Hall Of The Fae King

Chapter Three

“Stop talking my hand.”

- Rey

Desperate moments call for desperate measures. The King had long since retired for the night, leaving Eaden to wander the vacant halls of the palace. There is a heaviness on his heart that is making it hard to breathe, a Darkness in his mind that is making it hard to see. See if he is doing the right thing… the call to Light, confusing him greatly.

Not really sure where he is in the maze of corridors, he absent-mindedly turns the cuff on his right wrist. Different occasions required different wardrobes, but still the cuff remaines. He had been all of thirteen when given it, his mother claiming he was too young. But as soon as he’d taken up training with the cosmicsword he’d proven to be a natural.

With only a flick of his wrist, the cuff expands as liquid gold, smoothing out all the Fae-like features of his hand. Then in his palm a hilt grows, extending greatly into an impervious blade. A physical weapon, absolutely, but also a weapon dripping with infinite Oversoul power.

Twisting the cuff one more time, he snatches his hand away, as if it pained him. Pushing back his hair and eying his current location, he pulls his mind far away from all the blade has done. Looking up and down the corridor for a sign or direction, sure enough - as if guided by Fate - he’s just in front of the door to the Aether Antechamber.

Shutting the door behind him, he takes a deep breath to center himself. Opening his eyes he can barely see in the tiny room. It is only a few strides to the door across the way, but a lot must be done to reach it. Only those with the purest of connections can access the Aether through the Oversoul. He has to focus… the Aether could only answer if there is a single question.

Her.

What does his heart crave for most? Her.

Forget what had taken him out of bed, forget what had toiled his mind, forget what had sunk his heart. In this moment of true transparency, all he can think about is Her.

That is the question for the Aether. That is what he anticipates to be on the other side of that door. One hand over his heart, his other is ready to push, and he breathlessly cries out for her. To know where…. Just where to find her.

The door dissipates into smoke.

But nothing is shown.

Not her hickory hair. Not her smiling face. Not even the lavender of her eyes. Not their cabin in the wood, not a home in town, not any place she might be found.

Just darkness. Everlasting, ever-expanding darkness with only the subtle, distant twinkle of stars.

Enraged, with the pop of his elbow and twist of his wrist his cosmicsword is corporeal. The raving anger and sickening frustration directing such an amount of magikal energy it shimmers and then glows. It is this radiant sunlight that tears along the black walls as Eaden cannot stop himself from destroying everything in reach.

*

Originally a slab of stone and a few steps of grass surrounded by an ivy-covered brick wall, Surrielle had turned her little patio into a secret garden: her little piece of The Farmhouse in the city, even bringing plants from the garden and furniture from the deck. Not having the mental capacity to deal with others, this was the second best to sitting at the café at the base of Fontaine De Torche Solaire. She had to make the tea herself, but it ended up feeling just as relaxing and serene.

Another long journee and she had to force herself to leave her workbench. It was reaching late into what her mother would have called “night”, the second half of vingt-quatre, almost starting new. If she didn’t break now, she would surely disrupt her sleep-schedule. Which would disrupt her dream schedule.

Before her standing date with Le Garcon, though, she really needed to decompress. She’d stupidly taken another work order on top of what was required for the palace. But when all you have in your life is work, what else is there to do?

Closing her eyes, Surrielle’s head shakes. Her mother would be disappointed. Her mother, the Human living in a Fae realm, had always found something to spark joy. Gardening, cooking, painting… she made sure she continued with love-filled passions and was always passionate when she loved. Many times would Surrielle stay alongside her mother just so she could hear stories of the Otherworld called Earth.

Her favorite story, of course, being how they fell in love. Father had been summoned by mother’s mother in a secluded countryside in France. Mother was making her way to the America’s, to the grand city of New York, and Father was to watch out for her. A few weeks went by, then a few months. He fell in love with her and did everything in his Earthly power to protect her. But then, one late winter night, Death came for Mother in the form of evil men and instead of allowing that to happen, Father stole her away.

Throat suddenly tight, Surrielle blinks away tears. Just as he had told her she would change everything, her mother had insisted “you have a bit of savior in you – just like your father”. But who was she to save?

More exhausted than before, her gesture of rest and relaxation was poisoned. Gathering her things, she all but tosses them in the sink and stumbles her way into bed. Clothes off, she curls around the cold sheets and selfishly hopes for sleep to come as soon as possible.

Maybe she just return to The Farmhouse. Maybe she should just disappear. No expectations, no importance… never to be found.