Chapter 2 #2
I’d taken Mavick up on that offer and found myself visiting weekly, if not more, over the last thirteen years.
At first we did nothing but sit in comfortable silence.
But eventually, Mavick began asking questions.
And once my curiosity burned too hot, I interrogated them about their world with fervent enthusiasm.
I was surprised they never tossed me back through the passageway from which I came.
But I also never dared ask to leave their cottage.
Mavick talked about the local bazaar, the various merchants and their oddities, their unusual customs, the tumultuous relationship between mortals and fae, Sanctuary overall—but never once did we venture outside.
Mavick never offered. I never pressed. Thanks in part to my life here, in my mortal world, accustomed to being trapped inside this dull, quiet castle.
I reach the archway and force myself through without a second thought.
After years of practice, I remain upright as I enter the cramped living room. Mavick shows no emotion at my appearance, as though they knew I was coming.
This was standard in our relationship. I ran to Mavick any time I was upset.
When Father released the one tutor I liked because she spoke her mind and was deemed too radical.
When I fooled around with Edwin and let him get too close to my heart—close enough that he nearly managed to rip it from my chest.
When Mother died.
Mavick witnessed it all. They even adapted to consoling me the mortal way—with hugs.
The faerie had long since dropped their glamours around me, and I didn’t mind.
Though sometimes when boredom struck, they’d entertain me with them.
What all they could transform into was as mystifying as it was terrifying.
But I grew fond of Mavick’s pink skin, all-seeing eyes, and dainty wings.
I liked them as they were, and they liked me as I was.
Since they can’t lie, I knew Mavick’s fondness was genuine.
It was sometimes hard to tell with Alma or Edwin.
Were they bound by duty, or did they truly enjoy my company?
“Blubbering mouth, leaking eyes, blotchy pale skin and all,” Mavick once said as we embraced. They consoled me with sharp pats—like ones you’d use on a fussy infant. The memory floods my mind. We stood in this very room, the only difference being several years.
Mother’s illness had won. In a desperate bid for an escape from the pain, any distraction, I asked Mavick about the bazaar.
“Can you please take me?” I asked into their shoulder. Their hand stilled on my back. They pulled away, holding me at arm’s length with those slender fingers.
“I cannot take you, girl. Perhaps one day you will find your way, though,” they said, their shrieky voice not unkind. A small, sad smile pulled at their lips.
This was expected. I did not belong in their world—just as they did not belong in mine.
“I wish I could be anywhere else. I wish I could be anyone else,” I said, unleashing a fresh round of tears. Mavick gave me one last, gentler, pat on the cheek and went to prepare a pot of tea.
That was the first and last time I asked.
The Mavick before me now rises from their usual patchy armchair, stretching out their stiff limbs. Their eyes sweep over my tear-stained, sweaty face, my very loose and frizzy braid, and my grimy dress. They fixate on my stomach.
“You vain mortals wear the prettiest torture devices,” they sigh.
The sound that escapes me is half-laugh, half-sob.
“Tea,” they declare.
I crash into the cozy armchair long claimed as my own with a defeated puff, dabbing at my wet face with a sleeve. Mavick returns with the same green, smoking liquid. I now know it is a tea made from a common Sanctuarian fruit called pluckroot. Curiously, the unusual taste has grown on me.
I cling to the mug with both hands and take a too hot swig.
“Squeeze it any tighter and you’ll break my favorite mug, girl,” Mavick grumbles. I loosen my grip on the plain white mug, clearly missing what makes it special. They still call me girl and child. I don’t wonder why when I come to them often in this whiny, pitiful state.
They return to their seat across from mine. Mavick wastes no time today. “So… what has you in such a state?”
“I’m trapped, Mavick,” I say with a dramatic sniffle. “Can you believe I’ve been trapped in the castle since before Mother died?”
“You’ve been here,” Mavick muses.
“Yes, obviously. This is the only place I’m allowed to go and I’m only allowed because no one can find me here.”
They once explained time was inconsistent in Sanctuary. It could slow, quicken, or remain stagnant. More often than not, time spent with Mavick here felt like hours. Once I returned to the cold halls of the castle though, barely fifteen minutes had passed.
“Ah,” Mavick remarks, “you asked King Tobias if you could return to the mortal village, didn’t you?”
I nod, not quite sure how they guessed, but I don’t question it. Instead, I set my very full mug down on the crooked table, rest my head against the back of the chair, and speak to the cracked ceiling above.
“I thought that perhaps… it’s been years since the… well, the incident,” I say, “and that, since I’ve behaved and all… no missteps since… he might allow it.”
It sounds so stupid aloud. Another delusion.
“The further you get from your mother’s death, the more your cage he becomes,” Mavick shrills, as if reciting a riddle.
I tilt my chin back to them, confused. I too referred to my situation as being caged, even just earlier with Alma.
Odd. They continue, “He wishes to protect you, keep you safe within his walls. He holds on to the girl you were when your mother lived, as though it will preserve her memory.”
I ponder their words, but as usual, I’m not certain what to make of them. Other than well—obviously. It feels impolite to say that, though.
“Yes, I suppose you’re right. But he’s imprisoned me here.” I gesture around loosely and Mavick’s forehead creases. “I don’t mean here, I mean within the castle.”
Mavick, despite all their flowery words, can be very literal.
“I see,” they say cryptically, tilting their head.
“I stand to inherit a kingdom I know nothing about. I don’t even want it.
I desire my freedom. How am I to care about ruling if I’ve seen very little of the world?
” I say, the truth spilling out. It’s always been that way with Mavick.
Maybe since they’re Sanctuarian and have no connection to my mortal world, I feel free to speak my mind and heart plainly.
I think of my unpreparedness to rule, the heavy weight of expectation—and bile rises in my throat.
A moment passes where Mavick seems to think something over in their head. Their talons tap their teacup, gaze unfocused.
“What would you freely give to gain access to your freedom?”
Again, a fucking riddle. But I play along.
“Anything,” I answer, not bothering to mask my exasperation. “Everything.”
All four of Mavick’s eyes concurrently blink into focus, boring into me. The rare intensity of it makes me shudder.
“Can I ask, child—why have you never sought my help before?”
I consider their question. Mavick warned me against bargaining with the fae.
They shared horror stories of simpleminded humans tricked into sour deals by clever words alone.
Sanctuarians are notoriously crafty wordsmiths.
Mavick cautioned me to always read and think between the lines with their kind.
Though I trust Mavick with my secrets, all my woes, I never asked for help for fear of being the moronic mortal girl who got caught up in a sticky deal.
Plus, I never thought Mavick could help me.
What sway could they have on my father, the mortal king?
What advice could they offer that I hadn’t already tried?
What could I offer them in return anyway?
My companionship didn’t seem like enough of a trade.
That, and even more truthfully… rejection. I was so accustomed to my father telling me no. I would be heartbroken if Mavick, my truest confidante, also denied me. It’s my reckless anger, at my father, my loneliness, my desperation, that fuels what I say next:
“Mavick, can you help me?”
They blink again, all four eyes moving as one, and a smile like I’ve never seen parts their pink lips.
Their teeth are a bright white and all carved into sharp points.
A normal person would deem the look threatening.
Somehow, I find it endearing. With that, Mavick buzzes from the room, back into the small kitchen.
I rise to follow. Though I trust Mavick wholeheartedly, a slight panic squeezes my chest.
I have no idea what to expect.
Mavick rummages through the mismatched cupboards.
I don’t often come into the kitchen, seeing as it’s even smaller and more cramped than their living room.
There’s just enough space for Mavick, who is the height of an adolescent human.
I was taller than them by the time I turned fourteen and presently, I tower over them.
I try giving them space as they dig, but nosiness prevails.
My eyes catch on a row of books stacked precariously near the tea kettle.
There are titles I can read, like Bazor’s Guide to a Faerie’s Fine Fettle, but most are written in a language I’ve never seen.
Some are even in an entirely other alphabet I don’t recognize.
With their whole head now shoved in a lower drawer, transparent wings shimmering in the dim light as they strain, Mavick tosses random glass bottles and knick knacks over their shoulder.
I back away so as to not get pelted. That’s when something strange draws my attention.
A blank stretch of wall between cabinets and shelves sits opposite of where Mavick searches.
This is not only unusual due to the sheer volume of cluttered possessions haphazardly littering every surface, but because of the thin layer of mist hanging in the air before the empty space.
I take a quiet step toward it, squinting.
This glittery mist is reminiscent of when Mavick uses glamours.
I open my mouth to ask about it when a thought occurs to me—this is a secret Mavick does not wish me to know.
I turn my back on whatever hides there and bite my tongue.
It should not strike me that they have secrets, yet… I push the new feeling away.
“Ah, yes, here it is!” Mavick screeches with a thrill, having finally extracted a small glass vial of some sort of sticky, dark purple liquid. I bite back an incredulous laugh.
“Mavick, I can’t poison my father,” I jest, hoping to confirm that they do not expect me to resort to patricide.
“Don’t be dramatic,” Mavick says, gingerly placing the vial into my palm. “This little elixir will make the most stubborn of humans pliable. I bought it off a seer in the bazaar. It’s very rare. Throw it in your father’s tea and try again.”
I hesitate, my palm open, the purple substance sparkling in the faint light of the room. “Is this a trick? What’s the catch?”
It’s very hard to offend them, but I’ve managed it. All four eyes narrow. I do as they taught me, but I do not find anything between the lines of Mavick’s words.
“You are the last mortal I would trick,” they say, the corners of their mouth twitching upwards. “Besides, I’m not asking for a deal, child. It’s yours, if you want it. I ask for nothing in return.”
For a brief moment, I’m torn. It feels as if my future lies in the palm of my hand. Deceiving my father crosses a line that can never be uncrossed. Plus, you know, treason and all, for drugging the king in order to blatantly disobey his orders. There is no return from that.
Or, I decline Mavick’s elixir. I remain a prisoner. Play my part. Be the princess—eventual queen—that I have no desire to be. Remain, as the bird trapped within its cage, until I inevitably snap my neck fighting against the metal bars.
My fingers close around the vial, my fate sealed with it.