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Once upon a time, there was a very old star. And this very old star shined on a very old tree. And in this very old tree lived a very old rat. And this very old rat sang a very old song. And this very old song told a very old story of a long time ago before the faeries went away…
Now, everybody knows that a faerie cannot die, for death is made of bone and flesh and blood and mortal things. But faeries are not flesh - they are made instead of wispy, weepy, willows, and they live as long as they have got their wings.
One night, a faerie found a mortal walking near her lake, and he gave her quite a panic, and she gave him quite a start. And when the morning came and she crept home so quietly, ‘twas not a faerie soul could tell she’d given up her heart. Now, I know I needn’t tell you what it is to fall and fall and fall and fall until you’ve given up your life to one you love, and the only way that she could stay within his arms was to lose her charms, and laugh and cry and live and die as any mortal does.
And finally, that fateful night she flew into this very tree where god can see she hid her store of treasures through the years. And when she flew out, she looked about, and oh, the strife, she had a knife, and thus began the tale that could only end in tears…
So! She flew to find her lover, and he took her undercover to a little room, as bride and groom, where they might share a bed. And before she had the chance to lift her knife and end her faerie life by cutting of her wings to live a mortal life instead, he had caught her up into his arms ,and said “my dear, don’t be alarmed, but all the gentle kindness I have shown is at its end, but, why cry you so? It’s time you know my favourite game, to murder, maim, and tear the wings off winged things, my hand I humbly lend.”
Then he opened up a case and watched the blood drain from her face as one by one, he proudly rearranged his conquests large an small… Beetles, bees, and gnats, and even bats, in tiny jars, their wings detached, “and yours,” he said, “will be the crowning glory of my wall.” Then! Excited as a cruel child who de-wings flies and never cries, he took what she so gladly would have given on her own, but where she had planned a swift, clean cut, his love demanded nothing but a massacre, where once wings were, he wanted only bone.
Then began he his attack and tore the wings right from her back all dripping gore, as she turned mortal and her silver blood ran red. In that sickly, scarring, second, she could feel the pain of hundreds, thousands, millions, bloody, shocked and screaming all inside her head.
After what could be a minute or an hour she was silent and had shut her eyes so tightly that it could have been a dream.
When she finally felt it safe to look around her, she was all alone, and there, crushed in the corner, were her broken wings. A scream…
…like none that you have ever heard, a scream so loud and long the “mad-doctors” come to find her and, the fools, they think she’s gone,
Yes, she must have gone and cut herself and must be made to pray. So they took her to a cold dark house in a cold dark street in a cold dark town, and once they had her locked behind the bars, they rode away…
‘Twas I who followed that poor child from that first night to this, how wild, and fair, and free she had once been before she was abused… Now she sits inside her cell, just me, a plagued rat to tell the tale of how she, to mortality, was cruelly introduced… The need for happy endings is a relatively modern one, a superficial scratch revels a shady, shabby lie,
For a fate far worse than death is to become a living girl…
The only wings that you can hope for
Are and Angels when you die…

By emilie autumn