Wild Entanglements

Key Words: Cozy Fantasy, Romance, Sapphic, Witty

“This tradition is preposterous.” 

I am fuming. Positively fuming. Even the vines that hang from the rafters in my bedroom recoil from me. 

“Mmm,” Kithria replies as she tries to weave freshly-picked gladioli flowers into my braid.

“I ought to refuse. I will refuse. Simply tell them I’m not going.” 

“Mmm,” is all she says. 

I twist around in my chair to face her. “Is that all you’re capable of saying? A mildly entertained hmm?” 

“You believe I’m just mildly entertained?” Her deadpan expression betrays nothing.

I scrunch my nose at her. She mimicks the gesture. She twirls her finger in a circle, indicating for me to turn back around to face my vanity.

“I suppose that depends on whom you’re asking,” she muses, pinning the gladiolus stem in place before reaching for another. “Are you asking me as your lady-in-waiting, or as your friend?” 

I purse my lips. She makes a fair point. “Which one would be more inclined to agree with me?” 

Kithria snorts a laugh. It’s a horribly unladylike sound, but I love it all the same. 

“Neither. Your answer simply determines how much sass you’ll get.” 

I whip around once more, just in time to catch Kithria roll her eyes impatiently. “You think this is fair? You want this for me? A life with some idiotic manchild, born of an even more idiotic noble family?” 

“Don’t forget ‘human,’” Kithria adds, placing forceful hands on my shoulders to spin me back around.

“Ugh,” I groan. “Don’t remind me. They call these males ‘adults,’ and what have they seen? Twenty years, thirty at most?”

“At least they’re young enough to be properly trained. Give it another twenty years, and you’ll have yourself a properly doting and obedient husband.” The tightness in her lips tells me she’s suppressing a smile. 

“True,” I concede, feeling my ire diminish ever so slightly. “But he’ll be so aged by then. Have you seen Mariella’s husband? He gets fleshier by the day.” 

Kithria walks around to kneel in front of me. She leans in close, and I can see the individual freckles on her nose. I can smell the lavender oil in her sleek, dark hair.  Her deft fingers fuss with the flowers in my braid. “That’s because Mariella’s husband was rejected by the Wilds. You will choose someone much more deserving. You’re too picky to settle for anything less.” She reaches for the earcuffs on the table, holding each one up to my face, her brows furrowed in concentration. “Now, would you care to hear my opinion, or would you like to continue our festival of pity?” 

“Tell me,” I say, bracing myself for Kithria’s infamous candor. 

She decides on my favorite pair of earcuffs: small opals dangle from golden branches, fashioned to look like Weeping Redbuds. “A poetic choice,” I note. 

She gently sets the cuff around my pointed ear. “You know as well as I do that our way of life is contingent on these marriages. If we put an end to them, the humans will be in an uproar. At worst, they’ll try to start a war. At best, they’ll run off, the Wilds will grieve, and we’ll be left to deal with the consequences. And I regret to inform you, Aria, that despite your best efforts, the Wilds are far more frightening than you are.” As if to punctuate her point, the thorned ivy above my head grows several inches.

I sigh. She’s right. I know she’s right. Yet I scowl all the same. 

“Cheer up,” Kithria demands, pressing a glittered finger to my nose and cheeks. “You’re much less likely to get one of the attractive ones if you’re glowering the whole time.”

“As if they would deny me,” I mutter as she steps aside. 

I stand to examine myself fully in the mirror. I must admit, even if she were not my best friend, I would keep Kithria around if only for her discerning eye. I have never met a fae more skilled in the art of adornment. My dress is emerald green, sleeveless and asymmetrical. It reaches over one shoulder like ivy, leaving the other exposed. Subtle stitching  covers the bodice, made to look like greenbriers — the very same vine that grows abundantly in my bedchamber. The skirts are a sheer fabric, layered in such a way that it sways like the leaves of a willow as I walk.  My golden jewelry is delicate and sparse, allowing the dress to speak for itself. And lest I look too formal, a perfectly messy braid rests casually on my shoulder. I look born of the Wilds themselves. 

“You are a master, Kith. Without equal.” I stare at myself in the mirror. Humility has never been my foremost trait; but in this moment, it is unprecedentedly beyond my reach. 

“I know.” Her unapologetic confidence rivals my own. 

I reach up, placing a delicate finger against the flowers weaved into my hair. If you don’t mind, I venture, inviting the Wilds to realize my intention. In response, the stems of the gladioli grow longer, further entangling themselves in my braid. The metal pins that once fixed them in place clatter to the ground. 

“Now that is just petty,” Kithria mumbles before she turns away. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to finish readying myself. The Faunal Court have already arrived with their horses. Shall I meet you outside?”  I nod, and Kithria takes her leave. 

I walk out of my bedchamber, past the library, and down the grand staircase into the foyer. The bannister has become so overgrown with vines, it is difficult to see the original woodwork beneath it. I had hoped, when I decided to make home here, that I might have an estate entirely of the Wilds’ creation. They were, regrettably, not inclined to realize that vision of mine. Instead, I worked with the Court’s most skillful artisans to design a home that might one day welcome such overgrowth. Things looked sparse for the first several years. I may have thrown a tantrum about it on more than one occasion. But one day, when I awoke from a nap in the library, I found a single morning glory sprouting from one of the book cases. It would seem I had sulked long enough. The Wilds have only grown more ambitious since then. Eventually, I opted to remove the front door, instead asking that the roots grow over the door frame in times where more privacy is required. The Wilds were positively giddy at the notion. 

At this moment, the roots are retreated, making the front entrance nothing more than a floral archway. Standing outside, I see a large, bearded man in leather armor.  Twin braids run down the back of his head, no doubt to keep it from falling into his eyes. He strokes the mane of his horse, while three others graze on the grass.

“Lord Bron, I take it?” I ask as I approach. 

He looks up and greets me with a wide smile.“The very one. Your fabled beauty precedes you, High Lady Aria. I hope you do not mind; outside of our territory, it is harder for me to make my wishes known to them.” He gestures to the horses, who happily munch on the crisp leaves. 

“Not at all,” I wave a hand. “The Fauna are always welcome in the Wilds. I think they’re rather pleased by their coming.” 

Bron bows his head in gratitude. Just then, I hear Kithria’s feet make quick work of the stairs. She is beside me in a matter of seconds. Gone is my sassy, arrogant best friend; she has been replaced seamlessly by a loyal, fastidious, and unfalteringly punctual lady-in-waiting. She curtsies briefly to Bron. “Kithria, Lord Bron. It is a pleasure. We cannot thank you enough for lending us your horses for the journey.” 

It is Bron’s turn to wave a dismissive hand. “Nonsense — it is custom, afterall. Not to mention, there is an artisan in the human lands I have been eager to see. It is only a small detour to stop by your estate.” 

Kithria curtsies once more.  “Shall we get going then?” 

Bron places two fingers in his mouth and lets out a sharp whistle. The three grazing horses, two white mares and a brown steed, look up and approach us. Even without the magic of the Faunal Court, the horses are surprisingly obedient. “After you,” Bron says, offering an arm to help me mount the mare. Unlike his horse, ours are affixed with saddles. I’m immediately grateful for his consideration. I adjust my position as Kithria climbs atop her own mare, and within minutes, we pass through the front gates. The third, I assume, is for my mate.

It is a three hour ride to the human lands east of us, where this asinine ceremony will take place. I have never attended one myself, but I have heard extensive details from the other High Ladies of the Court. All the human noble families within a week’s travel will gather in the city of Gein. Then, after several days of politicking, preening, and merriment, they will present their elected sons at the fountain of the city square. While there are no strict rules that preclude eligibility, it is widely understood that only adults can be presented. To my understanding, there are but two limitations placed upon my selection: they must be present at the city square, and I cannot renege on my choice. Consent is abominably not required, although that is rarely an issue: there is no higher honor in human society than being selected as a Fae’s mate. 

Bron chatters through most of the journey. I admittedly tune out after the first hour. Kithria, on the other hand, upholds her duty as a good traveling companion: she asks him questions about the Faunal Court, listens to his vivid descriptions of local diversity of squirrel species, and  oohs and ahhs appropriately. By the time we arrive, my legs are cramping, my back is aching, and I am near death with boredom. 

We are greeted by an enthusiastic noble, who introduces himself as Governor Brightshield. He is a stout man, with a round face and even rounder belly. All of his hair seems to have vacated his head, and instead made itself at home above his upper lip. It twitches excitedly as he speaks. After a long and well-rehearsed speech, he guides us in the direction of the city square. I’m loosely aware as he stops in front of various shops and landmarks, no doubt eager to tell us about the lovely offerings of his city. Thankfully, Kithria is quick to redirect him. “Your city is magnificent indeed, Governor. However, the High Lady is most eager to meet her mate. Might we make haste to the city square?” 

Wild magics bless her. I must remember to permit her an extra leisure day this month. 

“But of course!” the man shouts, splaying his arms wide. “This way, this way. I’m sure the High Lady will be most pleased with the elected gentlemen this year. Very handsome indeed. And so lucky to have the chance to be selected by such a famed beauty!” 

I smile politely, at which the Governor turns a comical shade of red. 

The city square is impossible to miss. Even if not for the clamorous din of a thousand voices, the Wilds urge me in its direction. I am not being figurative: they shift the cobblestone beneath my feet, forcing me forward. For reasons entirely unknown to me, the Wilds positively love humans. They always behave unusually around them. As if unable to help itself, a nearby spirea bush coils itself around my wrist, leaving me with a bracelet. 

“Thank you,” I say. 

“I thought she looked fine as-is,” Kithria mutters beneath her breath. 

“Magnificent,” the Governor stammers before composing himself. “Now, if you would, please wait here. I will go ahead and announce your arrival. Once I am finished, you may — if you would — come join me on the stage.” Kithria gives me a brief glance. She stifles a smile. Of course there’s a stage. “All of the eligible gentlemen will be lined up front. And the rest is up to you!”

Kithria gives a half bow. “Thank you, Governor Brightshield. We will await your signal.” 

The moment the man is out of earshot, Kithria turns to me. “Careful, El. I’m quite certain that looks cannot actually kill, but still I would not test it on these humans.” 

I breathe a heavy sigh. “I assure you, I will fix my face to be appropriately mystical and aloof once we are called.”

Kithria’s look softens. I see something that looks suspiciously like pity. “Would you like me to stay close by? We can weigh your options together.” 

I have half a mind to take her up on her offer. If I must make this choice absent of love, and trust, and loyalty, at least I might make it alongside my most beloved, trusted, and loyal friend. However, I shake my head. “No, Ri. I believe this is something I must do on my own.” Ri nods, and I hear the Governor in the midst of his impassioned speech. By the sounds of it, he is approaching its end. 

“I won’t be far, if you need me.” She gives me a gentle bump with her hip. 

“And now, without further ado,” the Governor’s voice booms, “may I present to you, High Lady Aria!” 

I step out from around the building. The crowd, a thousand or more strong, simultaneously gasps. Whispers erupt amongst them as they point and stare. I keep my eyes forward as I walk, eyes locked on the row of men lined up in front of the central fountain. There is a clear boundary which delineates the elected from the spectators. When I reach the stage, the Governor gestures for me to ascend the stairs. Instead, I continue walking forward, until I am just a few paces away from the man at the far right of the display. 

There are perhaps thirty men, all wearing what I assume to be the garments of their noble houses. Some are covered head-to-toe in gleaming metal armor. It would seem that these men were not informed of the Fae’s distaste for metal. Others wear softer attire, though equally as ostentatious. Their ages range from quite young — barely out of their teens, I suspect — to much older, with grey hairs already framing their combed-back manes. 

I stop in front of the first man. The second I come within a few feet of him, I am overwhelmed by the scent of perfumed oils. It makes my stomach turn. A few more steps, and I face a handsome man with eyes the color of loamy soil. I turn to face him. The moment I do, my keen ears pick up two sharp intakes of air: one, from the man, and another from the crowd. I pivot to see the source of the second sound: a beautiful girl, eyes brimming, with her hands clutched to her chest. 

“I see you have already been claimed,” I say quietly. The man meets my gaze for the first time. I hear him gulp audibly. “I suggest you follow through on the formalities sooner rather than later. I cannot promise you that the next High Lady will respect such arrangements.” 

“Yes, my Lady,” he responds with a bow, his voice shaky. I hear the air leave his lungs as I walk on. 

And on. And on. This one too young, this one too desperate. Too sickly, too brutish. Was he an identical twin? I swear I already passed him by. I continue to walk until I look to my right and see an empty space. I quickly mask the surprise and rearrange my face into an expression of deferential curiosity. I look behind me: this is the end of the line. These are all the men who have been presented to me. 

My heart thunders in my chest. I feel heat creep up my neck. Can this really be all of them? Is this truly all of my options? I glance briefly at Kithria, and immediately regret it. Her eyes are wide with something akin to panic. 

Deep breath, I remind myself, feeling my ribs expand against the bodice. There is no rush. 

I fold my hands in front of me and again pace the length of the procession. I move more slowly this time, trying to allow for something, anything, to capture my attention. I reach the end once more, back where I started. Kithria is only a few feet away. I hear her foot tapping the ground anxiously. 

The crowd is eerily quiet. It feels as though every human within it is collectively holding their breath. Is this normal? I never did ask the other High Ladies how long they deliberated before they chose. I bite the inside of my cheek, cursing myself for this oversight. 

Hoping to delay another excruciating walk along the display, I instead look around to the crowd. It is easy to tell which ones have sons in the procession. They look as though they are about to keel over with worry. Perhaps if I could find an amicable-looking set of parents, that might make it more likely that their son is well-mannered. Or perhaps a handsome father might foretell a son who will age well. I look towards the families crowded at the edge, eagerly watching the fates of their kin unfold. I scan their faces, glancing over each one, when a peculiarity catches my eye.

A mother has stepped out from the crowd, hand outstretched, and another holding a handkerchief to her mouth. She sobs uncontrollably. I follow her gaze to a young man who stands a little shorter than the rest. He wears lovely formal attire: a green tunic, brown pants, and a half-wreath made of flowers. He is also clearly the youngest among elected males. I purse my lips in disgust: he boy cannot be older than sixteen years. Clearly, it was not the mother’s choice to elect him. I look back to her, and the world ceases to exist. 

At her side is the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes on. It is as though magic itself stole into my mind and willed her into existence. Her hair is the color of wheat, and it falls in long, full waves around her face. Her eyes, green like the morning sun passing through a leaf, are focused on the sobbing woman. I strain to hear her voice as she whispers softly to her: 

“It’s alright, Mama. She passed over him twice already. And I’ve only ever heard lovely things about the High Lady Aria. She’s far too cultured to choose a child for herself.”

Aria. Something unexplainable washes over me when I hear her say my name. It is as though every cell in my body wakes up. 

“Come back now,” she says, putting a comforting arm around her mother. “We don’t want to distract the Lady.” 

The woman steps out to help coax her mother back inside. Before I can stop myself, I raise a finger. 

“Her. I choose her.” 

 The words come out in a whisper. But with all eyes on me, there are at least three hundred people to witness them. One pair of those eyes belong to Kithria. Suddenly in control of myself again, I turn to look at her, praying to the Wilds that I was merely caught in a vivid, momentary daydream. Kithria’s eyes are impossibly wide. Her jaw is agape, barely visible through the hand that covers it. 

Indeed, that most certainly did just happen. 

The quiet of the crowd shifts slowly into whispers, which turns into din, after which all Hells break loose when a man from the crowd screams, “She can’t do that!” 

A torrent of shouts begin. One of the men in line, a dark-haired fellow with a waxed mustache, chucks his shiny metal helmet to the ground. Another throws his head back in laughter. The collective breath of the crowd is released, leaving them free to holler over one another. I blink several times. It feels as though my soul left my body, and has only now decided to return. Kithria rushes to my side. I look up to the woman in the crowd.

She stares at me with a curious expression. She doesn’t look angry, but she doesn’t look especially pleased. I cannot blame her — as much of an honor as it is, I do believe this is better described as an ambush.

“Lady Aria,” the Governor wheezes. He clearly just sprinted down the stairs from his stage. “Far be it from me to judge your selection; however, there are customs to be upheld. Rules to follow.” He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and dabs at his temples. 

“Actually, Governor Brightshield,” Kithria says, her face once again the picture of civility, “there is but one rule Lady Aria must follow: she must select someone from within the town square. And, clearly,” she gestures to the woman’s feet, which stand blatantly outside the bounds of the crowd, “this woman is within the square.” 

The Governor’s face grows impossibly redder. He blots at his face again. “Yes, of course, if the rules are to be interpreted literally. However, I believe it is the spirit of the law that—” 

“And let us not forget the second rule,” Kithria continues, eyes wide. “That High Lady Aria may not renege on her selection.” 

The man gulps. He licks his lips, his mustache twitching as he seems to be warding off full-on panic. 

Unsure of what else to do, I walk towards the woman. The Wilds approve, it seems, as they shift the rocks beneath my feet to urge me on. She stands tall, and to my relief, she does not recoil from me. I stop a few feet from her. She smells like cinnamon. It makes my knees weak. She curtsies low, and her gaze falls to the ground. I resist the urge to reach out and lift her by her chin. Wilds abound, what has come over me? 

“High Lady Aria.” Her voice is gentle, but I hear an unmistakable resolve. A challenge, even. I play the sound over and over again in my mind. When she rises back up, I see that she stands perhaps an inch taller than I do.

“What is your name?”

“Melody, my Lady.”

“Melody.” I repeat the name back to her. I like the way it feels on my tongue. “And how old are you, Melody?” 

Her head cocks slightly to the side. “I’m thirty three, my Lady.” 

A sudden realization slaps me in the face. “And—” I swallow. “And are you wedded, Melody?” 

Something that looks like a smile plays at the corner of her full lips. “No, my Lady. I am not.” 

I realize, too late it seems, that I have been staring at her lips. I take a step back and square my shoulders, once again aware of that fact that I am surrounded by a crowd — a crowd, it seems, who have all gone silent again. I clear my throat. “I apologize. I was…I spoke out of turn.” 

I hear a stifled snort come from Kithria’s direction, followed briefly by a quiet “Ow!” From the corner of my eye, I see her kick away a weed that has spontaneously grown from the ground to jab her. 

“What I mean to say,” I continue, “Is that I would have liked to ask you for your consent, before I locked you into such an arrangement.” 

She furrows her brow and draws her head back. “To my understanding, my consent is not required.” 

“Required, no.” I shake my head. “But most certainly desired. Such a blatant disregard of your wishes is hardly a good starting point.”

“But — you have already chosen.” Her words are tentative. Testing

“Given the reaction of your fellow citizens, I suspect they would be happy to overlook this particular choice, and leave me again to deliberate on my excruciatingly dim prospects.” 

Melody stares at me, then looks to Kithria. I cannot see her, but I suspect she is biting her tongue. Then, she turns to her mother, who gawks wide-eyed at the ground, chest heaving. Apparently left alone to decide her fate, she furrows her brow. 

Seconds pass. They feel like hours. I do my best to appear nonchalant. 

Finally, finally, she speaks. She holds a single finger in the air. “I have one condition. Assuming it can be met, I will accept your proposal.” 

I straighten my shoulders. “A condition? I do believe this is a first. Let us hear it.” 

“My condition,” she wags her finger, expression as serious as Death itself, “is that I am allowed to bring my cat.” 

“Your cat?” My eyebrows shoot up. 

“Yes, my cat. Her name is Edith. She’s old and terribly mean, and I cannot live without her.”  

At first, I wonder if she is perhaps mocking me. But the gravity on her face is all I need to abandon such notions. She is serious. 

I blink. “Assuming she will tolerate the displacement, Edith will be most welcome.” 

Melody smiles. It reaches the delicate wrinkles around her eyes. “You only say that because you haven’t met her.”