Fairy Bride Ch28: The Fairy Bride (Patreon)

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The car winds through the mountains, the road illuminated by moonlight alone.  Beyond the distant sounds of parties and cricket song, a silent darkness hangs over Daphne.  She focuses instead on the window, and buries her worries somewhere deep inside her chest.  Beyond the glass, the night becomes a blur of palm trees framing a clear sky.

Clear.  Not raining.  No matter what comes, Daphne needs to hold onto that fact.

There’s no rain.

Spencer shouldn’t be driving.  His erratic turns reveal his drunkenness. But  Daphne won’t speak out against him; it’s not a Kept’s place to do so, and she doesn’t have the strength for words.  He’ll get them where they need to go.

They drive through a tunnel that opens into a field.  Poppies and irises and lavender.  Daphne presses against the glass, pretends it's the flowers outside flooding her senses.  She thinks back to the first time she entered his car, the night Spencer took her to the gala.  She was expecting something like this, even then.  Her mind had tumbled through a dozen questions: Will she make a mistake?  Will he know it’s her first time?

Is it going to hurt?

“We should have another malbec when we get home.”  Spencer eyes her from the side, trying to force a smile.  “Set the mood.”

There’s an edge in his voice, like she heard on the patio.  He’s not asking.  He’s being strong.  “If you think it’s best…”  She swallows.  “... Keeper.”

Daphne forces herself to repeat the mantra in her head. It will be easy.  He will be gentle.  I’m going to enjoy it.  It won’t hurt.

On the margins of reality, Daphne hears rain.

She rocks as the car slows.  Spencer’s hand leaves the gear, and his foot lifts from the clutch.  In the headlights, she spots a black door and white walls.  The mere sight freezes her, but Spencer keeps moving.  Out of the car, around the front.  The headlight makes a silhouette of his footsteps.

Her door clicks open, his cologne floods her nose, and her eyes look up into his face.  Muscles taut, brows bent.  Showing no quarter.

“I’m giving orders,” He says firmly.  “When I speak, you follow.”

“Spence…” she whispers.

“Quiet.”  Spencer puts a finger to her lips.  “You don’t need to talk anymore.”

Her heart skips.  Her cheeks burn.  Her stomach falls.  The rain grows louder.

“Nod if you understand.”

Daphne nods quickly.  Deferentially.  Fear surges in her heart.  But another feeling, too.  Relief.  There’s heat in her breath, and warmth in his smile.

Spencer steps back.  “Unbuckle your seatbelt.”

She does.

“Stand up.”

She stands.

“That’s it,” Spencer whispers.  “That’s all you need to do.  Listen and obey.”

Listen and obey.  Listen and obey.  How simple it is to listen and obey.

Daphne stands frozen as he takes her chin in hand, petting her cheek.  His breath smells like mint.  A hand slides through her hair, and slowly draws across her spine.  She sighs loudly at the sensation, her body growing warm.

That’s a good thing, right?

Daphne barely feels his fingers as Spencer pulls the glamour free.  In a single, swift motion, the world unravels around her, a flash of magic light.  She hugs herself amidst the golden sparks and rushing winds.  Her breath clinging to the tang of heather and straw.  As her antennae unfurl, new sensations join the old: dew on the grass, the salt of ocean spray.  They even sharpen the blue of his eyes.

Bold and bright and piercing.

“Heels off.  Wings out.”

Her breath hitches as she slides her feet from her heels.  Clutches the sides of her white dress.  Lifts and opens her pale blue wings as far as the chains allow. For a moment, he studies her in a daze.  But Daphne closes her eyes as he approaches, pummelling down the sensation of fur on skin.  She’s not indoors.  She’s not in that bed.

It’s a clear night.

Spencer circles behind and puts a hand on her wings.  Scratching the scales, inspecting the silk.  Daphne shrivels when he tugs on the chains, pulling her into his chest.  She hears him unlatch them, and feels the cold bronze chain slither away.  His fingers loop through the piercings, holding her in place.

“Who are you?” he asks.

Daphne exhales shakily.  Her chest tingles, like when they kiss.  “I’m yours.”

Another gasp as his hand finds her dress.  “Keep going.”

“I’m your nymph,” she shudders.  “Your wife.  Your Kept.”

“My Kept,” he repeats.  A large hand slides over her antennae, and she tastes his sweat, his oils, his warmth.  Her knees wobble, and the flowery scents grow.

Spencer’s not done.  “And who am I?”

Daphne closes her eyes.  “... My Keeper.”

Something unzips, and in a fluid movement, her body’s prickling against the cold.  She tries covering herself, but Spencer pulls the arms down, unhooking her undergarments and letting them fall to her ankles.

“Listen carefully, Daphne, because I won’t repeat this.  Go to our bedroom.  Find the leather case.  Open it, and put on whichever mask most strikes you.”

The rush of feelings make her dizzy.

“When the mask’s fastened, secure, you will stand in front of the door and wait.  Wait and prepare, until I arrive.”

She’s only catching every few words now.  Bedroom.  Leather case.  Mask.  Wait.

“Go.”  Run.  Daphne manages two steps before he pulls her back.  Clutching her wrist, right above the black text that marks her ‘Kept of Spencer.’

“Cover yourself with your wings,” he whispers.  “I’d like to unfold them.”

She doesn’t nod.  Doesn’t smile.  Just bolts for the house of black and white, bare feet on grass and stone.  Running, running, running.

Until she crosses the threshold, and ducks behind the door.

Spencer stands unmoving, watching her go.  When he can’t see her, he withdraws a pack of cigarettes and sticks one in his mouth.  As it lights, his eyes linger on the crumpled white dress, the gilded heels, the abandoned bronze chains.  He’s never seen her naked before, he realises.  For three years, he’s always walked out, always looked away.  Even the night of their Keeping, she was clothed.

But nothing stands between them now.

He’s going to take his time.  Have a drink, finish the cigarette. For her sake.  A final few minutes to adjust.  To his own surprise, Spencer’s hand doesn’t shake.  He thought his mind would be afire with worries.  Instead, it’s shockingly blank.

A hiss.  The cigarette’s flame burns his fingertips.  Spencer shakes it to the gravel and stomps it beneath his shoe.  Keeping his breathing steady, and his eyes on the door.

In the weeks since she’s surrendered, Daphne’s lost the need to remind herself why she should follow orders.  She knows it’s her place.  She knows he’ll be upset.  She knows that if she doesn’t, her life falls apart.  Those thoughts have become so instant, so natural, that there’s no point in thinking them.

And yet she’s kneeling here.  Staring at a dozen bronze masks.  Unable to obey.

They glisten beneath the bedroom’s lights.  Sheets of metal, adorned by glittering purple gems.  Outside, rain thrashes the glass, and entire fields of flowers seem to be wafting in.  Every breath is a little more difficult, her body pressing itself further and further in.  Daphne has to clutch the leather case to steady herself.  Biting her lip so hard she might draw blood.

Pick one.  She can at least do that.  There’s many options to choose from.  This one covers her mouth.  That one her ears, another, her eyes.  One even covers them all.  She tries to strategise; which one would please him most?  Would it be easier if she can’t see him?  Or maybe a gag, because then she might not be kissed and Spencer won’t hear her whimper…

The thoughts dwindle to nothing.  Her eyes set on the centre mask.  Bronze and heavy, designed to cover the antennae and eyes.  It’s the first one she wore.  She can feel it now.  The weight pressing on her skull, the padding sticking to her forehead, forming a layer of sweat.

She can’t pick that one.  It risks too much, brings so much bad back.  But she reaches for it, all the same.  Knowing that she could never choose another.

Daphne pulls it up by a carved wing, the metal cold in her hand.  She turns it over, studying the padding, when a voice flashes through her head.

Will you ever be able to love him?

Soft, distant, and almost forgotten.

Is this how we’re going to die?

Daphne tries to swallow the whisper down, remembers the joy she felt this night.  The music, the dance.  His laughter.  The wine.  No fights, no screams, no blood or straps or orders.  How could it feel the same tonight when all the rest was better?

But still the voice grows louder.  Still she feels her body respond.  A fierce sting with each pause.  A white flash with each word.  Until one thought stands bright, lightning to the thunder in her ears.

Your child will look like Spencer.

Spencer waltzes through the darkness, just like his wife before him.  With the house lights off, the city is intrusive in the distance, a burning glow of neon lights.

The bedroom door beckons to his right.  But Spencer turns left, to the rack of wines.  Eyes squinting at the obscured labels until he realises that he doesn’t need malbec.

There aren’t any nerves to calm.

Whiskey.  Spencer opens the nearby cupboard and rifles through the bottles, settling on a high-end brand.  The sound of glass rings out from the counter, followed by a careful and melodic pour.  His nose curls at the scent.  Heavy, honeyed, and wooden.

He notices the enclosure after his first sip, perched atop a black table with four white chairs.  Plexiglass walls with a plastic top.  A bundle of sticks carrying a tiny creature.  The butterfly’s right where they left her, after the song.  Daphne must not have stopped to say ‘hi.’

“We’ve travelled far, haven’t we?”  Spencer smiles and leans his elbow on the table, lifting his drink to the Alpine Blue.  “You must be so confused, watching us giants.  Nobody ever stopped to explain Keepers and Kepts and Keepings to you.”

Spencer pauses, catching a flutter of her pale blue wings.  Or, at least, he thinks he does.  It’s hard to see that far away.

“Well, perhaps I can explain now, through a story.  That’s how I learned about her people, after all.  Folklore and fairy tales.  Just today, I heard about a fairy bride.  Now, those are very common, going back.  Swan maiden cloaks, selkie skins.  Always a tragic warning that humans and fae should never cross.  Except, well… for the story I read today.  It’s a story about a little moth…”

Spencer’s eyes glaze.

“... and the man who saved her.”

“Once upon a time, there was a little moth with a beautiful voice and gorgeous wings, but she had no idea how to use them.  Her whole life, she’d been taught to fear.  To hide and run and stow away.  In desperation, she sang.  Of joy and freedom.  Of a world where she wasn’t alone.  And you would have it, somebody listened.  A human.  He, too, spent his whole life hiding, so when he heard about her dream, he thought it was one they shared.”

Spencer exhales, with difficulty.

“The man never wanted to hurt her, L.  He wanted the moth to have shelter.  To feel safe.  But both the moth and the man were scared of each other.  Scared of being boxed in.  Scared of being alone.  And when those fears came true, and their nightmares awoke, they screamed and cursed and ran until he…”

His lips tremble.

“... He did so many things that he had never wanted.”

Spencer takes the glass and swallows.  Trying to wash three years away.

“He tried to make amends.  Giving gifts, or making her smile.  So many things, so many times.  But every day, the moth grew weaker, hated him more.  And the man stood by and watched and listened.  He knew she’d die in anguish, and that he’d die to join her.  That's how the stories always end, L.  That’s the ending he deserved.”

Spencer looks up at the butterfly.  “But one day, he realised something else. They were trapped in their pasts, too guided by the same fears.  But that didn’t have to be tomorrow.  He could build a new future, one they controlled.  And would you believe it, L?  The second he started building, the little moth flew down to join him.”

Spencer stares into the distant city, a dull smile reaching his eyes.

“‘How did the story end?’ you might ask.  Well, I haven’t read enough to know.  But if I were to picture it, it’d end at a table, just like this.”

He extends his hands, mimicking the frame of a camera.

“Sun shines through the windows, and there’s crickets chirping outside.  The little moth sits there, with the man she loves, and their children.  Two girls, or two boys, or one of each, it doesn’t matter.  They’re smiling and laughing and vibrant.  Her face is always shining and the light reflects so beautifully on her wings.”

He feels his eyes glisten.

“She never feels fear or hardship or heartbreak, L.  Because she’s not being hurt any longer.  She’s finally somewhere she can be safe and open and loved.  And that makes him happy, too.  He’s surrounded by people who love him.  Who smile when he walks in the door.  People he can look in the eye without feeling-”

He shudders, and sobs.  Quickly puts a hand over his eyes, before collecting himself.  Like a Keeper should.

“... That’s how it goes, L Morgan.  The man and the moth prove every story wrong.  They live happily ever after, and in the end…”

Tears slide down his cheeks.

“... he made it right.”

All of Daphne’s muscles twitch as she clutches the mask.  Outside, she’s still pristine. Her training’s been thorough.  But Daphne feels it with every retreating breath.  A war rages inside, and the rain couldn’t grow louder.

The voice screams.  Not with words, but with the past. Furs on skin, hands on breast.  Lavender petals in her fingers and bits of straw scratching her feet.  The longer she stares, dead-eyed, at the bronze, the more reality loses tenure.  Sensations come from beyond the nest.  Iron hangar, broken glass.  Snow-capped peaks and shadowy tendrils.  Ocean waves, jacuzzi waters, and a dozen different voices, bidding her to scream.  To fly.  To kill.

To surrender.

Every defeat, and every triumph.  All those battles led to this.  Where she started?  Something greater?

In the margins of consciousness, she hears her Keeper speak.  She’s running out of time, and the voice inside knows it.

Daphne winces in sudden pain, falling to her knees.  Her stomach writhes like a serpent’s coiled through it, and her head rings like it’s been struck.  The voice rages on, louder than any command:

NO!

I won’t let you do this!

This can’t be the end!

Daphne opens her eyes, lucid for a moment.  The wooden scent and heather.  The lemon balm and rain.  These aren’t Daphne’s memories.  They’re someone else’s tools.

I gave up too much!

You were going to fight!

Distantly, Daphne remembers the first night.  Lyra’s claws and bell-like song, whispering inside.  But the nymph isn’t singing today.  She’s burrowed far too deep.  So if a voice is fighting Daphne…

YOU PROMISED!

… it must belong to her.

Daphne can’t help but smile.  Of course.  That changeling got so far, didn’t she? Further than anyone wanted.  She’s worked so hard to keep up this war.  It was foolish to think she’d go quietly.

L Morgan never stopped fighting.  And that makes Daphne proud.

But still, Daphne stands.  Holds the mask above her head.  Tells herself that the sky is clear, and yesterday won’t be tomorrow.  With mechanical motion, she slides the bronze over her forehead.  Embraces the darkness that shrouds her eyes and ears, and learns at last which of L’s conjured sights and sounds she’ll be fighting.

Because Daphne learned to fight, too.  Read the same books and trained by the same hands.  But she won’t war for a fading past.  Fragments of a self doomed to burn away.  She’ll fight for a war that can be won.

A future she can hold.

A life that she can live.

And if L Morgan wants to take that from her, she will make sure L Morgan never wins.

So Daphne stands before the door, pulls her wings over her chest.  Locks the mask in place.

And gives herself to Spencer.

Spencer gives himself a moment, before walking towards the butterfly’s cage.  Holding it with careful arms, and keeping it even against his chest.

“Come on, L,” he whispers.  “It’s time to meet their mother.”

Spencer cuts the lights before he enters, so that the room is lit only by the moon.  Each colour is made starker in the shadows, all dark or all light.  The sounds of the Mediterranean still roll through the window, but the room before him is silent and pristine.  Just like her.

Spencer can make out the fuzz of her antennae, and the glint of the bronze over her eyes.  Blue scales, cast over her silvery pale body, making her look to the world like a flower about to bloom.  She’s still, exactly like he ordered, and Spencer feels something rise at the mere thought.  With shy lips, she smiles.

Spencer slides off his shoes and unbuttons his shirt. Her antennae quirk when his belt falls to his feet, but nothing more.  Still, he’s scared to step forward.  Like he’d break a mirage.

It’s the first time he’s truly seen the beauty of his fairy bride.

Eventually, though, he walks.  With calm, even steps.  His breath grows hot as he approaches, and she gasps when he grabs her wings.  Pulls them slowly back, to reveal the naked body beneath.  She really is delicate.  Small and fragile.  Maybe half his size.

It’s a miracle he didn’t break her.

“Uhm…”  Daphne starts, her smile trembling.  The mask bobs with her head as she tries to peek through for light.  “H-how do I look?”

His eyes linger on her breasts.  Youthful.  Petite.  Her silvery hair hangs by the shoulders, and he takes it in his fingers as his other hand moves towards her side.

“You look like an angel…”

She gasps as he grabs her thigh.

“... but you don’t have permission to speak.”

Daphne shudders.  What parts of her face he can see glow red.  Spencer pulls her close, wraps his arms around her.  She leans in, open and defenceless.  Something presses on her belly.  He barely hears her whisper.  “Guide me.”

And then she obeys, and does not speak.

Spencer slides his hand further.  He spins her around, listening to her chirp in surprise.  It makes her muscles loose, and her breath hitch.  She falls into his arms, and he leans to hoist her up.  Their bodies are warm against each other.  The mask sets into his bicep, so that with each rhythmic pull, he feels cold bronze.

A moan escapes her lips.  Deftly, he embraces her tight, preventing her from lifting her arms.   Her breast fills his hand, and with his motions, she starts rocking.  He takes the chance to pull her face up by her hair and lean in for a kiss.  Daphne’s breathing is soft and warm.  Twitches give way to softer cries.  Her antennae tap against his hair, touching it like fingers.  He reaches down, and his eyes spark.  Yes, it’s real.  It’s happening.  She’s pleased, and almost ready.  He can feel his body responding.

Spencer guides her towards the bed with gentle steps.  Kissing her lips in rapid succession.  “I love you, Daphne,” he whispers between them.  “I love you, I love you, I-”

The sentence is lost as he takes her in another eager kiss.  A long sigh is her only reply.

Everything feels hot.  The world is growing dizzy.  Spencer gives into the sensations, turning their bodies so they land gracefully on the bed.  He’s so much larger than her.  So much stronger.  Like he could swallow her whole.

Slowly, Spencer’s fingers slide up her arms, clutch her wrists, and pull them over her head.  Daphne does nothing to stop him.  He moves carefully, testing her, listening to her quiet sounds.  Spencer grips her legs and pulls one over, making room for himself in between.  He climbs over the white covers, sweat on his face.  He hasn’t felt this young in years.

Spencer focuses on her smile.  Light and inviting.  Beckoning him closer.  It makes him smile, too.  Wider than he ever has.  He leans down, bites her neck, and -

“- hic -”

Stops.

She gave out a little sound.  A hiccup.  So tiny he can barely hear it.  But he does, and the world freezes.  His eyes grow.  The pain in his gut writhes.

Spencer knows what that hiccup means.

No.

No.

NO!

It didn’t happen.  Of the thousands of thoughts that rush through his mind, that’s the first to stick.  You heard the wind. Or a rattling door, or ANYTHING but that!  She wouldn’t do that, Spencer. SHE’S HAPPY!

But the training-

DON’T THINK ABOUT THE TRAINING!

Daphne doesn’t move, and Spencer’s not sure she can.  Maybe she’s lost in memories, or pleasure, or she’s fallen asleep.  Not resisting, ripe for the taking.  THERE’S NO SIGN.

Except for her eyes.  Her eyes are covered by bronze.  He’d have to pull it away to check.  But what if he doesn’t check?  He doesn’t have to, does he?  Keepers can do what they like, and she’ll like it.  She’s not human!  It doesn’t matter!

He looks frantically around the room.  Imagine putting your hand on her belly.  Hearing that little kick. That can be your future, Spencer! YOU DON’T HAVE TO BE BAD!

His eyes settle on the cage.  The moonlight shines on its tiny denizen.  Bright. Blue.  Beautiful.  Perfect.

You can’t be wrong if she’s telling you you’re right.

You can’t be a monster with a bundle in your arms.

But then he blinks, and sees the cage again.  Four plexiglass walls.  A little plastic top.  And a creature laying amongst the fallen twigs.  Her wings are ragged and torn. Her body stiff and unmoving.  Caught in one final motion.

Spencer releases his wife.  L Morgan is gone.  Just another insect, dead beneath the glass.

A voice trails back into his mind.  Soft, and soothing, and full of care.  Spoken lifetimes ago, in an eon he only barely recalls.

“You’ll never be what they want you to be, until you let their voices win.”

Spencer turns around.  Daphne’s still smiling, her arms lifted, her breathing heavy.  Slowly, he reaches up, his hand shaking as he grips the weighty helm.  But he freezes.

What happens if it’s real?

Will you ever stop being a monster?

Spencer’s face sets.  No more running.  No more lies.  Daphne is human.  And her feelings will always matter.

So Spencer lifts the mask away, and sees his Kept

his love

his wife

for the very first time.

Sweat layers her brow, joining the indents left from the padding.  And as Spencer sees her face, his dreams collapse around him like sand falling through his fingers.

Tears.  White faced and terrified.

Spencer flings himself off the bed.

“Spence…!” he hears her cry.  Spencer leans on the wall, hacking and retching.  He feels a hand on his shoulder and jumps, frantically pushing back.  Her touch feels toxic on his skin. Just like his must have always felt to-

“I’m sorry!  I’m so sorry!”  Daphne pleads.  “I-I can still do this.  Please, I-”

Her antennae twitch, and she races for the bed, coming back with the mask.  She forces it into his arms.  “Put it on!”

“Daphne, Duh-Duh-Daphne,” he stutters.  “Stop, st-stop!”

“Please!”  More tears fall down on her cheeks.  “Spence, Spence, don’t panic!  You can f-fix this.  Order me to stand still.  Order me to stop crying!  Whatever you need!”

She jolts when he grabs her wrist.  Tightly, firmly.  Holding it up and staring at the mark.  Phantom sensations flow through both of them.  Lemon balm and blood.  Frozen lips and screams.

“Put your clothes on, Daph.”

“NO!”  She squirms, terrified of disobeying an order, but presses on.  “Don’t you want us to be happy?  Don’t you want to meet our kids!?”

“I can’t do it!”  His breathing picks up.  “I won’t.  It’s wrong.  All of this is so wrong,  And doing more won’t-”

“It has to!”  She interrupts, tears in her eyes.  “I won’t be mad, I won’t hate you!  It’s the only way we work, Spence!”

“I’m not raping you!”

Daphne blinks, stunned.  She tries repeating the word, held back by the magic of his old command.  “R-...ra…rayyyy?”

“I don’t care if it’s the only way.  I don’t care if we ever work.”  He grabs her by the shoulders until her eyes meet his.  “I love you, and I can’t hurt you again.”

She looks at him, her smile flickering, gone and then there again from second to second. “But…”  Daphne looks down at the mask, polished and ominous in his arms. “Sp-Spencer, I… I can’t live like this!”

“I know,” he whispers. “I know.”

“This can’t be my everything,” she starts to sob.

“It won’t.”  He reaches over and pulls her into a hug, letting her rest on his shoulder.  Daphne buries herself into him. She tries to speak several times, but her words keep falling away.  He can feel her bob against his shoulder, dampening his skin.

“Daphne, listen to me, listen to me.  I know you’re scared, and so am I.  But we’re finding a way out.  I don’t know how, but we’ll find it.  Not as Keeper and Kept, but as husband and wife.  We’ll find a way where we can both live.  Where I don’t have to be a monster…”

He struggles for words, too.

“... and you never have to hide.”

She cries.  A high, shrill wail that washes over them like the waves beyond.  And in that cry, the barriers between them burst and the masks over their faces break.  They melt into each other’s arms.  Releasing three years of guilt and pain and heartbreak.

The lifetimes that they’ve lost.

The countless could-have-beens.

They grieve together.  Names and pasts forgotten.  Freed from all the Keeping demanded they keep.  Embracing all truths their naked bodies bare, and weep until the dawn.

Hey everyone.  Hope yer alright :’)

I’ve got so much to say about this ending, but none of it can be captured quite like the text itself.  Instead, I’d like to invite you all to see how Spencer and Daphne’s story really ends in Chapter 29: A New Name, coming Friday, January 26th.

I promise, it will get better.