The Land I Come From

The land I come from is beautiful. Lyra is filled with lush meadows and clear streams, delicate spires crowning castles and the elegant sweep of ballgowns.

The land I come from is beautiful, the way a drop of shimmering poison is beautiful.

Because atop the lush meadows are murders hidden by the darkness of the sun's sleep and muffled by the giggling streams. Because staining the delicate spires is dark blood, and the elegant sweep of ballgowns merely disguise the venomous exchanges and thoughts.

I could not stand it any longer. I knew, even from the very beginning, that I would not survive in a land like this. I would be stamped out, a rose throttled by weeds seeking to destruct.

So I ran. I ran from my life, which had never known the tenderness of a mother's kiss or a father's smile. I ran from my parents, who had only viewed me in anger. I ran from my friends who loved the fame my status as a princess more than me. I ran from the people who spread poisonous rumours as liberally as butter on toast.

I made excellent progress, hiding and sleeping in the woods that bordered the path by day and walking by dusk until dawn spread its fiery wings. I listened to owl calls and the murmurings of the cool night breeze, watched the moon wane and the stars glitter steadily as I ate fruits filched from trees or settlings and drank stream water. And all along I walked.

Eventually, I reached a pair of gates. It occurred to me how gates can be different, and how much they can tell you about their owners. For example, Lyra's gates were cold and grey, with no gaps at all. Just a forbidding sheet of pure iron. The gates in front of me were pretty, silver with curling curlicues and engravings. Guards in spotless blue dress coats, cut from obviously excellent quality wool, stood straight in front of me. Their gold plated nameplates shone very brightly.

"Miss?" asked one of them. She had very deep blue eyes. Her nameplate read ‘Mila.’ "Is something wrong?"

I couldn't take it any longer. Fruits and stream water can sustain you for only so long. My legs wavered beneath me. Mila caught me.

Water roared in my ears and black spots capered in front of my eyes. My eyelids fluttered shut and black swallowed my vision. 

***

I woke up on a bed, in a simple white room. The walls were holding shelves with red crosses painted on them. Everything was white. White sheets, white pillows, white walls, floor, roof. There were other beds standing sentinel against the walls. 

The door opened, revealing Mila. She swept to my bed. I sat up and attempted a smile.

“I talked to my Queen,” she said. “She said you may recuperate for a year before moving. Kinsia is a small country- if Lyra attacks we cannot defend ourselves.”

“Give my thanks to your Queen,” I replied formally. “I am deeply indebted to her, and you.”

In the months that followed, Mila and I grew closer. We spent most of our time with each other. I gradually came to know about her brother, whom she loved dearly, and her absent parents. She learned about the struggles of growing up in Lyra with my parents. 

The year passed, faster than water slipping through fingers. I left Kinsia amid tears and nostalgia.  I still remember the expression in Mila’s ocean eyes as she pleaded that I keep in contact. I refused. Further contact would only plunge them into further danger.

I had no home, so I simply walked as far away as I could. I passed tumbling waterfalls that looked as if they were made from liquid crystals and rolling hills, deeply green and satisfyingly smooth. And yet, every night without fail, I wept myself to sleep, thinking of the warm beds and company at Kinsia. But cosiest of all, the warmth of friendship.

One day, I woke from a nap under the dappled shade of an oak tree. In front of me was an ethereally beautiful girl. Her auburn hair was swept back but tumbled down her back unencumbered, and her silk red gown was a mark of her noble status. But it was her eyes that brought a lump to my throat. They were the exact shape and colour of Mila’s.

I jumped to my feet, startled. “Who are you?” I croaked, my voice rusty from disuse. I cleared my throat and began again. “What do you want?” The girl surveyed me, then sat down gracefully, her skirts spreading out exactly how my parents tried to instil in me. “Come,” she said with a voice as sweet as honey and clear as spring air. “Sit. We must talk.” I obeyed. “Once again, who are you?”

“My name is Everine. Lady Everine, to be precise. I am a noblewoman of the fae court.”

A fae!

The fae girl sighed. “Close your mouth, child.”

“Child?” I said, outraged. “I am as old as you!” Indeed, she didn’t look more than fifteen or perhaps sixteen.

She tilted her head. “Did you, too, turn a thousand and fifty-one?”

While I gaped, she continued talking. “As we speak, Lyra’s forces race to capture you. Not very many people have escaped her, you see, and it is my understanding that her sovereigns first want to torture you in hopes of discovering how you did so then imprison you so you may never escape again.”

“They are my parents,” I whispered, horrified. “How could they?”

The fairy simply looked at me, her eyes impassive. No doubt she has seen worse in previous centuries, but her lack of empathy scared me.

“I have an alternative,” she said. “My court can offer you protection. I can keep you hidden for a hundred years, yet you will age but a day. But there is a twist. You will have to give up who you love the most.” 

I thought of my parents, the friends I left in Lyra. I had loved them unconditionally, and they had loved me back, but only as a miser loves his gold. “That should be no effort,” I said with a mirthless laugh. 

“Is it?” the fae asked. “I believe it is Mila’s eyes you see as mine?”

I gasped. “But- how?”

“Oh, but my eyes are never mine,” she said, almost cackling. “They belong to the viewer’s beloved.” 

I was relatively calm, processing this new information until I realised what she was saying. For the second time today, I leapt to my feet. 

“No.” My voice was low and burning with anger. “She is out of the question.”

The fairie shrugged. “It’s up to you, Rosaline. The choice is your’s.”

“It is out of the question,” I repeated. I spun around and began to walk away. The fae girl caught at my arm. “Wait! You are making the wrong choice!”

I faced her again, rage emitting in waves from my body. The fae girl flinched. A fae actually flinched.

“Any choice harming Mila is the wrong choice,” I spat. “You fae…. This is another one of your twisted games, isn’t it? I will not play them. And if I find out you have harmed her… I will track you down, and I will kill you exactly how you did her.” I was towering over her now.

“You don’t understand. If Mila is left to live, she will die a painful, lingering death in the future. What would she gain by a few months? Perhaps a love from which she must be parted suddenly and tragically? A few moments of happiness, then sorrow beyond her imagination?”

“So save her.”

“We can. Accept our offer and she will be saved. Otherwise...” the fae shrugged. “There are some things even fae cannot stop.”

I did, indeed, think about it. I paced along the river, the gentle cadances of it soothing my mind. I sat down on a mossy tree stump. I sprawled on the grass, watching the sun arc across the sky, fiery ribbons trailing behind it. I weighed both my options, then almost cried at the unfairness of it all. What would it be? Save Mila, condemning her to immense, unnecessary pain, or fell her as though she were a diesceased tree, thus saving her from pain? I didn’t understand how people who commanded lives at their fingertips did it. How they survived, knowing that one small word, one simple gesture can kill thousand? 

And I knew which was the selfish and unselfish choice. My love for Mila battled with my selfishness.

Finally, I made my choice.

“I accept.”

“You do?” The fae wanted confirmation, as though the grief clearly evident on my features weren’t enough. “Good. It is the right one.” She said it surprisingly gently. “The enchantment will take place once you cross our borders”

“Why would you want to help me?” I asked, calmer now. Probably for the first time in centuries, Everine looked surprised. She tilted her head again.

“Is it possible your parents didn’t tell you?”

I frowned. “Tell me what?”

“Child,” said Everine, beginning the sentence which I would never forget, “You have the blood of the fairies.”