Kneeling before the door, Ophelia inserted the lockpick and fiddled for the correct pins. That the fae used doors with the same locking mechanisms as every other mundane race intrigued her greatly.
The fae could wield magic like a ranger wielded a bow. And yet despite being able to cast boundaries, walls and impediments unsurpassable by anything less than a dragon, they still utilised doors with mechanical locks and insecure keys.
Even the Mage's Guild only used magical locks. But then again, mages weren't fae. They didn't need magical locks on their doors. They had something better. Usually.
The Gateway in the Wovencoille, accessible only by express permission. Anything past it was a guest, and those that weren't were left to succumb to the mesmerising horizon.
For all the doors in the Winter Court, it was likely the fae were more concerned with the romance aspect of a lock and key over the practicality of keeping their inner sanctum secure.
Ophelia understood the sentiment.
A key was a beautiful thing filled with symbolism. The day she'd received the key for her lovely cottage, she understood what happiness meant. Ophelia owned few possessions. But her cottage and her two ducks were things she'd defend even were the rest of Aquina aflame. The days that her job took her into fields far and wide, she held onto her key for warmth and comfort. And also as a backup weapon.
Hers was incredibly serrated.
She'd had both it and the lock on her door custom ordered, after all.
Click.
It took her over fifteen seconds before she felt the door give way. One of her worst times. Her mother's sighs were still ringing in her ears, distracting her at every opportunity. No doubt sabotaging her mental state at work was the newest tactic to pushing her towards surrender.
Ophelia had no intention of doing so. She'd had enough. The two heads rolling on the floor was proof of that.
If she hadn't been so riled up by all the intrusions into her private life, she probably would've gotten one of them to swoon. As it was, she didn't even see how they fell! It was quite possible, and in her opinion likely, that they were already in the act of fainting when she swiped their heads off. The look on their faces was clearly frozen in adoration before she kicked them away.
That's why, the problem clearly wasn't her.
But maybe it could be him.
“Welcome to the Winter Court. I apologise for the lack of a formal welcome, but you offered little time for an official ceremony to be held. There are bricks and tea, if you'd like. And also my blade. Which would you prefer?”
Within a sparsely decorated chamber at odds with the splendour of the Frozen Palace, a single fae sat on a chair at the end of a small table. He was tall and slim, as were all fae, and was well-dressed in a colourfully trimmed chiton garment.
He was also old. For a fae. The glamour of youth surrounding his face was spoiled by the sight of a single scar. Only scars earned in war were permitted to be kept. And the fae had not gone to war in centuries.
Ophelia thought that he was more handsome than #19 or #20.
She also thought that it probably wasn't good that there was no chair for her.
There were bricks, though. Lots of bricks. Red bricks. Sand bricks. Clay bricks. All arranged neatly on porcelain plates like individual slices of cake. A jar of custard stood to the side. And a pot of tea.
Oh, and also a shining fae blade, presented as though daring her to come take it.
Ophelia wondered if the fae knew that if she wanted to, she very well could. She didn't need a sword, though. She had her own.
No, all she wanted … was what the fae wore on his head.
“I'd prefer neither,” she said. “Though your hospitality is no doubt sincere and heartfelt, I've come searching for something altogether different. I intend to make myself scarce afterwards.”
“Indeed? Then I'll endeavour to help you along, cousin.”
The fae smirked.
Cousin.
The derogatory term fae enjoyed overusing when referring to elvenkind.
The similarities were there. Aside from their shared history, fae and elves were alike. Both were tall of height, had naturally pale skin, slender ears and an arrogance which they wholly indulged in.
But whereas elves had a proficiency for magic, fae were magic.
Their eyes burned with it, illuminated with all the secrets of spellcraft known to the first children since the dawn of memory.
And then there were their wings.
From the fae's back extended a giant pair of beautiful, butterfly-like wings, highlighted beneath the glow of a crystal chandelier. His were black with sweeping blue lines painting a picture of rain dripping down a night window.
Yet even with his beautiful wings and somewhat chiselled handsomeness, Ophelia's eyes were only directed to what the fae was wearing.
There, upon his bed of long snowy hair, sat a magnificent royal headpiece.
“Then you may start with the crown, cousin,” said Ophelia, her hand lightly gripping her sword as she approached the sitting fae. “It sits heavy on your head, does it not? Why, I was led to believe that only the Winter Queen could bear its weight.”
The Crown of Winter.
Crafted from silver so pure that it reflected Ophelia's blue eyes clearer than any mirror, it was a relic from a time when only waves disturbed the shores of Aurora. No kingdoms had risen and no blood had been shed. Its jewels weren't diamonds or sapphires torn from hollowed rocks, but the first three snowflakes to fall upon the mortal world.
It was the most treasured artifact of the Winter Court. Not only as a symbol of their power. But also power itself.
Those who wore it were said to be gifted with unspeakable strength. All the cruelty, malice and harshness of winter would be at the wearer's fingertips.
And all it cost was one's sanity.
That probably explained why this fae wasn't wearing it properly, then.
He was wearing it upside down.
“You would be correct,” said the fae, adjusting the priceless crown as it almost fell off his head. “Alas, I am not the Winter Queen. To even pretend to wear it is too much a burden. I can feel its history bleeding me like a knife's edge.”
“I believe that's because it is.”
Ophelia glanced at the jagged tips where the upside crown was bearing down on him. It dug past his white hair and into his scalp, revealing a line of amber blood leaking past his brow.
Of all the four seasons, winter was the most uncompromising. To even bear its crown half-heartedly was to invite its wrath.
Still, the fae merely chuckled, wiping away the trail of blood with an almost contemptuous flick of his hand.
“I am the Custodian of Treasures,” he said. “And there is no treasure I keep dearer to my heart or my head than the crown of my late queen. Until her rebirth, I will bear the mild discomfort, for it cannot be held by anyone or anything other than her most proven subjects.”
“Well, that's going to be a problem.”
“No, I don't think it shall.”
The fae took one bite from a brick, then rose from his seat. His hand flicked at the hilt of the blade across his table, and it sprung to his grip. The crown threatened to slip. This time, he didn't simply adjust it, but placed his other hand atop it. A fresh trail of amber blood leaked down his temple.
“To make it clear, if you wish to seize the Crown of Winter, you must do so over the objections of my sword. To make it clearer still, that involves you not dying in horrible, grisly and bloody fashion as I impale you in several places at once, and then proceed to inscribe the records of your folly into the snow.”
Ophelia raised an eyebrow. She was aware of the inherent eccentricities of the fae. They were a race of riddles and rules, each as beguiling and peculiar as the other.
Attempting to balance a crown on one's head while locked in a deadly duel struck her as neither beguiling nor peculiar, though. Just very stupid.
“You will struggle with the unwieldiness of such a burden balancing on your head.”
“I think not.” The fae smirked. “For one thing, you will no longer be attempting to strike me there.”
Ophelia raised her hand, then stretched out her finger and thumb.
“The distance between your scalp and your neck is no smaller than the gap between the abyss and the stars. I will not miss.”
The fae wore an expression of unmasked delight at her response. He lived for this act. This play. For what was the Fae Realm, if not a place of stories and drama?
“Then let us see how you navigate the snowstorms which gather between. I am Count Landin of the Frozen Hearth. Name yourself, child.”
“Ophelia,” the elven woman replied with a nod. “The Duchy of Aquina has named me the Snow Dancer.”
“The Snow Dancer. An impudent name to wear in the Winter Court's domain. I will take it for myself, as a trophy of my victory.”
Ophelia shrugged.
“You may have it. Now if you'd like. I don't want it.”
Count Landin blinked, his raised sword coming to a pause.
“Excuse me?”
“It's yours. For free.”
“Are you somehow dissatisfied with such a mysterious, yet fetching title?”
“You bet I am. Apparently, the Snow Dancer is now synonymous with age. I've become old. Famously so, by all accounts. As if I'm some Yule cake that's getting staler by the minute.”
“... Forgive me, but I fail to understand your meaning? As far as my eyes can see, you are young for one of your kind.”
“Not as far as my twice married mother, my freshly married sister, and all the married aunties of my neighbourhood are concerned. Why, as gone as a trout in a dried well, because that's what my cozy little cottage is to them. A well. Oh no, I can't just enjoy the herb garden and the two ducks—that'd be too lonesome. As if I can't enjoy my own company. So if I can't have the Crown of Winter, perhaps you can instead point me towards a bachelor with as much coin as they have little standards, since that's apparently all the criteria I should seek before planning a century of family life.”
Ophelia sighed, then raised her sword. She pushed her right foot back and lowered her centre of mass. Her strike would be swift and precise.
Not responding with his own stance, Count Landin simply eyed the elf before him with a look of mild puzzlement.
“I'm afraid you're unlikely to find a suitor here. An as intruder in the Fae Realm, I believe most of my kind will find you a blight in our homeland. No offence.”
“None taken. Can't say I'm looking forward to hearing from my mother about how I didn't try hard enough again, though.”
Count Landin raised a brow.
“Have you not considered that your life is yours alone to live, and that the rather obvious attempts of those who wish to meddle vicariously through you automatically make them your lessers, and thus unworthy of your thoughts or concerns?”
“It's more complicated than that.”
“I disagree. You are the master of your own choices. Just as you stand in the heart of the Winter Court with neither the means to best me nor to escape, you may stand in your cottage and enjoy the company of your two ducks. Not in the next few remaining seconds of your life, certainly. But in the next one, perhaps.”
Ophelia frowned.
“It's still not that simple.”
“And again—I disagree.”
Count Landin turned his stance sideways, then fully raised his blade.
The next moment, both he and Ophelia struck.
Kneeling before the door, Ophelia inserted the lockpick and fiddled for the correct pins. That the fae used doors with the same locking mechanisms as every other mundane race intrigued her greatly.
The fae could wield magic like a ranger wielded a bow. And yet despite being able to cast boundaries, walls and impediments unsurpassable by anything less than a dragon, they still utilised doors with mechanical locks and insecure keys.
Even the Mage's Guild only used magical locks. But then again, mages weren't fae. They didn't need magical locks on their doors. They had something better. Usually.
The Gateway in the Wovencoille, accessible only by express permission. Anything past it was a guest, and those that weren't were left to succumb to the mesmerising horizon.
For all the doors in the Winter Court, it was likely the fae were more concerned with the romance aspect of a lock and key over the practicality of keeping their inner sanctum secure.
Ophelia understood the sentiment.
A key was a beautiful thing filled with symbolism. The day she'd received the key for her lovely cottage, she understood what happiness meant. Ophelia owned few possessions. But her cottage and her two ducks were things she'd defend even were the rest of Aquina aflame. The days that her job took her into fields far and wide, she held onto her key for warmth and comfort. And also as a backup weapon.
Hers was incredibly serrated.
She'd had both it and the lock on her door custom ordered, after all.
Click.
It took her over fifteen seconds before she felt the door give way. One of her worst times. Her mother's sighs were still ringing in her ears, distracting her at every opportunity. No doubt sabotaging her mental state at work was the newest tactic to pushing her towards surrender.
Ophelia had no intention of doing so. She'd had enough. The two heads rolling on the floor was proof of that.
If she hadn't been so riled up by all the intrusions into her private life, she probably would've gotten one of them to swoon. As it was, she didn't even see how they fell! It was quite possible, and in her opinion likely, that they were already in the act of fainting when she swiped their heads off. The look on their faces was clearly frozen in adoration before she kicked them away.
That's why, the problem clearly wasn't her.
But maybe it could be him.
“Welcome to the Winter Court. I apologise for the lack of a formal welcome, but you offered little time for an official ceremony to be held. There are bricks and tea, if you'd like. And also my blade. Which would you prefer?”
Within a sparsely decorated chamber at odds with the splendour of the Frozen Palace, a single fae sat on a chair at the end of a small table. He was tall and slim, as were all fae, and was well-dressed in a colourfully trimmed chiton garment.
He was also old. For a fae. The glamour of youth surrounding his face was spoiled by the sight of a single scar. Only scars earned in war were permitted to be kept. And the fae had not gone to war in centuries.
Ophelia thought that he was more handsome than #19 or #20.
She also thought that it probably wasn't good that there was no chair for her.
There were bricks, though. Lots of bricks. Red bricks. Sand bricks. Clay bricks. All arranged neatly on porcelain plates like individual slices of cake. A jar of custard stood to the side. And a pot of tea.
Oh, and also a shining fae blade, presented as though daring her to come take it.
Ophelia wondered if the fae knew that if she wanted to, she very well could. She didn't need a sword, though. She had her own.
No, all she wanted … was what the fae wore on his head.
“I'd prefer neither,” she said. “Though your hospitality is no doubt sincere and heartfelt, I've come searching for something altogether different. I intend to make myself scarce afterwards.”
“Indeed? Then I'll endeavour to help you along, cousin.”
The fae smirked.
Cousin.
The derogatory term fae enjoyed overusing when referring to elvenkind.
The similarities were there. Aside from their shared history, fae and elves were alike. Both were tall of height, had naturally pale skin, slender ears and an arrogance which they wholly indulged in.
But whereas elves had a proficiency for magic, fae were magic.
Their eyes burned with it, illuminated with all the secrets of spellcraft known to the first children since the dawn of memory.
And then there were their wings.
From the fae's back extended a giant pair of beautiful, butterfly-like wings, highlighted beneath the glow of a crystal chandelier. His were black with sweeping blue lines painting a picture of rain dripping down a night window.
Yet even with his beautiful wings and somewhat chiselled handsomeness, Ophelia's eyes were only directed to what the fae was wearing.
There, upon his bed of long snowy hair, sat a magnificent royal headpiece.
“Then you may start with the crown, cousin,” said Ophelia, her hand lightly gripping her sword as she approached the sitting fae. “It sits heavy on your head, does it not? Why, I was led to believe that only the Winter Queen could bear its weight.”
The Crown of Winter.
Crafted from silver so pure that it reflected Ophelia's blue eyes clearer than any mirror, it was a relic from a time when only waves disturbed the shores of Aurora. No kingdoms had risen and no blood had been shed. Its jewels weren't diamonds or sapphires torn from hollowed rocks, but the first three snowflakes to fall upon the mortal world.
It was the most treasured artifact of the Winter Court. Not only as a symbol of their power. But also power itself.
Those who wore it were said to be gifted with unspeakable strength. All the cruelty, malice and harshness of winter would be at the wearer's fingertips.
And all it cost was one's sanity.
That probably explained why this fae wasn't wearing it properly, then.
He was wearing it upside down.
“You would be correct,” said the fae, adjusting the priceless crown as it almost fell off his head. “Alas, I am not the Winter Queen. To even pretend to wear it is too much a burden. I can feel its history bleeding me like a knife's edge.”
“I believe that's because it is.”
Ophelia glanced at the jagged tips where the upside crown was bearing down on him. It dug past his white hair and into his scalp, revealing a line of amber blood leaking past his brow.
Of all the four seasons, winter was the most uncompromising. To even bear its crown half-heartedly was to invite its wrath.
Still, the fae merely chuckled, wiping away the trail of blood with an almost contemptuous flick of his hand.
“I am the Custodian of Treasures,” he said. “And there is no treasure I keep dearer to my heart or my head than the crown of my late queen. Until her rebirth, I will bear the mild discomfort, for it cannot be held by anyone or anything other than her most proven subjects.”
“Well, that's going to be a problem.”
“No, I don't think it shall.”
The fae took one bite from a brick, then rose from his seat. His hand flicked at the hilt of the blade across his table, and it sprung to his grip. The crown threatened to slip. This time, he didn't simply adjust it, but placed his other hand atop it. A fresh trail of amber blood leaked down his temple.
“To make it clear, if you wish to seize the Crown of Winter, you must do so over the objections of my sword. To make it clearer still, that involves you not dying in horrible, grisly and bloody fashion as I impale you in several places at once, and then proceed to inscribe the records of your folly into the snow.”
Ophelia raised an eyebrow. She was aware of the inherent eccentricities of the fae. They were a race of riddles and rules, each as beguiling and peculiar as the other.
Attempting to balance a crown on one's head while locked in a deadly duel struck her as neither beguiling nor peculiar, though. Just very stupid.
“You will struggle with the unwieldiness of such a burden balancing on your head.”
“I think not.” The fae smirked. “For one thing, you will no longer be attempting to strike me there.”
Ophelia raised her hand, then stretched out her finger and thumb.
“The distance between your scalp and your neck is no smaller than the gap between the abyss and the stars. I will not miss.”
The fae wore an expression of unmasked delight at her response. He lived for this act. This play. For what was the Fae Realm, if not a place of stories and drama?
“Then let us see how you navigate the snowstorms which gather between. I am Count Landin of the Frozen Hearth. Name yourself, child.”
“Ophelia,” the elven woman replied with a nod. “The Duchy of Aquina has named me the Snow Dancer.”
“The Snow Dancer. An impudent name to wear in the Winter Court's domain. I will take it for myself, as a trophy of my victory.”
Ophelia shrugged.
“You may have it. Now if you'd like. I don't want it.”
Count Landin blinked, his raised sword coming to a pause.
“Excuse me?”
“It's yours. For free.”
“Are you somehow dissatisfied with such a mysterious, yet fetching title?”
“You bet I am. Apparently, the Snow Dancer is now synonymous with age. I've become old. Famously so, by all accounts. As if I'm some Yule cake that's getting staler by the minute.”
“... Forgive me, but I fail to understand your meaning? As far as my eyes can see, you are young for one of your kind.”
“Not as far as my twice married mother, my freshly married sister, and all the married aunties of my neighbourhood are concerned. Why, as gone as a trout in a dried well, because that's what my cozy little cottage is to them. A well. Oh no, I can't just enjoy the herb garden and the two ducks—that'd be too lonesome. As if I can't enjoy my own company. So if I can't have the Crown of Winter, perhaps you can instead point me towards a bachelor with as much coin as they have little standards, since that's apparently all the criteria I should seek before planning a century of family life.”
Ophelia sighed, then raised her sword. She pushed her right foot back and lowered her centre of mass. Her strike would be swift and precise.
Not responding with his own stance, Count Landin simply eyed the elf before him with a look of mild puzzlement.
“I'm afraid you're unlikely to find a suitor here. An as intruder in the Fae Realm, I believe most of my kind will find you a blight in our homeland. No offence.”
“None taken. Can't say I'm looking forward to hearing from my mother about how I didn't try hard enough again, though.”
Count Landin raised a brow.
“Have you not considered that your life is yours alone to live, and that the rather obvious attempts of those who wish to meddle vicariously through you automatically make them your lessers, and thus unworthy of your thoughts or concerns?”
“It's more complicated than that.”
“I disagree. You are the master of your own choices. Just as you stand in the heart of the Winter Court with neither the means to best me nor to escape, you may stand in your cottage and enjoy the company of your two ducks. Not in the next few remaining seconds of your life, certainly. But in the next one, perhaps.”
Ophelia frowned.
“It's still not that simple.”
“And again—I disagree.”
Count Landin turned his stance sideways, then fully raised his blade.
The next moment, both he and Ophelia struck.
