Beyond the Horizon | Face the Sun
Previous chapters in this book:
What had it been? Nearly seven decades.
Seven decades had passed since she’d felt the sun on her face.
Seven decades since she’d spoken a word.
Seven decades since she’d run her fingers through her long, violet hair.
And it had been seven days since she’d banished Gumbo and those who refused to renounce the Droplet Society.
A choice she had yet to regret.
She felt the breeze on her face as she sat atop her favorite vista overlooking Stickweave Forest. She rested her palm on the ornate wooden box resting on the grass beside her.
Being in the presence of her friends and subjects again had brought a wave of relief from the endless, crushing darkness she’d endured.
However, she could feel the cold fingers of dread dragging up her back and clutching her shoulders. She never expected to be free… and she certainly wasn’t ready for what was to come.
Perhaps staying sealed would have been better in the end. Accepting her failure was far easier than embracing a fresh start, in a world without the Fae.
Every waking moment she experienced in her darkness felt like a deranged echo, flowing and folding in on itself. Sage Gumbo’s nigh-endless raving and delusions robbed her of a final, miserable rest.
No, Asheron entrusted her imprisonment to Gumbo as an insufferable punishment. Gumbo’s words would slip and shift into her magical prison, vowels becoming consonants, syllables twisting into slur. But over time she finally understood his mutterings:
She must never awake, never arise, and never stand to face the sun. Lord Asheron’s future lies beyond this land, a place she must never reach.
His voice would grate and cut at her mind. Asheron had promised the foolish creature the world. An ending befitting an honored servant. Yet, Gumbo had no inkling that he had been betrayed long ago, destined to fail.
Doomed to exile.
During Gumbo’s incoherent ravings, she learned of the role Asheron had thrust upon her — what she would have to do to bring an end to the nihilistic tapestry he had wrought.
Amelie’s breath quickened like a stone skipping across the water; then it hung, only to sink into murky depths. She clutched the grass on either side of her legs. Cold sweat rolled down her exposed back.
Seven decades had passed, and still Asheron managed to make a fool of her.
He had stripped her of her kingdom, contorted the will of her trusted council, and banished her to an infinite darkness. Amelie yelled, ripped at the grass, and fell back — tears leaking down her face from behind her healing mask.
He had been her friend!
She couldn’t forsake the kinship she felt for the monster who craved the perfect end to everything she and her people had built. They were kindred souls; forged in fire, tempered in ice, and fractured by imperfections.
Her chest rose and fell rapidly.
The Fae were dead.
She and that kindred beast were all that were left of them. Her mind flashed with the scenes of the burning cities, piles of broken bodies, and the ragged voices of her people.
Be strong, Amelie.
Flailing, screaming.
“Save Us, Princess!”
Don’t falter, Amelie.
Sobbing, breaking.
“Save Us, Princess!”
Stand tall, Amelie.
Gasping, crumbling.
“Save Us, Princess!”
From deep within, Amelie let loose a primal shriek meant only for the ghosts that haunted her.
Awaken.
“Avenge Us, Amelie!”
Arise.
“Avenge Us, Amelie!”
Face the sun.
“Avenge Us, Amelie!”
Laying on her back, she slowly reached for her face. Breathing shallowly and with trembling fingers, she removed the mask. The reddened light of the late evening sun washed over her eyes. She winced in pain as her pupils experienced the sun’s light for the first time in ages.
But after a few moments, she sat up and exhaled. After seventy years she was away, the forest had barely changed.
And aside from her hair and moth-worn clothing, she supposed not much had changed about her either. She still had her duty as the leader of her people.
Turning toward the solitary willow tree that shared the vista with her, she clutched the mementos of the Fae she’d brought with her.
It was time to let the past fade.
Later, Mushroomhead crested over the hill onto the vista with the willow tree.
His gaze fell upon a small mound at the foot of the tree’s gnarled, glowing roots. Engraved on a flat stone behind the mound read the words:
In remembrance of the Fae. In celebration of those we meet on our new path.
Mushroomhead sat next to the tiny monument to lost friends and gazed at the stars, wondering what they may find beyond the horizon.
