“I love…” Fynn began, struggling with the words.
Clothis watched him carefully, unaware of the whispered voices that surrounded him like flies. He was clearly troubled, his face wrinkled in distaste as if he had just eaten something sour. He was being plagued by something, and Clothis felt helpless beside him.
“My duty,” Fynn started again, “is to my Queen.”
Done!, the voices sang joyously. The Queen beckons you.
Fynn nodded and turned to face Clothis. He seemed angry at whatever decision he had been forced to make, but his face was also full of determination. He bowed to Clothis, and smiled a quirky half smile to her.
“I have made my choice,” he said. “You make yours. If you stay to the forest, the Huryl capital is not far. Find Leila and bring her to these Woods.”
“But the Prince is expecting her,” Clothis argued.
“This is more important than your prince,” Fynn snapped. “She has been promised to us!”
A sudden whirlwind of leaves erupted around Fynn, blowing his hair and hiding him from view. Clothis watched until he was gone, her eyes never leaving his. He was full of pain, she thought. As the wind died down, Fynn was gone. Clothis sighed and adjusted the sword on her back. It would be a long walk to the capital for a girl who was dead.
Fynn reappeared in a world that could almost have been mistaken for the one he had left. He was in the forest, but the air had a misty quality about it that hung heavily in the treetops. The grass shimmered with undying dewdrops, sparkling in the silver light that shone from a hidden moon. An unbidden smile played on his lips as he began to walk, ignoring the giggles that followed him. Occasionally, he caught sight of a cherub like face that stared at him from the trees, but he ignored it. The faeries of this world were mischievous, and he knew better than to provoke them.
He entered a glade where a tall silver oak grew, towering above all the other trees. At the base of the oak was a throne that had grown from the tree itself, the seat made from intertwining branches. Fynn approached the throne and knelt before the woman who sat there.
“Aefynnelldar,” she said. “Your choice pleases me.”
Fynn raised his head to look at the Faerie Queen. “You knew I could choose no other, my Lady.”
The Faerie Queen lifted one white skinned hand to the silver locket that hung about her neck and touched it fondly. She smiled at her servant, her icy blue eyes softening slightly. Her silver hair shimmered with the same radiance as the tree behind her, but it was not eclipsed by the shine of her silver gown.
“You will forget this girl, Leila,” the Queen commanded. “Forget her, and return to your true task.”
Fynn hesitated a moment. The Queen lifted a perfectly formed eyebrow at him, waiting for his response.
“My Lady,” Fynn said hoarsely, “You know I cannot forget Leila. She won’t let me forget Leila. I am yours, but I am also hers.”
“You cannot be hers,” the Faerie Queen snapped. “You are not hers, and you are not the girl’s. You are mine! I made you, Aefynnelldar.”
Fynn kept his head bowed. “As you wish, my Queen.”
There was a chattering of faerie voices around the throne. Fynn waited patiently as the Queen listened to them. Her spies were everywhere, in the realm of Faerie as well as in the mortal world. Everything he did was known to her.
“You let the mortal go?” the Queen asked.
Fynn winced at her tone. “My Queen, I had to.”
“You can have only one mistress!”
“And that mistress is you, my Lady, but I cannot turn against my own kind anymore than you can.”
“They are not your kind,” the Faerie Queen snapped, becoming agitated by this conversation. “You have forgotten your kind. They are all dead.”
Fynn said nothing, waiting for his mistress to regain her composure. The faerie voices around him whispered and laughed, enjoying watching the embarrassment of the Queen’s favourite. A few long moments passed until the Queen spoke again, this time in a softer voice.
“You agreed to do her bidding. You placed yourself in her hands, Aefynnelldar.”
Fynn said nothing, ignoring the tears springing to his eyes. He hated to deceive his Queen, the beautiful faerie whom he loved, but he could not bear the thought of abandoning Leila either.
“I have no choice, Aefynnelldar. You will always be my favourite. Do as you must, but know the penalties for leaving the Woods. You cannot ignore your home for long. You will return to me.”
Aefynnelldar raised his head to look in the Queen’s blue eyes. “I will always return to you, my Queen. You are my soul.”
Fynn rose to his feet, bowed to the Faerie Queen, and disappeared in a swirl of leaves. He returned to the Spirit Wood with his thoughts racing. Should he follow Clothis and help her find Leila, even though he would have to leave the Wood? Should he wait here for Clothis to return? There were so many decisions he could make, having been momentarily freed from the service of the Faerie Queen.