"Being Fey" by Chris A Jackson

Being Fey

by

Chris A. Jackson

I know not why I insist on imagining that one day my father will understand exactly who and what I am.  Why the One True made me what I am I cannot reconcile, nor refute.  Yet, I am what I am, and I am tormented by it.  Every day of my life.

This morning was no different.

“I see not what the problem be!”  He said, pushing his plate away.  Once again my insistence had ruined his appetite.  “The boy is nice, is he not?  He is comely enough, well groomed, amiable, polite.  He comes from the best of families; his father is a prominent guildsman and they are devout in the worship of the One True.  You’ve known Benefal since you were but children!  What could you possibly find wrong with him?”

“Nothing, Father,” I said miserably.  The problem was not with Benefal, but with me.  “I like Benefal well enough, ‘tis true, but our friendship has ended years hence.”

“Well, we shall endeavor to strike it up again!”  Father stood, casting the embroidered silk napkin down in finality.  Mother winced, but I couldn’t say if it was due to his tone or the fact that the corner of the napkin lay in a pool of plumb sauce.  It would be ruined, surely.

“I’m sorry, Father, but I don’t wish to be friends with Benefal.”  I didn’t know how to say it, but I tried once again.  “He is... not what I seek in a lifemate.”

“Neither were any of the others!”  He raised his hands to the heavens, as if imploring the One True to give him the answer.

I knew there was no answer forthcoming, for I had spent countless hours imploring the One True for an answer to that very question, to no avail.  Why am I so unworthy? I wondered, not for the first time.  What sin have I committed that has angered the One True so?

“How many more, Ýsedre?  How many more young men must I court for you?  I talk to their fathers, friends of mine, associates in the Guild, men of the Church.  Do you not wish a lifemate?”

“I do, Father, but...”  I let the thought dwindle.  This was not the time.  Never was there a good time.

“Then pick one of these nice boys and wed him!”  He leaned onto the breakfast table, fixing me with his most earnest expression.  “Ýsedre, you are my eldest, and I love you.  I wish you every happiness.  And to that end, I will see you wed by the end of this harvest season.  Do you understand me?”

“Jerref, that’s barely six cycles!”  I stared at Mother in shock.  She never broke into the conversation at table, unless it was some matter of the food, linen or place settings.  “That’s hardly enough time to plan a bonding ceremony.”

“Then ‘twould be best if she made her choice soon, I think.”  He took one last sip of his blacktea and straightened his immaculate cloak.  “I must be off to the guildhall.  An honest day’s pay for an honest day’s work.”  The last bit was his mantra, his axiom for success that applied to all aspects of his life.  In Father’s eyes, everything you achieved must be worked for; nothing worth while came easily.

I knew differently.

I knew freedom that came at a whim, like music from a nightingale.  I knew love that came unlooked for, that stayed unasked, and gave without taking.  I knew....

As soon as he was gone, Mother rescued the soiled napkin and handed it to Catrice, the maid.  She signed and smiled, making a grudging comment about Father’s temper before settling back down to breakfast.  She and I sat for a time, silent and uneasy now that the focus of the conversation had departed.  Father was like that, always the focus, always the point of reason, control and opinion.  Always correct.

I sipped my tea, ignored the food, and tried to focus my tumultuous thoughts.  Father didn’t understand me, wouldn’t understand me if he knew the whole of it.  But maybe...

“Mother?”

“Yes, Dearest?”  Mother dabbed at the corner of her mouth and placed the napkin back in her lap, eyes attentive, focused, the perfect conversationalist.

“There actually is someone.  Someone I am seeing, I mean.”

“A boy?  Oh, that’s wonderful, Ýsedre.  Why ever didn’t you tell your father?  He’ll be most pleased!”

“I don’t think so, Mother.”  At her blank stare, I said, “Father wouldn’t approve of him.”

“Oh, come now!  Surely the boy has some redeeming qualities!  I daresay your father will bring them out in him in no time!”

“I don’t think Father would even speak to him, Mother.  And he is not a boy.”

“Well, young man, then.”

How can parents be so utterly blind?

“And surely your father will speak with him.”  Her eyes took on a worried cast.  “If it worries you that your young man is not a guildsman, let it not concern you.”

“He is not a guildsman, Mother.  But that is not the problem.  He is... not like us, Mother.”

“Oh!  That!”  She dabbed her mouth again, though she hadn’t eaten a bite since we started talking.  “Well, your father may have problems with you seeing someone not of the faith, but there is room for argument, at least.  There are other faiths; we are not so blind as that, my dear.”

“He is of all faiths, Mother,” I said, perhaps with a bit too much conviction.  I calmed my fluttering heart and tried to put all of his love, all of his peace into my voice.  “He loves all the gods equally.  He knows their names, their true names.  He speaks to them, and they to him, as well.”

Mother’s brows tented in a question, her features as blank as slate.

“I don’t understand, Dear.  How can someone be of more than one faith?”  Her eyes sagged with worry.  “Surely he is no demon-worshiping pagan!”

“No, mother.  He does not worship demons.”  This was hopeless, I knew, but the subject was now breached, and I knew Mother would not let the conversation go unfinished.  “He is... just... different.”

“Different how, Dear?” 

There was no easy way to say it.

“He is Fey, Mother”

She blinked twice in disbelief.

“He is what?”

“Fey.  Elfin.  The elder race.”

Her back stiffened as if I’d run a knife into her, and well I may have, yet one of words and not of steel.

“Do not jest in this manner with me, Ýsedre!” she said, and for the first time in my life, I watched all trace of pity drain away from my mother’s eyes.  “You are not in love with a sprite!  I won’t hear of it!”

“He is Elfin, not a sprite, Mother,” I said, trying to explain.  One may as well have tried to describe ice to a flame.  “And it is not simply that I love him, I love what he is.  I love all the Fey.  They are --”

“They are godless heathens, Ýsedre!”  She pushed herself away from the table, throwing her napkin down into the same plumb sauce as Father.  “I will not hear such blasphemy in this household!  Go to your room this instant!”

I had never heard such a tirade from Mother.  From Father, yes, many a time, but not from Mother.  Yet I was strangely unaffected by it.  Mayhap I was more Fey than I thought, for anger did not enter me then, only sadness that my mother could not see me for what I was.

“I am of an age, Mother,” I said carefully, utterly devoid of malice or heat.  “You must understand what I am.  What I have always been.”

“You are my daughter, and you have always been my daughter!  You will do as I say!”

“I am your daughter, Mother,” I admitted with all the love I could put into those words, “but I am also Fey.”

She struck me then, and though it was but weak, no blow from demon or man could have stung me worse.

“How dare you!”

“I have dared nothing, Mother,” I said, my tears cooling her handprint on my cheek.  “I have done nothing other than to be.  This is not something I have chosen, but something that has chosen me.  I am what I was born, and that is Fey.”

“I will hear no more of this!”

“Mother, you must understand, I --”

“I understand, Ýsedre!  I understand that you have forsaken the One True, your faith and your family!  Is that well done?  Is that a wise choice?”

I sat for several heartbeats wondering how I might help her to understand, if she would understand.

“I honor you, Mother, as I always have.  I honor Father, and our ancestors and the One True, the same as I always have.  Being Fey has changed nothing of who I am and what I believe.  It has only added more.”  There were tears on her cheeks as well now, and I sorrowed for her pain.  “There was no choice in being what I am, Mother.  If there had been, for your sake alone, I would have denied it.”

“Then deny it now!” she pleaded, clutching at my hands.  “Cast away this blasphemous thing!  Pray to the One True with me that this curse be lifted!”

And I did.

I prayed as I had a thousand times before, the same plea, the same wish; that the One True make me no longer Fey.

The answer filled me, as it had so many times.  I am as I was intended to be.

I am Fey.

I opened my eyes to see my mother’s tearful gaze, and I knew that she had received the same as I.  The One True had spoken to us both.  The pity had returned to her, but there was none for me.  She knew that I did not need it.  But if not me...

“Your father will not understand.”

“I know,” I said, squeezing her hands with all the love I could put into that simple touch.  “He never did.”

I turned away, and our hands parted.  Would that I had known that it was the last time I would feel the touch of my mother’s hand.

“What will you do, Ýsedre?”

“I will be.”  I turned and smiled, trying to ease her pain.  “I will go and find a place where I can be as I am.  Where I can love the wind and the sky and the One True and the grass between my toes equally and with no restraint.”

Mother’s tears renewed their tracks upon her cheeks.  I turned away.

“You go to be with him?” she asked.  “To be with an elf?  You choose them over your own kind?”

“There is no choice in it,” I said without turning back.  “I will come back one day, and mayhap you can understand.”

“Your father will not.”

I turned to her one last time before I left, and said, “No.  He will not.”

That very moment, without another word, without a goodbye to my siblings or my father, I left the home of my ancestors.  Cruel it may have seemed to one not such as I, to one not Fey, but to me it seemed just.  I had nothing they wanted, and could only offer them shame and pain.  I would take naught with me, none of the contrivances that my fathers long toil had bought, and I would leave them with naught but memories.

One day, perhaps, I would return.

***

Leagues I walked that day, and into the night, without thought to my direction.

My heart knew the way.

The forest enveloped me like the embrace of a lover’s arms, warm and comforting.  The smells, sounds and soft dappled moonlight filled me with their grace, the nightingale’s song and the cricket’s chirp the melody that would lift my heart from its depths without fail.  I was home.

And he was there, standing in the moonlit glen where we had first met, a wisp of graceful bone and flesh, thin as a whip, tall and willowy like a young sapling, but strong and wise as the ages that had passed through him without leaving a mark upon his brow.

Gelfellian.

“Ýsedre,” he said, and my name was like a song on his lips.  “You have come with a troubled mind that befits you not.”  He held out one slim hand, his head cocking to the side, one graceful ear catching the moonlight as it drew his platinum locks across his shoulder.  “Come, and let your troubles be banished.”

I came to him then, and our hands touched, and it was as it had been before.  My mind calmed, peace filled me, strife and worry melted away.  The glory of the world opened before my eyes, every branch of every tree, every blade of grass a wonder in and of itself.  The moon a smiling cherub, the stars the twinkling eyes of all the myriad Gods, laughing at the frivolity of mortals and all they had wrought.

“If only they understood,” I said, my own voice a song once again.

“They will never understand, dear Ýsedre,” Gelfellian said to me, though his words could bring no sorrow.  “Only the Fey truly understand...”

And I did.

For I was Fey.

My mortal shell fell away, and I was clad in living green and streaming moonlight...

What I did not understand were the minds of mortals.

My father...

He refused to believe all the reason that my mother tried to convey in my decision to leave his household.  At the single word “Fey” he had made up his mind that I had been bespelled by some evil, and that it was his duty to free me from this curse.

Would that I had known the madness in him, for, even knowing the pain it would have caused me, I may have chosen to stay.  But I hadn’t the prescience to discern the madness that would enter his mind, and I would never have dreamed in my darkest nightmares what he would do.

In his rage he gathered all the power of the Guild and the Church around him, and he told them of the evil that had befallen his unwitting daughter.  They called to the King to rout out the evil that was stealing their children.  And when the King spoke of the long-standing peace that had stood between Fey and Mortal, and of the peace that was the forest, and the forces of darkness that the Fey kept at bay, they believed him not.

The powers of money and misguided faith are no match for peace and truth, it seems, for the King declared war that very day, and his army did march.

And the forest of the Fey was set ablaze.

Agony filled us at the first withering bough, our song faltering on the wind.  What manner of assault was this?  No act of nature, no bolt from a burgeoning cloud, for there was hatred in this act that we could all feel.  We tried to sing the flames down, tried to call the rains, but for every flame we extinguished, thrice was it replenished.

We fled from it, as we must or be burned alive.  We fled into the deep forest, and we sang the songs of sorrow and healing.

But there is no refuge from fear and hatred.

The fires raged on.

That was when I made my decision, having heard from where this inferno had ignited.  It was my fault, and I could bear it no longer, the sight of my beloved falling beneath the flames.  I strode through the maelstrom into the midst of the mortal army, and seeing one whom they thought was as they, they let me through.  I strode past the ranks, past the officers, the cavalry, the generals in their burnished armor so proud of their conquest.  I strode into the rear, where I knew he would be, where I knew I would finally have my say, for good or ill.

“Father.”  He turned to me from his consultations with the wielders of flame and steel to see his eldest daughter clad in streams of blackened fern and leaf and the tarnished silver of a smoke-shrouded moon.

“Ýsedre?” he said, disbelief plain in his face.  “You are free!  You’ve come home!”

“I was never a prisoner, Father.  And you have destroyed my home.”  I waved a hand at the denuded hills where once bough and branch swayed in the wind.  “I have come to tell you that you are killing me, your own daughter, your own flesh.”

“No, Ýsedre!  We come to save you from the evil elves who have bespelled you!  Can you not see that they have filled your mind with magic and lust!  They’ve clad you in naught but brush and twigs!  How can you not see that their ways are depraved and evil?”

“And how can you not see, Father, that it is impossible for love to be evil?”

“They have bespelled you!  It is not love, but magic that fills you!”

“No, Father.  For I was Fey long before I set foot in the forest.  I was Fey when you held me in your arms and taught me to sing my first song.  I was Fey when I skinned my knee and you wiped my tears away...”

“You are not Fey!” he raged, grasping up a length of steel and pointing it at me.  “You cannot be Fey!  I won’t let you be!”

“You cannot change what is, Father.  I am your daughter, and I am Fey.”

“No!”

Madness truly took him then, for he thrust the blade at me.  I truly thought he would stop, that my words could ease the pain in him, that reason could overcome his prejudice.  If I had not thought it, I would have simply stepped aside.

I was wrong.

Steel slipped between my ribs and pierced my heart.

Horror and madness vied for space in my father’s eyes as my legs refused to hold me.  He stared at me long, refusing to believe, before his fingers, feeling my heart’s last flutter, finally released the hilt and I fell to the slashed and torn earth.

My last mortal thought, my last Fey hope, was that it would end here.

I was wrong again.

The war raged on, now fueled by the call for vengeance.

And as the peace died, as the Fey burned, as the music faded, all the darkness and hate that was kept at bay was freed.  And darkness overtook all mortals and all Fey.

For hate feeds on hate until all is consumed. 

Only love can break the cycle, but when hate kills love, all is lost.