The Throne

The prompting for this was the throne for the Unseelie Court in "Tithe" I fell in love with the description of it, and had to play with it. Enjoy.
"A woman with thick braids of crimson hair sat on a tall wooden throne with edges that came to worn peaks and spires. It was wormed through with termite holes, giving it their appearance of a lattice."
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That throne has been his life ever since we arrived in this place. He sits there, entertaining his court and any visitors we might have, while I hide in the shadows at the edge of the crowd. It is not that he's ashamed of me. Rather, he uses me as his spy in all things quietly done. No one notices a pixie with little skill in magic and even less skill with courtly manner; those are the very traits Roiben likes his subjects to notice. In actuality, I have been well-trained in the ways of the court by Roiben himself, and even more skillfully trained in magic by the very same kelpie who first showed me how to glamour. That same kelpie who killed Janet. I thought to kill him at first, but I now understand his fascination with death. It haunts me now as it has haunted him for centuries.

The lattices of Roiben's throne remind me of the patterns of shadows dancing through the trees when I would play in the woods as a child. I remember Lutie dancing through the flowers, braiding crowns for the Barbies, while making loincloths for the Kens. The Barbies were allowed to be immodest- all human girls were, Lutie said. Gristle would watch from the side, his furry eyebrows drawn together in concentration as he tried to decide if he ought to stop Lutie from teaching me naughty things. Spike was constantly off on some "secret mission" or other, and would bring back treasure troves of beads and trinkets for Lutie and I to fashion into doll clothing and jewelry. The Glass Swamp was always spooky, even in daylight when the tree people lay their androgynous forms in the shallow, dirty water. Something about the place spoke of power and secrets, and I was too young then to understand about lying. I would get better at it as I grew up.

Pointed towers and climbing splinters of wood look like abandoned buildings; the windows are broken, blackened like sightless eyes. I can't help but recall the times with Janet and the troupe in the old carousel building. That tragically beautiful ivory horse still captures my attention and stands out in my memory with vivid detail. The kelpie has since told me that the horse makes a wonderful companion- silent and flawed, but perfect. I remember the addiction to tar and nicotene, the smooth burn of liquor down my throat, and the needy hunger of lust. Somehow I miss all of it, yet I watch my memories with a cold and uncaring detachment. I have to remain this way to avoid thinking about the other abandoned building, the one where Janet died. Though technically she drowned in the ocean, I will always associate that building with her death. The burned shell of it leaves me with a sickening dread everytime I have driven by it. I have driven by it more times than I can count since that night.

I am not allowed to be seen with Roiben during the day. It is unseemly for a lowly pixie to have relations with the Unseelie King, and the king allows these societal barriers to continue. Left to my own devices, I am bound to become restless and sometimes furious, raging at anyone who enters my rooms. Most days I simply watch as he dances through the routines of court, looking bored or angry alternately, and devises new ways to occupy himself in his apathy. Oftimes I catch him reading a scroll of paper he has hidden in his hand, nodding now and then as though paying rapt attention to the complaints of the gentry. Sometimes he takes out a small dagger and carves small slivers of the throne away, as though hoping it will collapse beneath him and no doubt send the court into a flurry of activity.

During the night, Roiben steals into my rooms and we pretend that nothing has changed- he is just Robin, and I am just Kaye. We love each other's bodies in the soft glow of the phosphorescent walls, the half-light making us all the more fatally beautiful. Nothing has truly changed between us; our relationship remains intact, albeit secretly. Yet many times I can't get the image out of my head of Robin wrapped up in my pink comforter, sleeping fitfully on my mattress on the floor. Or better yet, the image of him squeezing honey onto bread as the TV's flickering light cut jagged shadows across his face, making his smile all the more surreal. He is so simple, so loveable, but when he is on that throne, it is not Robin I see. He is Rath Roiben Rye, who owns my heart and fierce loyalty, though it is I who owns his name.