Faebreaker

16: The Iron Trial

It was ten years ago Isla first endured the cut of iron.

The antechamber led to the trial room, the silver-lined door at the end of it looking more like an ill omen than the object of curiosity one might have at first thought it to be. A low hum reverberated throughout, an absolute darkness flooding the entire area without so much as a beam of light shining in from the glass ceiling for guidance. However, this meant nothing to Isla. This was, after all, a part of the Unseelie Court. She could see through the dark just fine, as she'd been conditioned to do all her life.

This was her trial, one meant to prepare her for the absolute worst humanity had to offer. The task: bring her soul back from the brink of total annihilation, or die forever. Souls could heal from the touch of iron, fae bodies could not, at least not as well. Through her soul's experience, her body would adapt—this was her only choice.

Moving through the antechamber, her steps echoed as the curious folk of her mother's court watched through the glass paneling above. A spectacle, her pain doubled as entertainment for the masses, their whispers pervading the dark like little rats with wings.

She reached the silver door, and throwing it open, she came into a large chamber with a dais at the end of it. However, no one sat upon it, as that seat was meant for the one whose soul was to be tested. An ornate throne, adorned with vines, leaves, and flowers, it sat as a place of solace for the fae's body while her soul underwent its task.

Inching her way up the small set of stairs, she sat upon it, the seat much too large for one so small as her.

Isla sat for sometime, but soon the throne stirred, the vines moving as they aimed to envelop the fae child in a thorny embrace. This was the method by which her soul would be removed—choke it out of her.

The thorns punctured her skin, embedding themselves as the vines aimed to keep her in a death's embrace, small droplets of blood spilling down the throne's armrests. When she was almost dead, her soul would be movable, and through mother's magic, she would be ready to endure the trial that lay ahead.

She screamed, piercingly, as her note was met with cheers and laughter from the spectators above. Soon struggling for breath, Isla choked, and she realized that the cursed throne had constricted her neck, forcing her not to breath.

Her consciousness drifted, eyes swaying from left to right, and soon, before Isla knew it, she was somewhere else entirely and in no pain at all. Just like that, instant, and unbelievably so, as though something had ripped the soul right out of her.

She was in another world, standing in a place caught between time and space, a place, her mother had told her, that a soul might go before it reached its final destination after death. A place that Isla had to escape—somehow, anyway.

Except, this place, her mother had designed herself, crafted with hate, love, and spite.

"This place, I made just for you, Isla. A special suffering, that only you are meant to endure."

The sky was dark, void, with no sun and no stars, but yet there was still light. An ominous blue glow highlighted the landscape before her, a place bejeweled with embers, ash, and dead trees and carcasses. A stench permeated the air, a far cry from the peaceful solitude of Isla's forest home, something like sulphur mixed with the odor of rotting corpses.

Isla took the first step ahead, unsure of what to do in a place like this, unsure of anything at all, her mother simply having said this: "Go in, suffer my hate, and come back. Do all that, my child, and you'll find my love again, waiting for you here."

Fire rained from the sky, lightning snapping across the horizon as the fae pressed on with no final destination in mind. She'd heard of the human's place of purgatory called hell. Perhaps her mother had taken some inspiration from them, because if anything, this seemed like it.

What am I supposed to do?

As she thought those words, she found a small stone slab jutting out of the ground. Approaching it, she felt it, and for the first time, Isla experienced iron pain. However, this was gentle, almost an omen of what might be to come. The tips of her soul's fingers, singed, healed quickly in this alternate reality.

Isla examined the stone more closely, finding that some words had been etched upon it.

"SCREAM TRULY, AND THE OLD KING'S THRONE SHALL SET YOU FREE."

Scream truly, it said. Isla shook, her mind racing. Her father had been plainer with her, hinting at what she might need to do. "Find iron," he'd said simply. "You do not want to stay lost in that place for long. You do not need to hurt yourself, but you must find something that will hurt you. I'm sure your mother has been so kind as to provide you with...options."

Isla collapsed. "Get me out," she said aloud. She didn't want to do this.

A gallop behind her.

"Drive them back into the forest! Back into the otherworld! Cut them all down!"

She gasped, her gaze turning backwards as she gaped in horror. A man atop a phantom warhorse surged forward with a sword drawn beside him. The man's shield, rounded, bore Westerland's coat-of-arms—a warrior plunging a greatsword down into a hill.

Soaring up in an instant, Isla ran, but it simply wasn't enough. Her feet caught a rock, and almost as quickly as she'd risen, the girl fell down, her head crashing into a sharp stone. She screamed—truly even, perhaps—as she finally discovered what agony felt like.

"Feel the cut of pure iron, cur!"

Isla's skin parted, the blade slicing across the surface of her back. She couldn't get up, she could only crawl, like some pathetic insect. She shuddered, her back sticky with blood, and her wound too severe to heal in an instant.

"Suffer!"

Another cut, one across her arm this time. Isla screamed.

"Crawl!"

And another, the man dismounting as his armor jingled around him.

"Have at you!"

Isla's bones crunched, the blade plunging downward and piercing her in the chest. Yet for some reason, however, she had not died as she should have. She felt warm, almost at peace as the sticky liquid pooled beneath her body.

"Scream!"

She didn't scream, however, she lay there, letting time pass as her assailant stared down at her, screaming taunts and insults.

"I said, scream!"

She still refused. "I won't," she said. "Not for you."

The man picked her up, grasping her by the throat, though this time, the man spoke in Isla's mother's voice, the phantom's expression indiscernible through its iron plate helm.

"Isla," Morrigan said, breathing deep. "You will not feel pain here unless you open your heart to it."

Isla's eyes widened. "Mother?"

Morrigan's grip tightened around Isla's neck. "Do not worry, my dearest child, I won't kill you." Removing her helm, Morrigan, stunning, eyes filled with rage, stared back at her daughter as her jet-black hair blew behind her. "But you must feel pain. Pain that will make you scream like a banshee in the night!"

She drew her breath.

"That way," Morrigan continued. "You will become strong. Strong as I."

Letting the Isla drop to the ground, she pulled out an iron dagger, and hovering over, she sank the dagger into Isla's chest, almost lovingly as she twisted it around with a smile across her face.

"You open your heart to this," Morrigan said. "Or I'll open your heart for you."

That time, Isla screamed, loud enough that moments later, Isla found herself face down on the floor, back inside the chamber with the dais inside it. She clutched her chest, a small echo of her agony still remaining. Nothing. Not even a scar from her mother had harmed her. All that remained were the wounds the throne had given her, and they were superficial at best.

Isla let out a sigh.

She'd passed her first iron trial.

Don't forget to vote if you enjoyed the story!