No Wings to Fly

h a r r o w e d

Maybe it was the ancient world that called out to me. Maybe it was the darkness, pooling around the mountains and colliding in the forests passes of Illyria that struck a chord within me. Maybe it was the mountains itself, old and rough and unyielding, a stronghold for the Illyrian forces for several centuries that had and would come.

I didn't know what exactly, but it was something about the Illyrian Steppes that made me call them home. They were a prominent part of my long, tumultuous history within the Night Court, and although I was proud and loyal to my court, Illyria was more home for me than anything else.

Never mind that I had buried too many souls in their peaks to even count.

"Aria!" The sound of my name from behind me, alerted me to my surroundings. I brushed a stray tear of my cheek as I turned to look at the source of the noise, my best friend and companion, Elara. Her fiery red hair was tied in a tight updo in honour of the occasion, while her leathers had clearly seen better days. Nevertheless, despite her poor status amongst the locals for evading her clipping and marriage by joining one of the many training camps for women that had sprung up in the past few years, the one we resided in; she was highly respected within our camp, serving as the leader for one of the High Lord's many aerial forces.

I shook my head as she opened her mouth, no doubt to alert me of the time and her schedule. "I know you're getting late, but can you please give me a few more minutes? Please?"

She shut her mouth, nodding her head in vain. "I'll leave you too it, Aria. Please no more than five minutes." The twin swords strapped to her back glinted in one of the sharper rays of sunlight as she made her way back down the mountain to our meeting place, her membranous wings flaring behind her.

I knew she wasn't being cruel by giving me a time limit, rather she was being kind. I hadn't visited this spot in ages, and when I did, I spent too much time mourning and grieving over something that wasn't my fault. Elara knew how much I'd blamed myself for it, despite the fact that countless times I'd realised I wasn't the one to blame all along.

I knelt beside the forlorn headstone erected in memory of our friend and fellow soldier, apologising silently with my bouquet of lilies for not visiting often in the past few weeks. Despite Marc being a hardened Illyrian warrior, he'd also had a soft and gentle side, with a penchant for admiring and identifying things of delicate beauty. Unlike most of his fellow soldiers, he'd had a favourite flower - the sweet, gentle white tiger lilies, "formidable by reputation", as he'd so often claimed - something he was ridiculed for quite frequently amongst his brethren.

"Why do you stomach their bullshit?" I'd asked him once.

"Aria - it's because they don't understand. Those who don't care to try and understand and accept will forever be laughing on the side-lines. They don't merit my explanation, nor are they worth my time. But someday, should they decide to open their eyes and see the light clearly - I'll be more than happy to show them the wonders they've been missing out on."