Page 82 of The Fae Lord

As I stand and stare out at the sunset above the lake, I think of all the years I may have left in front of me and I think about going through them alone.

We had no children. It was not meant to be for us. And although the young fae of the village call me auntie and clamber into my cabin when they wake early and their parents tell them to go play, because they know I will tell them stories and bake them fresh bread, they are not my kin.

Slowly the sun appears above the crown of the trees on the other side of the lake. She is pale today, and a little sickly.

She reminds me of myself.

I look at my reflection in the surface of the lake. I am old. My skin is thin, and my bones protrude beneath it like daggers. I have always been angular, but age has made me more so.

It is why I am taken seriously.

Other females, softer females, struggle. But I never have.

I am listened to.

But what is the point of it if Phillipe isn’t there to see it?

The look in his eyes when I stood up for myself, or for another, and when I showed power or dominance, was always the thing that drove the passion in our marriage.

He worshipped me, and made me feel like the very best version of myself.

Although some arranged marriages are sad and lonely for both parties, and they have fallen out of fashion in recent years, ours was never like that.

He was everything to me.

Without him, my body feels empty and fragile, like I am waiting to be cracked open and trodden upon. My bones ground into the earth.

I look to the spot where his funeral pyre was just a few days ago.

It was a beautiful ceremony. There were songs, and laughter, and memories. It was exactly how it should have been. And I was almost happy because it felt as if he was there with me. It was good to be celebrating his life.

But then the celebration was over, and everyone else resumed their daily chores and duties and studies and ventures.

And I was left alone.

Floating through the forest like a spectre. Unable to engage in small talk or to take an interest in the goings-on of the council because it all feels miraculously pointless now that I have no Phillipe to go home to at night.

I know it is too early to feel like this.

I have to wade through my grief and, one day, I will come out the other side.

I have counselled many bereaved parents and siblings and spouses over the years. I know the platitudes off by heart.

But I do not believe they apply to me.

I am too old. I have seen too much. And I have no desire to ‘come out the other side’ for what is there for me when I reach it? Another great love? Friendship? Adventure?

I have experienced it all already, tenfold, and I do not need any more of it.

So, I wade into the water.

Behind me, the earth shakes a warning, and my wings flutter. But I lift the stones I have weighted to two large piece of rope and wrap them around myself, pinning my wings to my sides.

I walk forward, towards the spot where Phillipe’s body was finally submerged into the lake.

I will join him, and we will be together, and the pain will stop.

“Auntie Maura, what are you doing?” a small voice floats towards me on the breeze, and before I can reply, Alana appears.

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