Brief Warning
This chapter is a bit heavier than the first one. There is a brief depiction of domestic violence, as well as a description of a panic attack. If you wish to avoid those parts then you should skip from (Dread curdles low in her stomach when he turns to her. Fury contorts his features until he does not look human anymore, all snarling teeth and clawed hands.) to (Odile knows the voice, she trusts it, perhaps even loves it.) in order to avoid those parts.
I hope you enjoy this chapter despite its heavier topics.
Sitting by the swan maidens to meditate when Sieg is not around to draw their attention remains a quiet affair at first. The maidens are wary to speak with her and Odette seems reluctant to come closer than five feet. They may have agreed on a course of action, but Odile remains the daughter of the wretched king who has cursed them all. The sins of her father rest heavy atop her shoulders and she can never hope to make up for any of them. They stack and stack atop each other, yet Rothbart is king without it being questioned. Odile glances to the other woman. She wishes to speak, desires to get to know the person that has mesmerized her for so long. Yet, she cannot find the words, cannot wrestle the sounds from her throat. Perhaps she does not have to, when Odette speaks up, eyes still refusing to meet hers.
“How long have you been trapped here?”
Odile swallows, swallows down the need to affirm that she has never been trapped here and instead tries to count the passage of time by how often she has felt the first winter’s chill creeping along her skin.
“It must have at least been something close to twenty cycles, I believe. If time has been kind that is.” She cannot truly know, not with how much this place refuses to adhere to the tides of time.
She might be a lot older, perhaps only just a few months younger than that and it would not show on her body, not yet at least. Odette nods, seems to analyze her words thoroughly as if Odile has hidden a lie within them. They fall silent once more. It is calming, she thinks, despite the tension trapped in the space between them. Odette always seems ready to fight or argue, while Odile is constantly fighting the urge to run and not look back. Maybe they cancel each other out. Odette is not fighting the king with bloodied knuckles and bared teeth. In turn Odile cannot find a reason to bolt. It is a fragile kind of peace.
“Does he notice your absence? Does he care?” Something about the words stings, makes her tense up.
“Even if he does, he does not know of what I do. I would not be here otherwise.” The ‘obviously’ is lodged in her throat. She has to be kind, not hurt at words Odette does not realize the full meaning of. Although, the idea of the king finding out about her comings and goings almost causes even the words she speaks to lodge themselves uncomfortably in her throat.
It is sharp, sudden, when the blonde turns to face her fully. Eyes rake over her body, stopping at every tiny scar, at every blemish that has branded Odile. She has never bothered to cover them, but with Odette watching her like this, she does not want to seem anything but perfect and perhaps even strong. The attention makes her itch, makes her scoot backwards only for the other woman to still reach out to her. The hold on her wrist is loose and she wishes Odette would stop looking at her like she knows the blemishes mean the king had cursed her too at one point. She does not want her to know.
Yet, she does not pull away, even when the touch scorches her skin. It burns, to be handled with such gentleness. Her heartbeat hitches when slim fingers traces the subtle scarring the feathers have left behind. It is done with such softness that Odile wants to weep. Instead, she merely watches, breath caught in her throat. Odette leans forward then, tracing the scars up to her shoulders. She smells like clear water, earth and pine, like the forest has taken her as one of its own.
“Can you break it? The curse I mean, you are his after all.” The words are breathed into the space between them, quiet and hesitant.
“I do not know.” It is perhaps only half a lie, still ugly.
“Will you try? If we break free he could never dream of catching us again.” Something dangerous, something like hope sparks in Odette’s eyes.
Odile herself does not dare reply. The ‘we’ rings within her thoughts. It traps all the ‘I have tried’s behind her lips, before they can tumble out and ruin whatever it is she has here. She manages a nod. This promise of trying again is all that she can give, is all she can do, because nothing about herself is strong enough to face the king atop the hill. She draws away then, draws back into herself and Odette lets her.
Once she has left the lake behind, Odile runs. She is not sure what it means, if Odette truly wishes to leave with her instead of just leaving her. Can Odile even leave without the king hunting her down? She is terrified and yet also bursting with a kind of joy that feels like the curse breaking kind. It is only muted once more when she steps back into that cold, cold place with its twisting walls and the dark corners that swallow all light.
Odile reaches her room, realizes her knowledge of fae magic is still oh so limited. It always relied on the older teaching the young. Of course her father has never risked teaching her anything that might cost him his throne. It has never been written down, too sacred, but this feels different, more important than tradition. Her hands pull a tattered, leather bound book from half empty shelves. There she writes down what has been taught to her, there she writes what she has tried and what she could still try. She feels desperate to find just that type of magic that breaks any kind of curse. So she writes her notes and draws her diagrams until she feels tired, until her hand cramps and her vision blurs. Yet she sleeps little, waking in between to write down just another theory, another idea that just makes sense. She tries and tries until the light of a dying sun creeps through her window, tells her to visit the lake again. She wishes to stay and learn, but there will always be something that draws her back to Odette. She feels the air, notes how it still lacks the magic of the king. She has time, she thinks.
There is new lightness to her steps when she leaves the cold place, albeit breathing has never felt more difficult.
Arriving at the lake, she finds Odette already waiting for her, expectant and hopeful. Odile feels her heart lurch, feels her body begin to tremble as dread curdles low in her stomach. She has yet to achieve anything. It feels wrong to stand here now, to feel so light when she has nothing to present to the queen of swans. She cannot bring salvation. Odette should not be looking at her like that.
Still, she lets herself be pulled further into the clearing when the woman grasps her hand in hers. Odette is bright, glorious in the way she does not despair. Odile things it might blind her someday, or burn her fully if she were to step too close.
“I wished to thank you for helping.” The words are uttered into the space just between them. It feels oddly intimate.
Then, after a pause. “Do you dance?”
Odile swallows, finds that she cannot lie here with the moonlight reflecting in gentle eyes just so.
“Sometimes.” And then, to clarify. “When too many people are watching.”
A grin spreads across Odette’s features and she feels herself being tugged even further towards the lake. She can only follow, will always follow, mesmerized by all the things that are so undoubtedly Odette. The way her eyes will crinkle when she smiles, the softness of her hands, the way she takes things and makes them hers. Odile only stops when Odette steps onto the lake, lets her go and misses the point of contact immediately.
“Well?” The blonde raises an eyebrow in challenge.
“I do not know how. Not on water.” The admission is quiet.
“I can teach you.”
And then Odette is pulling her forward again, pulling until she stumbles onto the lake terrified that she will drown, but the water steadies her, just like it steadies Odette. Her steps remain hesitant still as she is gently lead into the dance, the other woman pressed so close Odile thinks she will die with all the breath that is stolen from her. It still feel like drowning, like Odette will push her below surface any moment. Though, they both do not let go and nobody drowns. Odile searches for the irony, the white and black swan dancing together. Perhaps they should not. She thinks only of how it would be if she drowns, drowns, drowns. A sacrifice made to even be allowed to follow Odette for so long. One that she would gladly pay. Maybe she would even be happy to drown, if Sieg and his army would sweep Odette away to safety.
Odette pulls her close still, as if she knows about the deep dark thoughts of dying. Odile feels her heartbeat falter, suddenly feels wrong for dancing with Odette like this when it should be Sieg.
But she yearns and wants for things like any other and she will grasp at the tiny scraps she is given. She will take as much as is given to her and she will never demand more. Odile knows her worth, knows it is too little to even hope for different things.
The creeping morning light ends their contact too soon, Odette drawing away to join her sisters. The swans take flight, leave her behind. She fears they might not return, she always does when they leave. Odile worries and worries all the way back to the cold house. She does not take note of the king, of his magic until it is already too late, until she already stands in her room, the pages of her research scattered, torn.
Dread curdles low in her stomach when he turns to her. Fury contorts his features until he does not look human anymore, all snarling teeth and clawed hands.
“Who do you think you are?!” His voice booms like thunder, deafening as it bounces off the walls.
Odile averts her eyes, does not answer. She cannot answer with her tongue heavy like lead. It does not help.
“You already have forgotten your place, have you not?! You wish to take my power for yourself, like any other vermin!”
His magic swirls, dangerously close, like an open threat. She opens her mouth, wishes to beg for him not to do this. This is not her father.
“You never learn, do you? Have you no respect for your own blood, your own family?”
The magic seizes her, rips into her until she cannot move, cannot think of anything but the pain. Her body is suspended in the air, pulled taut.
“You know how deeply it hurts me to do this, but I would not have to if you merely followed the rules instead. You forced my hand, Odile.”
He cuts her loose then, lets her drop like a discarded toy. Her shoulder hits the ground first, then her head, her body. Odile tastes blood for a split moment. She rises on shaky legs, stares at the king in disbelief. He has never hurt her before, not like this, only ever with words, never magic. The line has been crossed and she is terrified. She needs to get out, Get Out, GET OUT. Odile stumbles forward, almost smashes her head into the door frame in her haste to get away. Rothbart roars, spits her name like a curse. The house shivers, shifts and groans as the king’s magic pours into its veins with newfound ferocity.
It changes too quickly, doors growing shut before her very eyes. She twists and turns frantically searching for an exit. There, a small sliver of light, a window. She does not dare think, the dread outweighs her caution. Glass shatters, shards cutting her right shoulder, but she is free of the house. Feathers sprout, ache and itch, but they slow her fall until her feet hit steady ground. The forest around her is shifting as well, roots twisting and reaching to take hold of her. She cannot escape him, can only run until he tires of wasting his magic on her.
It might have been seconds, perhaps hours of running and thinking ‘What if he does not tire this time?’. The magic crashes into her in waves, swirls through the air for a few more minutes before it fizzles out. Odile is left alone, left in a forest that now thrives with more life than she could ever hope to hold. In a trance she walks the distance to the lake, sinks in until the water reaches her waist. It is cold, but not colder than she feels. She stares at her reflection, wild eyes and tangled hair, stares until her lips turn blue, until she loses feeling in the tips of her fingers. She feels numb, feelings jumbled and torn. She cannot process the situation, not at the moment at least. reality seems to exist within a space she cannot reach. Breath by painful breath she pulls herself back until the fading sunlight on her back registers, until she can feel the water swallowing her up. She feels the cold that has dug itself into her flesh, settled just next to a slowed heartbeat. The void closes in, settles silence around her, until the gentle flutter of wings draws her attention. She still has yet to feel fully corporeal.
Odile opens her eyes, drags them upwards to watch the swan maidens arrive. They shift midair, landing upon the water’s surface, graceful and unharmed. For a moment she thinks they will not notice the shivers that have taken hold of her body, nor the cuts and bruises. She thinks, hopes they will ignore it like she will come tomorrow morning. She underestimates them, underestimates the attentiveness of their queen. Odette’s face swims into focus before her, brows drawn together in worry. She feels arms gently pull her from the water. Hands flit across her face, her ribs, searching for injuries might not see. Those fingers press against her shoulder and white, hot pain blossoms. It forces a hiss from between clenched teeth. The cuts have stopped bleeding, but the bruising beneath is fresh, tender. Odette hardens then, tense and poised, like a statue cut from darkest marble.
“Who did this do you. Who would-” The blonde chokes on her own words, voice strained, like the words tear at her vocal chords.
She just wants to help, just wants to offer comfort. Odile realizes as much, but her thoughts will not stop going back to him. He with his voice like thunder and hands that do not have to touch to cause harm. Odette’s presence is overwhelming, her eyes too angry to have any softness in them. The air freezes in her lungs, cold and unwilling to be breathed out. Her heart beats frantically, hammers a painful rhythm against the confines of her ribcage. Odile cannot stop the tears, cannot stop them from burning paths along her pale cheeks. Her throat closes up, traps words and sobs there, her body frozen with newly awoken terror. She cannot stop seeing him in the shadows of Odette’s face. Logically she knows he cannot be here. She should have no reason to cry before the queen of swans, a woman who has this curse settled atop her head like a crown, a woman with no family to comfort her anymore.
But Odile is weak and crying still, bending forward until her face scrapes against the rough ground. She presses her cheek into the dirt and thinks she might break like this.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry… I’m s-sorry.” Her breath hitches, the pain pouring out of her. It slips through the many cracks of her being, bleeds her dry in front of Odette.
Odile flinches when warm hands trace paths across her back. They burn, but she does not pull away. The burning is better than the cold settling deep in her bones. She feels those hands tracing patterns onto her back, feels them travel along her spine until she manages to pull her frayed mind back to the present. Her throat still burns. She still chokes on her sobs, cannot breathe anything but pain.
Her own hands reach and grasp, searching for the warm body she knows must be there. Her fingers twist in cloth and she pulls herself forward, hides her face in the warmth she finds there. She is still shivering, still too cold, still unable to breathe between the sobs.
“Breathe. You have to breathe.” The voice is gentle, the words breathed softly into the space in between.
Odile knows the voice, she trusts it, perhaps even loves it. Fingers tap a rhythm against her spine and she follows, breathes deeply until she does not feel dizzy and lost anymore. She is tired, worn when reality bleeds back into her consciousness. She does not stop clinging to Odette, cannot even feel ashamed for seeking this much comfort in the other woman. The queen of swans seems to allow it, for now, lets her doze off until the sun replaces the moon once more. Odette wakes her just before the swans depart, gifts her a gentle smile. It is the warmest Odile has ever seen and suddenly she feels undeserving once more. She cannot even lift the curse, yet here Odette stands, gazing at her like she matters.
She stays, even long after they have left. She does not want to return to that house, but she knows she cannot stay here forever. The king will be angry with her if she does stay, perhaps he has not calmed himself yet and will only rage himself into a rampage if she is not home soon. Odile breathes in deep, swallows back the bile and wills her stomach to settle. Her limbs are heavy as she moves, like lead being dragged through water. She fights herself every step of the way, creeps into her room in the hopes of not being seen. She knows which steps will creek, knows how to avoid them too. The king might not be here, but she still finds a gift wrapped in silk atop her pillow. She unwraps it with hesitant, trembling fingers, finds a stag carved from red cobalt underneath the cloth.
So he must remember then, must remember the times spend within the forest as a family, whole and kind. It hints at a warmth she had thought lost in him. Odile thinks perhaps he is still her father, maybe she has not lost him to magic and immortality just yet. Her fingers trace the intricate carvings of the figurine. It used to be her favorite animal, maybe still is, all proud and strong. The king of the forest in its own right.
A knock fills the silence of her room. It travels down her spine in a cold shiver. Odile fears the king’s fury, fears he still wishes to remind her of her place beneath him.
“I wished to apologize for my atrocious behavior earlier. Perhaps we can resolve the matter during supper today. I would be relieved to see you there.”
Odile does not answer, but his voice is soft. It does not grow sharper, does not cut into her. Rothbart does not rage, does not force his way into her space and when she listens to his retreating footsteps she hopes this will be a turning point for them.
She waits and waits, stag figurine still grasped in her hands until she is sure he is gone. Only then does she set it down. Only then does she reach for the golden doorknob to open the door. She finds the hallway dark, empty. Perhaps the king has not tricked her, yet. One step after the other she shuffles her way down the twisting corridors. The shadows do not reach for her and once she reaches the dining hall she finds it illuminated, bright. It is warm, like it used to be back then, when she was too young to memorize her mother’s smile, her voice, but it feels so much like those times, unbroken and undefiled.
Her favorite dishes have been pilled atop the long table. When she gazes at her father she finds his skin flushed with life, like he has stepped out of the family portraits she knows he keeps hidden from her. This moment is like something she saw once upon a dream, a fulfillment of a wish that has died in her younger years.
But Rothbart smiles at her and it is warm, warm, warm like it used to be. For a moment she can make herself believe that she has her father back. She can cling to it and hope to wish it into existence, tries to fill this not quite home with the false, borrowed warmth.
Odile does not have her father back when he leaves again, his smile a smirk that leeches the warmth from her bones. She realizes he has not apologized to her face, has merely distracted her with flashing lights and gentle magic. The king atop the hill is not her father. Knowing that is a dull ache, accepting it might come at a price she is unwilling to pay. She has spent a week by his peaceful side, but a week cannot fix the years he has spend in rage and disdain.
The forest welcomes her when he is gone. The soft gusts of air caress her cheeks, the young tress whisper their gossip and tales into her ears. The king is gone once more and this time he may return to the freedom of his people with him cast out.
It is only midday, but Odile finds herself by the like already, anxious energy buzzing beneath her skin. When she cannot wait any longer she runs to the borders, waits until she sees Sieg atop his horse. He looks taller, more exhausted than he did a few months ago. Still, he grins when he spots her waiting, a certain spring in his step once he has gotten off his horse. He clasps her shoulder, still hesitant to draw her into an embrace. Odile finds herself hesitating for only a moment, then she steps forward into his arms. The movement is awkward, jerky in the way she tries to wrap her arms around him. The prince delights in it, holds her tight.
“He is gone then?”, he whispers into the crown of her hair. To an outsider they might look like lovers.
“He is. You will be able to save them now.”, she mumbles her reply into the crook of his neck.
Perhaps this comes easier to her now, because Sieg is soft edges and kind gestures. He is kind to her, when she cannot manage to be kind to herself.
However, he is not in this very moment. Right now he is smoothed over stone.
“You too. I will not rest until you are saved as well, Odile. Please remember that.” And he sounds so sure, so determined to help her carve her way out of the forest and Rothbart’s legacy.
She thinks that might be enough, or mayhaps it is not and she will be left in the forest to decay right beside the king. Sieg’s words reassure her still. She nods, forces a smile that does not quite reach her eyes. He does not seem to believe her, but he does not push for more. Instead he tugs Odile along the familiar path, her hand firmly clasped in his. It feels almost like he wishes to prove something to her. Although what that might be is a mystery to her.
Their feet flit across the hidden paths and before she knows it they have reached the lake, face to face with Odette.
The queen of swans sways forward, breaks into a sprint to meet them in the middle. Eyes sweep over Odile, searching for new bruises, new cuts, another reason to cling to the fury dancing in Odette’s veins. Her gaze catches on Odile’s lips and suddenly she grows soft before her very eyes. Hands reach for the black swan, hesitant and unsure.
She wants Odette to stop looking at her like that, like anything can break her, as if Odile did not have claws and teeth of her own. She pulls a little, watches first confusion, then realization flit across the swan queen’s face. Then there are arms wrapped around her, her ear pressed close to a drumming heartbeat. Odile finds herself surrounded by Odette’s humanity and it is calming, or maybe just being close to her is.
The swan queen pulls back, though her hands remain on Odile’s arms, warm and reassuring.
“He did not hurt you again, did he?” The words ignite Odette’s fury, so bright and shining. It threatens to burn.
She shakes her head, manages a smile, small and hopeful.
“He apologized the very same day.”
They both know it is a lie. The king did not do so for Odile’s sake and he certainly never promised to not hurt her again. It is a line overstepped in his desperation to strip himself of his own mortality and it will be overstepped again if he finds her actions to be rebellious. The blonde squeezes her shoulder, reminds her of what will happen once Sieg and his people take over. Freedom is slowly twisting its roots into her, makes her muscles jittery with anticipation, makes hope taste sweet upon her tongue. Sieg moves behind them, perhaps nervous now that the time is coming.
“It will take me a day with my men to arrive, maybe longer if it rains, but my men stand ready. They wait for my command once I return and it will only take them hours to gather what is needed.” His voice does not waver. Odile sees parts of a born leader in him, or parts of a true hero. She is not certain.
The swan maidens grow excited, whispering of what they will do once the king is unable to control them any longer. Odette squares her shoulder, hardens all that is soft about her.
And Odile… Odile hopes it all will be enough, hopes for the best when anxiety causes her stomach to turn in knots. Her mind is not kind, but she thinks that might change once all of this is over.
She does not sleep well the next days, sees the rain as the first sign something will go wrong. She feels unsure if the king will stay away long enough for his kingdom to be taken by another, by a human. When Sieg’s men come, the forest bends to the iron driven deep into its soil. The fae scurry and hide. The humans have iron, their magic will die if they fight. The few who try shrink back from the iron swords and the humans who wield them. It should be chaos, carnage, but it is not. Odile thinks it is another sign everything will go wrong. Yet, she ignores the pit forming in her stomach, ignores the jittery feeling in her limbs as she waits before a throne of gilded bone. From here, all of the forest might listen to her and help guide Sieg and his men. He knows the way, she has told him, but she will worry until it is over.
The cold creeps through her veins when the first soldiers begin to tear down the door of the entrance hall. The house will not let them through, not if they do not use force. In the next seconds she hears the heavy oak door break and splinter, hears the determined shouts echo through the corpse of this place.
The cold creeps higher, glides along her arms. It forms hands that dig into her shoulder. Silken hair brushes along her neck, sharp teeth too close to her throat.
“Odile, my darling daughter.” She feels the magic slither in his voice, feels it wrap around her joints like a string. “You will fight for your king, will you not?”
He halts, grins when the magic of her name finally takes hold.
“All of my kingdom will gladly die for my sake. I am the king. All knowing. All powerful.” Rothbart hisses the words into the empty space of the throne room, presses the rapier into her unwilling hands.
“And all of you will gladly fight and die for me as well.” It is a command, one that cannot be denied with all the magic woven into each syllable.
Odile shakes, shivers, strains against the hold he has over all of them. It is futile. Her resistance is weak, always has been. Her body moves without consent, the silver blade scraping across the polished marble floor. Rothbart’s magic pours outwards from behind her, saturates the air to carry his commands across all of the forest. The heavy doors are thrown open, soldiers wrapped in iron marching to their demise. Her arm is shaking as she lifts the rapier, the air torn from her lungs when her eyes meet Sieg’s. He is wearing the regalia of his kingdom, a burst of vibrant color amidst a sea of iron. Something hardens in his gaze, his resolve maybe, or he is finally beginning to despise Odile. Nevertheless, if he hurries he can still claim the throne and defeat the king atop the hill. It is only her standing in his way.
An iron sword is risen, pointed at the king’s throat. A silent command, yet the prince’s men charge with a roar still.
Odile’s body moves, quick and unwilling. She flinches when her blade slices through flesh. She is relieved that it never turns out to be Sieg. She fights soldiers, men and women she does seek to harm as little as the king’s enchantment allows. The iron of their swords burns hot, red. It is a warning of what it will do if she cannot keep her distance. Those who do not fight her, fight the forest as it twists and bends to protect what is his. Somewhere over her shoulder she catches a glimpse of the prince confronting Rothbart. Iron clashes with magic, pushes it back with sheer force.
For a moment she thinks they are winning, thinks the small, festering cuts on her arms will be worth it. Iron strikes against her arm and Odile flinches, twists. Her body moves to push the rapier through a gap in the soldier’s armor. Blood pours from the wound, drips down to the ground and when the air suddenly thrums with magic, it feels like she is the one to blame.
The house breaks open, stones crumbling to make way for the growing roots and vines. It happens too fast, too quickly for her to prevent anything. Spines crack under crumbling walls, limbs are torn and pierced by roots and vines alike. The white marvel is bathed in red, the young prince on his knees before the king atop the hill. Rothbart raises the iron sword, his skin burning and bubbling. He will strike Sieg down within these halls.
Odile staggers forward, her weapon discarded along the way. Her knees buckle as she puts herself between Sieg and the blade.
“You cannot-” Her voice wavers, overshadowed by the king’s own.
“I cannot? You dare oppose me? I taught you to protect your home and here you are, letting these vermin in without noticing!” His words are deafening, like thunder in an empty room. He has yet to lower the sword.
Odile shakes, fear locking her joints. “They will not try again if you keep him. They would not dare endanger their prince. Keep him here.”
The king merely stares, lips twisted in disgust. Odile swallows, falls to her knees and presses her head to the bloodied floor.
“I beg of you. Let him remain in my care.” Her voice shakes, the words forced to fall from her lips. She despises it, having to speak about her friend as if he were a mere pet.
Rothbart steps closer, gently pulls her up by her arm. He seems less angry, but not calm, never soft.
“You are like your mother, a bleeding heart for all to see. I had hoped you would not fall victim to it like she did.” He sounds sad then, almost wistful before everything about him turns back into the king atop the hill.
Odile thinks he must have loved them once, before it all turned wrong, twisted.
Rothbart retreats then, leaves the house to repair itself, leaves them among the rubble and the dead. Odile only turns toward Sieg when she feels his magic retreating fully, feels the pressure leave her body. The prince stares at her, first angry, horrified, then kind. He reaches for her, slowly, but she still flinches. There is blood on him, on her. So much red when all should be grey and bleak. He does not belong here and she will return him to his people when her hands stop shaking and she sees more than red on a white marble floor.
Odile walks, silent and automatic. Her friend will surely follow, will surely want to wash off the blood as well. She will have to prepare a room for him as well, something like a home in this inhuman world. For now she pushes Sieg into the baths once he has caught up with her, tells him to wash while she takes care of other matters. He still looks at her like she needs support, as if he had not been the one to lose all his comrades and perhaps even his humanity. He needs her now, not the other way around and Odile cannot fail him, will not allow herself to be weak and scared anymore.
She searches the house for clothing, finds only rags with the wind snickering in her ears. She is being mocked for her mistake, for having to beg at the king’s feet. Odile swallows thickly, grits her teeth. She cannot call that man her father, perhaps he has not been for a long time. It hurts, to know who he had been and what he turned into.
She returns to the baths, eyes fixed to the clothes gathered in her arms. Sieg grasps them, thanks her quietly. She waits for him to get dressed, asking herself how he can still trust her after she has failed him. He taps her shoulder, meets her gaze with kind, but tired eyes.
“We have not lost yet. This is but a dent in the road.” He sounds certain, but she sees the tears gathering behind his eyes. He is mourning. She does not know where to go from here.
“We will be watched. He will not trust me to keep you here.”
“So we make everyone believe he has won, make them think there is nothing to worry about. We will bide our time, strike when it is not expected.”
Odile thinks it might work like that, with the king’s hubris blinding all his ways. He will not notice and even if he does, Sieg will be long gone by then.
She nods, fingers twisting into the fabric of her clothes. There is a part of her that whispers she cannot do this again, cannot fight for the mortals when her own almost mortality means nothing in the face of Rothbart’s magic. Too little of a fae to be protected, far too little of a human to wield iron to fight him.
She swallows down the rising tide of feelings, wills the burning behind her eyes to stop. It is too much for one day, the fighting, the hope that has yet to die. The burden of being weights heavy atop her shoulders and she begins to realize why some might prefer to be stolen away by the earth, rivers and trees. Odile shakes it off soon enough, presents Sieg her room. She refuses to let him sleep on the floor, he refuses to sleep in her bed if she makes herself so small in her own space. Odile does not tell him that her mind will not let her sleep, that it makes her think the king is there, breathing down her neck. She does not mention the fear or the shaking of her hands. She nods instead, sits with her back pressed against the headboard until she is certain that Sieg has fallen asleep.
Odile slips out of bed, gathers paper, quill and inkwell in her hands and neatly places them on the aged desk. She cannot sleep, not with Odette not knowing what has happened to them, what happened to her prince.
Ink stains her fingers. The quill scratches across the rough page.
Dear Odette,
The prince is alive. I will get him back home as soon as circumstances allow it.
Stay safe until then.
Sincerely, Odile
For a moment she almost writes more, but Odile swallows the words before they can be spilled onto the paper. Odette will not care about her burdens. She chances a look at the man sleeping in her bed, swallows nervously as she creeps past him toward the window, letter clutched between trembling fingers. She folds it neatly, opens the window and kindly requests for the wind to carry it to the young trees by the lake. The wind will always do her small favors and the younger trees and saplings owe her enough to hide even this from their king. After, she takes up space next to the bed, back pressed against the wall and knees drawn up to her chest. This will have to do to quell the fear burned into her being. She does not sleep peacefully, but her mind does not chant that the king is watching as forceful as it did before.
Time passes, warped, stretched and quick as it often does in the forest of fae. The king watches, Odile knows that he does. Especially when they take walks, when she has to parade Sieg around at festivities like the newest toy. She has to swallow down sharp words and bile every single time, feels guilty and weak when she can only apologize to him afterwards. It is after one of those festivities that she speaks to him, both of them bathed in moonlight.
“What will you do if I can reunite you with your people?”
“When I return to my homeland I will first break the curse, of course, and then return for those trapped here still.”
“How will you do so? It needs to be a proclamation of love, one Odette has to hear, unless you have fae magic stronger than the king’s hidden somewhere.”
“The perhaps you could-”
“I have tried. I am not strong enough. I cannot break it, but you… Perhaps… A ball, you will hold a ball to celebrate your return. There, you will tell her and break the curse. I will gladly play messenger for you.”
Sieg stares at her, baffled, a tad confused, but he nods anyways. He even smiles, small and knowing. Odile cannot figure out why, but she returns it with one of her own, fragile but real.
Odile sleeps easier that night, certain that if Sieg truly leaves and proclaims his love, the swans will be freed from the king’s grasp.
She writes more letters after that, about Sieg’s well-being and the forming of plans. They all go unanswered, but ever so often she will find a white feather outside of her window. Her life is peaceful, living with a companion this close, so much even that Odile almost forgets the he will leave her someday. It twists something inside her, makes her ache. She does not want to be alone again, but she knows she cannot forcefully keep the prince here. Odile refuses to be like the king.
The chance to escape comes months later, when the trees guide them to the iron still buried deep in the ground. She makes Sieg pull the iron spike out, says,”It has to look real. Your escape will not convince him if you merely left and I return unharmed.”
Odile covers his hand that holds the iron with her own, pushes the cold metal against the exposed skin of her shoulder. It burns.
“I cannot, no, I will not harm you for my freedom.”, he hisses between clenched teeth, perhaps angry at her for the very first time.
“But you have to. We have to fool him, no matter the cost.”, she replies, pressing on until the iron slices through her skin.
Sieg lets her, but he is crying as he does. He is still crying when he has to leave her with iron sunk deep in her shoulder. The prince returns to his kingdom, alive and well, and Odile returns to the king atop the hill with bubbling, burning skin and tears scorching pale cheeks.
The king does not question her when he pulls the burning iron out and he does not question her after, because he believes the fear in her eyes to be caused by the human and not by him.
ns 15.158.61.8da2
