[h1][center] MAEVE [/center][/h1]

[hr]

The blow sent the fae to the ground with a quick shriek. Maeve sighed as she watched from her throne, the debacle that always played out. An upstart fae wishing for more titles, more land, more brides, more husbands, more, more, more. There was little left to give! And it always led to said fae, getting put into their proper station. As her guards began to kick the small wicker-like creature, its dust began to leak. Maeve raised a hand, and the obedience instilled within one hundred generations, burst forth. Like a second nature, they stopped and stood at attention. 

The fae whimpered in relief, a measly attempt to stand was rewarded in failure and a thump upon the wooden floor. The sickly smell of their dust hung in the air as it spoke, looking at the floor before her throne, “Mercy, Queen. Mercy.”

Maeve tilted her head, she had been so close to spacing off, a sweet sense only ingrained boredom could produce. If she had eyes she would have rolled them in return. “Yes. Mercy. Quite useful once you’ve been beaten. Do you know how many times I’ve heard those words?” She asked, not waiting for an answer. “Everyday. Day after day. As you parishioners, you sycophants, you worthless creatures come to grovel at my feet. And when begging and groveling fails, you resort to pettiness and demands. Like you have earned whatever you seek. Bah!” She waved her hand, done with the conversation. 

The guards grabbed the fae under the arms and flew out, the fae pleading as they went. When they were gone at last, the queen sighed again. She wrapped her hands upon the wood of her dark throne. There really wasn’t anything left to give. The Anathema Heights were overpopulated and it seemed every single Perfected Fae had some distant relation or claim to a piece of land, even down to simple boulders. They had become a society of vainglory and wanton greed, yet there was nothing left to have and so violence was paramount. So much infighting and backstabbing. It was a miracle they were overpopulated at all, since so many were killed in petty squabbling. 

She couldn’t really blame them. There was nothing to do. They were a conquering people with nothing to conquer. That damnable desert had made sure of it. Oh, they had tried numerous times to pass through it, especially in the early days after the war, but not even Nessa had returned from her expedition. That fool. And lovely Aina and ventured over the ocean, gone forevermore. Following either coast led to only further frustration, as if a joke they couldn’t perceive had been played on her entire race. But that wasn’t so hard to understand. Maeve had suspected a long time ago that they were simply being contained. The outside world was afraid of them, as they rightly should be. Yet, none but she could even remember what that outside world could even look like. What it truly felt to be amidst green grass and budding flowers. The laughs of her kin in the fertile spring. Her hand tightened into a ball, it was the only ounce of anger she had left to give.



And so her people rotted in stagnation. A fitting punishment for their sins and Maeve had grown powerless to stop it. Then again, she didn’t really care anymore. Everything was so dull. She had become queen of her people but the cost, well, she lived with it everyday. There had always been attempted coups, for none truly loved her, nor did she think the Perfected Fae could love at all but try they did to supplant her. They always failed. She was just too strong and far too stubborn. 

She leaned back, slouching. It was an endless existence of perfect constant boredom. 

“I hope you’re proud, O’maker mine.” She said under her breath. 

No sooner had the thought crossed her mind, of the one who had cursed them all, a feeling overcame her. One she had felt only briefly now in the span of her lifetime. The presence of the divine. She sat up, heart racing. Had she only imagined it? She searched and as she did, she rose, the presence so small and wispy. Like dust on the clung to the air in fine particulate. She grabbed her chest and through her presence at it and as she did she felt it, she felt the maker. The one who had doomed her, who had taken and twisted her very being. Who had promised the world in her own vision. It had all been lies! Terrible, terrible lies! She had just been a tool, a feckless worthless tool in the maker’s eyes! One who killed, who destroyed! She could feel him, she could…! 

The presence blinked out of existence. Maeve froze. 

Had he returned?