5. WorthyCursed?
Chapter five
Worthy or Cursed?
Three days go by before Oberon’s next visit.
The solitude feels inescapable.
I don’t want him to come, yet there is a part of me that needs him to, desperate for anything to break the unbearable monotony of my existence.
Hours bleed into days, each one a seamless blur of nothingness, time, and freedom slipping further and further from my grasp.
I can almost feel it, the thin veil of hope, teasing me, just out of reach.
If I could only get past the ward surrounding me, if I could only unlock the full force of my magic, I might break free. Then, I might finally be free.
I sigh deeply, staring out of the small window at the ever-changing sky, the realization that I am just as powerless now as I was then twisting something deep in my chest.
A soft whisper stirs the settled dust, pulling me from my thoughts.
Breakfast appears on the small table like it does every morning, simple pastries and fresh fruit, neatly arranged on the small wooden table, a cruel reminder that Oberon wants me alive but not free.
As if he thinks keeping me nourished will somehow keep me compliant, as if I can ignore the gnawing emptiness inside me just because my body is well-fed.
The ridiculousness of it all coaxes a humorless laugh from my lips.
I finish the meal regardless, the plate vanishing back to wherever it came from. The same happens with every other meal, punctual, never varying.
After breakfast, I dress, getting ready for the day, although it all feels a little pointless, the sense of normalcy it brings grounds me in a way.
The clothes are simple but soft, a stark contrast to the rags I once wore.
Even still, I cannot shake the feeling that it doesn’t matter.
Nothing seems to matter except the crushing silence and the way my nightmares drag me under every night.
Night after night, waking in a cold sweat, the horrors of my past gripping tightly around me, looping endlessly on repeat.
I still hear the screams of those I couldn’t save, feel the ache of all that has been lost. I thought I had escaped the worst of it, the screams, the torture, the cages of the Dark Realm, but here I am again, still a prisoner.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to drown out the ghosts clawing at the edges of my mind, and for a fleeting moment, I reach for something else, something softer: sunlight filtering through golden leaves, laughter warm and real, filling the air like music, my mother’s voice, light with amusement, calling after us as my brother and I weave through the towering hedges of our family’s garden.
My father, feigning slowness, lets out a playful growl as he lunges for me, his strong hands just missing my waist.
“Slow down!” I shout to my brother, breathless from the chase. He tears ahead anyway, his feet kicking up bits of soft earth.
“You’ll have to be faster than that if you want to catch me,” my brother taunts.
The scent of earth and crushed grass clings to the warm afternoon air, my heartbeat thrumming with exhilaration as I run.
My mother watches from the stone bench, shaking her head with a fond smile, a book resting forgotten in her lap.
My father finally catches my brother and swings him over his shoulder, spinning him until the garden is a blur of green and gold.
"Mercy!" my brother howls between uncontrollable laughs.
"Never," my father declares, grinning as he tosses him into the soft grass. I collapse beside him, laughing so hard I can barely catch my breath. Above us, clouds drift lazily across the blue skies. A perfect day, full of love, laughter, and joy.
That garden was my whole world once. A place where nothing could hurt us, where love wrapped around me as surely as the ivy on the trellis walls.
I cling to their memory, to the warmth of their voices, because it is all I have left. But even the sweetest memories sour when they belong to the dead.
That life feels so distant now that it hardly seems real.
Instead, I spend my days begrudgingly doing what Oberon suggested: practicing my magic.
I know I need to do it, part of me even wants to, but the idea of doing anything that he approves of twists something inside me.
I hate that he has any part in this. Every instinct urges me to resist, to lash out, to fight against him.
But it is futile, so I practice.
My magic stirs inside me. Each small attempt brings more control and more understanding.
A few failed attempts later, exhaustion and frustration take over. I wander the cabin trying to find something else to occupy my time.
The small library tucked into the corner becomes my escape.
My favorite is an old, tattered book about a kingdom that no longer exists.
A kingdom filled with beauty and peace, untouched by war.
A world that seems so far removed from this one, so far removed from my own pain.
I can almost imagine what it would be like to live there, to walk in a world where beauty isn’t a distant dream.
But that world is gone.
Once, the Light Realm and the Dark Realm existed in balance, each a reflection of the other.
Neither opposites nor enemies, just two halves of a whole, governed by their own rulers, bound by ancient laws that kept the peace.
The Light Realm, with its sprawling cities of golden spires, endless forests, and seas of wildflowers, stood as a beacon of order and prosperity.
The Dark Realm, with its obsidian cliffs, silver-lit rivers, and skies painted in shades of eternal twilight, thrived in its own way, full of magic as deep and endless as the night.
Two realms, two rulers, one world in harmony. Until it wasn’t.
The books don’t agree on when the balance began to break.
Some say it was greed, one ruler wanting more, wanting control.
Others claim it was the gods themselves who set the destruction in motion, testing the Fae to see whether they were worthy of the gifts they were given.
Regardless of how it started, the result was the same: war.
A war that shattered harmony, severed realms, and left the world, as it is now, divided, fractured, and ruled by fear.
Magic, once a force of wonder, became something else entirely.
All Fae are born with magic, a simple, natural connection to the world around them, some control over the elements, and minor spells woven into their daily lives.
But true power? That is something different.
There is no logic to it, no bloodline or right of birth that determines who will be gifted beyond the rest. It is simply the will of the gods.
A rare, unexplainable gift bestowed upon those they deem worthy or cursed.
Those who wield such power can still use the magic of all Fae, but their abilities set them apart.
Some see them as blessed. Others see them as weapons.
The gods themselves have long since ceased to walk among this realm, but their presence remains in the stories, in the prayers, and in the way people still look to the skies as if searching for guidance.
The greatest of the great, the ones who lived, ruled, and fought with power beyond imagining, have ascended beyond death itself, or so it is believed.
The worthy watch over the living, guiding them, protecting them in ways unseen.
The unworthy? They are cast into eternal punishment, a fate worse than death.
I wonder, sometimes, if the gods still care. If they watch us at all.
And I wonder where I will go when my time comes.