They were stripped of their wings, their divine holiness, and most of their magic. It was supposedly a horrendous punishment for those who enjoyed the majesty of the Heavens.
Light Fae roamed the earth from the dawn of modern man and through the ages, but the human population eventually swelled and outnumbered the Light Fae, putting them in danger.
But then something magical happened. A meteor hurtled down to earth, but it didn’t do any damage when it hit the Egyptian desert in roughly 2,000 BC. Rather, it sort of settled into the sand, and that alone meant it was special.
In fact, it held magic, which was when things changed for the Light Fae. Pieces of the stone were chipped away, the magic used to create alternate realms where the Light Fae could go and imbued them with magical powers once again. There were hundreds of alternate dimensions, most commonly called an AltVeritas, and Brevala was one such example.
That is the legend of our existence, and while none of the Brevala Light Fae are original fallen angels, there are many living with Queen Nimeyah in Faere, a realm she created with part of the meteor stone.
Walking clockwise around the huge bonfire, I take a seat on the log bench next to Rishka, who spares me only a short glance before turning back to talk to our father. Our relationship is a little weird, and Rishka is pretty standoffish. Like Arnus, she’s never quite forgiven me for choosing to live in the Earth realm.
It wasn’t always like that, though. We’d been close when we were younger, but that was over a thousand years ago. At best, we’re civil to each other now, and that’s fine by me. When immortal, the passage of time changes things over and over and over again. Nothing stays the same. One day, perhaps, we’ll grow close again. We’ve got eons to figure it out, though.
“You’re looking well, cousin,” comes from my left, and I turn to see Ilona on the bench next to ours. I smile, genuinely happy to see a friendly face, and lean over to accept a short air kiss.
Ilona’s words are genuine. She’s sweet, humble, and non-judgmental. It’s hard to believe she can sit beside me with a welcoming smile… given I’m the one who cut her wings off a little over a thousand years ago.
“Your dress is beautiful,” I compliment her. It’s a simple lavender creation of cotton, but it’s off the shoulders with an empire waist and flows to the ground.
“Thank you,” she replies, chuckling as she glances down at it. “I made it myself.”
“You really are talented.”
If I want a dress, I go to Neiman Marcus, but if Ilona wants one, she puts hard work and dedication into crafting one. It’s a quality I can appreciate more than she’ll ever know.
I study Ilona carefully. She’s definitely a leader among the Meadowlanders, and, by that, I mean she leads by example. Hardships—and learning how to overcome them—have made her wise, and something special within her has made her kind and caring.
I’ve never quite understood why Ilona doesn’t hate me for what I did to her. Removing her wings was an excruciatingly brutal act because our ability to fly is one of the differences that sets us apart from other Light Fae. When Brevala was created with stone magic, its inhabitants were all gifted with the wings stripped from our ancestors. The gift of flight is dear to us all, especially while living in a place as stunning as our realm. In fact, since returning yesterday, I’ve spent most of my time flying over the Meadowlands, absorbing the true freedom found among the winds.
Ilona’s wings eventually grew back. It only took a few hundred years, give or take. I suppose she doesn’t hold it against me because she knew she violated a serious no-fraternization policy by being with her Bluff Dweller lover. She knew the penalty was usually death to both parties, so she realized removing her wings was a mercy shown.
Moreover, I think she understood I had no choice. When my father told me to do it, I had to.
Still, it makes me sick to my stomach every time I think about that day over a thousand years ago. I’ve seen unimaginable death and gore over my lifetime, but that one singular act of hacking off her wings was the most disgusting thing I’ve ever been a part of.
“…what games you’re going to enter?” Ilona asks, and I realize I’ve spaced out on her.
I blink and smile sheepishly. “I’m sorry. I zoned out. What was that?”
“The games in Faere,” she repeats. “Which ones are you going to enter?”
“Hmm,” I ponder. “I’d like to enter all, but since some overlap, it won’t be possible.”
“Well,” she says with a conspiratorial smile. “I’m putting my bets on you, so don’t let me down.”
Laughing, I assure her that I’ll do my best.
There are so many competitions scheduled. Ax throwing, archery, magic-wielding events, and the one I will most definitely enter… arena-style combat. I’ll be a favorite, given I spent so much time fighting during the height of the Roman Empire. Many Light Fae have led soft lives, and they only battle in these games once every century. Most will be easy to defeat.
Then again, Ronan will enter and he’s just as good as I am. We’ve actually battled many times in the Coliseum in Rome, and before that, in the Roman amphitheater in Pompeii. Those were brutal days, but we weren’t warring with each other in Brevala, so what better way to keep our warrior skills up to speed than to fuel it on by the hate groomed into us.
And just like the gladiator games fizzled out as civilizations evolved, so too, did Brevala’s clan wars. While our core hatred for the Bluff Dwellers still exists—and vice versa—there’s been relative peace for the last five centuries, give or take a few decades. Clans mostly keep to their sides of the borders and exist independently. Sure, some minor raids still occur, but no one has died in hundreds of years to my knowledge.
The actual warring has petered out completely. There’s still no fraternization because, after Ilona’s wings were cut off, no Meadowlander would look twice at a Bluff Dweller. I’m assuming the arrow through the eye of their clansman keeps the Bluff Dwellers at bay.
And yet… I’d essentially forsaken this rule two weeks ago with Ronan.
My face flushes just thinking about that night, and it’s a good thing we’re sitting near a fire so I can use it as my excuse.
The things he did to me… the things I did back to him… I’m sickened I had to turn to my sworn enemy for help, and I’m just as equally sickened that I’m still turned on by him. It was the most magnificent sex of my life.
More than anything—and I truly hate this—I’m thankful for his help. He didn’t have to do it, and, yes, I realize he got pleasure out of it, but he would have been well within his right to just watch me get led out of that bar by that man to be raped.
I wouldn’t have even blamed him; such is the enmity between our clans.
But he did help me, so now I’m wondering if anything about our evening together two weeks ago will change anything…
We haven’t spoken since. It ended when I said I needed a shower after hours in bed. When I came back out, he was gone as expected. He’ll be at the Festival, though, and we will run into each other, so I’m not sure how that will play out. I’m betting very awkwardly.
He’ll most certainly enter the games, which means we’ll be competing against each other. The prospect of that alone ramps up the heat of my desire, because as much as I enjoyed all that raunchy, no-holds-barred sex, I’m going to relish drawing blood against him over the coming days even more.