Straight Vibes

By Sophia Rogan

Six days had come and gone since Vesta had returned home from battle. 

Six days since they’d lost that line and their enemy had advanced; six days since they’d lost control of the furthermost borders of the kingdom. 

Vesta had never imagined herself as a fighter of any sort. Especially not in a war. And perhaps that showed clearly enough through the significant losses they’d had in battle, how much she was failing them. 

She wasn’t of this kingdom; she had no magic like they did, no immortal lifespans, and no grand titles. She had been brought here through a series of unfortunate, disastrous, wrong-place-wrong-time events, that of which had somehow resulted in her becoming a mole, then a spy, and now a trusted member of the King’s Court. Most days, Vesta wasn’t sure whether it was luck or an ill-fated ploy of the gods to make a mockery of her. 

She had awoken in the palace to witness the bustling of servants through every corridor and room, decorating with haste. Sunflowers and thistles hung in wreaths and garlands to bring pops of color to the otherwise gray castle halls, tapestries of autumn hues depicting ancient history of the foreign kingdom, all being hung with pride, and in the western fields outside the windows, she witnessed constructions for bonfires and long tables for great feasts. All the while, she hadn’t had a clue what it was for. 

Having been summoned to attend a court brunch, she found herself in the familiar comfort of the King’s study, adorned with grand bookshelves and velvet furniture. It was certainly too comfortable to be the sort of place one would think to hold a meeting with attending royalty and courtiers, but King Lucius was rather informal himself when it came to those he viewed as friends. Her especially, at times.

When she arrived, the others had already been waiting. Princess Letha, the twin sister of King Lucius, who looked just like her brother – adorning signature midnight-black hair and an arched nose that marked the Hawthorne twins – sprawled over a maroon chaise chair. She was of much shorter stature than her brother and made the chair appear like a bed. Lady Seraphina, the court’s Spymaster and lady witch, sat beside Princess Letha, tea in hand. King Lucius was similarly leaning against his grand mahogany desk, with the same relaxed attitude. 

“What’s with all the garnishing?” Vesta asked in a way of greeting. She took a seat closest to a displayed plate of fruits, filled with her favorite berries. She looked tentatively at them with desire, and the King subtly motioned for her to indulge. 

“Mabon,” Princess Letha replied through a sip of her tea. 

King Lucius propped his chin on his hand, summoning a lazy smile. “The autumn equinox is tonight. And tonight, we celebrate Mabon. It’s not a custom holiday where you’re from, if I understand correctly.” 

Her country had not much of any holiday, to Vesta’s knowledge. Just the few that mattered. A turning of seasons wasn’t worth much of a celebration back home. But here, in a land of magic and ancient tradition, she assumed it was always something grand. “No, I’ve never heard of it.” 

His smile widened. “We have three harvest celebrations throughout the year, and this is the second. And though it’s a rather minor holiday, beyond a few traditional games, feasts, and religious ceremonies, Letha and I both agree that it would be helpful to have some sort of morale lift for the kingdom. Particularly the battered soldiers.” 

She noted the words left unsaid about the frequent losses in battle, but made no measure to bring it up herself.

“And there is something we would like you to be a part of, if you’re willing,” he continued carefully. “In honor of the God of Day and Goddess of Night – the Father and Mother – the king and queen are crowned in a ceremony to represent and honor them both. When there’s no queen, an honorary one is chosen…” 

“Though my poor brother here has failed to choose any woman throughout these last few years he’s sat on the throne,” Princess Letha cut in with a snicker. 

King Lucius frowned at her jabbing. “It takes place after the feast, before the dance,” he went on, ignoring the prodding of his twin. “It’s a ceremony I have neglected, I admit. But you, my darling, I believe you should wear the crown tonight. It might be refreshing to bring back such a beloved tradition.” 

No amount of fruit plates or sweet smiles could contain her shock. Her lips moved quickly to refuse the honor, since she found herself so undeserving of it. “But would your people really want to see a foreigner wear a sacred crown during a sacred holiday?” 

The king leaned forward in his seat again, calloused hands clasped together. He was silent, considering, before he asked softly, “Did you know they’ve begun to call you ‘Protector of the Forestdwellers’, my dear?” 

When she was silent, he went on. “Your efforts in the south haven’t gone unnoticed. Battles were lost, but you saved countless lives. You risked your own life in the process of it. We’ve heard”—he gestured towards the other two women of the Court, Lady Seraphina and Princess Letha—“everything about what you’ve done for my people. And they adore you for it. You are a symbol of what an alliance could look like between your home country and mine. So, yes, I believe it is a tremendous idea to put a crown on your brow tonight, my lady.”

Vesta remained silent. It wasn’t until Princess Letha cut her an arched look that she only said, “If you believe it so, then I’d be honored.” 

Princess Letha gave a look that demanded Vesta’s attention, drawing her in again. “I’d be careful what you pick from the feast, young lady. Our crops are filled with magic. Golden apples will not bless you with gold, and our cakes always have a bargain to taste their sweetness. Be their queen, but be wary.” 

The day was spent with an anxious Lady Seraphina and various servant girls who, within mere hours, had summoned up a dress, mask, and jewelry the weight of her heart, preparing her for a celebration which Vesta knew little of. Lady Seraphina had graciously taught Vesta further on the purpose of Mabon, how it was an opportunity for all people of the kingdom, that farmers who brought crops from their harvest were paid their weight in gold for their offerings to the grand feast, and people of all statuses were welcomed into the castle’s halls for the bountiful celebration. 

Young men partook in a jousting tournament at twilight, before the dance, riding stags — a symbol of Mabon, a symbol of the Father — rather than horses. Even King Lucius had entered the tournament, to which his sister bet against him and lost an exorbitant amount of gold. For Vesta, she only cared to see the laughing and grins of participating soldiers, finding play and respite after all their horror. 

And just as promised, people of all status, both commoner and rich, gathered together around the great bonfires in the western fields outside the castle. The same people ate together, side by side, at long tables in the Great Hall stuffed with corn, squashes, pumpkins, roast turkeys, breads, mead, and other dishes that Vesta was entirely unfamiliar with.

They dressed her in a gown fit for a queen. Just as she would be, at least for tonight. The skirt was a matte black, the upper half almost entirely of a midnight-blue mesh, and they’d adorned her in various silver jewels of crescent moons and bright stars. Just below the slit of her back, the royal emblem had been embroidered in a bright silver. Vesta had never once in her life imagined herself wearing anything so lovely. 

She was now above the royal dais, standing beside King Lucius, overlooking a crowd dressed in fine clothes and finer masks. The King was dressed in a mask that resembled a stag, ornate antlers protruding from the top, and the symbol of the sun was embroidered in gold into his robes. It was odd to see him in colors. At the lift of his hand, the crowd parted into a path. 

“Happy Mabon,” he began distinctly. “Tonight, we thank you for the great harvest you brought with you, and for the continued bounty we see each year in our lands. And we thank our brave warriors for every fight and sacrifice they have endured in the last quarter year.” 

A man, dressed in white with a mask in the shape of a silver owl, walked through the parted crowds and stepped between Vesta and the King. It reminded her of a wedding ceremony, and the thought nearly made her stumble. 

The priest removed King Lucius’s mask first, dipping his thumb in a clear, pristine water he carried with him and drew it over the King’s head. “We thank the Father for the light he graces the land with.” 

Then he stepped before Vesta, lifting her mask and drawing the water over her head. “We thank the Mother for bringing her darkness to balance that light.” 

The priest stepped between them once more, bound their hands together in a golden-black cord, and turned once again to face the mass beneath the royal dais. “May we have the crowns that will serve as the land’s symbol of faith and gratitude to our gods?”

One crown bearer stepped forward, carrying the Father’s crown on a velvet pillow, with stag antlers and dangling suns woven into its golden leaves.  

But one remained missing. 

King Lucius, noticing the delay, asked, “Where is the Mother’s crown?” 

Mumbles amongst the people, but no crown emerged. 

Then came a scream, and the crowd parted clear to reveal the second crown bearer, fallen to the stone floor with a liquid gold pouring from his gaping mouth. The velvet pillow he carried held no crown. 

Shouts of outrage began, crying for the crown that had been thieved, the crown bearer killed, and a horrible offense against the Gods committed. 

Vesta, acting on her raw thought, rushed down the royal dais and to the fallen crown bearer’s side. She dropped to her knees and studied the young boy’s pale face, the golden liquid from his mouth, and the befallen look he was stricken with. 

Ever so carefully, she used her thumb to lower the boy’s lip, examining the pooling metallic liquid in his mouth. Beside her, the King had crouched at Vesta’s left and studied the same lifeless face. 

“The crown bearer has been poisoned,” he whispered in observation. 

Vesta was silent for a long moment, using two fingers to shut the boy’s eyes. “Have someone bury him amongst the hills facing the stars, and I will go find the crown and the killer.” 

She first sought out Lady Seraphina, the Spymaster, who would certainly have found something of use in this mystery. But the lady had no reports; she and her spies had seen nothing unordinary. So Vesta, determined as ever, searched through every forgotten corner of the castle alongside the spies and courtiers who were willing to help. 

As she walked through a candlelit hall, the moon rising beyond the windows, something made her pause. The door to the right, an abandoned servant’s room covered in dust and webs. The door had made a streak to clear the dust away, as if someone had entered before. Vesta crept through the darkened space, and only illuminated by the silver light of the bright equinox moon, there sat the Mother’s crown. 

It was a beautiful thing, made of a silver that looked like milk under moonlight, adorned with falling stars and hanging constellations. The triple moon sat at the top, glowing bright with a blue gem as its center. 

Come closer, something beckoned. As if the wind had brushed through Vesta’s russet locks, though the windows remained shut. 

Come closer, Daughter of Mortal Men, Protector of the Forestdwellers. You seek my abductor and murderer of the boy who carried me. 

Vesta stepped before the silver crown and dropped to her knee, diligently taking the precious thing in her hands. 

The one who placed the golden fruit between the bearer’s teeth holds its pit in falsely loyal hands. 

The crown spoke no more, if it was speaking at all, and Vesta rose back up to her feet. She turned on her heel with a new determination, back to the throne room filled with masked people, both faerie and monster.

With the crown returned, she stepped back upon the dais, and the priest anointed her and the King with the pristine water, then tied their hands together with the golden-black cord. The crown bearer carried both crowns to the royal dais, where the priest proudly crowned them both. 

But Vesta had not abandoned her search for the traitor. She stepped beneath the royal dais. “As Queen and Mother represent for one night, I ask that all who dined tonight take a seed from their person, and plant it in the western fields outside the castle, so we may give back something to the land that nourished us.” 

So the people of the kingdom followed both King and honorary Queen into the western fields, beyond the lit bonfires, and planted seeds from their pockets into the soil. Even Lady Seraphina and Princess Letha. The priest who crowned them watered each planted seed with the water from his bowl, and every plant sprouted proudly. Corn stalks, pumpkins, squashes, crops of all sorts, emerged from the earth. 

It was Princess Letha’s that sprouted an apple tree. 

The King approached the tree and plucked an apple from its branches. The world inhaled quick, and the breath was held amongst all the attendees. 

“A golden apple tree,” he declared, turning to his sister. “You killed the crown bearer?” And because faeries could not lie, the princess only said, “I did.” 

Vesta stepped before the royal twins, the collective breath escaping. “Why would you do such a thing?” 

The princess took the apple from King Lucius’s hands and shoved it into Vesta’s mouth before she could think to move. “Because no foreign mortal should bear a crown so heavy.” King Lucius shoved his sister aside and ripped the royal diadem from her brow. He threw it to the golden apple tree and rushed to Vesta’s side to pull the apple from her mouth before she could be tempted to bite it. His arms around the mortal woman, a scowl crossed his face once he turned his attention to the betrayer. “You bring shame to our House, to the crown, and to these people.” 

Soldiers who’d dined, danced, and jousted amongst the celebration came forward and stood before the two women and the King. One man, who walked forward with a limp, knelt down before Vesta. “We would rather choose a mortal with a heart before a princess who deceives to be our Queen.” 

The other soldiers followed suit. 

More men from the crowd came forward with chains and held the princess as she protested. The first soldier who bent the knee came up with another golden apple from the tree and put the fruit into the princess’s mouth, so she could choose between her cooperation or death. They chained her to the golden apple tree, and with a wave of his hand, the King proceeded with the dance. 

The people, with their masks and fine clothes, some with pointed ears and some with horns, some with beaks and feathers or fins, danced around the flames of Mabon fires. Vesta was swept up by the King and danced to the sound of a melody made by the whispers of the forest and the laughs of the people. 

When the night was spent, they sat beneath a grove of oak trees, watching the rising dawn, colorful skies basking over a new day. 

King Lucius let out a soft breath, breaking their silence, and he turned his gaze down on the courtier. “You make a wonderful Queen, I think.” 

“You think?” She grinned.

“No, I know.” He shuffled for something in the pocket of his cloak. “You, my dear, do make a wonderful Queen.” 

And for the first time, Vesta allowed herself to believe it. Because faeries could not lie. He kissed the palm of her hand and dropped a ring upon it, an ornate little thing with a rose colored band and a red gem. 

“Be my Queen for longer than a night.” He gave his casual, inviting smile. Vesta looked to the sunrise basking over the western fields, the burned bonfires, and sunlight warming the grasses. 

She’d been brought here through a series of unfortunate, disastrous, wrong-place-wrong-time events, but for the first time, she might believe they weren’t so wrong after all. Vesta slipped that ring on her finger. She’d been a mole, a spy, a King’s courtier, and now she’d be a Queen. 

And so the King and his Queen watched the morning sun shine over a bright autumn morning.