u/BuddingDreamer123

Royal Road
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She did not wake up at once.

Consciousness came slowly… So very slowly.

Senses returned at a sluggish pace, as if the body had to be reminded what living meant. Murmurs danced along the very edges of her fleeting thoughts, trickling into her ears languidly like they were passing through enchanted wool. She couldn’t really hear them so much as she could perceive them. At least, in the sense of guessing what they were.

People whispering. An indistinct language. Could be Fae. Could be Arachnids. Could be the dancing squirrels from her dreams for all she knew.

Then, there were creaks. A harsh sound that sent a shiver of unease down her spine. Squeaks. Mice? Or something else entirely?

For a while, she was awake in this sense. Not quite there. Not quite here. Just present. Receiving meaningless noise that danced at the precipice of her awareness, words that lost their meaning long before she could comprehend them.

Then, light appeared. A flickering, dim glow that echoed through the crack between her lids. Like the sun peeking through distant hills at dawn. A line of light that grew larger and brighter as time carried on her endless march and Feronia’s eyes gradually…

Gradually.

Fluttered open.

Light streamed in with all the hunger and frenzied violence of water through a broken dam. It blinded her, filling her vision with white, white, white, nothing but white…

She squeezed her eyes shut with a distressed groan, letting an array of muttered curses leave her lips, strong enough to destroy anyone thoughtless enough to stick nearby a relapsing fae. It was a stroke of luck that her magic held nothing more than a pittance of potential, just enough to allow her to return to the living world, but nowhere near enough to cause any real damage.

It took her blinking a few times, before the light finally lost its blinding edge, slowly dimming into the background and letting the features of the room finally take shape within her blurry vision.

This wasn’t her abode.

Gleaming white tiles replaced what should have been moss-covered stones. Jagged curves of cave walls were reduced to perfectly straight ones, polished so thoroughly that she could see her own beady eyes staring back at her in confusion. The light came from a singular tile above her head, bright enough to illuminate the whole room and almost bright enough to overtake the sunlight lazily filtering in through the only existing window.

And, almost as if to wrap the rapidly forming conclusion in her head with a final ribbon, the ambient magic that existed very nearly choked her. The room was positively filled to the brim with mana, so much so that it was a wonder the walls didn’t burst from the pressure at all. She had only felt like this on a few other accounts.

And all of them had the same culprit.

Humanity.

And the magic they carried around like free bouquets of power.

But why would she be in a human nest? Why would they have brought her here at all? It wasn’t like she was in need of any sort of accommodations anytime soon-

The memories hit.

She remembered.

Oh, she remembered.

The snarls. The clicks. The loss of something precious, something central to who she was-

She whirled around and stared at her back. And stared and stared. And stared some more, because surely her eyes were playing tricks on her, surely it was just her exhausted mind revealing a false reality. Surely, surely, her twin blades of elegance and fragile grace had not dwindled down to one-

No.

No. No. No.

She jumped out, struggling past a mound of blankets, all clinging possessively onto her. Twisting this way and that, her feet finally managed to kick the cold stifling sheets of fabric, albeit clumsily, sending a few flopping down into a messy pile on the floor. Her single wing – torn, bruised, and so very weak – flapped valiantly behind her, beating the air desperately with all the might a wilted leaf could muster.

She felt her own magic working overtime. Trying dreadfully to compensate for the physical weakness, they wrapped around her, paltry and limited though it was. Together, her flimsy wings and her equally flimsy magic worked determinedly, the combined force and desperation just enough to lift her a few inches above the bed.

The chains – oh, realms, they were still here. They hurt. They hurt. They hurt – squeezed her soul.

Her magic failed.

Her shaky legs landed on the bed first, but the force of the fall, combined with her own weakness after having lain in bed for who-knows-how-long, led her to trip, weak legs colliding against one another and sending her tumbling into a free fall as the soft sheets of the bed slipped out from underneath, letting her fall, fall before she landed on the hard floor with a sickening thump.

Pain.

Pain.

So much pain.

And at this point, she wasn’t quite sure what she was hurting from anymore. All her joints ached beyond comprehension, stiff, and still smarting from the fall. Her limbs were trembling, weak, pitiful things, especially her wing – her singular wing- A dull twinge throbbed beneath her eyelids and shot through her skull. Living was pain. Pain was living.

She had become used to softness.

She had forgotten the pain that used to accompany her every moment, a partner so constant it had faded into the background, taking a seat right next to her fears and worries. She had forgotten what it was like to hold its hand, and to feel it grip back with unbearable tightness.

Now, it was back with a vengeance from being abandoned so callously.

An overwhelming sense of helplessness welled up somewhere deep inside her as she curled up into a pitiful ball, too tired to get up. She wasn’t even sure if she would be able to, her form still shaking from where it laid. Her hair clung to her skin like sticky weeds, icy white tresses slick with sweat. Water built up at the curve of her eyes, and if she let herself go, she would surely form a sad puddle beneath her squished face.

Some time passed. Maybe it was a couple of seconds. A few hours. Eternity.

She neither knew nor cared to.

She remained stiff in her fetal position, embroiled in her own tumultuous thoughts. They raged constantly within her mind, going back-and-forth, sideways, and crashing into each other. So occupied she was, drowning in her own self-imposed misery that she almost didn’t register that there was something touching her. Moving her.

Hands. Many of them. Too many.

They came in swarms, holding onto her arms, hands, and legs, one anchored under her back. She thrashed in their grip, startled by their abrupt appearance, but her weak struggles did nothing to the deter their movements. She would be surprised if they did, considering how especially feeble her strength was. What were they going to do? Where were they taking her? Would they hurt her? Would they toy with her soul, leaking the magic out of it bit by bit as the life slowly left her-

Obey your betters.

Her body went limp, letting them carry her away without trouble. They would do what they wanted, but she had no need to be present during the act. There was simply no point in tethering her mind with the experience, when it would be over without once needing her input. When it would pass and take with it the pain she had come to dread all too much.

It would pass.

And she would come back to herself in due time.

Let her mind wander. Let it drift far away. Let it bury itself in feelings too complicated, too painful, to be named. She would trudge the depths of her memories, and she would take refuge in them until she could come out once more.

Someone was shaking her body, trying to do something.

She didn’t know what.

She didn’t want to know. Sensations and feelings were all she was now, concentrated into a single point on her back. Her vision was only filled with that of a memory, a part of her that no longer existed, swept into the past she couldn’t return to, gone.

Gone.

Gone.

Gone.

“You’re here. You’re safe. You’re alright.”

Gone.

Gone.

Gone.

“You’re good at cleaning things up and making a room look spotless. You prefer rainwater for rat droppings, because they’re more abundant and you think dew drops are for pretentious folks.”

Gone.

Gone…

Gone?

Someone was kneading her hands, gently massaging every line of tension, every tight joint with simple ministrations. She was sitting. At least, she thought so. Everything still felt a bit hazy, and she wondered for a beat if she was hallucinating the soothing movements.

“You prefer the feel of grass when you walk, but you like to skate on moss on special days. Your favourite game is hide and seek. You enjoy open spaces, and cloudy days with just a bit of sunlight peeking through.”

Something was pushed into her hands, something soft and… familiar. They tickled her palms as a slight breeze made them roll back and forth, each touch a caress that sent shivers running down her spine.

“Bellflowers are your birth flowers, and I think I understand now what you mean when you said that. You have a special affinity for purple ones. You like rolling in meadows and throwing flower petals anywhere you can.”

Bellflowers. Bellflowers.

Tiny, purple bellflowers were in her palms, sighing with every small twitch of fingers. A much larger pair of hands cupped her own, almost enveloping them like leaves trying to cradle a bulb. They were rough hands, she realized, brown where the sun had not been kind to it, light where shadows had kept its treasures. Harsh ridges rubbed her knuckles, remnants of scars from a life well-lived. Something decidedly alien emanated from the thumb, a magic different from that of the living.

It should have been the hands of a monster, not by choice, but by nature alone. Elves’ were far more graceful and refined, hands that wove starlight and cradled memories. Dwarves’ were more honest, hands that were used to holding dirt and gold alike. Orcs’ were self-evident, defined by a culture infamously violent. Mermaids’ were slender and ephemeral.

And the Fae…

Theirs were tiny by comparison, twitching things that were restless and ached to hold the weight of fate and tear it apart. And perhaps they would have once, when they had the power to serve them still.

But humans… By virtue of inhabiting the greatest paradise the realms had to offer, they should have realistically had the softest hands, pure and clear of blemish. They should have been evident of a world without struggle, a world so put-together it felt as if it were plucked from a dream. Yet, they were rough. They were harsh. Injured and bruised by phantoms unknown. Hands meant for the grandest of magic, brought down by their master’s refusal to wield it proper. Spectacle reduced to function. Luxury sharpened to labour.

Humans’ hands were deceptive, each scar a thread of trickery, etched into the palm by whatever dangerous matter they had sought, whatever beasts they had brewed in the world that was their cradle.

Worn down and tired they may be, her Fae senses warned her all the same.

Run. They whispered. Danger.

Her hands loosened into the danger, her heart believing what her mind had yet to register. They would not hurt her.

They never had.

“You like tea and would drink as many cups as you can if you ever had the chance. You enjoy tiny cakes, especially pretty ones with floral patterns. You hum when you’re in a good mood. And you have a habit of chirping when words cannot express how happy you are.”

Slowly, with a crack of bones stiff from so much time spent drooping down, her head lifted. Her blurry vision lost their filter of pain as her mind gradually rooted itself back in place. Her eyes blinked open, and the first thing she beheld… were eyes, so unlike her own, yet deceptive in their simplicity.

Brown. Gentle.

Soft.

“You are Feronia, a fae with so much to care about, so much to love, and so much to show the realms why she is someone worthy of life.”

For a moment, they simply stared at each other, the words still echoing and curling around her like a comforting puff of cloud. The world stood still. Time may have passed, but Feronia was no longer aware of it, drowning in the warmth of the moment. In how… peaceful everything was.

Then, she lifted a hand, bellflowers falling away and scattering into her lap and sheets. Carefully, with a quiet beat of hesitation borne of cautious hope, she rested it on Puck’s shoulders. She let herself feel the way the cloth wrinkle under touch, the way the skin below rise and fall ever so slightly with every inhale of breath. Her fingers curled experimentally into the fabric and felt the slow roll of muscles as he adjusted to her touch. Still soft. Still patient. Waiting expectantly for whatever she wanted.

Her fingers tightened.

And she lunged.

There was a small, startled huff of breath as she collided into him, nearly knocking him back as she burrowed herself against him. Her arms reached clumsily to wrap around him, relishing in the extra warmth the touch provided. His magic bent around her the way a heavy blanket would drape over a sapling, comforting in its overwhelming embrace. Her face pressed just beneath his collar, antennae twitching where they laid languidly upon his shoulder blades. There was a certain smell clinging to him, something floral, something human. Something that inexplicably felt like shelter.

After a few moments of baffled stillness, his arms reached up. Strong behemoths that hesitated like a trembling mouse before wrapping around her, the pressure so light it felt more like a memory than a touch. She hugged even tighter against his tentative embrace and felt those hands trail up her neck and down her back, a careful knead that swiftly untangled the coils of nerves simmering beneath her skin. They skirted around the wings, never once going near them, focusing entirely on the tightness of her muscles.

It was a reprieve. A comfort.

One shared with the only person who made her feel like someone.

With a soft sigh, she settled under the soothing ministrations and the calm moment. Her eyes flickered with drowsiness as the gentle peacefulness of it all finally lulled her into a deep, dreamless sleep.

---

When she awoke again, she was alone once more.

For a moment, she mourned the loss of the warmth she had been lured to sleep by, missing dreadfully the safety it had draped upon her. Still, she rose sluggishly, a creak in her back as she stretched her tired muscles, arms high above her head before letting them fall down. With an experimental twitch, she flexed the wings behind her back. Once. Twice.

And thrice as she reluctantly turned behind to look.

One. Crystal. Shining with faint magic. Torn in places where the wound refused to heal.

Another.

Another not there.

It felt like a trick of sorts, a lie conjured by her mind. The way she was able to still feel both wings when in reality…

She shook her head and turned her gaze forward. She found it hurt less if she wasn’t staring at it. Hurt less when her body was insistent on believing it still had both limbs attached.

She gazed around the room instead, letting her mind occupy itself with the mundane architecture before it could get stuck in another downward spiral.

Well, ‘mundane’ was an understatement, if Feronia knew anything about the realm that had made this place.

It was about what you would expect from humans. Filled with magic because, of course, it was. It was a strange kind of magic too, now that Feronia truly thought about it, simply drifting aimlessly in the room with no apparent purpose. It curled around her almost curiously, experimentally mingling with her own aura which, in turn, seemed just as fascinated by the energy that surrounded it, waves of foreign forces tangling with one another. Her own hand drifted outwards to grasp the threads of magic that flooded the place, feeling a jolt of adrenaline as it cradled her fingers like a soft, floating blanket.

Was their home-realm the same? Even more magical?

Perhaps she could ask Puck another time.

Besides the abundance of mana lingering in the room, there were very few items of interest. It was apparent that they had wanted to keep it as plain as possible. Every surface gleamed with an unnatural shine, and was meticulously painted with shades of white. There was a table, some chairs, some kind of ‘machine’ set within the walls from which cold wind was lazily blowing in, and the bed she sat on. A single window poured the sunlight down onto the spotless tile, a golden sheen over the already impossible white. The light shone too heavily on certain lines, so she averted her eyes and gazed upon the last vaguely interesting piece of furniture.

A bedside table.

With… certain things on top.

Her hands reached out toward the flower crown, fingers curling around the petals, curled slightly where it had browned from decay. It was already half-dead, but she brought it to her lips all the same, antennae angling towards the crooked ring, and inhaled the scent of the meadow. It might have been sweet once, but time had soured it into something sharp and putrid. The scent of corrosion clung to every dry patch of purples and sang along the tight ridges of yellows and greens.

She let the decay last for a moment longer, never once lifting her feelers away.

Then, she hummed.

Magic flowed from her tongue, delicate and trembling with the shyness of a newborn sprout. It pulsed uncertainly around the crown, almost afraid to touch as if the very act would be betraying the one who had bestowed the gift upon her.

Then, it yielded.

Wound itself around the corpses of beauty and stitched together the fragments of life back together.

The bellflowers perked up, jolting from their scrunched position as though they were taking a gulp of air in their first waking breath. The daisies, buttercups, and clovers, bunched up clumsily in between, followed suit. Colour bled into their pale visages and they shone with an almost divine intensity as they settled into their youthful ways, merrily fluttering in the wind as if they were not dead just mere seconds ago. Something acutely sweet and delightful rose from the newly revived blooms, but Feronia pulled her antennae away before it could hit her full-force.

It was beautiful. Perhaps exactly how it looked in its prime. Perhaps not. She would never know.

She looked at it for a beat, frowning, before quickly undoing the spell with a huff of air.

She didn’t like changing it. Had felt there was something sad about imposing perfection on a thing that was very deliberately imperfect. She had an inkling of who exactly had given her the gift, and wondered deeply about why he had given her something so ephemeral, especially when she knew for a fact that he could have easily immortalized it in its prime through whatever method that existed.

… She would ask him another time.

But what she knew for sure was that it was a gift.

A gift deliberately chosen and placed for her, even with how… incomplete she’d become.

A gift from someone who would be there, even after everything. Even after the loss, the pain.

Someone who would stay.

So she placed the decaying beauty atop her hair and let the dry blossoms settle against the crystal strands.

Her eyes laid upon the next gift, nearly letting out a gasp of delight at the artistry and the clear purpose the set of objects held.

Puck had spoken of them once during one of those meetings.

It was a tea set!

And such a beautiful one too!

She scrambled with all the grace of a startled butterfly before latching onto one of the cups. She froze when she felt the cool porcelain held steadily within her palms, light and brimming with untold memories. Her fingers brushed against the curves and bumps along the sides and the rim, tracing the pattern with all the reverence of a saint, and rolling it upside-down just to get a real sense of what she was looking at.

It was a type of flower, surely. But what kind was it?

They looked a bit like bluebells. The small bundles of tiny flowers certainly lent themselves well to the species. Or perhaps, they were foxgloves! Maybe larkspur?

Oh, who cares what flowers they were? The most important thing was that they were teacups! She giggled to herself, hugging the singular cup close to her chest. This- This was- better than she could have ever dreamed of. And if the others turned down their antennae at Feronia bursting into tears over a tea set-

Well, the other fae can all mind their own flaming business. This teacup was a million times better than whatever shiny trinket they found whilst out and about, and it was an actual gift! Which was already leagues above whatever interesting pebble they liked to steal from the rivers. The gift was proof – real, undeniable proof – that her life truly had changed from the dreadful monotony of the first hundred years of existence.

She was changed.

She was happy.