The Wishing Well
ASH
The flowering trees that cup the Missing Meadow like wavering fingers on the palms of its giant guardians, glow with ornamental lights hued in ambers and rouge. Waves of shaggy grass in various sizes and shimmers of green ripple like ocean waves under the dark whisper of the three moons. The deeper Bregda and I maneauver into the spectral glade, the slower we seem to travel, the sound of his hooved feet becoming muted by the thick pelts of downy soil. It disguises us completely. It disguises everyone.
"I have always hated this place," I hiss more to myself than my companion, despite that he hears me over the hush of his now silent gallop. "And I've only ever been here in the daylight."
Some of the grass in this macabre dell reaches as high as the plume like trees, sprouting from different edges of the glen as giant rabbit ears that listen for thudded heartbeats. And harken they do, for should one venture too close to them, they are known to make a meal out of you and...your magic.
"We have the flute," Bregda's phantom canard ripe with ghoulish tenor floats up from beneath me. "And I shall play the song of the meadow once we arrive at the well. Then, we can leave this cursed plain and head back for the banquet."
The Wishing Well, a place where faeries of the meadow gather to sacrifice mortals and fae. Where blood is spilled into a stone built hole in the ground for the Tithe and magics are stolen or else fed into the earth. Every territory has it's enchanted assemblage. In Fury Rekyr it is the Blue Hearth, which, coincidentally, is located right at the heart of Castle Fury. It is the same vibrant, natural fireside that powers the entire kingdom. The same flame born column that rises at the center of the mountain. And yes, I have sacrificed mortals on the stones. As has my father and his father before him. Such is the way of the High Fae.
Chuckling to myself, I lean close to Bregda's ears and say, "Do I detect a hint of fear in your voice, oh mighty one? Are you, yourself, afraid of your own origins?"
The fact that he doesn't deny it is not lost on me and becomes an undeniable moodkiller when he replies with, "There is a reason why I left as a youth and have never returned, and that reason has not changed." His steps slow as something crunches in the dark to our left and he whispers, "The beauty of this place is a poison. It breeds evil and feeds on truth. Luring the unsuspecting from the gate and toward their demise with woodland song and wind chimed whispers.. But...we have the flute...so worry not."
Well, fuck me.
"If only I'd known this entire ghastly place could be bested by naught but a carved wooden stick, I'd have learned the notes so I might whistle," I taunt with a roll of my eyes.
Bregda snorts. "You mock me now...but wait until you are surrounded by two hundred of my kin. All chomping at the bits for a taste of arrogant royalty. Then...you will see. It's not just about the song, but the instrument it's played upon. You'll be glad of this little wooden stick, mark my words."
I chuckle, "So glad that I may even dance."
"Goddess, you are slow for a prince," Bregda claps back. "This flute was made from the wood of this very forest. I can feel the magic thrumming even now. Whistle all you like but all that will do is draw hungry sprites and starving kelpies. Maybe even a Gimmuk or two. A wandering spirit perhaps, or maybe-"
"I think," I snap, interrupting as Bregda comes to a stop, "I get the point."
Bregda's entire body stills, his muscles tensing beneath me and causing me to jerk my head up in alarm, to see what has him in a sudden trance.
"Good Goddess," I hiss when my eyes fall on the flattened land that surrounds the Wishing Well. "That bitch. What has she done?"
Without warning, Bregda shifts into his alternate form, dumping me unceremoniously off his back as his red eyes glow and fixate on the now dead grass of the meadow and the newly frosted, slivers of trees around it.
"The cold one..." Bregda's voice is a tormented growl, "...I will kill her with my bare hands."
The Wishing Well, the heart of the Missing Meadow, it is covered in snow and ice. The rabbit eared grass has turned brown with frost and been ripped to shreds and all around the circle that once rose higher than my head, are crumbled stones and pieces of rock. As if the well exploded. As if it had been turned to ice and then blasted into dust. But even worse is what lay beyond.
Past the ruined receptacle, as far as the eyes can see, stand faeries of different shapes and sizes. Different flesh and species and birth. And each and every one of them appears to have been turned...to ice.