peel away the layers till you're nothing and no one

She awakens unceremoniously at the edge of the meadow, brown eyes blinking uncertainly against the harshness of sunlight that hadn’t been there moments before. She’d gone to sleep in her bed at the palace, snuggling up against Francis under their silken sheets. Happy, and safe. 

It takes her a few minutes to realize that the bed is gone, replaced by a massive field of thick green grass, ringed by a towering, ancient forest. Horses dot the landscape, grazing peacefully amongst the vibrant wildflowers. And Francis? Francis is nowhere to be seen …

She reaches down her hands to push herself back up, only to realize abruptly that they aren’t hands any more. They’re hooves. “What?!”

She stares down at the dark hooves, and the dark purple legs above them, utterly dumbfounded. 

Then reality returns in one big rush. 

She’s not human. She’s never been human. It’d been a trick of the faeries after all. 

She stays there for a moment, letting her memories - her true memories - wash over her. She isn’t Queen Kirke, wife of Francis, beloved of her people. No.

She’s Kirke of the Silver Cove, daughter of Kirin, granddaughter of Khaos, mother of Chaol. And, ultimately, a nobody, in all eyes, especially her own. 

Tears begin to flow down her purple cheeks as her real memories mix with those of the world the faerie had deposited her in. Had it just been an illusion? 

She’d been so happy there - happy with Francis, happy with their life together. She’d felt safe, loved, important. And here she is all but nothing. 

The memories mix, showing the parallels between her life here, and her early life there. It shows her something that, in this life, she’s never been able to admit to herself. To Kirin, she is nothing. A simple tool used to carry out his will or whim. He would not care if she died, except to lament over the loss of a womb to carry on his bloodline. 

And she will never be anything more to him, no matter how hard she tries. 

The tears pour down in earnest as she pulls herself to her feet, her vision becoming a misty haze. What can she do now? Where will she go?

There’s really only one answer for her, though it threatens to tug her deeper down into despair. The Cove is the only place she has. 

She shakes her head slightly, trying to clear away her tears, and suddenly realizes that her head feels much heavier than usual. She shakes it again, and becomes aware that there’s something there, something sitting on her crown. 

She spots a shallow pool nearby and makes her way to it, leaning down over the still waters to catch a glimpse of her horse-y reflection - something she hasn’t seen in a long, long time. And when she does see it, she freezes, staring. On her forehead, almost between her ears, rises a pair of long, dark curved horns. 

She stays still for a moment longer, then barks out a short, painful laugh. Horns? Horns?! Is this what the faerie considers good ‘compensation?’ She’s been through so much, lost the only man that ever truly loved her … and she gets horns?

She’d rather be back in Illea, even if it had all been an illusion. 

One last tear trickles down her cheek before she shakes it away, and sighing, she turns away from the pool. She really should head back to the Cove now, but she can’t bring her feet to move in the direction of her old home. So she remains, head and heart heavy, staring blankly across the grassy meadow. 

Is this really all that is left to her?

kirke