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The Fae Folk are a diverse bunch.
It troubles me some how much the dokkalves loathe humans. Litalves hate them too, in most cases. Yet, dokkalves and litalves are somehow related to the Others, even those grubby, chubby, tiny little wicked things that prowl beneath bridges, just waiting for a lone passenger to cross—one who they can rob of their jewels or eat down to the bones. Whichever way it goes, really.
Once, the light and dark lands were plagued by all sorts of Fae Folk. But the dark fae drove them all out; those who survived the massacres made it to the light lands and settled there. Apparently some—like the wolves here that can talk—even fled to the human world, creating some myths about man-wolves. I don’t know much about those myths; they never survived the end of our world, never made it to our new lives.
‘Our new lives…’
I should stop saying that, shouldn’t I? I’m not one of them. I’m no human. I’m just disguised as one.
But the truth? Hell, I don’t even know where to begin with that. I don’t quite know the truth. I suspect Daein does—he won’t tell me more than he must, though. The less I know, the better. That’s the way it is with him.
Silent, ignorant little wife at his side.
Just the way he pleases.
But what I do know is that I am truly a litalf. Somehow. And I was just sick enough as a bub to be hidden in the human world as a sickly changeling. Who I thought were my ‘parents’ unknowingly lost their true child to the light fae. Guess that’s why I never fit in with them—my ‘family’—or looked like them, even.
Except for the eyes. Brown, like freshly rained-on mud.
We all have those brown eyes.
Had.
I’ve been in these lands long enough now to know that the time shifts between the worlds means that my family are probably gone by now. Terry will be dead, too.
I wonder, fleetingly, if she ever found her home cottage again. Did she embrace her family and they her? Did she marry and have children? Are there any still in her cottage that might know of me, the friend Terry once had in the castle deep in the dark realm?
I’ll never know.
But of all of my choices, good and bad, and of my misery, there is one thing I am glad for—I freed Terry. She escaped because of me.
I sometimes want to escape this world too, this life Daein has built for me. ButIhave no home to run to. It’s that hollow spot inside of me, isn’t it?
A missing home.
2
APRIL
Daein lied to me. And I am suffering a mood now, one that puckers my lips into a pout and has my teeth biting down on the insides of my cheeks.
At this damn Lesser Court ball, he’s found himself caught up with Rain, the Prince of War, at the gambling table (mostly silver and gold teeth littering the table between them), and they’re clearly not having the most pleasant of chats.
But that’s not my business, and I stay out of it.
Flower has lost her dance partner. Affay has taken to his human mother, Callie, instead, who he helps out of the ballroom, likely to call down her a carriage. She’s had too much of the purple drink, silly human. Even I have to pretend not to be able to keep up with the drinks and fruits here, just to maintain the appearance that I’m something I’m not; human. The drinks and fruits in the light lands I can manage just fine, yet in the dark lands it’s a whole other story. There, I truly do have to keep a slow pace and be careful not to overindulge myself.
My Flower, however (should I stop calling her that since she loathes it so much?) …Ensley, I remind myself. Ensley walks the wall opposite me, craning her neck, her pointed chin lifted, and admires the old-fashioned swords bolted in place up there. Apparently weapons older than the human lands themselves.
I wander off, in search of a risky glass of wine. Daein is so distracted that his promise to leave soon has been shattered. Even his brother, Elden, has abandoned this song and dance of political fancies and niceties.
That’s all this Lesser Court ball is. A farce, a pretence to mingle with each other, pretend that the dokkalves don’t control the litalves now or their lands.
The tension is what has me snatching up another glass and finding solace behind some heavy netted curtains by a cushioned window. Despite the darkness out there, I look out through the paned glass. My stony expression doesn’t shift. My mud-brown eyes don’t stir with excitement. My mouth stays pressed into a flattened line.
There’s nothing out there…
With a sigh, I turn my back on the window, perching myself on the ledge. With my free hand, I tuck smoothened tresses behind my ear. Normally, my curls are wild and frizzy and crunchy to the touch. But here, in the light lands, especially as foreign royals, we’re well catered to. And the litalves have a thing about beauty that the dark fae don’t.
