Failing Upward

They have been gone for so very long. You cannot hope to find them. You who toils in arts and crafts like a child. As if you could understand the complexities of summoning their kind, you barely understand the will of the axe in your hand. But, it seems, you must try to seek them out. For Queen and Country? For Nightingale? For yourself? And, if you do, how do you imagine you can coerce them to betray themselves? To offer themselves? Oh yes, Gloriana ensorcelled her Prince Consort, but you are not her. You do not have her charms. You do not have her wit. How little you understand what you are seeking. No, no, no, leave them be. Perhaps play house instead. Settle the lands, build a home. Grow old if you must, but forget the Fae. Forget the Summer Court. Forget me if you dare.

Do you remember the old ways? Did your Nan tell you of delving into caves and caverns, to walk deep into the Earth until you found yourself on the other side? Did the Druids tell you about the movement of the mists? How the parting of waters that span two Realms can lift one into the lost places? On Beltane night, did your lover whisper in your ear the exciting fear of slipping through the veil? The old ways seemed not to matter so much then. Not like they do now. These are the paths that may lead you to the new courts, the old courts, the lost courts. Just know that you will have to delve deeper, part greater waters and walk with so many before you find the secret places where Fae reside.

Oh, sweet silver bell. Let me wipe the crimson from your face. How cruel it is to abandon something so lovely. But—ah!—there is an imperfection. I hear it now. You were cast from an imperfect mould; such a pity you were not crafted by hand. If you had been, the Fae surely would have struck a bargain. Knowledge, power, tools. Whatever required to make your time in the Land of Faery more palatable. Oh, but something did come for you, didn't it? Their monsters followed your voice, those bound by dust and magick. They danced with your maker, drumming your rhythm with their fists. Despite that, despite all this blood, you have dared to live. What spirit.

Do you ever wonder why the Fae abandoned humanity? They did seem to enjoy playing the part of otherworldly creatures. Oh, how they enjoyed humans in their games, their dances, their feasts. A Fae Prince on a human throne. Such a scandal for all involved. Not surprising then to see humanity clamour for simple Fae trinkets and tricks. Moreso after Oberon’s turning the Great Comet with a flick of the wrist. But, you must see it: magick is not for humans. Your greed and jealousy… To command over things that are not yours is simply savage. Look how it burns all you love. If it was meant to be yours, then you could summon it, create it, mould it. If you could, well, wouldn’t that be something? If you could hold it without being consumed by smoke and ash. Yes, you would be something.

It does not rain too much. The nights are not too long. The lands are very forgiving if you know how to ask. Ask and you shall receive the warmth of the sun, a soft road of moss, stars like you’ve never seen. But, you don’t know how to ask, do you? Your words barely penetrate the minds of your fellows, let alone the whims of stones. O Child of Ruin, shake your spear, curse the darkness, scream at the monsters who hunt you there. It only encourages them. Be careful now, fragile is your skin, your bones, your mind. Why do you suffer in loneliness when you could simply call your friends forth? Breathe in the poison and use the sharp tang to shape the Realm to your will. Rise up, my fair one.

You almost got it this time. You built the stone circle. Calculated each stone's position, aligned correctly. Oh, look at the craftsmanship of this sensor. Broken now, but still I can see these glyphs are perfect. Not a scratch out of place. These ashes inside—yes, they are mistletoe. What went wrong, then? Oberon, bless you—you managed the Bandersnatch. You even appeased the Eoten. Oh. I suppose it’s only human to fumble the execution. For all your tools, you are still clumsy in your understanding. You assumed that all the stars must bear witness, that this must be an evening ritual. Blue light to power your glyphs. But, the star that was most important was the one closest to you. Golden light—ah yes, golden light to lead you through the Gloom to the absolution of the Pale.

Did you finally give up? Did you settle and build yourself a home? Have you forgotten about me? I can’t seem to find you. There are so many empty Realms filled with the evidence of you. The trees whisper of your axe, the earth grumbles of your pick, and the Bound rage their frustrations against you. Yet, all I find of you is your discarded rubbish. The broken things, the useless things. Oh—what was that? Ha! Is it you? In my Realm. You found me? Me? Can you hear me laugh? What a wonder you are. Oh yes, yes, yes, yes! Look at your clothes, your tools, your magick!? You have found a way into the wellspring, I see. Oh my, aren’t you a treat. I am intrigued, but no, you will not find me until I want to find you.