Page 6 of A Kiss From a Faerie King

As of late, it’s been boringly tedious, as no one makes a fuss anymore.

There were centuries where I could hardly keep the humans and other creatures from falling into my kingdom at an exorbitant rate. I had to put safeguards in place to keep them at bay, and they have worked, unfortunately, for my restless spirit. Now, I only have a few lost humans or a misbehaving sprite to entertain me. The creatures of the above world have decided to rule over their sections ofThe Woodsand don’t care to venture too close to mine.

Leaving me to toil away in my underground realm, the guard of the unchanging great tree, of the everlasting oak spirit…that is, until a few decades ago.

WhenThe Great Oaklost its first leaf.

The sprites came to me, horror on their little glowing faces. Even the faeries—a naturally mischievous bunch—had looked solemn. Their dark eyes and two-foot-tall bodies were tense with unease.

Indeed, dread is what I felt watching that first golden leaf fall—floating on a gentle breeze until it landed softly on the damp grass. Shrieks rang out as it browned and curled before turning to ash in the wind.

The pain came next. A deep ache rattled my soul and caused me to double over. My pain was linked to it as its guardian. If I wanted to save myself, then I had to save it.

I knew the solution before the sprites flew to my ears to whisper it to me. I’ve always known what obligation I must fulfill, but even so, these meddlesome creatures don’t give anyone, least of all me, their king, a moment’s reprieve.

Even now, as I sit, the twilight setting in and coating our meadow in rich blue hues, their voices plague my ears. The three sisters, Puddle, Pond, and Port, are the most staunch weavers of this tale.

“This kingdom is sick,” says Puddle.

“Sicker than sick,” agrees Pond.

“Without a queen,” Port rasps in my ear, “the plants won’t grow.”

I wave my clawed hand, scattering their plump, pink forms. Their clear wings sparkle as they dodge my movement. Their skin glows brighter, a glimpse at their dismay.

“That one didn’t rhyme,” I remark, scratching the base of my crown. It’s a permanent fixture I was born with. Two mighty branches sprout from my forehead, their limbs reaching toward each other like interlocking fingers. Some days, especially recently, make it feel heavier than ever.

The sisters are right. Poor rhyming skills aside, the sentiment rings true.The Great Oakis dying. Countless leaves have been lost since the first one broke free. Each one wracks my body with excruciating pain. When it finally goes rotten, will I decay along with it? Each morning, I check for a decline in my outward health: a rotting tooth, a missing finger, or an eye turning milky and unseeing. Nothing has happened, but I have the distinct impression something will soon if I don’t act.

“Plant the seed,” the three sisters whisper. “Pull the weeds.”

Their squeaky voices chant the saying in unison over and over. I bare my teeth at them, but they merely float to my shoulders. Weaving themselves in between the strands of my white hair, I can never stay mad at the sisters for too long. With a deep sigh, I rub the base of my crown once more.

“What would you have me do?” Their pink bodies zip in front of my nose. “To complete the ritual, I must mate in the heart ofThe Great Oak.”

That is what legend says will save us all. If ever the power of the tree should wane, an offering of body and spirit made inside its heart will reignite it. Magic is created when two souls become one during the intimate act. It’s primal magic—the type of magic that may have createdThe Great Oakin the first place.

It seems like a simple enough ritual to complete- except for one key component that’s been missing these past centuries.

“I don’t see you volunteering to complete it with me.”

I raise a brow as the sisters burn into a hot magenta. Their wings flap quickly as the three of them fly in a circle.

“Oh no,” sighs Pond.

“Not us,” sings Puddle.

“Never, ever,” cries Port.

“Don’t act modest. I’ve seen what you three lustful creatures get up to. Together…and apart.”

The sprites are as wanton as anything. I can hardly judge them. When you are nearly a millennia old, the list of things you haven’t done is much shorter than the inverse. Still, the sisters are right. It can’t be either of them, as I have no doubt they are about to remind me.

“Must be a human,” chimes Pond.

“That’s the only way,” chuckles Puddle.

“Find one now,” chirps Port.

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