Fairy Bride: Prologue (Patreon)

Content Warning

The Fairy Bride explores sensitive and intense topics. We at Team HeartWorks advise discretion for any readers who may find the following offensive, disturbing, or triggering:

• Kidnapping, slavery, and forced marriage
• Abuse, coercion, and power imbalances in relationships
• Sexual harassment, assault, and rape
• Mental health issues, including depression, anxiety, and Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD)
• Discrimination towards racial, ethnic, and religious minorities, including discrimination against immigrants
• Misogyny, homophobia and transphobia
• Ableism
• Hateful and offensive language, including slurs
• Childhood bullying and child abuse
• Classism and economic inequality

Though we always strive to create engaging and inclusive spaces to explore these topics honestly and respectfully, we hope all of our supporters prioritize their health and well-being first.

Additionally, this is a non-canon side story exploring what would have happened if Spencer had succeeded in capturing L at the end of Chrysalis book 1.   

Click here for more information on Fairy Bride
Or Click here to read Chrysalis, the story this spins off from

And with that, we proudly present:  The Fairy Bride


++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Prologue

London, late August 2018

“I brought her from the collection.”  Spencer Harcourt picks up the glass, holding it beneath the chandelier light.  “Do you like her?”

She can’t answer.  Can’t even move.  All she can do is sit, smile, and listen to the rain.

Listen and try to ignore the man showing her a dead butterfly.

He shakes the display case so that the pins rattle.  Tiny, frozen wings jerk in mimicked flight.  “Polyommatus icarus.  A Common Blue.  She was my first catch. Back before I left school, before I joined Parliament, before I got involved in all these bloody…”

He giggles nervously as he lowers the glass.  “Affairs.”

He’s taken her to a spacious dining hall, the height of luxury.  Fillet mignon on fine china, rich mahogany chairs and forks of real silver.  Gilded walls and jewelled candelabra.  The storm outside rumbles through ornate windows.  She tries to focus on the soothing way the rain taps against the glass, but the dull iron bars bracing the inside seem to hurt her eyes as much as they’ll burn her skin.

She can feel Spencer Harcourt studying her face, searching for a reaction he knows she can’t give.  Try as she might, she can’t look away.  His eyes are a bold, piercing blue, like a reflection of the butterfly’s wings.  Brighter than bright should be.

His blonde hair is matted with sweat, his glistening smile flickering.  He anxiously grabs his drink, downing it in a few seconds.  She’s lost count of what glass of malbec he’s on.

He says it helps calm his nerves.

“There’s these nice gardens in Oxford, with no people.  Just trees and flowers and sunlight, the Thames peacefully flowing by.  It’s… perfect.”  Spencer leans down, reaching for the bottle beneath his seat.

“Just like you.”

She feels a pain through her gut as she watches him try to hide the way he strains.  It reveals what his appearance hides, how much older and larger he is than her.  She smells his cologne, even from here, mingling with the minty taste left from the last kiss he forced on her.

“Some days, I needed that place.  To think.  When people laughed at me, refused to listen… I’d go alone, sit beneath an old oak, let everything build and crash and-”

Spencer stops himself, taking a moment to drink.  This glass of wine is finished as quickly as it was poured. “... then she came.”

He taps the display.  “At my lowest point, she fluttered through the sky and settled on my knee.  So small and simple and… beautiful.  I can still almost…”

He holds up his hands, fingers shaped in a frame.  His eyes grow distant as his voice fades.

“... picture it.”

A crack.  A roar.  Lightning and thunder.  It illuminates Spencer’s face, flares blue against the black of his suit.  It’s too hot for him to be comfortable, but he’s already told her that he won’t take it off.  It’s tradition, he says, and they can’t break tradition.  He must wear black, just as he’s forcing her to wear white.

“When I saw it, I had to reach out, touch it.  I had to know that it was real, not some figment of my mind.”  Spencer parts his hands, miming the motion.  “So I lifted my hand, gently, gently, but-”

He stops.

“She started flying away.  Leaving!  I cuh-cuh-”

Spencer breaks into a coughing fit.  She’s noticed he keeps doing that, whenever he’s about to stutter.  Like the wine, it’s been getting worse the later the night goes.

“... I made sure she stayed in place,” he continues, running a finger along the glass.  “She was just too beautiful.  I had to see her again… and again… and again.”

Spencer gathers his breath, staring deep into her eyes.  Just as he does, lightning strikes again, shining against her frame.

“She’s happy now, my Common Blue.  I gave her a home.  A marvellous display.  And all the care anyone could ever ask for.  Now, she’s safe.  She’s loved.  And she’s not alone.  She has thousands of friends, crickets and beetles, ants and bees.  Friends who don’t hurt you.  Friends who are loyal, and good, and never, ever leave.”

Purple light flares on the jewelled brooch he bought her, illuminating the white silk dress it pins in place.  She can see her reflection in the polished plate she’d emptied hours ago.  Soft skin, and tumbling pale-grey hair.  A sparkling smile.  Brown, gentle eyes.

“When I finish the spell, they’ll be your friends, too.  When we complete the Rite, you’ll feel exactly the same.  Our wills will be one, our souls will unite.  And we will love each other forever.”

A pair of antennae sweep down from her head, tasting his fear in the air.  And on her back, stretched wide and waving slowly, as if in a breeze, are a pair of moth wings.  Silvery-green and grey, rather than the deep blue of the butterfly below the glass.

But still held in the same pose, without glass or pins.

“Doesn’t that sound like everything you’ve always wanted... Daphne?”

He grins at the name.  It makes her wish she could scream.

But she can’t scream.  His spell won’t allow it.  His words echo in her mind, over and over, a faint voice driving her mad.  She can’t move. She can’t speak. She can sit, and smile, and listen.

Exactly as her Keeper commanded.

Still giggling, Spencer takes his fork and plays with his food.  His plate is pristine, all but untouched.

“I still can’t believe you’re really here.”  He looks up again, his fork empty.  “I mean, I read the stories.  Selkie skins, feather cloaks, but… well, a few years ago, I didn’t even know Fae were real, and yet there’s a whole Market full of you not a half-hour stroll from work!”

He swallows anxiously as he pours another drink.  “And even after all the magic I’ve studied, the research I’ve done… I never expected to have a real, living fairy bride just walk through my door!  Heh, a part of me still thinks I’m dreaming.”

Spencer spreads his hands again, as if inviting his silent audience to comment.

“I mean, I have to imagine it’s a little stunning for you too, isn’t it?  I’ve read a lot about nymphs, Daphne, I know it’s not in your nature to be alone.  You want to be loved, not… not singing in some dingy bar to buy your name back.  Not that you’ll have to buy it back, anymore. I’ve, heheh, covered it.”

There’s no response.  He uncomfortably looks away.  “I don’t suppose you were expecting that kind of love from a human, but it’s not so strange, is it?  Remember how excited you were when I pointed out those were Modest Sphinx wings?  It’s like we were made for each other!”

Another glass down.  “I might be missing the usual leaves and branches, but you don’t need to be a dryad to Keep a nymph!  Clearly!  Just the right words, the right materials, and an eensy bit of fairy magic and bam!  Instant love!”

He claps for effect, before placing a rough-textured sheet of parchment on the table.  The ink squirms in the light, moving like something living.  She can feel a kindred movement in her wrist, a reminder that the Fae glyphs at the bottom of the contract are now marked into her skin.  She can read them, even though the language is foreign to her.

‘Daphne, Kept of Spencer.’

“I’ll admit, I wasn’t planning on getting us this far tonight.” Spencer blithely brushes the parchment aside.  “I know these things are common in the fairy world, but it was only our first date!  Yet you’ve been so enthusiastic!  You accepted my dress, you crossed my threshold.  I showed you the nest and… heh, you just leapt straight into the chase part!  Even faster than I planned!”

Spencer looks up at her again, his eyes focused somewhere beyond her shoulder.  His stutter’s picked up a gentle quaver.

“I can’t wait for that moment, Daphne.  When you’ve offered your flesh as I’ve offered my blood. It will feel… so…”

A shrill, piercing alarm cuts through the air. Spencer flinches, checking his cell phone.

“... magical.”  He straightens himself, checking the time.  “Heh, silly me, I completely forgot!  Time-out’s over, darling!  Let’s see…”

Spencer drags his gaze back to her.  The air around him shifts, bright tendrils of white and gold flash, slashing through the blue like veins of fire.  He smiles.  “I allow you to move and speak freely, darling.”

She jerks upright, gasping for air.  Daphne’s lips won’t stop smiling.  They refuse to bend, not without his permission.  It doesn’t matter.  She’s not wasting this chance.

“We puh-puh-probably shouldn’t dally,” Spencer chuckles, pulling at the collar of his shirt.  He’s too busy staring at the phone to notice the soft scuff of her chair sliding back from the table.  “It’s almost midnight, and if we wait much longer, the spell won’t - HEY!”

She leaps from her chair and tears down the hall.  Her legs, bruised and sore, still carry her.  Her antennae are overwhelmed with fright, but it doesn’t matter.  She couldn’t get out of the front door last time - his magic wouldn’t let her - but he has to have missed something, left a window unbarred, anything -

“You’re ordered to sit at the table!”

“NO!” Daphne screams.  Her body stops dead in its tracks.  Turning, she walks mechanically back the way she came.  “God, please…”

Somehow, Spencer has the gall to look wounded.  “I thought you Fae were good at manners.”

Daphne pulls back her chair, breathing unsteadily.  “Sp-Spencer-”

“Spence!”  He interrupts, clapping his hands.  “You should keep calling me Spence!  That nickname at the bar?  I thought it was really cute - ”

“Fine, Spence, whatever, please.”  She swallows, and her throat feels like sandpaper.  “L-look, If-if-if you just let me go, I-I won’t tell anyone - ”

“Oh, shhhh,” Spencer groans, waving dismissively.  “Not now.  We don’t have time for your little nymph games, Daphne.”

“Stop calling me that!”  She shudders, her body uncomprehendingly lowering into the seat.  “My name’s not Daphne!”

“Stop being silly!”  Spencer smiles, lifting the parchment.  “We can read the contract again, it clearly says - ”

“I never signed that fucking contract!”  Daphne inhales, shivering.  The iron from the windows.  It’s so close here.  Like standing in a midwinter field.  Just how much has he installed in this house?

He lowers the parchment, grimacing.  “Y-You don’t need to sign! The name’s a gift!  Don’t fae like gifts?”

“Well, I don’t want it!  I already had one!  Daph… Laphne…”  She strains, trying to fight the magic coiling around her tongue.  “It wasn’t fucking Daphne, it was Daphne… D - …dAA - ”

“Darling, I know it was ‘L Morgan’, you don’t have to hurt yourself.”  His smile becomes a grimace.  “But… can’t you just try my name out?  I spent a lot of time picking it!  And, uh, no offence, but among my sort of people, L’s a little, uh… s-stripper-y.”  He blinks a few times.  “My father would flip if I tried to muh-marry a cuh-cuh-consonant-”

“Marry!?”  Daphne’s voice recoils, even if her body can’t.  “This isn’t a marriage!  It’s a bloody kidnapping!”

“No!  Don’t say that!”  Spencer slams his hand on the table, sweat from his brow gleaming in the dim light.  “We agreed!  No more mean words!”

Daphne laughs.  She can’t help it.  It bubbles up without permission, terrified and incredulous.  “What else could this be!?  Y-you chased me through your house with a gun - ”

“It’s the chase!  The books said you’d like it!”  Daphne’s antennae can taste his panic in the air.  What books?  She’s lived in the human world her whole life, she’s never seen any books.  Is he making it up?  Is he telling the truth?

“C-can I at least stop smiling?”  She looks at him, pleadingly.  “Please?  It’s been hours, my face hurts - ”

“But why would you want to stop smiling?”  He shrugs to an invisible crowd. “I don’t understand nymph emotions!  One minute, you’re fine, the next, you’re getting all scream-y.”

Her breathing picks up.  “Spencer-”

“Spence!”  He corrects again.

“Spence, please!  Y-you cast a spell and now I-I can’t do anything without you telling me!  That’s - that’s slavery!  Look me in the face and tell me it’s not - “

“It’s not!” Spencer yelps.  “It’s tradition!”

She blinks, struggling for words.  “Whose!?”

“YOURS!  Nymphs!  I know all about your little Court rituals -”

“I don’t have rituals!” Daphne wails, wishing she could ball her hands into fists. “I’m not a real nymph!”

“Heheheh, oh dear!  Silly Daph’s back, here to tell me she’s not a nymph.”  Spencer rolls his eyes, pouring another glass of wine.  A few droplets slosh over the rim.  “As if I can’t see those great big wings!”

“Can you please just listen?!”  She tries to swallow down her fear.  “I was raised human.  By human parents, around humans like you!  A nymph just - ”

“‘Merged with you,’ mhm,” Spencer interrupts, just as she knew he would.  “Some sort of changeling business?  She gave you a new body, you’ve only been in the Market for a month - see?  I’ve been paying attention, I’m listening!”

“I was a boy!  A human boy!”  Daphne can feel her wings flexing.  Calmly, gently.  Utterly at odds with the edge in her voice.  “Doesn’t that bother you!?”

“Of course not!”  He smiles like he’s trying to stretch the expression across his face.  “Daphne, I’m in Labour.  I’m a progressive!  Changeling, trans, I don’t care!  We can all look past our little… heh, imperfections.”

“Trans?”  She blinks.  “N-no, I’m not trans.  She merged with - ”  Daphne closes her eyes, fighting back the panic.  “...it won’t work.  The magic.  It’s not going to do what you think.”

Spencer pauses.  “Heh.  Buh-but i-it seems to be working fine to me - ”

Something flickers in his eyes.  Not much, but it’s the first reaction she’s gotten.  Daphne pounces on it, her heart thrumming.  “But you said it would make me happy!  Do I look happy?  Have I said I want this?  Have I?”

She’s met with silence.  Spencer chuckles awkwardly, his body slowly curling into itself.  “Well… heh, i-it isn’t as if I’ve done a Keh-Keh-Keeping before, is it!  I-I’m sure when it’s complete - ”

“You’re guessing?”  Daphne’s voice rises.  “You’re trying to enslave me on a bloody guess!?”

Spencer’s smile grows glassy.  His hands creep up, rubbing at his temples.  From her seat, Daphne can see his fingernails dig in.  He’s muttering under his breath.  If it wasn’t for the antennae, she wouldn’t catch more than a garbled whisper.

“Sh-sh-she doesn’t mean what she’s saying.”  Spencer’s eyes flick back, then up, away, anywhere but the still, poised figure across from him.  “She’s - she’s just fussy!  She’s never had a Keeper, she’s a Shorn, just a wild nymph, they’re supposed to be like that.  She’s testing you, that’s all, that’s all…”

The rain’s hammering against the window, overwhelming the quiet torrent of words from across the table.  The sound grows and grows, thundering over her, swelling until it seems to fill the whole world.

Until it stops sounding like rain.  More like wingbeats against the glass, or s̷̕͜o̶̢͌m̶͈͆e̷͖̊t̴̤̄h̴͙͆ĩ̸̖n̸͈̾g̷̢̑ ̴̭̚s̸̟͠c̷͈̐r̸̡̂á̷̡t̵̘́c̸̫͂h̴͖͒ḯ̵̦n̷̦̓ǵ̷̨ ̸͍̅i̶̗͑n̵̢̐ ̷͈͑t̴̨͑h̵͈̆e̴̬̿ ̷̹̀d̸̨̎ä̷̭́r̶̰͘k̶͔̂.̵̳̀..

Daphne shudders.  She knows what this is, who this is.  The creature Spencer Harcourt thinks he wants.  The woman whose wings sprout from Daphne’s back, who sent her down this path before she could even speak.

Lyra.

She’s stirred before, even taken control when Daphne was unwary.  She can feel the nymph’s thoughts rustling through her mind now, both like and utterly unlike her own.

P̴͎̀l̷̞͂e̴͇͝a̸͈͑s̸̛͚e̶̗̿.

Daphne squeezes her eyes shut, trying to force her back.

L̶̲̂e̴͈͠t̵̩͗ ̷̟̅m̵̝̏e̴̞̅

She can’t face this.  Not now.

L̵̹͌ḛ̵̕t̷͖̎ ̵͕̃m̶̝̚ḙ̷̂ ̷̻͐H̴̠͂Ḛ̴̑L̶̤̑P̷͈͘ ̴̭̚

Daphne shudders with the vehemence of the thought, even through her enforced stillness.  Claws scrabble through her mind, hunting for purchase.

H̷̬̍ȩ̵̕ ̵̮̓w̵̬͒o̴̦͆n̴̦͂'̶̨̈́t̷̻́ ̸̪͌l̷͍̀e̶̱͠t̷̞͂ ̵̙̈y̵̫̎o̴̻̽u̴͈͋ ̴̧͊ḡ̴̠ŏ̵͈ .

Her stomach roils as she looks at Spencer, still lost in his own panicked reverie.  Everything aches.  She can’t trust the nymph, can she?  Whenever Lyra takes control, there’s no telling how long she’ll stay.

H̵̢͝ḛ̴̉ ̴͉̎ẅ̶̟́i̶͓̇l̶̳͊l̶̩̀ ̸̜̈́m̶̨̔a̴͚̎k̸̙̑e̴̿ͅ ̵̰̐y̸̡͋ȏ̷̲u̸̟͠ ̵̙̂Ḋ̵̘â̵͔p̷͑ͅh̴͉͆n̶͈͒ē̸͜ ̵̜̈́f̶͚̋ó̶̖r̸͚̔e̸͇͗v̷̛̻e̸͖̊ȑ̵͚.̶̭̋ ̷̹̈́

And whenever Daphne’s lost in her mind, it’s impossible for her to take it back.

̴͉̒ḁ̶̄ń̸̤d̸̺̈ ̸͇̔w̵͔̑e̵̬̾'̶̫̂l̸̬͋l̶̮͛ ̷̟́b̸̠̔e̸͈̚ ̸̡̂ţ̴́h̷͎͛e̶͓̎ṟ̸͠ẹ̶̈ ̷̣̕f̶̤̉o̵̩͊r̸͎̅ ̵̠́a̶̯̒l̶͚̍l̴̮̈ ̸̭̃ỏ̴̩f̶̖̃ ̵̬̈́ḭ̷͆ṭ̶͘

“No!”  Daphne hisses, shoving the voice aside.  Finally, quiet.  It’s just the rain.  Her thoughts are her own, she’s awake…

“Daphne?  Are you okay?”

… But ‘awake’ isn’t much better.

Spencer stares at her, eyes wide and blank.  The malbec bottle dangles from his hand.  “It’s…it’s almost midnight.”

Almost midnight.  She’s running out of time.  She has to do something.  Anything, anything to keep from losing herself.

To either of them.

“Sp-Spencer.  Spence.  I…” Daphne whispers.  She can feel the tears trailing down her cheeks, framing her bright, awful smile.  “You don’t h-have to worry, okay?  I’m… I’m not going to run away.”

It’s not a good lie.  She can’t make herself sound even halfway believable - but the haunted look slips from Spencer’s gaze, and his smile returns.  “Really?”

Oh, thank God.  Daphne forces herself to breathe.  “Of course!  We just… missed each other, didn’t we?  It’s a misunderstanding.”

“Y-yes, yes!”  He nods so quickly that she wonders if it hurts.  “I- it’s just…nymphs are - yuh-yuh-you’re supposed to understand.”

“I know, and I do now.  I promise I do.”  She speaks as soothingly as she can, trying to calm him like some wild animal.  “I know you wouldn’t hurt me on purpose, right?  You’re a good person.  Remember what we talked about on the date?  You said you were trapped in a little box, and that you wanted so badly to get out?”

“I-I do!”  He pushes his hands into his head, struggling to speak.  “Daphne, I’m so tired of-”

“Shhh, I know.” Daphne whispers.  This is the closest she’s gotten.  She hasn’t been silenced yet.  “That’s why I’m here.  We’re both trapped in our boxes.  Can I tell you about mine?”

He nods, silently.  She breathes slowly.  Deeply.  This might be her last chance.

“I didn’t choose these wings, or this body.  I didn’t choose to be a nymph, and I didn’t choose to be a girl.  Somebody else made those choices for me, and I’ve had to…to hide them, to live with them.  When…when I went to the Market, when I started to learn about me, I got to leave the box.  I got to make my own choices, just for a little while.  And even if I was afraid, I was free, and that was…”

The memories flood through her.  Loneliness and longing.  Joy and adventure. Terror and excitement.  A teardrop rolls from her chin, falling unseen upon the tablecloth.

“...better than anything before.  Spencer, it… it doesn’t have to be like this.  I know you want to do the right thing, and I promise, if you do I will love you.  Just please, please, don’t take my choice away.”

“Your choice?” Spencer asks.  Lightly, liltingly, almost a sing-song.  He doesn’t look like the charismatic politician she first thought he was, or the terrifying monster he’s become.  He looks like a boy, lost and grappling with a question he doesn’t quite understand.  “You’d…choose me?”

“Yes!” Daphne laughs, the breath shooting out of her lungs in one relieved burst.  “You can trust me, Spence, just… don’t make me be Daphne.  I want to stay me.”

The silence comes creeping back in, and so does Lyra.  Something in his blank, uncomprehending expression sends her howling through Daphne’s mind.  She blinks, forcing the whispering voice back down, and when she opens her eyes again, his head is resting on the table.  He’s looking at the butterfly behind the glass, his fingers pressed against the case, watching the reflection of the lightning outside play over its bright blue wings.

“But… you don’t have to choose.  You’re already here.  And if I do this… I know that you’ll choose me.”

Daphne’s eyes go wide.  “Wha… n-no, Spence, listen to me, that’s not a choice.  Th-that’s not love.”

“How am I supposed to know what love looks like?”  Spencer lifts the case above him, waving it as if the butterfly had taken flight.  “All I know is that someone beautiful is in front of me. If I act now, she’ll love me.”

“We can go on another date!”  She babbles desperately.  “I’ll forget everything, I won’t tell anyone, it will be nice and fun and normal.”  She forces her smile wider.  “I promise, I won’t scream this time - ”

“But if I don’t, she’ll run right back through the door.  She could be mine.  Now Tomorrow.  Forever.”  Spencer sits up, his hands closing around the glass case.  Clutching it to his chest. “... I just need the strength to take it.”

“NO!”

Her voice rises above the rain, anger and terror crackling.  “You…you can’t FUCKING DO THIS!”

“Stuh-stop,” he flinches, and his eyes spring up to her.  “You-you’re too loud-”

“TOO LOUD!?”  Her heart rockets in her chest.  The shrieks behind her eyes are growing stronger and s̸̮̎t̶͎̔ȓ̵͚ȏ̶͚n̴̯͊g̷̣̕e̷̙̊r̴͈͛.  “YOU’RE MAKING ME YOUR FUCKING SLAVE!”

“Shut up, SHUT UP!”  He rises to his feet, slamming the table with such force that his dinner slides off the plate.  The spell holds Daphne in place, keeping her from flinching away.  “These are MEAN WORDS!”

“It’s the truth!”  The tears just keep falling and falling.  “And whatever you call it, whatever lie you tell yourself, the truth won’t change!  If you steal my life, I will never love you!  If I’m stuck as your bride, I will never be happy!  And… and…”

Her breath hitches, her head spins.  This can’t be real.  This needs to be a dream.

She can’t be staring at her forever.

“And… if you rape me to seal this spell -”

“STOP!  I order you to stop!” Spencer shouts, his voice cracking, light sparking from his eyes.  “Stop saying ‘rape,’ stop saying ‘slave,’ just… just…”

He sinks back into his seat, wrapping his arms around himself, trying to stop his shoulders from shaking.  “... I just want you to be happy.”

Daphne leans over the table, her eyes reddened and shining, her smile fixed in place and showing every tooth.  When she speaks, it’s only a whisper.

“I don’t have to say a word.  You know the truth, and you always will.  Spencer, I will never stop hating you.”

Silence.  His face is buried in his knees, she’s stuck in her horrible pose.  Nothing sounds between them but the rain.

He doesn’t manage to look at her.  He can barely cough through his stutter.  “I order you to be silent.  Go back to the nest I made for you.  We will perform the Rite there.  As tradition demands.”

Daphne lurches to her feet like a broken marionette, tottering off down the hall, each step perfectly spaced from the last.  Lyra is becoming relentless.

L̷͠ͅẹ̷͘t̵̘̓ ̵̘̕m̷̘͌e̴͉̓ ̶͙̋l̵͓͒e̸̫̚ẗ̶̥́ ̴̳̐m̶̘͘e̸͍͋ ̸̜́l̵̲̆ȇ̶̖ẗ̸̤ ̷̬̀ḿ̵͚ë̶͔́ ̶͖̅Ò̷̫U̷̝͝T̸͈̈́ ̵̺̒

Suddenly, she feels skin on her wrist, hideous and cold as ice.  Her body turns around without her input.  Spencer’s standing there, weaving unsteadily, his smile fading in and out like a dying light.

“Daphne, I…”

He shudders, and closes his eyes.  Slowly, he licks his thumb and starts sliding across her cheeks.  Wiping the tears away.

“Smile more, Daphne.  A nice, big smile.  It’s your special day.  You should be happy for it.”

Her lips pull back.  Her teeth shine a touch more.  And once her smile matches his, Spencer lets her off to march towards their perfect future…

… while he stays behind her, alone.

Slowly, Spencer walks back to his seat, lifting up the butterfly case.

“Just a little longer, Spence.  The stories promised this, and the stories can’t be wrong.”

His Common Blue flourishes in the lights, but he pays no attention to her beauty.  Instead, he focuses on the only thing he can ever see, the tiny scratch on one of her majestic wings.  A mark so small that he’s the only one who could possibly notice it.

“When it’s over, she’ll be happy.  When it’s over, she’ll never have to hide.  She’ll be in love forever, and…”

His voice grows weak, and the glass starts to rattle with his trembling.

“... in the end, you’ll make this right.”

+++

The rain is quiet here, more distant.  Muffled beneath layers of wood and paper and glass.  Still, it creeps in at the edge of her senses.  Like the smell of heather on the bed, or the feeling of straw under her feet.  She has no choice but to let it all in.

She has no choice about Lyra, either.

I̷͈͐ ̴̘̿c̸͍̃a̷̼̿ñ̸̞ ̴̺̄s̶̗̾t̶̙̓ó̴͉ṕ̷̯ ̵̫͝h̷͉̅ǐ̸̬m̵̩̄ ̸͚̐I̵͕̒ ̶̛̯C̸̳̅Á̵̟Ṋ̵̿

The nest has changed since she saw it last.  It’s still tucked away in the corner of Spencer’s bug collection, his hall of trophies, hidden by a wooden panel.  It still smells of new construction, rough and heady - but there’s new scents as well.

Lavender petals, lemon balm.  Spencer must have been back here, strewing the room with herbs.  They string along the dangling lanterns and layer the pelt-covered bed, so thick that her antennae want to curl away.  It’s barely even a nest.  Now it looks more like a den.

Worse than that are the posters.  They all depict her, standing beneath a spotlight, singing for the crowd.  He must have gathered them from the ads they posted around the Market for her debut.  She sees the wings, full and proud and free.  Her, on stage, bold and happy and living.  When she first saw them, plastered all across the walls, they seemed like a stalker’s shrine.  Now, just a cruel mockery.

But the mannequins are the worst of all.

They’re all roughly her size, dressed in short white gowns.  The garments are identical to the one he presented her with earlier in the night, before everything had gone insane.  Their blank faces are shrouded by bronze masks, intricately worked into elaborate shapes, the angles picked out by clever gears or sparkling gems.  It’s almost ornate enough to hide just how much they cover.

Before she fled the room, Spencer told her they were supposed to help nymphs serve.  All she can see is how they blanket mouths and eyes, stop ears and smother antennae.  They’re meant to make her

h̵̡͑e̸͓͝l̸̢͊p̸̱͘l̸͕̍e̸͔̓s̵̱̐s̴̮͛ ̸͖̀Ḯ̷̞ ̴̘̍ẘ̸̘i̸͉͌l̸͇͑l̴̰̃ ̷̛̲n̸̖̏e̸͙̽v̴̜́è̷̦r̷̗͘ ̶͉̃b̴̬̆e̶̝̾ ̶̰̃h̸̘̀e̴͍̒l̵̝͘p̵̤̒l̴̺̃ë̵̗s̷̟̋s̵͈͊ ̶͇̊N̷̘̈E̷̲̍V̴̢͊E̸̙͛R̷̳̓ ̴̞́n̵̘̈́e̸̫̍v̷̮̎ḛ̴͂r̶̲̾ ̸͇̀y̸͎̓ò̵̖ü̵̟ ̴̜̋h̷̢̍a̷̯̕v̶̗̈ẻ̶̝ ̵̧́ṫ̶̰ö̵͓ ̶͕̽l̴̯͘e̵̪̓t̶̤̆ ̵̨͌m̸̫̀e̵͉͛ ̴̀͜õ̸̟u̵̻͝ẗ̵̠́

I̴͈̐ ̸̬̑w̵͕̉ȧ̴̤n̶͉̑t̵̮̂ ̵̪̓t̴̖̎o̵̳̾ ̷̼̔ẖ̶̑e̴͒ͅl̸̗͝p̸̾ͅ

Daphne can’t believe her.  She can’t allow herself that hope.  Whatever fragments of the fae woman exist inside her, they’re dangerous.  Lyra stole her body, long before the Market stole her name and Spencer stole her will. No more trusting.  This must be another snare.

She pushes the whispers back once more, willing herself to think of something else.  Her mum’s protective warmth, her father’s quiet certainty.  Peppermint tea and drowsy afternoons.  Her friends, cheering her and teasing her and so, so far away.  She tried to call for help, it had to have gotten through, someone had to have heard the message, why -

“Daphne? Look at me.”

Her eyelids focus, and her head lifts.  The shadows fade.  She’s dragged back to the nest, to the mannequins, the posters, the distant rain.

And Spencer.

“Would you like to hear a story?”

Her Keeper doesn’t face her.  He’s taken the largest mask from its silent model, running a thumb over a thick plate meant to cover the eyes.  Spencer presses his forehead into the metal, cold on his beet-red skin.  His eyes are dry.

“There once was a beautiful island, in the centre of a crystalline lake.  It was empty of anything but grass and trees and other growing things.  It was the home of a beautiful, magical swan.”

Spencer’s reciting the words as if they’re a speech he’s prepared.  His voice is barely a whisper.

“Her magic was in her cloak, built from grey feathers.  It hid her from the world. Without it, she could walk through the bushes and boughs as a human.  And when she longed for the stars, she could throw it on and take to the sky.”

He peels himself from the mask, studying the distorted reflection it casts back at him.

“Every evening, and every morn, this swan would glide on the horizon and dance across the lake.  She was graceful. She was beautiful.  She soared.  So high and bold and joyful, she caught the attention of someone below.”

“A fisherman had first seen her on an early-morning catch.  He would spend hours a day watching her, wanting her.  But no matter how careful he was, he could never approach.  The smallest noise would startle her away.  If he dared to speak, she’d only grab her cloak and fly from him, as fast as she could.  So, he…”

Slowly, he gathers his breath.

“He took the cloak, and made sure she stayed.  Not because he wanted to do anything wrong to her.  But because he knew that by taking it, he could help her soar higher and further than she ever could on her own.”

Spencer tries his hardest to look at her, but the best he can manage is a hesitant  side-eye.

“That’s what I want for us, Daphne.  No fear, no hardship, no heartbreak.  This can be our fairy tale, can be our ‘happily ever after,’ and I will do everything in my power, use all the resources that I have, to make sure that it is.”

With a step, he brings the mask forward.  Daphne feels her breath hitch.  Her eyes tingle, her throat grows raw and painful.

“One day, you’ll know.  One day, you’ll understand.  When you are flying higher than you’ve ever flown, you’ll look down and see that I’m not a monster.  Because monsters, darling, cannot love.”  He turns away from her eyes, looking at the walls.  “I order you to say, ‘You’re not a monster, Spencer.’”

“You’re not a monster, Spencer.”

The words are toneless and vacant.  Daphne barely comprehends what she’s saying.  The mask fills her whole world.  Electric white fire reflects in its polished curves, shining from Spencer’s eyes. He’s not done.

“Say, ‘You’re not a coward.’”

“You’re not a coward.”

His smile returns, cracking his waxen face.  Spencer thrusts the mask toward her, tilting her chin up with a shaky hand.  “I command you to put this on, Daphne.  It will help.”

She doesn’t feel her fingers as they wrap around the bronze, doesn’t register the weight as she lifts the helmet over her head.  She only stops when he raises his hand.

“Ah! Carefully! We… wouldn’t want you getting hurt.”

Her empty smile shines as she lowers it carefully.

Oh

so

carefully.

Spencer is lost beneath blackness.  Metal presses into her skull and padding meshes with her sweat.  Her antennae enter tubes of their own, a world of sensations suddenly cut off and silenced.  She feels a hand on her shoulder, another cupping her cheek. She wants to pull away, shove him back.  There has to be something she can do, anything.  She can’t move, or see, or speak, but maybe… if she… she…

“I command you to say, ‘I love you, Spencer.’”

D̷͙̃O̶͐͜N̶̪͋'̵̦̋T̸̯̔ ̶̩̇L̸̥͒E̵͙͐T̸̞̀ ̴̻͘T̴͎̿Ḧ̵͎Ĭ̶̮S̵̜͐ ̴̬̑H̴͚̽Ā̶͚Ṕ̶͙P̴̯͋Ė̴͉N̸̦͘

“I love you, Spencer.”

His lips press against hers and his body coils around her own.  Daphne can feel the tears welling up in her eyes, hidden beneath the mask.

His fingers glide across her skin, her jaw, tracing the contours of her trembling lips the same way he traced the mask.  “This is the last step. The final seal.”

Inside her, something screams.  Daphne can’t tell if it’s Lyra anymore.

“The Rite requires a sacrifice of my blood, and a sacrifice of your flesh.  I’ve given you my blood.”

His hand travels down her dress, until it reaches her hem and thigh.

“Now, it’s your due.”

In Daphne’s head, Lyra goes berserk.

L̵̊͆E̴̓͐T̴̚͝ ̷͔͊ ̶̾̊

M̷̄̕É̶͙ ̵́́ ̵͐̑

Ő̸͛Ū̶͑T̶͌̐

He reaches up the dress and grabs at what he finds.

Spencer is relentless.  One hand holds her frozen form, the other kneads her breasts, her ass, her crotch.  His lips are warm and wet, his fingers cold and invasive.  Lyra howls inside her head, thrashing against the bars of her invisible cage.  Daphne can feel her as clearly as him, biting and clawing and cursing for a control she doesn’t have.

A belt falls on her bare, unmoving feet.  She can hear him fumble at his clothes, the hastening of his breath.  Her dress is pulled above her, snagging briefly on the mask, and she feels cold, stale air.  Lyra’s screams merge and blur into a constant, all-consuming sound.

Like the rain.

It’s too much.  It’s all too much.  She needs to move, think, breathe.  She feels fur on her skin, scents of heather and straw flooding her nose.  Daphne tries desperately to move, her body tingling at her thoughts.  There’s nothing but wood and citrus, lavender and hay, nothing she can do but s̵̖͌m̸̠̬̑͠i̴̫̤͗͗l̷̞̏e̷̥͂̑w̷̺̚h̴̖͐i̴̗̓l̷͔͑ê̴͓

“-hic-”

She releases a sound.  A soft, quiet whimper.  It’s all the spell allows her as something long and hard thrusts inside.

Spencer enters her, again and again.  Her stomach twists, her body tightens, and her mind fragments into a million pieces like shattered glass.  Stinging pain blurs and envelops the room, the rain, life itself within it.

Lyra is there waiting for her, no more than a voice whispering on the threshold.

M̴̗͊a̷̝̿k̵͔͝e̶̜͊ ̸̙̊a̷͖̋ ̴̢̀c̸̨̚h̵̞̐ö̵̖́ḯ̵̡c̸̢̿e̷̲͛

“I love you, Daphne,” he gasps.

I̵̡̋ ̴̘̈́c̶͚͋ạ̵̀n̶̮̔ ̴̭́s̷͈̃ḁ̷̾v̴̝̒e̸͉͝ ̴̣̄ẙ̸͉ơ̸ͅṵ̷̚

“You’re okay, you’re okay…”

Ḧ̷͙è̵̝ ̶̝̿w̶̡̆i̵͕͝l̸̝̑l̶̙̽ ̶̟̄n̶͉͛e̷͂͜v̵̫̌ë̶̘́r̶̪̕ ̶̠̀l̵̲̓ę̷̈t̷̬̀ ̸͉̾ẏ̶̧ǒ̸̝ǘ̵̟ ̴͜͠b̷͈̃é̸̗ ̴̗̊L̶̬̉ ̵̖͛M̶̺͂o̸̯͂r̷̭͝g̸̩̎a̴͖̍n̵̠̎

His lips graze her skin.  Her claws wring through her mind.  And as Spencer thrusts inside her, as Lyra gathers in the dark…

… Daphne makes her choice, with all the will the magic has left her.

N̷̩̉͘͝Ö̶̡̪́͗̐!̸͕̉̕ ̶̢͔̋͊Y̶̩̯̍͆͆O̷̯͂̑͠Ú̸̱̱̞ ̵͕͙̄C̴̛̩̃͌̍͒A̶̝͙̜͚͈͗͆̂̓̒͝N̴̨̨͔̬̗͔̽̓̒͗'̷̡̫̅̈́͒͌͠T̸̢͕̺̥̼͛͂͆̉ ̵̹͋̎̋̂Ḑ̵̧̰̜̯̬͔̂̓O̵̡͓̞͌̈́̆́͋̎͆́̚ ̶͉̍T̸͇̼̩̭̤̤̻̈̄̒͘͝H̶̬̝̙̑̍͋̾̃̎͝Į̵͙̱̰̣̫͈̠́̚S̴̡͖̱̱͚̠͓̻̅͑̑̍̀̆̓̄͝

And she chooses neither.

In the centre of her mind, in the very core of her being, she slams a door shut as hard as she can.  Something howls beyond it, screaming like a trapped animal, but Daphne refuses to hear.  They’re fighting over her, the two of them, squabbling over which box they’ll force her into.  It doesn’t matter.  She knows who they’ll both kill once either has their way.

The woman she once was, no longer is, and must one day be again.

Daphne chooses L Morgan.

She will fight for her, no matter what’s done to her, no matter what’s taken.  For the chance she always deserved, for the name she doesn’t have, for the future that’s been stolen.  She can not, will not, ever surrender.

They can have her mind, her body, but she will never give them her.

Finally, Spencer pulls away.  His fingers leave indents on her skin, and his sweat covers her body.  But nothing inside her changes.  She gains no new feelings, and her hatred never fades.  Spencer and his stories were wrong,

The mask hangs heavily on her head as her tears slide from its padding and trickle into her smile. She tells herself that they’re the last of her tears that he’ll ever see.

Lyra is gone, somewhere behind the door.  The darkness dissipates, the claws recede, and the sharp-edged crystal of her voice is silenced.  One day, Daphne tells herself that L Morgan will fight her, too.

Something powerful washes over her, warmth and wind, golden light seeping in at the edges of the mask.  The seal is made, the Rite complete.  Daphne is now Kept and Spencer Harcourt, her Keeper.

She will see him every night, and he will see her every day.  Her will is his to bend, her being is his to define, until there is nothing left, or he becomes nothing first.

She’s far away.  Her broken body hangs limp on the bed, her shattered breath returning.  She still can’t move.  She still can’t speak. Even after he pulls her free of the mask, hours will pass before she sees.  All she can do is smell the flowers, and listen to the rain.

And beneath the storm, the magic, the pain and sorrow and heartache, Daphne still smiles.  A tiny, unbreaking smile that will never reach her eyes.

Exactly as he commanded.


continue reading ->