"So that's it? You just got away?"

The man grunted, not answering, but Jonathon eyed him carefully. Sweat poured out of the man in buckets, his face shiny with perspiration, and his already sallow skin had turned several shades whiter as he'd told his tale. No, clearly he didn't just get away. Jonathon watched as the man took a deep drink of his eighth glass of water.

"Do you think she followed you?"

The man paused in his drinking, swallowing with a sour look on his face. He frowned at Jonathon.

"If she followed me, would I be like this?"

The man gestured at his body with a shaking hand. Jonathon pursed his lips. The woman had said that he'd die without her. Was he-

"You think you're dying?"

"There's no other answer, is there, laddie?"

Silence descended on the odd pair. Jonathon had heard more than his fair share of strange stories, and some even claimed to be dying of heartbreak, grief, anger, or some other thing, but this man- This man was the first to look like he actually was.

"What are you going to do?"

"Nothin', laddie. Nothin' at all."

Jonathon raised an eyebrow and said nothing. What else was he supposed to do? He refilled the man's empty glass, sending him an apologetic smile.

Part of him knew he should try to get the man out of his bar, it was supposedly a toss up on whether a death was good or bad for business, but even if the man's tale wasn't true, he couldn't bring himself to kick the poor blighter out.

The hours ticked by, the seconds and minutes dragging on as Jonathon served more of his usual patrons and watched the man out of the corner of his eye. With each passing minute, each hour, the man grew more pale, more gaunt, until at last, at two in the morning, he got up from his chair.

The pub was silent as he stumbled out of the pub, eerie moonlight shining in through the open door. Jonathon was of half a mind to follow him, but he didn't.

Maybe he should've.

In the morning, the man's precious bike was still parked in front of the pub, and the man was nowhere in sight. All that was left was his bike and a single white flower that sat alone on its empty seat.

Ralph Sterling was used to driving at night. The moonlight through the trees, the animal eyes reflecting back at him, even the howls coming from the far away mountains were familiar to him.

What wasn't familiar was the sound coming from his motorcycle.

The engine sputtered. If Sterling was the poetic or artistic type, he'd have said that it was like his engine became ill, as if it was coughing and wheezing. Sterling, unfortunately, wasn't the poetic type. All he knew was that there was something wrong with his bike.

Gnashing his teeth together, he pulled his roaring vehicle to a stop, throwing down the kickstand with more strength than strictly necessary. Swinging himself up and away, he planted both of his feet in the sandy roadside where he had stopped.

In hindsight, maybe it wasn't a good idea to stop in the middle of Tilney Forest, but what did he care? He had long since passed the age where he listened to old wives' tales.

The tree branches covered up most of the moon and the starry night sky and so there he was, standing in the middle of a forest, only able to see by the light of his motorcycle reflecting off of the low-lying fog.

"What's wrong with ya, eh?" he said, bending down to peer closer at his treasured black bike. "Why ya soundin' so funny?" Sterling shook the bike for good measure, but nothing happened. No great insight made itself known, and the light of the motorcycle still shined into the fog that began to surround Sterling as well.

Sterling heaved a sigh, letting out a growl through his teeth. He had a job to do. He needed to get through the forest tonight, but if his ride had anything to do with it, he wouldn't be.

He brought a gnarled hand up and through his greased black hair, pursing his lips. He wasn't one for believing in old wives' tales, but the fog swirling around him made the long gone child in him start to believe. The forest was eery at best, and with the night time noises of the creatures living in the trees reaching his ears, the forest itself seemed like the stuff of fantasy stories and children's nightmares.

Sterling let out a self-deprecating laugh, trying to ignore how it echoed loudly in the trees. The forest was doing something to his head. He took a step closer to his bike.

"Need to get out of this damn forest," he grumbled. He didn't expect an answer.

"Do you? Then it is lucky that you have found me." Sterling's head snapped up, his dark eyes searching for the source of the melodic voice. It took him only seconds to see her.

The white fog rolled around her like waves, and even though she wasn't in the direct beam of his motorcycle, Sterling would've sworn that she glowed. Everything about her was luminescent. Long blonde hair, a white gown, cheekbones that could cut you like a knife; her beauty was like that of winter, cold and lethal.

However, it wasn't until she moved closer to him that Sterling saw her eyes and he was lost. They were as dark as his own, if not darker, but his were human. Hers? Ethereal, fae-like. She was unnatural.

"You need to come with me," she told him, her eyes boring into his. Sterling tried to fight the fog that invaded his mind, but found that he couldn't.

"I need to come with you." His words were perfectly formed, and something in him was disgusted. Not even his own Mum managed to get him to speak the way he just had. He was not himself, but his clouded head told him that he didn't mind.

The fae woman extended her hand and without thinking, Sterling reached for it. If any had asked him what he expected of her grasp, he would've said fragile and graceful. He was wrong. Her grasp was that of iron and strength. Once she had him in it, he couldn't get out and nor did he want to.

His boot-clad feet began to move on their own accord, and Sterling found himself being drawn away from the road, from his bike, from rational thoughts.

For a while, he followed her, though he had no concept of time. She led him through the forest, the one that was said to hold malevolent beings, spirits and creatures wronged by man, leaving them forever vengeful.

The red-eyed gaze of creatures peered out around the trees, but even in his haze, Sterling never once saw a scaly claw or a bushy tail. It was as if the inhabitants of the forest had no bodies, as if they would only take form if they wished to.

Sterling barely noticed when they came to a stop in the middle of a large circular clearing, a clearing lit perfectly by the light of the moon and stars. The fae woman let go of his arm, turning to face him with a calculating gaze.

"You will stay here."

"I will stay here."

With that she disappeared, having heard his clear and unattached response. The clearing itself was empty but for tall lush grasses, but Sterling's mind was still filled with a fog of its own. She was gone, but she still had him in her grasp.

The night wore on, the air becoming chillier than what was comfortable. Sterling found his eyelids drooping, and before he knew it, he tumbled into a different being's grasp; the hold of sweet slumber.

His dream was not unlike his waking world. He was still in the clearing. It was still cold. The moon still shone brightly. However, everything was off colored, and this time, Sterling was not alone.

Twelve men stood across from him, each staring at him as they stood side by side in a perfectly straight line. Each man was dressed in clothing from a different era, but they all had one thing in common. Their wrists were linked together with manacles, forcing their hands to hang side by side in a show of united servitude. Unlike the fae woman who had glowed with an ethereal beauty, they seemed to shine with a pale and sickly light. Each of their faces was drawn and weathered, gaunt and skeletal. Each of them looked nothing short of death.

"You must leave," one of the men said. His head was adorned with a crown that should've glinted in the moonlight but didn't. He was like a king of old, but there was nothing strong or regal about his countenance.

"I can't. She has told me to stay," Sterling replied, still in a stupor. Each of the men frowned, but it was the crowned man who spoke again.

"You must. Do you not see? The fae maiden has you in her thrall. If you do not leave now you will become like us. We are dead, sir. She has kept us all these years. She is a terrifying beauty that entraps all men, and we, like you, were ensnared. She, though fair of face, is without mercy. Open your eyes, sir. Clear your head."

For a moment, Sterling stared blankly at the line of men, the line of men that he would join as the thirteenth, but then it was like something in his head clicked. The fog cleared, his stupor went away, and he found himself alone in the clearing, the twelve men long gone.

Or at least, he was mostly alone. The fairy maiden, as the crowned man had called her, was back, her eyes peering at him.

"You will come with me." Her words were still haunting, still enticing, and Sterling struggled to keep his mouth from opening. Seconds passed and her face grew severe. "You will come with me," she repeated. Her blonde hair crackled with an energy that reminded Sterling of lighting and storms and her eyes were narrowed into slits.

"No." The word echoed in the clearing, only the fae woman and the stars witness to what Sterling was beginning to feel was a fruitless attempt.

His muscles strained, his skin was slick with sweat, but he turned his back on her, his head pounding painfully with the beat of his own heart.

He did not turn back around to look at her as he walked away, but the farther he got from her, the worse he felt.

"You will die without me," the woman stated, her tone cool and uncaring. Sterling didn't cease in his walking.

So be it.

It started like many strange events do, with the arrival of a mysterious stranger.

Jonathon was busy cleaning one of the glasses behind the bar when the door to the Rose Bairn swung open, letting gusts of icy wind and a man dressed in a black leather jacket into the cozy pub. Normally, Jonathon would think nothing of it. His job was to keep the pub clean and to serve drinks to the lonely souls who drifted into his little establishment.

But this man was different. Beneath wild eyes, his sockets were ringed with black and blue bruises; signs of lack of sleep and perhaps many other things. However, that was not what got Jonathon's attention. It was the man's facial expression.

Messy eyebrows drawn together, his eyes blinking in the dim light of the pub, the man looked ready to keel over. He grabbed onto the back of one of the rickety chairs close by in order to regain his balance.

"Hey there. Why don't you take a seat? Is there anything you'd like to drink?" Jonathon called, his voice cutting across the quiet murmurs of the other patrons.

The wild-eyed man didn't answer but took Jonathon's offer. As he moved to take a seat at the bar, Jonathon put down the glass he held. Something was wrong with this man.

Droplets of sweat gathered on his brow and his face was sallow-skinned and crumpled. He looked like a dead man walking.

"What can I get for you, sir?"

For a moment Jonathon wasn't sure the fevered man heard him, but then the man lowered himself onto one of the teetering bar stools and pointed to the faucet behind Jonathon.

The man had come to a pub to get water. Jonathon frowned. There was definitely something not quite right with this man.

Nonetheless, Jonathon got the man a cup of water, even adding a couple of ice cubes. He had barely set it on the bar in front of him when the man snatched the glass from his hand, draining the drink in a series of hurried gulps. A second later the glass was placed back on the wooden counter with a solid thud.

"Would you like another?" The man nodded.

Jonathon got him another glass before watching the man down the water in a similar fashion to the first glass. However, the man didn't look any better, if anything he looked worse.

"Look, man, are you alright? Is there someone I need to call?" Jonathon finally dared to ask. The man's dark eyes stared at Jonathon before the man's cracked lips opened, showing a line of white, but crooked, teeth.

"No. The only one to call would be her, and I ain't goin' back." Jonathon nodded hesitantly, puzzled. A woman did all of this to one man? How was that even possible?

"Well, if she caused this to happen, I can't say I blame you." The other man nodded solemnly, reaching for the glass of water that was once again full. "Well, is there anything I can do? I have some Tylenol hanging around here somewhere."

"Pills won't help. She's cursed me, she has." The man's voice was bitter as he spoke, his words coming out gruffly from out behind dry lips.

"Cursed you? You make her sound like a witch," Jonathon responded, hastily putting the bottle of pills away as he tried to add some humor to the situation.

"She's no witch, I'll tell ya that much." The man eyed Jonathon skeptically. "What do ya believe in? God? Ghosts? Faeries?" Jonathon rubbed at his chin thoughtfully, his fingers brushing across day old stubble. How was he supposed to answer that?

He had been raised a Christian, just like everyone else in his family, but after working so long in a place like the Rose Bairn, he started to wonder if there wasn't something missing from his worldview. Out in the middle of nowhere, far from most cities, the pub was a breeding place for strange happenings.

It would be an odd day if something out of the norm didn't happen. Or perhaps, that just was his normal now.

"I believe in anything that I have proof exists," Jonathon said. The man nodded.

"So do ya believe in faeries? In the fae?" Jonathon cocked his head, letting his eyes wander to the other patrons of the pub. They weren't paying attention to his conversation. Not that they would. Folk out here weren't strangers to mysterious happenings.

"Yeah, I suppose I do."

"Have ya ever seen a faerie maiden?" Jonathon shook his head. "Then count yourself as lucky, lad. This woman of the fae, she trapped me, caught me in her grasp."

"How did she trap you?" Jonathon asked, raising an eyebrow as he refilled the man's glass yet again.

"By charming me. Ya see, she don't curse men, she charms them. Lulls them into a false sense of safety before bam!" The man slammed his hand on the top of the counter, causing several patrons to glance over warily. "She traps 'em in her web of lies and promises."

Jonathon was quiet for a moment, processing this. Part of him felt like this was symbolism for something, but the man across from him didn't strike him as the kind for hidden meanings.

"But how did she even find you in the first place?"

"Oh no, lad. I found her."

Perhaps saying the window opened wasn't right. Exploded was much more accurate.

Aleana sat up, her reddened face turning towards her window as glass fell like rain. She rubbed at her blurry eyes frantically, trying to see what or who it was that had burst their way into her room.

Whatever it was, it had to be powerful. She knew from personal experience. She'd tried to escape hundreds of times but was never able to.

Aleana wasn't sure what she expected. A handsome rescuer, maybe a magic carpet? Instead, a small girl of about nine slipped through the now empty stone window frame, carefully avoiding the splinters of glass that littered the floor like autumn leaves.

The girl pranced around the glass as if she remembered the parts of a choreographed dance, but she froze as she met Aleana's startled eyes.

One second passed, then another, and another. Aleana didn't breathe, and the girl didn't move. All Aleana could do was stare.

In the morning sunlight, the girl's silver hair shone, reminding Aleana of stars, full moons, and night-time wishes. Her dark skin glistened. What Aleana at first thought was sweat, revealed itself to be specks of gold dust that were mirrored in the child's brown eyes and in the threads of gold that were embedded in the girl's green clothes.

Said clothes didn't look like the usual kind. They seemed to be made of leaves, stitched together with golden thread and emerald vines.

Everything about her screamed of an other-worldliness that at once made Aleana feel both wary and right at home.

"How did you get in here?" Aleana asked, her voice faint as it portrayed her awe. The small girl quirked her head to the side.

"The window," she stated simply, a smirk playing on her lips and her brown eyes glittering with mischief. The tips of sharp teeth peeked out from under the girl's top lip.

"That's not what I meant."

"I know, but I'm not going to tell you," the girl said, her lightly accented voice making the words come out like they were supposed to be a part of some kind of song. They were hypnotizing. Aleana shook her head, trying to clear it.

"But why are you here?" Aleana pressed, getting up from her bed, despite the fact her eyes were a bit blurred from tears and a flush covered her face. "You can't be here. I'll be executed soon and they can't find you in my room when they come to get me."

"They won't, now come on." The girl motioned towards the window with her hand, her delicate fingers wiggling in the empty air between them.

"But who are you? And you didn't answer my question." Aleana held fast, ignoring the sudden urge in her mind that wanted her to follow the girl, no questions asked. She didn't know what it was, but she didn't trust the feeling.

"Zola, and why do you think I'm here? Your godmother sent me to get you out." Aleana gaped at Zola.

"My godmother sent a nine-year-old to save me?"

Zola huffed, crossing her arms and stomping one of her bare feet. A scowl plastered itself on Zola's face as the girl glared at Aleana and then spun around and stomped her way over to the ruined window.

"I'm not nine! I'm three-hundred-and-twenty-seven! And there's much more to me than meets the eye." Zola's eyes narrowed into slits and Aleana's jaw dropped.

"Three-hundred-"

"And-twenty-seven, yes. Now, are you coming or not? Because you're right, I do not want to be here when the guards come to get you. Or when your mother sends her minions to investigate what the loud noise was."

"Why would my godmother send you? Why can't she save me?" Aleana cut in, stepping closer to Zola. None of it made sense.

She'd only ever met her godmother on a handful of occasions, but she'd always got the impression that her godmother didn't like dealing with other people much. Or rather, other magical beings much, and magic definitely ran through Zola's veins.

"Because she doesn't have time to save princesses that can't save themselves. So she sent me instead. She trusts me."

"But how-"

"For the love of- stop questioning and come on!" Aleana still stayed where she was. She did not trust this girl- woman- at all. Even if her godmother supposedly did. "Stop dilly-dallying and trust me. Unless you want to die?"

That broke Aleana from her hesitation, forcing her into action. With her face still sticky from her tears, and her eyes burning, Aleana darted forward, moving to stand beside Zola at the window. Far below, in the cobblestone courtyard, Aleana could see the passersby staring up at them.

In the shrubbery at the base of the tower the gilded bars, that previously locked her in, sat, and people crowded around their spot in the dewy leaves. For a moment, Aleana swore she could hear the whispers, the gossip, but then Zola grabbed her hand and it all faded away. She didn't care anymore.

"Ready, princess?"

"For what?" Aleana answered, feeling as if she was speaking through cotton, or moving through fog. Dimly, she was aware of Zola's smirk, but in the next moment, that too disappeared as Zola prodded and pulled her to stand on the very edge of the windowsill.

A gust of wind flung her faded, blue dress around her legs, and a shiver made its way up her spine. The dizzying sight before her made her clutch with her free hand to the side of the stone windowsill. The ground was so far away...

One step and she'd fall to her death.

The sensation of only a slim hand and less than an inch of stone protecting her from a messy fall thrust Aleana back into partial awareness.

"Wait, are we going to ju-"

She didn't get to finish her sentence as Zola pushed her out of the window.

It's not every day that a girl turns eighteen. It's not every day a girl is sentenced to death by her own mother, either.

From behind the gilded bars and dirty panes on her bedroom window, Aleana watched as the sun broke away from the tree-lined horizon, its golden rays glaring in her eyes and causing them to water. She didn't look away or at the quiet courtyard far below.

If she looked down, she'd see the hangman's noose she'd be swinging from later in the day.

Frowning, Aleana closed her grey eyes and turned her head. She didn't need to see it. She didn't want to see it. Part of her still held a fragile piece of denial, a piece of naive hope that whispered that maybe this wasn't her last day.

But even so, she knew today was her last.

Any minute now, her maid would come to deliver her last breakfast, her kind face marred with pity. Within a quarter-of-an-hour, her mother would no doubt come knocking at her door, giving her a generous ultimatum.

"Marry your half-brother and I'll spare your life," she'd say.

Or maybe not exactly that. Her mother always did have a flair for the dramatic. There'd be more shouting, more tears, maybe even more incentives. Her darling half-brother might make an appearance.

Aleana hated her mother. She hated her half-brother. However, she had to admit that when the pair wanted to put on a show, they could do it and do it well.

After all, her father fell for it nineteen years ago, and up until her fifteenth birthday, Aleana was none the wiser of her mother and her schemes.

But she couldn't miss her mother's plans now. Not for an instant.

Her mother wanted her son, Julian, to be king and solve Aleana's little problem. Born from her mother's first husband, dearest Julian had no right to the throne. Whereas Aleana did. In fact, if she'd been eighteen and normal when her father died, she would've become queen right there and then.

Unfortunately, that was not the case, and so she found herself standing in the middle of her once beautiful bedroom in the sunrise of her last day, making her own schemes on how to best throw her mother off guard when she came to see her.

That was all she could do, after all.

A knock echoed through the room as her maid tapped on the wooden door.

"Come in," Aleana called, her lips pressed together and her fists clenched.

While she appreciated the sentiment, there was no point for her maid, Claire, to knock. Her door, like her window, was just a part of a glorified prison cell. With bars on the outside and a small barred window at the top, Aleana's door was made with one goal in mind; keeping her trapped inside.

Even so, her words were followed by the clicking of keys in locks and the familiar sound of Claire's shuffling steps into the room.

"Good morning, Princess." Claire came into the room, her demeanor a shade of her usual joyous one, the older woman's eyes staying on the task at hand.

"Good morning, Claire."

Claire did not look up at Aleana's words.

Aleana watched as Claire placed the breakfast tray on the rickety and faded dressing table that stood on one side of the room, across from Aleana's equally worn bedframe. Once upon a time, this room was filled with luxurious fabrics and the best furniture, gowns, books that staved her worries away, and all the dolls her father's influence could buy.

Nowadays, it seemed that Claire and Aleana were all that was left of that time.

Not a single gown, book, or doll remained; just skeletons of what her life used to be.

"Oh dear, you've already gotten dressed," Claire said, at last eyeing Aleana's threadbare, blue dress. It was the nicest thing she owned, even if the hem was ripped and threads hung from the sleeves like spider-webs. "I was supposed to help you."

"Don't worry, I won't tell."

Claire stared at Aleana, her owlish eyes wide, before responding, "I know you won't."

Aleana glanced away, choosing instead to focus on the breakfast tray. A small cup of tea and a piece of bread greeted her. Aleana looked back at Claire, her shoulders slumping involuntarily.

"I would've gotten you more, my lady, but your mother-"

"She forbade it?" Aleana cut in, and Claire nodded her head, her white-streaked hair catching the sunlight. "I thought as much."

Her mother no doubt believed that Aleana would be more likely to agree to a "compromise" if she was hungry. Then again, her mother once thought the same thing two years ago about taking away her gowns, her nice furniture, and locking her in her tower bedroom.

It didn't go according to her mother's plans, but when it came to Aleana, nothing rarely did.

"Princess, I want you to know, that all of us-" meaning the palace staff and every servant and nobleman who'd helped raise Aleana "-wish that things could've been different. We wish we could help you."

"But you can't."

"No, princess, but we'd like to. We've asked your-"

A shout from outside Aleana's room interrupted Claire. Both of them froze and Claire paled. Aleana didn't. She moved to stand in front of Claire just as the door to her room swung open, revealing the queen.

"Your Highness, you're up awfully early," Aleana bit out, pushing Claire behind her more with a firm but gentle hand. Her mother pouted, her eyelashes fluttering at the effort of forcing away the fake tears that spilled from her eyes and down her powder covered cheeks.

"Oh, my darling, why can you not call me Mama again? Like the old days!"

Aleana stiffened as her mother rushed forward, clutching onto Aleana's bony shoulders. Up close, her mother's blue eyes swam with more crocodile tears than Aleana thought possible. Steeling herself, Aleana straightened, preparing herself for her own little act.

"Don't you know? I'm doing you a favor," Aleana said, her jaw tight. "I thought you'd rather be known as the queen who justly executed her unruly subject. Sounds much better to the masses than the mother who killed her neglected daughter out of a misplaced sense of righteousness."

Behind her, Claire stifled a gasp, and her mother narrowed her eyes. Aleana's inner fourteen-year-old, the same fourteen-year-old who trusted her mother without fail, loved her father, and had yet to find out about the very predicament that had her in this mess, shuddered with fear. But outside of her quaking mind, Aleana's face mirrored stone, cold and unforgiving.

This was a mask she knew better than most. After all, she'd learned from the best.

"You always were such an ungrateful, wicked child. When will you learn to hold your tongue?"

"Well, since you're going to kill me today, probably never. But if by chance I end up in the Pit, I'll let you know when you get there."

Aleana stood tall as her mother did her best impression of a fish. Her mouth opened and closed, until at last, the woman took a step back, releasing Aleana from her hold. Aleana's lips twitched with the effort of trying to hold in her hysterical laughter.

She did always have a hard time holding her tongue, but now that she was to die she wasn't pulling her punches anymore.

"I would never end up there." The words came out as a whisper. Aleana's laugh escaped, bubbling out, unable to be stopped.

"Don't you know? That's where murderers go, Mama. And you've killed at least twice now." Aleana held up a hand, ticking off her fingers. "Let's see. Me, Father, who else? I'm sure there's more. Why don't we ask Julian's father? Wait, he's dead too isn't he?"

Out of the corner of her eye, Aleana saw Claire edge out the bedroom door. Good, if Claire was lucky, Aleana's mother would forget she was present. An ugly yowl snapped Aleana's attention to her mother.

"How could you say such horrible things? I am your mother!" Giant tears poured down her face, but Aleana felt nothing but scorn and that sense of lingering fear. Whereas once she would've comforted her mother, Aleana knew better now. "I came here to give you a chance, and all you do is throw insults at me!"

"Fine, then let's hear it. Let's see if your offer deserves anything better than insults."

Aleana walked to the window sill, leaning up against it with her arms crossed, her fingernails biting into her forearms to keep her tears in. She could do this. She stared at her mother, waiting for the show to begin.

"If you marry Julian, you'll be free. Free like you've always wanted, darling! Free to visit your aunt like you wished, free to wear whatever gowns you want-"

"Free to rule my country how I wish?" Stifling silence met Aleana's question. Her mother frowned. "I thought not."

"Sweeting, please, think this through! I'm giving you a chance. You can't say I'm not a good mother. You know what would happen if the people found out about your secret," her mother insisted, but Aleana raised an eyebrow and pushed away from the windowsill.

With an angry swipe, Aleana put out the candle-chandelier and at her back, the sun went dark as the open door to her bedroom slammed shut. Even in the darkness, Aleana cast a shadow, a shadow much larger than she would in the sun.

"You mean this secret, Mama? The one caused by your own selfish wish? It's not my fault that you impressed my godmother enough for her to give me this wonderful little gift."

The room darkened more, and in the gloom, Aleana watched as her mother backed away. The usually sparkling gems at her mother's neck looked like black stone, and Aleana knew that hate and fear would be all she'd see in her mother's eyes.

"Most mothers ask for beauty or happiness or love for their daughters. You asked for power." Her mother put her back to Aleana. "Power is what you got."

"Put back the lights, Aleana," her mother whispered, and with a sigh, Aleana did. With a wave of her hand, the light returned, but in the wake of the dark, it seemed tainted and Aleana's wavering strength and emotional control felt it. "So, you choose death."

"Yes."

With a huff, her mother swung on her heel, her voluminous, purple gown swishing around her feet as she left Aleana alone. Aleana waited until the door closed before she flung herself on her bed, burying her head into her pillow.

The pillow muffled her cries, but Aleana knew that the guards outside her room would not come to comfort her like they might've once. No one would comfort a prisoner marked for death. No one would comfort the god-daughter of the most fearsome dark fairy in the land.

Or at least that's what she thought, but then her window opened.

Author's Note:

And so ends chapter one! This book is also available on wattpad under the same name, if you're curious.

You put people on a pedestal.

You expect them to rise to the occasion.

After all, the air is clearer where it's high.

You watch and you wait.

You wait for them to prove their worth,

To prove your actions right.

You wait for them to show you,

To show you that the pedestal is where they belong.

And maybe they wait to see too.

If you believe they can be on a pedestal,

Why can't they be?

If you put them there, surely they deserve it, right?

But that's not true.

No one deserves the pedestal.

No one can survive it.

Pedestals are meant for statues,

Perfect, lifeless renderings of mankind,

Crafted by artisans in honor of our false image.

They're not perfect, this person on your pedestal,

But you forgot,

And maybe, wrapped in your raptures, they did too.

They're not perfect. They can't be, they're not statues.

They tilt too far to one side or the other,

They break the mould cast for them, rotting it from the inside out.

They break and they fall and their pedestal is empty.

Their shattered remains litter the floor they stood so far above.

They couldn't meet your expectations.

Or more accurately,

Your expectations were unrealistic for reality.

Because they didn't know they had to meet them.

They didn't know you wanted them to.

How were they to know the inner-workings of your mind,

When you barely do?

You put people on a pedestal.

You expect them to rise to the occasion.

After all, the air is clearer where it's high.

But they never will.

Nor will they live up to lifeless perfection.

They're not statues.

So stop putting them up there.

#expectations #statue #pedestal #failure #success #poetry #poem #poems #lifeless #perfect #short

Note: This story was originally posted as a contest entry on Wattpad. While it did end up winning the contest, it does have its flaws and failings, and while it did well on Wattpad, I do know that some of the tropes featured will probably give me some backlash anywhere else. But I'm posting it anyway because I felt like sharing it. Hopefully, even with its mistakes and bumps, you'll still enjoy the story.

Part One:

Moonlight broke through the clouds, making Eleanora's pale skin seem luminescent and her blonde hair shine. Shivering despite her inability to feel the chill in the night air, Eleanora hurried along the quiet forest path, noticing as the trees began to thin out.

Sapphire blue skirts swishing around her and over every rock and root beneath her slipper-covered feet, Eleanora grit her sharp teeth as the glittering palace came into view, its golden lights seeming unnatural in the darkness of night. She wasn't used to seeing such brightness, nor did she want to be.

For a moment she paused, her eyes focused on the palace. She didn't want to be here, but as her eyes landed on the palace gates and the heads of her deceased brethren that topped each spike, each gilded spear, she felt her resolve harden even as her stomach churned with the fear she couldn't shove away.

Eleanora  pursed her lips, the words of her stepmother playing in her head like the classical music playing in the air as it drifted from the palace.

"You must complete your mission by sunrise. If you do not, you will be nothing better than that ill-fated guild."

Yes, that ill-fated guild whose heads now lined the palace gates of the Wizarding Royal Family. Eleanora felt her eyes prickling with tears she couldn't cry. She could do this for them, since it was clearly not for herself.

She couldn't let her fear get to her or the premature sense of grief. She was to give up it all so her people could be free from the wizarding population that hunted them for sport.  Steeling herself and her fingers, that, were they human, would've been quivering, Eleanora rushed forwards, her hair ruffling in the gust of wind her movement created. She was going to go through with the plan.

She was no weak-minded human, she was no simple maiden in a pretty dress like the ladies going to and from the palace that stood close by to the shadows of the forest.

No, she was a vampire, and she had a prince to kill, even if it would hurt her more than any wizard in the world ever could.

Part Two:

No one noticed Eleanora as she slipped through the gilded gates, keeping her eyes averted from the bloodless vampire heads lining the spiked fence that surrounded the palace of the Royal Wizarding Family. For all intents and purposes, the enchantment cast upon her by her stepmother held, making her look like just another young Wizarding lady. It hid her unnaturally pale skin and her lack of the glowing eyes that were a testament to wizards everywhere, and it kept her head from joining those already perched atop the palisade.

She hoped the enchantment would hold. She had no wish to become a head on a stick or a pile of cinders in the middle of the palace ballroom because of the palace's rune defenses.

Brushing past the ball-goers, Eleanora kept her own eyes averted from the forms of those coming from the ball. If she wished to escape from the palace alive, she couldn't draw attention to herself. The enchantment could only take her so far; she'd have to do the rest herself.

Ignoring the multiple pairs of glowing blue eyes that surrounded her as she hurried past their owners, Eleanora tried not to quake with fear as she walked under the marble archway leading into the palace. Carved into the stone with runes that told of fire and death were the same words that gave the palace defenses the power to smite any vampire who dared to step foot in its halls.

The runes were how her father died, her mother passed, and those runes would kill her if she didn't get out of the palace before the sun rose.

As she walked under them, the runes failed to flare up like the wizards who'd cast them a century ago had intended, and Eleanora let out a silent sigh of relief. Her stepmother was right. It was as if she was still human, not a being who required darkness and blood to survive.

Although the morning hours creeped steadily closer, the ball still went on at full swing, the crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling bathing the dancing couples in a warm glow that made Eleanora's head hurt. A number of the ornately dressed party-goers now sat at the edges of the ballroom or leaned up against pillars, trying to catch their breath or rest their no-doubt aching feet, yet it appeared the ball wouldn't burn out until the sun came to greet them.

Onyx eyes scanning the ballroom, Eleanora allowed herself to follow the movements of the crowd, not dancing of course, but just swaying as if she was just another starry-eyed girl enjoying herself. No, it was her eyes that did the dancing, sweeping a piercing search over the ballroom, not pausing even to look at the King and Queen more closely. She had no need to. She had no interest in them; they were murderous tyrants who killed blindly, not stopping to spare even those who were once their close friends.

Breaking free from the crowd, she gave into her instincts, although not her vampire ones-- those were too swamped with the scent and sounds of the moving bodies that surrounded her like fog. No, instead she listened to her other instincts, the same ones that allowed a mother to find a wandering child in a crowd, or the instincts that led a pair of lovers to find each other's gazes across a crowded room.

Turning her head, her blonde hair swinging about her shoulders, Eleanora watched as a tall, dark-haired figure clothed in white walked out to the doors she'd once entered through herself as a human. They were the doors to the balcony overlooking the rose garden and she knew the figure was him instantly. Even though the only hint provided was a clear outline of a crown amongst his tight curls, she knew the figure to be Prince Julius from the way he held himself.

If her heart still thumped in her chest, she knew it would've skipped a beat or two, but alas, just like her heart, Prince Julius was a friend from another life. He was a friend she'd first met as a little girl while wandering the rose garden, waiting for her mother to be done having tea with his mother, the queen.

With all of her stone cold and silent heart, Eleanora wished she didn't have to follow him, but in her mind she knew she needed to. If she did not, more of the creatures she called family would die. What was one life in exchange for thousands?

That thought didn't make her feel any better.

Breaking away from the crowd, Eleanora followed the prince on silent feet, her quiet countenance and unassuming demeanor letting her fall into the shadows like the monsters she descended from. No one trailed after her, not a single soul glanced her way, and she had eyes only for the Prince.

Coming up behind him, she paused. If she wished to, she could do it now. He'd never see it coming, she'd never get to have the memory of killing her childhood best friend. She'd never have to see the betrayal on his face.

It was for that same reason that she cleared her throat.

They were supposed to be mortal enemies now because of what she'd become, but that did not wash away over a decade of friendship that came before it, nor did it sweep under the rug the fear, adoration, regret, and sorrow coursing through her veins like blood.

Julius turned his head to the side, his crystalline, blue eyes meeting hers. To his credit, his eyes widened, but he did not react otherwise. He didn't take a step back, or even reach for the wand hidden away on his hip. A single spell from him and she would die. A single shout and the plot would be exposed.

He did neither of those things.

"Eleanora," he whispered her name, his mouth barely moving but caressing the sound of her name all the same. Just the way he said her name made her heart clench and her stomach churn. He said it like a priest would whisper a last prayer, and she felt her chest tighten as if her own lungs sought to betray her, kill her, before she had the chance to kill him instead.

"Julius." And she said his name like a sinner asking for a savior. He peered at her, taking a single step towards her and lifting a calloused hand to her face. She leaned in to it, unable to stop herself.

"What are you doing here? You promised me you'd never return unless..." He left the rest of the sentence unsaid. She knew how it ended, they'd agreed to disagree on the subject for three years now. Indeed, she had broken her promise, but she'd always known that she'd never be able to keep that particular promise. She placed a hand over his wrist, taking it away from her face.

"I'm sorry, Julius," she murmured, apologizing for more than breaking her promise. Her eyes locked with his, and she felt as if she'd been stripped bare under his inspection, her body shivering without her consent. He tugged the wrist she held in her hand free, his own hand coming up to cradle the back of her head, forcing her closer, his body pressed up against hers.

"I understand."

"How can you say that?" Her voice came out strangled. "You know why I'm here."

"Yes, I do, but I don't care. Now do it, before the sun rises and you're burnt to ash." Eleanora stared up at him, his black eyebrows, his high cheekbones, his riotous curls, his pink lips- she couldn't do it.

Behind him, the sky had begun to lighten, and Eleanora knew that if she made the wrong choice, there was no going back, but she couldn't do what she had come for. She couldn't do what her stepmother wanted her to do, she couldn't complete the mission she'd been handpicked for. Who better to kill the prince than his best friend? Who better to kill the prince than the woman he loved? How better to break her heart and force her into submission than to make her become a murderer by killing him?

"I can't do it," she answered, and Julius pulled her tighter against him, his nose hair-widths away from hers. In a single intake of breath his mouth met hers, his lips caressing hers, scorching hers, drinking her in, while his hands gripped her ever closer. Eleanora wished she could cry, that this moment just before dawn could last forever.

With a rush of air, he pulled back from her lips, still holding her to him.

"You can and you will." Julius hid his head in her neck, leaving his own bare and unguarded. Eleanora looked over his neck as the horizon began to glow a deep red, announcing the lack of time before the sun arrived. Her fingers dug into the silken, white fabric on his back, her eyes fluttering closed as she felt the heat from his breath, and then from his mouth, scalding against her neck.

She knew what she had to do. She'd been trained for months. Eleanora knew what her stepmother, what her family asked of her... But she also knew what Julius asked of her.

And who was she to say "no" to a prince?

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And so in the true spirit of short stories, I end this story with you all probably wandering what she decided to do. What do you think Eleanora decided to do? Did she kill Julius? Did she allow herself to be burnt to cinders? Did she turn him into a vampire or run away with him off into the sunrise? Let me know what you think she did in the comments below!

Thanks for reading!

Note: This is also on my Wattpad account.

Return to Neverland

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Surrounded by family and friends the woman once known as Wendy Darling closed her eyes and took a breath. That breath was her last. She could no longer hear the sounds of her family's cries or feel the weary fatigue of age setting in on her bones, she felt nothing at all.

It wasn't until later, when her family had all left the room to gather themselves that the old window blew open and a pair of dirty, bare feet landed lightly on the windowsill. However, where Wendy's family saw an elderly woman with white hair and laugh lines, the owner of the feet saw someone else.

Sitting on the side of her bed, face unlined and cheeks rosy, was a young Wendy Darling. Her attention was on a book in her hands, eyes flicking across the pages, but upon hearing the sound of his feet treading on the floor, she turned to the guest with a sunny smile, her blue eyes sparkling despite the dim light.

"You're late, Peter. I was expecting you hours ago." The leaf-covered boy nodded before holding out a hand to her.

"Are you ready? Are you sure this time?" Wendy looked around her room, taking in the photographs on her dresser, the aged chest of toys her grandchildren had brought in, and the portrait of her and her family hanging on the papered wall above the fireplace.

This had been her life. For years she had been a mother, followed by a grandmother, and lastly, a great-grandmother. The man who had been her husband had left her long ago, going to his own heaven, all while she walked a slow path, waiting for hers.

"Yes, I'm ready," she replied, getting to her feet and taking Peter's hand, allowing him to lead her towards the open window.

"We have so much to do. The lost boys have been waiting to see you! And the fairies, too." Wendy nodded, but paused as her bare feet brushed against the windowsill. Seeing her hesitation, Peter spoke again. "Don't worry, Wendy. You'll be back soon. You always are."

Wendy shook her head. "Not this time, Peter." Peter didn't reply, but instead grasped her hand tighter, pulling her towards the window. Taking one last look at her room, Wendy followed him, stepping out of the window and into the starry night sky.

And so at long last, Wendy Darling returned to Neverland.

"Not with a bang but a whimper." - T. S. Eliot, The Hollow Men

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At first his children thought it was a normal snowfall, and for a moment, they were happy. Snow was, after all, a gift.

It wasn't their fault they were wrong; it was his.

It was his generation that could not use their words and resorted to nuclear weaponry that was irreversible. How could someone like him, a scientist who told the military how to set the world aflame, ever tell his children that it was not snow, but the ash of thousands of cities, trees, and people that they wished to make snow angels in?

He couldn't. He was as cowardly as ever, leaving it to his wife to explain. Instead, he did his best to navigate the deserted streets towards the barracks he had been told his family would be welcome at, all while she spoke the dreaded words.

The outside world was the post-apocalyptic landscape of his darkest nightmares, but this was far worse. This was real. Roger could not bear to look in the rear view mirror of his car, he couldn't bear to meet the eyes of his daughter and his two sons. How could he have failed so spectacularly?

He was their father. He was supposed to keep them safe, and now, he could see he had done everything but that.

Every generation was supposed to pass on a better world to their posterity, to their children and their grandchildren and so on. Roger had managed to help his own generation blow that better world to pieces.

He pulled their car to a quick stop in front of the barracks. Unable to move until his wife told him to. She didn't touch him. In fact, she hadn't touched him since the explosion.

Roger was unsure of whether it was because she thought he needed space or because she was disgusted that the result of the notes that he would sometimes leave on the kitchen table had caused her children to have to leave their home. Roger had a feeling it was the latter option.

"Daddy, how long are we going to be here? When can we go home?" Roger stilled in the front seat before watching out of the corner of his eye as his wife turned to face their daughter.

"We're going to be here for a while, sweetheart. Your Daddy has important work to do." And wasn't that the truth. He had helped make this mess. Now it was time to see if he could help clean it up.

Hastily, he handed the necessary papers to get into the bunker to his wife. He wouldn't need them. The personnel would recognize him on sight, and something told him that they'd be more than happy to let him in.

Getting out from the car, Roger closed the door behind him before walking towards the barracks.

"Dr. Brighton, they've been expecting you," one of the soldiers said, and Roger nodded stiffly. Yes, he already knew that.

He moved past the soldiers and the people waiting in line, ignoring the glares and curious stares burning into his back. While his children had no idea that their father, Dr. Roger Brighton, was responsible for creating the bomb that changed their world, these people knew. If only they could trust him enough to try and fix his mistakes as much as they had once trusted him to help end the war.

To be fair, he had helped to end the war. It was just that he might've helped cause the end of the world, too. It was akin to what the liberal newspapers had called him before the blast went off and the world went silent. Dr. Roger Brighton, destroyer of worlds.

"Brighton, there you are!" General McIntosh said, clapping Roger on the back with a gnarled hand as he came up to him. The general was smiling, but Roger knew why. "Excellent. Now you can fix this mess."

"Perhaps this is a conversation best had within a different setting," Roger remarked, and the General let out a booming laugh, drawing even more attention to the two of them.

"Of course, dear boy. Too right."

The general began to lead Roger away from the other people, taking him around the corner. Yet, even as they moved, Roger could see the general's hopeful facade dropping. It had been an act, just like Roger knew it was.

"Get in." Roger followed the order without question, going into the meeting room that was already filled with military men and science advisors. At the head of the table sat the President of the United States, but whereas before he might've smiled at Roger, now he didn't even look at him.

"Alright, Brighton. How the heck do we fix this?" General McIntosh took a seat, taking the last chair. Roger was to stand, as if on trial, but he was not surprised.

"General, when I gave you the bomb, I told you what the results of using it would be. You knew the risk, and you chose to use it anyway." The general's face began to turn the color of puce, but it was the President who spoke up.

"Roger, if this bomb was to cause so much damage, why did you create it?" Roger took in a calming breath, not that it worked.

"You asked me to, sir. You all asked me to. You told me to create a weapon that would end the war without question, a weapon that would wipe out an entire country in the blink of an eye or the push of a button. That is what I did."

"And did you not think before you acted? If you knew this would happen, this is on your head, not ours."

Roger fought to contain a bitter laugh. Who would have thought that the American government and military were more cowardly about owning up to their actions than he was?

"Sir, when given a direct order from the highest power in the country to create a bomb that could end the world, one does not say no. If I had, my family's lives would've been forfeit even before the bomb was detonated." The men in the room had the decency to look away. It had taken a lot to get Roger to create their bomb, and no one could deny that they had tried every trick in the book to get him to. "All I could hope was that you, the people with the power to stop your own actions, would have the courage to stop yourself from using it."

The room drifted into complete silence, and Roger tried not to look at the pictures pinned to the nearest wall. The pictures of the destruction that they had all wrought. It was the ruins of cities, of humanity, and the stuff of all of their nightmares and teenagers' video games. Roger had to wonder if said teenagers were as keen to play such games now that it was all too real.

He bet not.

"So what do you suggest we do? Tell the people that we have sentenced them to death? We don't have enough supplies to keep everyone alive for long enough to try and think of a solution. How long will this nuclear winter last?"

"Two months," Roger answered, his own mouth set in a firm line. "In that time we can try and start to grow the seeds we collected in the preserves, we can take some of the soil from outside and work on salvaging it."

"And that is all we can do? Study seeds and work on soil?" Roger looked to the general in response to his harsh words.

"No, that is not all we can do, or all that we will do. For all we know, we could be the only ones left alive. We could be the last people on Earth, and so we do what we must. As humans, we are supposed to learn from past mistakes. I suppose our memory has grown too long, we have forgotten what most of us once knew as children."

"What do you mean, Brighton? Stop speaking in riddles."

"Stories and religions from around the world tell the story of a great flood that forced the human race to start anew. This, sir, is our flood. The only difference is that we have no animals to speak of. We have our seeds, our science, and our minds. That will have to be enough."

"And if it isn't?" This time it was the President who spoke up, his tone was as quiet as ever, and yet every person in the room was forced to acknowledge his words. Roger, despite not wishing to speak everyone's thoughts out loud, was the one to answer.

"Then in trying to save the world, we have, instead, ended it."

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Word count: 1,483

This was written for a contest on Wattpad.