The Songbird and the Wolf

[ XXIII ] A Gilded Cage

Great, oaken doors slam shut behind her.

The slam creating a wind that furls her wings inward, cocooning her body for a heartbeat.

Elodie finds herself in a throne room.

Immense windows line one wall, the stained-glass floods the room in diluted sunlight and bluish greys. Each ancient pane painting a history of starlight and bloodshed, images that had been burned into the back of her skull since the day her parents had deemed her old enough to know it.

There wasn't a fae, commoner, royal or wild, who didn't.

It is not the only familiar part of this foreign place.

Half a dozen canvas' hang on the parallel wall, descending in age order. The ones nearest to her, the entrance, are ancient. The paint peeling and chipped.

The one furthest from her, barely a decade old.

Most of them she barely recognises, but the high cheekbones and steel eyes that are near perfect copies from one to the other, are quite familiar.

The ceilings tower over her, but do not take away from the claustrophobic sensation that clings to her with every step she takes.

A fine rug lines the length of the throne room. A beautiful, woven fixture that is a medley of every shade of grey and dark blue the sun had ever dared to shine on.

It too tells a story, and one step onto the cloth and the Queen knows it has been here longer than the trees she can see through the windows, waving in a gentle breeze.

Three grandiose from rich grey chains, a thousand candles flickering overhead.

She isn't sure if the smell of smoke is imaginary, from those licking flames - or a thing that sticks to her own skin.

Every set of eyes is fixed to her, the sensation makes her want to tear her skin clean off her body. It feels filthy - tainted in a way she doesn't have the words to describe.

It doesn't feel like her own anymore, and every instinct screams to discard it and run.

Instead she follows that stone grey, constellation dotted rug towards the dais.

She is grateful for it - as it muffles the click of her heels, the limp in her gait.

The dais itself is a grand thing, boasting a sprawling, basalt throne. The jagged, irregular shapes sharp enough she fears a cut simply from looking at it.

But the royal family arrange themselves comfortably on it, a mixture of casual, studious, and lethal.

She forces her posture straight and her chin high as she closes the distance between them.

Great curtains swathe the throne in shade, immense, heavy fabric, the same greys and blues of everything in the throne room. But it does nothing to hide who hides in the shadows of it.

The glint of their metal, a mixture of swords, crossbows and spears.

There is a ripple of movement, she has no way of knowing how many, but doesn't need a close estimate to know she is easily outnumbered.

A small army, here with one, unwavering duty.

To protect the royal family.

It seems, from the likes of her.

The world is silent as she walks, a tension fierce enough she could slice clean through it with a rusty butter knife.

As she reaches the first step of the dais, a booming shout sounds from the shadows.