Vanished

“The river ran backwards on the day the Queen vanished.”

The usual soprano tone lifting Princess Camellia’s voice is flat today, sombre. As she pauses to survey the crowd, sounds of stifled sobs can be heard across the bough.

“The blossoms furled their petals, the toadstools bowed, and the wind whistled through the Eastern Deadwood that day. I lost my sister four moons ago, but I can see looking at you today that you have lost more. She was a sister to all of us, a mother to our young, a leader to our lost, a guiding light in the storm.”

“This isn’t supposed to be an Eternism ritual. Queen Leilani isn’t dead.” Ivy hisses the last word through her toothy grimace.

Thistle drags his admiring gaze from Princess Camellia to stare disapprovingly at the ball of fury beside him. One look at the tears burning her cheeks and wetting her crimson lips softens his look to one of pity. A small piece of him even feels relief - relief that his mistress is the fairy giving the speech and not the one missing.

“The fairkin need comfort, even if it comes in the form of a goodbye,” Thistle murmurs quietly. “It doesn’t have to mean goodbye forevermore.”

“It’s - it’s so disrespectful. You think Queen Leilani would do this if it was Princess Camellia -” Upset as she is, Ivy clamps her mouth shut under Thistle’s black glare. “... You know this isn’t right.”

“That isn’t for me to say, nor for you.”

Thistle returns his attention to his mistress, resting his hands on the hilt of his sword. Princess Camellia lifts her chin in defiance of the grief squeezing her shoulders. The webbing of her long dress shifts in the breeze which pulls the train behind her with a regal elegance. Her cheeks aren’t as full or rosy as her sister’s, but seeing her stand upon the Leader’s Knot at the crook of the branch sends shivers down Thistle’s spine from the incredible likeness. Camellia commands the same awe and respect, and catches breaths with her delicate beauty just as Leilani did. As the sun begins its descent behind the horizon, its orange rays illuminate the opalescent sheen of Princess Camellia’s forewings.

“Four decades ago my father plucked the largest red rose he could find for his daughters and it has adorned the entrance to the palace since, kept eternal by Queen Leilani’s magic. For the first time since Leilani’s reign started, the petals of the red rose above the royal palace are falling toward the soil. The end of an era is always greeted with tears, just as it was for our mother, but fresh blooms await us.”

Oh, the world I will wander,

To look for your light yonder.

Thistle’s warm brown eyes widen as Camellia’s singing voice caresses his temples and releases the tension in his jaw, raising goosebumps on his skin. Being her personal guard, he has heard her sing and hum quietly to herself throughout the empty halls of the palace, but now her voice peels out without restraint, carried by the wind to her fairkin.

Hesitation smothers the audience. To sing is to acknowledge their loss, so when the voices begin to swell into song Ivy flits from their perch on the sidelong branch into the Mother Tree.

Under the first morning ray,

Bright sunshine, we find our way.

~

Oh, the world I will wander,

To look for your light yonder.

~

We fold our wings at high noon,

Remember your lovely bloom

~

Oh, the world I will wander

To look for your light yonder.

~

Setting sun, final hour,

Your light fills the moonflower!

~

Oh, the world I did wander

To embrace your light yonder.

As the last words are sung, the sun disappears and dusk bruises the sky with purple clouds pressing down upon the fairkin lingering to watch the moonflowers open.Thistle’s heart stammers in his chest a moment while he recovers from the striking show of emotion, then panics with the realisation he forgot to sing the words aloud.

From the sidelong branch he maintains distance as Princess Camellia accepts curtsies and deep bows from the common folk, and subtle nods of approval from the governing few. While it is the most practised interaction, each thank you and gracious smile she gives the fairkin seems genuine.

When the sky grows dark, Thistle catches the look from the corner of her eyes and flies directly to her side.

“Yes, Mistress?” Thistle bows, tucking his large wings into his shoulder blades, lest he offend Princess Camellia.

“I’d like to return to my chambers, if you would escort me.”

“Of course.”

Like a perfectly timed dance, the princess glides toward the hollow of the Mother Tree with Thistle half a wing length behind her, matching pace, slowing as she does during her farewells, quickening as she approaches the entrance, twisting as she goes up the ornate carved spiral boning of the tree trunk.

“You didn’t sing with us,” Princess Camellia says softly as they take the upper North exit toward the royal palace.

“Forgive me. I was too intent on watching and listening that I just… forgot,” Thistle says lamely.

“Always so observant.”

Despite not seeing her face, Thistle can hear the smile in her tone and relaxes slightly. “It was a beautiful tribute.”

“I’m glad you think so. I noticed Ivy left early.”

“Yes, she did.”

Silence accompanies the guard and his princess the rest of the way to her chambers where she bids him goodnight. Thistle waits until a young, flustered fairy zips down the hallway, coming to a screeching halt before she smacks into the unfazed guard.

“Good evening, Poppy. You are late, but don’t worry, not by long.”

Thistle holds back his smile as the slender girl smoothes her hair over and tucks her wings away before presenting herself to him, seeking his approval.

“You missed something.”

When she shoots him a quizzical look, Thistle raises a brow and taps the side of his neck. The colour drains from Poppy’s face as she finds the love mark just up from her collarbone.

“Golly gosh! Oh well, looks like I will be entertaining the princess with a story tonight, then.”

“Definitely, she won’t let it slide unless you tell her all about it.”

“I wish some of the secrets she spills are yours! I am tired of giving her dirt on me,” Poppy lowers her voice, throwing Thistle a pleading look.

“Sorry, I can’t help you there. I am not confessing anything to Camellia to distract her from you. I am not even sure I could trust Queen Leilani with a secret; she was a gossip!”

With a less-than-encouraging wave, Thistle bids Poppy farewell as she enters the princess’ bedchambers for the night. The palace halls are quiet, its walls a fortress against the sounds of fairkin returning home carried by the wind. The glow of the moon illuminates the foyer through the window slits and sparkles upon the magic shielding the palace from human eyes.

Exiting the palace, the moonlight catches two pieces of movement. Over his shoulder, Thistle notices the deep scarlet wave as another rose petal drifts toward the ground.

It is the second movement, less fluid than the first, which draws Thistle’s attention. A nimble figure darts across the rooftops of the palace, making the mistake of setting their foot on the magic barrier which bounces with elasticity and shimmers under the moon’s gaze. The fairy takes flight to escape the evidence but Thistle’s practised and keen eyes follow their path carefully. The figure dives into the foliage below, disappearing from view. Thistle leaps from his branch, freefalling, struggling to keep his wings tucked in as the air rushes up and pulls at his limbs. His target is outpacing him, and the branches grow thick below him.

With little choice left, his wings unfold and spread wide, lifting his body on the breeze as he glides around the branches on his descent. Startled gasps and murmurs from fairies homeward bound make him cringe. Lacking the subtlety of his female counterparts, Thistle’s wings are a sight to behold, with silvery threading shining brighter under the pale ivory moon than the blazing sun, delicate fans glittering like the inside of geodes.

Speed is a must, before his target spots their pursuer.

The guard spurs his wings into action, zipping through the tree crown and shooting out the underside of the canopy at top speed, and he finally catches sight of the mysterious figure curving South-West.

Curiosity shifts to worry as the fairy ahead crosses the first boundary line, then the second, before they sink to land by the riverbank. Thistle drops fast, landing in the damp soil with a thud, grabbing on to a blade of grass to rebalance, but is thankfully hidden. He trudges through the mud cautiously, folding his wings, and peeks out to the riverbank from the grass line.

The familiar shadow of Ivy stalks the riverbank, back and forth, inspecting the pebbles on its border, noting the water’s flow and pace. She leaps upon the closest moonflower with a spring from her wings, pulls her sword from her hips and slices a petal off. Thistle wrinkles his nose from the sickly sweet smell of death oozing from the flower.

“Ivy! Please, stop that,” Thistle sighs, emerging from his hiding place.

Her muscles lock her in place a moment before she relaxes. “Did you follow me? You saw me on the roof, didn’t you?”

“Yes, though I didn’t realise it was you until we landed here. The Queen’s guard shouldn’t look like she is up to no good.”

“Is that what you think of me? Up to no good? Yeah, alright, I broke the law by crossing the boundary, but how else are we supposed to find Queen Leilani if we don’t? Your princess insisted the Queen would return but she hasn’t, so I need to do something!”

As Thistle approaches, Ivy takes a small step back and repositions her weight as if to take flight.

“I won’t let you stop me. I’m done following Camellia’s orders. It is my duty to protect the Queen and I can’t let her down. I can’t. I won’t!” Ivy snaps.

“It isn’t safe for us beyond the boundary. Return with me, let me talk with Camellia for you to see if we can organise a proper guard party to go out and -”

“You don’t understand, Thistle. Remaining at the Mother Tree the last four days while Queen Leilani is out there somewhere has been the hardest thing I have ever had to do in my life. I am not going back.”

By the determined set of her jaw, Thistle knows Ivy won’t back down or return willingly. The fairy grips her sword tighter and waits for his response. Thistle weighs the consequences of breaking social decorum against the loss of a skilled guard and the threat of fairykin exposure to the world and commits to his next action without a second thought.

He flicks his wings out at full span, tilting the forewings to capture the moonlight. His wings steal the light beams and focus into a magnificent shine. The glitter bounces from his wings and hits Ivy’s stunned face. Her jaw drops and her prepared stance goes slack for the moment Thistle needs. He launches up onto the moonflower with Ivy and her startled eyes bulge as red flushes her cheeks and her sword is stolen from her hand.

As Thistle’s wings tuck back between his shoulder blades, Ivy blinks feverishly, air hitched in her throat, hands trembling. Within a few seconds, clarity of thought returns and she frowns at Thistle’s grip on her wrist.

“But… but that’s not fair. How dare you?!” Tears well in her angry hazel eyes. “How could you? You liar!”

“I can’t express to you how sincerely sorry I am, Ivy, but it is too risky to let you go alone, unprepared. But… I didn’t lie, you know. If I had really been wooing you, it wouldn’t have looked like that. There is more to it than flashy forewings.”

Anger turns to fury. “I know there is more to it than that! Don’t talk down to me as if I don’t know better, you stupid, insensitive, HEARTLESS-”

“I didn’t mean that, you know I didn’t. Come back to the Mother Tree with me, and I promise I will make it up to you and do everything I can to convince Camellia to formalise a search party and-”

“Don’t waste your breath, Thistle. I know you two are close but she won’t let anyone leave. I have already pleaded to her with no success.”

The argument is stolen from Thistle's lips as the petals of the moonflower flex and bend above, furling inward to encircle them.

“What the - how -” Ivy’s voice goes quiet.

Her body feels hot against Thistle’s as they are wrapped in the flower by its petals. Ivy’s eyes fixate on the river as she peers through the hole left by the missing petal sliced by her sword. Thistle ducks his head to follow her gaze and his jaw drops.

The water is running backwards upriver.

“It’s happening again!” The Queen’s guard can’t contain her excitement as they crawl out of the flower. “Queen Leilani must be returning.”

In the distance, the horrific sound of the wind roaring through the Eastern Deadwood floods Thistle with dread, but not so much as the Palace horns fighting against the overwhelming noise.

The alarm has been raised.

As Ivy’s hope deflates, Thistle’s stares at the red lights dotting the Mother Tree’s canopy and feels his world crumbling beneath his feet. He knows without needing to return that Princess Camellia has vanished. As he looks back at Ivy, the pity and sympathy holding her features sickens him, and he falls to his knees.

Minutes pass with the pair’s silence broken by the echoes of commotion back at the Mother Tree as the fairkin scramble to find their princess.

“If you go back now, they won’t let you leave again to find her. Trust me.”

Ivy’s rebellious confidence tempers Thistle’s determination, and the pair inspect the outer boundary for signs of the royal sisters in a new unspoken agreement.