such a massive beast. Another secret revealed, another thing to store away in her memory.

  “Are they going to kill each other?”

  The wind whistled past her ears, and she couldn’t tell if the croak was for her or simply a grumble.

  “Am I ever going to see him again?”

  The Unseelie prince didn’t answer. He turned them both away from the battlefield and soared over the ocean.

  Too far away for anyone to hear her sobs.

  Chapter Thirteen

  HOME

  They traveled across the sea with great speed. Bran took them high over the storm’s edge, moonlight giving way to sunrise.

  Sorcha wanted to take in the beauty. She wanted to appreciate the world because she would never see it this way again. Merrows jumped from the waves and called out to them. The Guardian swam through the depths as a shadow drifting aimlessly.

  She took it all in, but her heart felt empty. Drained. She wasn’t certain if it was even there anymore.

  Her faerie prince was likely dead. If he wasn’t dead, then he’d killed the mirror image of himself. Who could be the same after that?

  Was killing a twin like killing oneself?

  Bran’s claws dug into her skin, shredding the shoulder of her dress. The pain was dull compared to the ache of her heart. She’d always thought s
he would grieve like Rosaleen did when she lost a lover she liked.

  The blonde waif of a girl would wail and scream. Her cheeks would burn with the salt of her tears. The house would ring with the anger of her cries, the disappointment in herself and the man who had left.

  Sorcha was numb. There was nothing inside her at all. Just a dull throb where her heart used to be.

  Bran’s toes shifted. “I’m bringing you home.”

  She nodded, although he couldn’t see her response.

  He jostled her. “Did you hear me, midwife? I’m bringing you home. Wasn’t that what you’ve wanted this whole time? To go home?”

  Sorcha did not respond. Instead, she stared down at the waves and wondered how much it would hurt if he let her go. She had heard the higher one was, the more solid the surface of the water became. If he let her go, she might strike hard enough that she wouldn’t even feel it.

  His toes clenched hard, squeezing the breath out of her. “It’s not the end of the world, you idiot. You have a purpose, remember?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I can tell you’re moping!”

  “I think I have a right to.”

  “You didn’t even fall in love with him. You’ve lost a good friend, that means nothing.”

  “He has become a part of me.”

  The faint outline of houses appeared on the horizon. A familiar city. It felt like such a long time ago that she had stared across the table at humans. How long had it been?

  Time moved differently in the Otherworld, and Macha had said it was the same in Hy-brasil. How much had her world changed?

  Sorcha wasn’t certain she would survive it.

  Bran soared over the tops of buildings, past ships and sailors. No one looked up at the great winged bird carrying its human cargo. He took them to a small hut. Abandoned and falling down, it may have once been a home.

  No longer. Sorcha listened to the soft sound of feathers as he brought them down to the ground. He placed her gently on the roof of the hut and hopped to the dirt where he shifted forms.

  Feathers melted into caramel skin. Black clothing formed over his body. Talons shrank into fingernails until only small points remained. A dusting of tiny black feathers still decorated his face, and the single raven eye glared up at her.

  Bran held his arms out. “Time to get off.”

  “I can’t feel my body,” she whispered. “It’s the strangest feeling. I never thought losing someone I loved could actually hurt my physical form.”

  “Come Sorcha. I will tell you a story.”

  She didn’t want to hear a story. She wanted him to take her back to Hy-brasil so she could look after the survivors of Fionn’s war. The hard look in his eye suggested he wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  Perhaps it was better in the long run. She scooted to the edge of the thatched roof and tumbled into his arms.

  He set her down carefully, then placed a hand on her back and pushed her towards two fallen logs. She sat down hard. Her hands didn’t feel right. They didn’t seem to be placed on the ends of her arms in a way she could control. They almost felt backwards, but that wasn’t right at all. She had used these hands thousands of times.

  Bran reached forward and cupped the backs of her trembling fingers.

  “I lost someone very dear to me. I spent my entire existence wooing her. Sticking twigs in her hair until she had to cut it to get them out. Putting frogs in her bed and mice in her slippers. I teased her endlessly and still she loved me.

  “And then one night, someone took her away. There was nothing I could do, and I was promised she would be happy, but I would never see her again.

  “I thought piecing myself back together would be impossible. It certainly felt like it in the first few months. But I found a different purpose as someone other than the man who loved her. I found my freedom, respect for myself, and I realized that even without her I was still a good man. I could still do great things, and that she was just a reward for working hard.”

  He lifted her hands and pressed his lips into his palms. “You will find yourself again, Sorcha. And I believe it will be in healing your people with these hands.”

  “How am I supposed to heal them?” Her eyes were so dry she couldn’t even blink. “He was the answer to finding a cure, and now he’s gone.”

  “I’m certain you will find a way. You always have.”

  “Is he really gone? Am I never going back to that wondrous isle full of faeries that I love dearly?”

  “Do you think they’ll still be there?”

  “I want them to be. I don’t want there to be a war and all that death. Bran, how can I stop it?”

  The hands holding hers disappeared. Cold air rushed around her body, stealing the breath from her lungs. She glanced up and found that she was alone.

  The sun rose into the sky far above her by the time she found the courage to stand. Her knees shook. Her body trembled. Her lungs gasped for air, and still she did not feel like a person.

  Pain should ground her body. It should remind her that she was alive. It didn’t.

  “Home,” she breathed. “I want to go home.”

  She didn’t know where home was anymore.

  The landscape became more recognizable the more she stared. These fields were ones she knew like the back of her hand. Sorcha stumbled as she moved, but at least she was moving.

  Each step brought her closer and closer towards the haven she remembered in her mind. A small home, quaint, three stories of stone and wood and laughter.

  Gods, how she needed the laughter.

  Stones crunched beneath her feet, digging into the calloused flesh until she bled. She remembered vividly another time when her feet were aching. Sorcha had dragged herself throughout the known world, only to return to this place.

  Chickens clucked. The air smelled sweet, like fresh baked bread and sticky honey. Sorcha stood on the rise of the hill beyond the brothel.

  She inhaled again and trembled. The smell of bread turned stale, honey turned sickly sweet, and the scent of death made her vision blur.

  There were boards over the windows of the brothel. Nailed crudely from the outside, locking her family within. The side door that lead to the chicken coop was also boarded shut, and the chickens were living out in the wild.

  “No,” she moaned on a trembling wheeze. “No, please no more.”

  The tears came like a wave crashing over her head. She fell onto her knees and crawled to her family home, unable to stand but needing to help them.

  She knew the painted markers on the windows. A red beetle, haphazardly painted as if the artist wanted to flee the area as fast as he could. Smart man. The blood beetle plague was apt to spread if they took to the air.

  Sorcha didn’t care. She didn’t want her family to die alone, and she would not allow them to die if she could.

  Like an old woman, she pulled herself up onto the fencing and stared at the stone walls. Flashes of anger, old and buried deep, fueled her.

  She stepped forward. Each simple movement so difficult that she seemed to have forgotten how to walk. Step by step, shift by shift, she lifted foot and flexed thigh until she pressed her hands against the boards covering the door.

  The wood bit into her forehead as she leaned against it, but she did not feel the pain. They were in there. The beat of their hearts called out to her.

  “Rosaleen,” she whispered. “Briana, Papa… Anyone.”

  She didn’t know how long she stayed there, hovering between life and death, choice and silence. Heat spread over her body, wrapping around her waist. It almost felt like arms holding her against a solid chest and breathing life into her body.

  Healing would take time. But courage, strength, honor, these were things that had always been deeply embedded in her soul.

  Sorcha lifted her head and yanked hard at the boards.

  “Briana!” she shouted. “Let me in!”

  She threw her weight into releasing the nails. Each harsh jerk wr
enched her shoulders but the first board tore free. She continued to screech and shout, banging against the barrier that kept her from her family.

  Finally, a voice came from the other side. Weak, but wonderful to hear. “Sorcha?”

  “Yes, yes, Rosaleen it’s me! I’m coming in.”

  “Don’t come in!” Her sister coughed. “It’s not safe.”

  “I’m coming in whether you want me to or not. What happened?”

  “We got sick.”

  “Is Papa alive?”

  “Barely.”

  “Is anyone dead?”

  “No.”

  Sorcha sobbed out a breath of relief. “Good. That’s very good, now I’m going to pull at this last board and then I’m going to come in.”

  “You can’t. You’ll get sick too.”

  “Are the beetles still flying?”

  “No.”

  “Then I won’t get sick. I won’t let you or anyone else die.”

  She wrenched the last board free and grasped the door knob. It wouldn’t turn.

  “Rosaleen,” she groaned. “Unlock the door.”

  “I’m not letting you die for me.”

  “I won’t die for anyone.”

  “You left us.”

  “I didn’t have a choice. I was trying to find a cure and failed.” Sorcha’s throat closed and her voice turned hoarse. “Let me help you. Please, give me a purpose again. I promise that I will do nothing other than heal you.”

  Silence rang louder than screams. Sorcha held her breath and counted the seconds that passed by until she heard the click of a lock.

  Rosaleen opened the door and peeked through the crack. “It’s not pretty in here.”

  “I know.”

  “We’re not pretty anymore.”

  “You will always be beautiful. Even when you are old and grey and wrinkled.”

  The door opened completely. Open sores spread across Rosaleen’s body where they had tried to extract the beetles. Burn marks scarred her cheeks and circular brands traveled her arms like chains.

  Sorcha ghosted her fingers over one. “What are these?”