Archive of Our Own
Fandom: October Daye Series – Seanan McGuire
Characters: Eira Rosynhwyr
May all to Athens back again repair
And think no more of this night’s accidents
But as the fierce vexation of a dream.
But first I will release the fairy queen.
Be as thou wast wont to be;
See as thou wast wont to see:
Dian’s bud o’er Cupid’s flower
Hath such force and blessed power.
Now, my Titania; wake you, my sweet queen.
A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act IV, Scene I
They think they have the secret of elf-shot in the unbinding. But I don’t think so. And I guess, now that you’re here, neither do you. Do you? The secret of elf-shot has always been dreams and strength. The weak and useless perish, the pure and untainted slumber, and the strong walk in dreams, and tell their story. As many times as it takes to be believed.
And you owe me a hearing I think. You’ve certainly given October the Liar’s Daughter one haven’t you? Fair’s fair, they say, whoever they are. I say: welcome to my dream, and you’re getting my story whether you like it or not.
I know what you want. You want them all to be happy, the Liar’s changeling, the hidden prince, the cat with his saucer of cream. You want the Lady of the Lake to bestow and withhold her favours freely, as she used to. You want the souls of the Roane to have lived on in their skins, waiting for their mother’s freedom and you want them to swim in a clean ocean that the human filth haven’t defiled.
Well, you certainly have a lot of faith in the changeling daughter of Amandine the Liar, don’t you? Certainly so far she’s not broken anything that someone can’t put back together for her, but is that really to her credit? She has known what I am and what I can do for a year or more now, and she is yet to raise her army, or even dream that she needs one that exceeds the number of beds in her house.
Your faith is in lost children and grieving mothers. What a sweet dream. It will be unpleasant to wake from.
Perhaps you should dream my dream. I’ve always rewarded the canny, the brave, the ones with their eyes open. Consider Simon Torquill, if only for a time. Which Torquill brother would you truly rather be? The blustering, boasting Sylvester, wrapped up tight in roses and lies and the illusion of love? Or Simon at the height of his powers: my right hand, tutored in the ways of blood by two Firstborn, and freed from the lies of the lesser of the two? Or consider Rayseline, to whom I’ve shown the darkness, and who survived to turn the snake on itself, to remove forever one of Amandine’s line from the game, and finally to burn her mother’s legacy away and dream better dreams.
Oh but the hero’s dream is a sweet dream indeed, I know. I too am Oberon’s daughter after all. Freedom and happiness for all. Or at least for one or two, I’m sure. Do you truly want Antigone unbound? Free to bestow her favours on only one side, hers? Do you trust that that her side will always be your side? Let me disillusion you: a true daughter of Maeve, her side is always the side of the water. There’s only ever one thing she truly wants. Do you also wish to meet the Unseelie Queen then, her powers restored? The power of water is magnificent, and it is to wear down, and to drown. When Maeve Rides again, she and hers will ride the waves that smother you.
But, your last argument! In my dream, you now speak of a nightmare. What of Titiana, the beautiful, cruel, Summer Queen you ask? Yes, yes, of course, she was my mother. Don’t look so proud of yourself, it’s hardly a secret. There are those who say that I am but a shadow of that beautiful spider, bent on the destruction of Maeve first in mind, then in body, and finally in magic. And they are entirely and absolutely correct. I am as beautiful as the north star and as cruel as the north wind, and I am only a flickering shadow of my mother’s grace and evil.
Here is your nightmare: it is my mother also Antigone will bring back to you. Oberon’s last get and her spawn are my father’s blood key, his way home; Antigone sees it, I see it, and poor silly Amandine lives it in every beat of her heart. Amandine’s blood, and the blood of her hot-headed, stupid, daughters, are my father’s road home, and with him, his wives. The Unseelie Queen, as permanent and inexorable as water, and my mother. My mother who is so strong and so perfect she bound the daughter of the water against her own nature.
Do you want them to walk that road home to us? Do you want to meet them? The faithless Oberon? Maeve who longs to drown the world in her neverending tears? Titania, who would burn it in a moment if she thought it might amuse her?
I don’t either. Not ever again.
But can you lock the door against them, our lost Lords and Ladies, our terrible parents, our creators, our destroyers? Can you bar it with roses and blood, veins and thorns woven around each other and feeding each other until sap flows through flesh and blood through wood? Can you freeze it all in place, winter above and below, and within? Can you hold the door against the first parents, the gods themselves, against their fire and feeling? Can you freeze the lock even in dreams, all the dreams of all the world?
Of course, you cannot.
But I can. Do not think I do not know what is needed to bar that door. I’ve sacrificed Antigone’s children. I’ll sacrifice Amandine’s. And when all is night and cold, and yet more darkness and yet more snow is needed, I’ll sacrifice my children to lock that door forever.
I therefore put it to you: you have one chance, and one choice. Choose the Rose of Winter.
Leaf Litter 