As the winter days became bitter and cold, as shadows swallowed the sun and left the world in endless night, The Lady froze with it. She burned at the touch, the glacial freeze congealing his tears, making them remain within the deep confines of his soul. His isolation grew further, the cook's daughter being sent home unceremoniously over a minuscule spot in one piece of cutlery, the cook avoiding his presence, a message received. In the halls, he saw hanging shadows chasing him, faint whispers in a tongue, not quite his own and not the Common Tongue by any means, calling him home. The state slowly fell into disrepair. No matter how much effort Corbin put in, for every cobweb he removed from the dusty closets or how many clothes he would mend, twenty more would appear, mocking his efforts. Entire days he spent not speaking anything more than "Yes, Madam," or "Yes, Sir." When he laid in bed at night, he asked himself whether all his dreams and hopes, all the tales of his childhood and warm afternoons with Mother had led up to this.

Corbin didn't know anymore.

But Corbin couldn't leave. His promise to Mother, his misguided love even for The Lady prevented him to do just that. No matter what, he held on to his hope, his determination, even as his smiles dimmed like the dusking light at any underhanded mention, only to be lit once again by the never-ending fire of his heart. Even if not, even if he could leave and never come back, where would he turn?

He didn't have anywhere else to go.

Lucinda remained the same as always in those cold mornings, making him fetch dainty boots from the outside frost without even allowing him to change from his nightclothes, shirking every single one of her responsibilities upon him, insulting him and denigrating him with every step he took. Her hatred embittered, making her more and more condescending, faking sympathy for an audience that was much too eager to overlook her flaws. He slowly lost the desire to resist her bitter insults, finding the path of least resistance much easier than facing The Lady's cruel judgment or Father's obvious disapproval.

Overall, a pleasant experience.

On the other hand, Anastasia's fear seemed to be disappearing much like salt dissolves in water. Feeling emboldened by her sister's actions, she started acting accordingly with Corbin. She wasn't cruel, by any means. She didn't have The Lady's cold-bloodedness or Lucinda's sadistic streak. But she saw him as an inferior. Corbin was a footsoldier to every single one of his whims, expected to comply with every one of her caprices with no hesitation. Whenever she did not get what she wanted when she wanted, she raged and screamed and roared at volume impressive to a girl a few years younger than Corbin, her grey eyes surprisingly void of any emotion but conceit in them. Bitter, false dragon tears would crawl down her cheeks but, as soon as Corbin was aptly punished for his oversight, as soon as Corbin's meals were taken away or even more tasks to comply with, they would immediately disappear, whisked away into a large, smug, self-satisfied grin, much like the cat that caught the bird.

Corbin began to lose Mother, the scraps and pieces of her memories growing fainter and fainter. As time passed, he could no longer recall her sweet laughter. The melodies she had sung became a whisper in his ears, elusive yet constant. He no longer remembered the exact shade of her hair, the softness of her touch, the mixture of rain and flowers and something wild that always seemed to follow her. Their days beneath the willow became foggy, his mind drawing a blank on those peaceful days. What remained clear were her stories, her strongest legacy in Corbin's mind, ever-present, but Corbin couldn't help but mourn what might have been.

Maybe it had been his fault.

The boy still didn't appear in the frosted clearing.

Corbin continued his weekly visits to Cú, sometimes catching Nanna during one of her many visits to her "sources," following her to musty old rooms with bitter odors, stores with millions of herbs hanging from the roof and suspicious back rooms with dusty parchments. As he followed behind her, the more secretive those visits became. Vague metaphors and hurried whispers pervaded those conversations, but Corbin still followed Nanna's wide-brimmed hat like a lost duckling, her being the only source of guidance he could find in this brand-new world.

And so time went on, as merciless and ruthless as the storm-torn ocean.

This all shifted one clear morning, the day after the winds had howled like wolves to the lambs, their biting jaws the icy sheen everything took, their mark left in the snow that piled for meters. As the shadows consumed the daylight, The Lady had only become more and more secretive, not a sight of her being seen for days on end, appearing only when it struck her fancy. She was a viper waiting to strike, coiling her scales as she prepared her venom. Corbin noticed and feared that the worst would come to be. He only wanted a single conversation with Father, a single chance to serve his promise.

The evening before, Corbin snuck into Father's study, hiding from anyone's interruptions behind bookshelves and infinite piles of books. He made his way to him, took in the sight of his old, worn desk, of his slumped figure and greyed-out hair, and opened his mouth, trying to warn him off of impending danger. Grey eyes were watching him intently as he took his first step, their lips stopping him ruthlessly.

The Lady had noticed, maneuvering her husband away, and Corbin made himself a new target for her.

That morning, as he was serving their breakfast in the dining hall, The Lady's gaze followed him throughout the room, awaiting his next move. And so he stood in the corner in solemn silence, stuck between a garishly ornate side-table and about a dozen or so antlers. The only sound in the dim room was the soft clinking of metal against porcelain, the happiness that pervaded in those summer days gone with the passing of the leaves.

"Boy," The Lady said, her dull, flat voice revealing nothing, "come here."

He took the steps slowly, weightily, having the vaguest of hopes that something good would ever happen.

"Tell me now," she started, "you've been the one who has been doing the weekly market visits these past few weeks, haven't you?"

Corbin lowered his head, looking straight into the floor, "Yes, Madam."

"And you have only bought what's necessary, haven't you?" The Lady said.

"Yes, Madam"

"You see, Boy," The Lady let the words lay there like a hangman's noose, "we have had a bit of a situation with our monthly budgets."

Silence overtook the ample hall.

"It's a matter of simple arithmetic. We send you every week to the market with 10 pieces, knowing you will at most only use six. It's surprising, then, that you always return with an empty pouch," The Lady let out a shrill, grating giggle, unnatural and mocking.

Corbin looked up. The Lady had only given him four pieces, five at most. Four or five miserly pieces to pay for any of Anastasia's whims, Lucinda's cravings, The Lady's wants, and Father's indulgences.

"So you can understand our confusion, don't you?" The Lady's grey eyes bore into his soul.

"Madam, I swear that every single piece I used was necessary," Corbin said earnestly.

The Lady stood up, towering over him, all long lines and sharp angles. "Then how come we're missing sixty pieces?"

"I don't know, Madam," Corbin said.

"If so, what is this doing in your rooms?"

There, in The Lady's hands, dangling precariously, was Mother's pendant.

Corbin stumbled back, weak knees barely holding him up, "That's Mother's..."

"Oh," She raised her eyebrows, a pale mockery of surprise, "is it, Darling?"

Father looked at Corbin straight in the eyes, and

He said...

He said...

He said...

Nothing.

In an overcrowded dining hall full of decrepit beast heads and extravagant rugs, with a too-hot fire burning in the hearth and a too-cold river stone floor, with the weight of the stare of four people and the entire world hanging upon his shoulders, Corbin was the only person in his universe. From the other corner of the table, he could see how Lucinda was shaking her shoulders, barely containing exultant laughs. He was their idiotic fool, another source of entertainment in their blissful lives, and he couldn't help but play along again and again and again.

"I see," The Lady grinned, blades in her lips and razors in her teeth. "Boy, I wouldn't have expected for you to stoop so low. After everything my Lord has done for you, after everything I have done for you? I see I have raised a crow and let it pluck out my eyes, let the blood run freely and curdle before I could notice its betrayal."

"Madam, I..."

"Debts must be repaid, then, having seen my gratitude to be thrown out to the fire," The Lady said.

Unclasping the silver chain, she looped it around her head, the delicate pendant looking dead and dulled on her neck.

"To settle all that you owe us, we will have to move you out of the room. After all, with such a loss, we cannot make the old servants' chambers into the perfect room for my little angels, they simply cannot afford to sleep in the guest rooms any longer. But then there's the matter of where you will sleep... Maybe with the hounds outside? "

"The attic's still available," Father piped up, staring unreadably into Corbin's eyes.

"Of course, Darling!" The Lady grinned. "After all, we need those guest rooms for the girls' governess--- Oh, we can't afford the boy's tutor anymore, can we? It's best, in the end, he had to learn his place eventually," she turned, measuring him up and down, "didn't you, Corbin?"

A negative clawed in his throat, begging to come out, yet all he could say back was, "Yes, Madam."

"Then it would be for the best if you changed your attire. You have no use for such fine fabrics now that you'll keep company with the dust upstairs, now do you?"

"I do not, Madam," Corbin was choking back the tears, a large knot in his throat.

The Lady's lips widened. "I'm sure you'll be able to change them in some way for my darlings."

Corbin was breaking down, he had to run; he had to go; he had to see him; he had to know that he was real, that the boy was real, that Nanna was real, that Mother---

Mother didn't feel real, anymore.

Mother was one of his endless dreams, of his broken hopes. Mother was the remaining cinders of by-gone days, but he couldn't help but run his hands through the embers, hugging the burning coals close to his heart.

Even if gone, she was the only thing he had left now, her and her stories. Her and his promise.

Please take care of your father, he needs you more than he'll ever know. But, most importantly, remember this: you must be kind. No matter what happens or what people say, you must never lower yourself to their level. Promise me this.

And so Corbin said, "I'm sure I will find some use for them, Madam."

The argument was settled, the war lost, and Corbin felt oh so weak. He had to do this for them; he had to repay them.

But this was not kindness, not to himself and, without even knowing, a small cut slashed into his back, no bigger than a fingernail.

As soon as the meal ended, as soon as his family ate their fill, leaving Corbin nothing but scraps of bread and crumbs of cheese, as soon as he washed every single plate, every single piece of cutlery, every single useless glass---

He had to be real.

In a haze, even as his fingers froze, even as his legs were covered in cuts and his face covered in sweat and tears, he trudged onwards. His muscles were moving by themselves, his bones pulled by strings. He felt no cold nor hurt, only the need to know that even one moment of happiness had existed. He had to know that he didn't ruin everything he touched, that he wasn't guilty of everything that had happened. He needed to know his entire existence wasn't an exercise in futility.

The green grass was brown, dead. The trees were naked, leafless. The bluebells were gone as if they had never existed. A thick layer of snow and frost covered everything in sight. Corbin walked on and on and on, searching for even the slightest trace of life, yet he found nothing. There was nothing.

Corbin fell on his knees, his legs not strong enough to carry him anymore, and he let out a cry filled with such pain, such misery, that if one were to hear it, their heart would break in two.

Nobody listened.

He did not know how much the clock ticked, but once he was conscious once again, the sky was painted in oranges and yellows and the sun was a blazing red in the west. Corbin was covered in a thin sheen of ice, his meager clothes barely covering him from the bitter wind. Snowflakes clumped in his eyelashes, and his black curls were damp and sodden. He slowly made his way back to the mansion, opened the heavy mahogany door, and stumbled to his now-old room.

Nobody listened.

He took the few things he had left, now. A few books with covers worn and pages dog-eared lined the bottom of his only box. Old quills and handmade ink laid on top of it, the boy's wrapper right beside it, only carrying two nightgowns with him. Corbin put his other clothes in another box, this one to scrap and recycle from whenever Anastasia and/or Lucinda had any whims which would be too immediate for a seamstress to carry out.

Nobody listened.

Walking down the hall, a faint melody whispered from the opposite direction, luring him. The shadows clutched and pulled his clothes, dragging him back. Turning, he saw nothing but a white, ornate door, with flowery carvings and a light appearance, a definite juxtaposition from the somber rock surrounding it. The perfume of rosemary and camellias and carnations. It was a door of which his entrance was barred years ago, yet he had no choice but to enter.

Mother.

The room was a picture of a long-forgotten time. Soft light entered from the clear windows, shading everything with gold and rubies. Outside, a clear view of the forest with icy crystal glazing the picture. In the middle of the room, a large canopy bed, delicate linen draping over the softest of beds. On the wall, pictures of pastel flowers and sketches of birds. Corbin's---bloodycalluseddirtywrong---hands pressed against the covers. He could still feel Mother's warmth, even after the long, tiring years. Calm flooded right through him, peace pressing against him wave after wave.

He was happy.

As he explored what little childhood he ever had, forgotten moments rushed back to his mind. On the white vanity table, looking into the bronze mirror, he could see reflected back Mother putting beeswax on her lips, braiding her unruly red hair into a long braid. In the corner of her night table, an empty vase where Father would bring in the freshest roses to keep Mother company. On her desk, where she would often draw and write about her day, there was a---

There was a letter. The edges of its envelope were yellowed out, the alabaster turning vanilla and corn silk, but, in the center of the envelope, as clear as day, was the clear, elegant, cursive handwriting of Mother's. Corbin got closer, hoping to read what the face said only that there, carefully placed in the middle, was his name. Scrambling to the chair, carefully breaking the sparrow seal, he opened the letter.

My little crow,

As I'm writing this, I know I will never see the day wherein you will receive it. I know I will never see you learn how to read. I will never see you running around the house, enthused about something or other, I will never hear you try to explain it to me. I know I will never see the first time you fall in love, nor the last one. I will never see your wedding, your smiles of joy at my first grandchild. I will never see you reach the greatness I am sure you will achieve,

I know I will never see you grow.

But you have to know, I'm still there. As day turns to night, as spring goes to summer then to autumn then to winter, I'll still be there, looking out for you. In the stars in the night sky, I will shine a light for you to move forward.

You don't know how much I love you; I know you never will, but I hold you closer and dearer than the few days that remain for me in this world.

But you must wonder why I'm making your father give you this letter now, on your thirteenth birthday. You must wonder about strange whispers in the night and strange occurrences that happen everywhere you go. You must wonder why the weather changes so swiftly around you, or why time bends at your will. You must wonder why you feel something building in you, a fire coursing through your veins.

You have never been common.

From the moment I left the court, from the moment I accepted Oberon's deal. I knew my time wouldn't be lengthy, that I would never return home, but I knew I had to teach you your ancestry, the stories of those who came before you. In tales and parables, I weaved those of whom I knew, those of whom the war destroyed, those of whom have magic coursing through their veins, same as you.

We are magic, my little crow. We can create hurricanes and tornadoes and end them just as swiftly. We can shake the ground with furious power and still grow life from our very fingertips. We can create things out of thin air, or make those around us be caught in a mist of illusions.

We are Fae.

You will be hunted, persecuted, hated. Iron arrows will fly towards you while verbal blades will pierce your soul. You will be caught in cruel promises, tied by your name and your word. The path you will walk is difficult, but I know you will succeed.

That's why I gave your father my ring, the only key to your power. I wanted you to live at least a few years in blissful ignorance, in quiet peace. In my ring, a great power lies, but I'm sure you'll Father will help you with the burden.

My parchment grows short as my hours grow shorter, but I hope I have been able to give you some sort of guidance with my words. I wish I could see your face once more, see how handsome and smart and charming you've become, but Destiny wills it not, and only fools fight destiny.

I love you more than words in the Common Tongue can express, and more than what Lách can begin to express,

Mother.

Thoughts were flying through Corbin's mind, unanswered questions and senseless answers getting solved through Mother's letter. His heart was in a revolution, his mind working overtime. The letter had taken his breath with every word that had been written and exhales long-overdue finally took place. But through this, the idea that most pervaded his senses, the focus in the storm, was this:

He had to talk to Father.

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AN: Well, this was... slightly painful. I struggled to write Corbin's conversation with The Lady for like three straight days, so it's really satisfying to see it end so well. Anyway! I hope you liked this chapter and, if you enjoyed it, please vote and maybe give back some feedback? Any comment lights up my day.