Forest of Dreams and Whispers (The Fae of the Forest)

by Katherine Macdonald

“Then I offer this instead: a gift to all Faerie. When the prince comes of age, at the first drop of blood he spills from his body, I will bring my army to this kingdom. Not a faerie shall be harmed, for all shall fall into a deep, dark sleep. For one hundred years will you rest, and after, awaken to a new world, a paradise for all faerie kind. There, I shall rule as king, with both Seelie and Unseelie as my subjects, and mortals shall be slaves to us all.”

Young prince, I offer you this escape: if your chosen fae bride offers a kiss to your sleeping form, you shall awaken immediately, and I shall withdraw my armies and surrender myself to your judgement.”

Sometimes Juliana worried about her propensity towards murder to solve even the slightest of inconveniences, but it was not when she was dragging a very inebriated prince across town on her day off.

“Nothing about your appearance makes up for how absolutely loathsome I find you.” “Ah, so you do find me attractive!” “Did you hurt yourself, making that stretch?”

a silvery palace tumbling with vines, giant blooming flowers spilling out of the turrets on the sides of Spring and Summer, mushrooms and lichen clinging to the part shrouded in Autumn.

Saddle my horse, my significant bother!” Juliana glared at him. “What? You said you liked riding.” “Say please.” Hawthorn sighed. “Please, my darling Jules, sweetest of my guards, song of my soul, won’t you prepare our horses so that we may go for a ride?”

She fought the urge not to go back there, and later, as she drifted off to sleep, she fought the urge not to dream about him.

Too many negatives. So the urge was to not go back and she fought that? Better editing needed

He rehearsed the words in his head. Why, Juliana, fancy meeting you here! Do you always come here on your day off? She’d probably tell him he knew that already, and threaten some mild violence. He couldn’t wait.

How long had he felt this way? Hard to know. Hard to trace a river back to its source. Is it in the mountains or the rain clouds or the air all around you?

He may not have been born feeling this way, but he was born to feel it—in the way a tree was doomed to know moss and mould and lichen. She’d infected him, diseased him.

“It’s all right,” Dillon told her, stroking her hair. “It’ll be all right.” Mortals are so breakable, she thought dimly. We would not survive without those lies to glue us together.

Dillon held her until she’d composed herself, pulling enough pieces back to mimic her usual shape.

He found himself bitterly unprepared for the agony of want. He was used to sordid fantasies and sick desires, used to craving flesh and sex. This… this was something else. He wanted to pull her into the bath with him, to stroke that flame-gold hair from her back and kiss every bruise and muscle and scar while she lay slotted against his chest. He wanted to dance with her all night long, body against his, breath on his face. He wanted to wake in her arms, for her stiff face to smile at him, for those lips to speak softness in his ears.

He wanted her body to whisper poetry to his.

Friends like wildflowers who took care of themselves. She did not want people in her life who grew like roots beneath her, twisting into her, making her something else, making it impossible to leave.

“Do you ever find,” he said to Hawthorn, his eyes following the merman about, “that whenever you’re around someone you adore, you act like a complete fool?” Hawthorn’s eyes spread across the dancefloor, and Juliana wondered who he was searching for. “Tell me about it,” he said. “You always act like a fool,” she interjected. Hawthorn jumped, but recovered quickly. “Is that so?” he said, not looking at her. “Please don’t think too much about that.”

Hey! That tumblr post made it in here!

“We don’t need water to flood this place,” she told him, pointing. “We have snow.”

Yeah Jules thats why Dillon wanted the power to MELT things. He never said y’all needed water

She wanted the courage to turn misshapen feelings into words, to craft him sweet, soft phrases, promises she could be held to.