***
The sun crept slowly over the Whispering Woods, casting an eerie blood-red glow on the two towers of the Glass Citadel. The court was buzzing with another kind of energy. After recovering the bodies of their fallen warriors, the faeries began preparing for the revel to honor their dead. While carrying tiny green faerie lights through the streets, they sang softly and mellifluously, but their songs, usually cheerful and bright, were gloomy and heart-wrenching.
Ophira stood in the gardens of the citadel at the grave of her mother on the exact same spot where she had found her father before the battle.
He was gone. He would never come back.
She watched quietly as a group of knights appeared, carrying the dead body of the king. Ophira averted her gaze as they lowered him to the ground beside her mother's grave. Two of them began digging into the ground with shovels.
She could feel their eyes on her. From this day on, every faerie in the kingdom would watch her and would listen to her words. She knew what it meant to be a ruler; she'd seen it all her life with her father. Unlike her power-crazed sister, Ophira had never strived for it. It was ironic that Titania had fought her for something she'd never even wanted. If Titania had asked Ophira for the throne, she would have stepped aside right away. It meant nothing to her, but it had meant everything to her father, who had chosen her as his heir.
Ophira reached up a hand to gingerly touch the crown that now marked her as the Seelie Queen, ruler over Tír na nÓg. It had been her father’s, a beautiful piece of golden jewelry that wound around her head like a wreath of leaves with a small emerald stone set in it at the front. The crown weighed heavy on her, knowing that the only reason she'd ended up with it was because of the death of her parents. A fresh wave of grief rolled over her and a single tear trickled down her cheek.
One of the knights lifted his head abruptly. "My queen, you might not want to be here for this."
The way he'd addressed her was like a sharp knife thrust into her heart. Within less than a day, she'd not only become an orphan but had been deprived of her status as a princess and forced to take on her succession to the throne.
"I appreciate your concern," she told the knight in a broken voice, "but rest assured, I wouldn't want to be anywhere else at the moment."
She quickly turned away from the group to tap at her wet cheek with the back of her hand.
Below, at the foot of the hill, appeared a golden-clad figure. He quickly began to ascend the path, and once up in the garden, he came running straight towards Ophira, his face contorted with worry.
"My queen."
He was panting heavily when he reached her. His long, silvery white hair plastered to his face with sweat, and his pointed ears sticking out between the strands.
Ophira managed to maintain her composure. "Chancellor Pwyll."
"It’s strange that you call me that,” he said bitterly.
"We have the same cross to bear, having lost a father in battle," Ophira responded. For a moment, they locked eyes, communicating silently the grief they felt and the overwhelming burden that now rested on their young shoulders. Ophira cleared her throat. "What brings you here? The official coronation isn't for another hour."
"It's not about the coronation." He drew in a huge breath. “It’s about your sister and the remaining Unseelies."
"Unseelies?" She rose an eyebrow at him.
He nodded vehemently. "Yes, yes. Your sister, she's referred to them as Unseelie faeries. I guess this means they no longer belong to our Seelie Court."
"That's what I figured," Ophira said. "But what about them? You've restrained Titania, haven't you?"
Pwyll's eyes flickered nervously to the knights digging the grave and then back to Ophira.
"Tell me my sister has been locked away." Ophira was unable to keep the tremor from her voice.
The chancellor seemed to grow even smaller despite being at least a head taller than the queen. "After you wounded her shoulder and left to bury your father," he said, "we were able to get a hold on her and her faeries. We tied them up in the woods, and I ordered some of my men to keep watch. I was certain we wouldn't need any more men. There were only about a dozen or so of the Unseelies left." He stopped to brush his bright hair out of his face. "But when I returned after securing the forest, your sister…" He swallowed hard. "My queen, your sister's gone. We must have a traitor in our midst who helped her and her faeries escape."
My sister. Gone.
The weight of the words hit Ophira with full force. She lost her balance and swayed forward. Tight arms wrapped around her and steadied her.
"Ophira, can you hear me?" Pwyll asked, shaking her slightly.
Did I make a mistake by sparing her life? Ophira wondered.
Her mind was spinning, but with Pwyll steadying her, she was slowly regaining her balance. She shrugged out of his embrace, suddenly aware of the knights watching them.
She straightened up, smoothing out her dress. "It's not quite the punishment I had pictured."
Pwyll's eyes widened. "Punishment? My queen, she's escaped!"
"Yes, chancellor, into the Whispering Woods. They won't be able to cross it without the pixies or pookas noticing them. And where would they go? The woods aren't safe for them, but the north isn't either."
He gaped at her. "But where do you think they've been all this time since they've left the court? Your sister must've taken them somewhere to prepare them for battle."
"They won't make it far with an injured queen and most of their people dead," Ophira returned. "I do understand your concern, chancellor, and you shall gather your knights and scour the woods as soon as my father has been put in the grave."
"Yes, my queen," he responded promptly. "But there's one more thing."
Ophira folded her arms in front of her chest, thinking that if she didn't hold on to herself she would soon fall to pieces. "What is it?"
"Your father had one of the Unseelies taken as a hostage," Pwyll explained. "The knights threw him into the dungeon of the citadel where he died shortly after."
"Any indications to what might have caused his death?" Ophira asked.
Pwyll shook his head. "Unfortunately, no. The Healers will examine his body."
"They shall report to me."
"Certainly." Pwyll bowed his head before joining the other knights.
Ophira turned away from the group to face the court—her court—and for a moment, her thoughts were inadvertently drawn to her sister. Had it been the right decision to let her live when her hands were covered in the blood of their father and many more innocent faeries? Ophira looked down at her own pale hands, the scars of the battle already fading, and remembered how it had felt to have them intertwined with her mother’s. She was aching to hold her parents’ hands just one more time.
She stood still until the chancellor called for her, and after taking a deep breath, she walked over to the knights.
Under the yew tree, beside her mother's grave, rested her father's dead body buried beneath a heap of freshly turned-over soil. On a slab of stone, carved in gold, it read:
Arawn. Faerie king. Beloved father.