The Faery Dance

She took a sip of wine from the very rim of the delicate goblet, and then tipped back her golden head. She breathed out slow and heavy, feeling her chest collapse while her neck bent down...

Her eyes snapped open at a paper fluttering to the chilly stone floor.

"I require cleanliness, Merek. Is it so much to request?" She sent a slithering glare in the boy's direction. She sighed as he scurried to retrieve the wayward scrap of parchment. She twirled the strand of hair nearest to her ear; her clear and well-known token of impatience. The boy bit his lip and quickly retreated to another room. She took the rare moment of solitude to adjust her bracelets, thin bands of finely shaped bone, layered up her arm in an elegant multitude. The impeccably polished curves of the jewelry made sure any light was reflected off the bangles. She twisted and maneuvered them on her arm till she was satisfied, flicking her wrist slightly, a coy smile hovering on her lips. Manipulating, she mused, was something she did often. Trivial arm ornaments or powerful men with temples of carved stone, was there really any difference? Rising from her ornate chair, she adjusted her velvet embroidered robe, admiring her figure under the soft cloth. Yes, manipulating was certainly a talent of hers. Suddenly restless, she turned and smoothly left her apartment. She walked the long pillared corridors, silencing her leather slippers on the limestone blocks, as she had long since learned how. Passing balconies, water gardens, pillars, ornamented chambers, her feet drew her onwards almost on instinct. She was being pulled towards it, the purpose of her existence, she told herself. She licked her lips greedily. Her heart beat faster with every step, her blood hot. Turning the last corner, she absorbed the throne room's frightening beauty. It was savage and mystically ornate, rightfully awe-inspiring. No place on earth could boast of such an achievement, it belonged to Suðreyjar alone. She drank in its magnificence with envious gulps. She looked to the pinnacle of the room, where, after endless stairs, was a carved platform, looking over all of the Isle. The single chair sat there, it's golden and ivory surface engraved with ancient writings, proclaiming the deity of the one who sat in that very throne. Her eyes hardened. Hers. It should be hers. The bastard son of a slave girl sat in that chair, a mockery for all of the world to scorn. He dragged Suðreyjar into the dust, ruining her. She was breathing quickly, uneasily. It was empty, the entire room, the king and his company were elsewhere. She took a step nearer. Then another. It was hers. She climbed the first stair, then the next, moving faster and faster. She did not hesitate at the top, her hands greedily caressing the sweet curved arms of the throne, wearing a crooked triumphant smile. She sat in the chair, confident and daring, letting loose a soft laugh of relief. It was hers, or it would be soon. Yes, no one could take it from her, soon she would claim it, as it was rightfully meant to be. Everything was aligned, loyalties attained, gold and favors traded. She closed her eyes, trying to steady her breath. "Mine...mine." she whispered.

"Enjoying the view, sister Yrsa?" The deep, dangerous voice cut into her delirious reverie. Her eyes jerked open, and she gaped as if stabbed in the heart. A cat-like body wound around the throne till he stood in front of her. She could do nothing but stare at him, her eyes glassy in shock. "Well, take comfort that you shall not die a violent death. No, you shall die as royalty, though you are a traitor." He smiled, cold and distant. His eyes wandered over the room as he quietly continued "See, I am a merciful king, even to a delusional bastard sister who would have me dead." He laughed, loud and harsh. "Yes, I am merciful." He glanced back at her, and she cowered back from him, though she did not leave the chair. She clung to it instead, clutching its arms with her fingers, as though it could save her. "Your death will come quietly. So quietly, we all will be surprised, isn't that so, dear Yrsa?" He tapped her forehead with his finger, smiling. "And so, sister, if you would...?" He extended his hand, and she slowly, reluctantly rose, her eyes still wide open, like a person walking while asleep. She descended down the stairs methodically, without thought, numb to everything. She arrived at her apartment somehow. She must have wandered through the palace for hours, the dusk was gathering now. She slowly sunk down onto her couch, staring at the patterns carved into the stone floor. Death. Death, after all she had slaved for. She had given her entirety, her body, her riches, her integrity, all for her claim to rule. It was her right, her destiny. How dare he deny her destiny? She was born to be Suðreyjar. She was the Isle itself. A rustling distracted her, and Merek meekly entered, carrying a tray. "Your evening meal, m'lady?" She nodded and waved him away, not lifting her eyes from the floor. She looked at the tray, a goblet of wine, clusters of grapes, and a spray of dried marigold flowers- probably to mask the taste of whatever had been added to her meal. She laughed, harsh and discordant as she looked at them, the laugh of a human in the clutches of the end. She picked up the goblet and crushed the tawny dried flowers into the liquid, watching them swirl. They said that those who consumed marigold petals were able to see the faeries dance. She admired the ivory bracelets on her arm for a length of time, and then raised the flowers and wine to her lips.

She took a sip of musty wine from the very rim of the delicate goblet, and then tipped back her golden head. She breathed out slow and heavy, feeling her chest collapse while her neck bent down...