Mortals tell tales of the evergreen Grim Woods, of flowers that bloom in the midst of winter and warm ponds in the dead of snowy nights. But those tales are weaved by those looking at the surface. They peer into the woods or are set free from a bored fae's grasp and speak of the sliver of the forest their dull eyes see, minds too feeble to comprehend. Just as the kings of their world assume the Grim Woods are only what they see on their maps. Ignorant creatures, aren't they?

The Grim Woods are so much more.

Wren approaches a tree tickling the sky. Its roots are thicker than a house, distorted and ancient. The leaves shimmer silver beneath the sun, a stark contrast against black bark. A path leads through the center of the tree that's shaped to cover it. The closer one gets, the colder it becomes. Snowflakes flutter in the breeze, then melt on the path, creating small puddles that freeze beneath Wren's steps.

He follows the long path beneath the tree, grinning at the blinding white light at the end of the tunnel. When he breaches, summer is left far behind. Winter is here. Snow crunches beneath his feet. Mountain peaks sharper than the finest sword disappear in pearlescent skies. Glaciers shimmering blue breach the surface, pointed, crooked and towering above. Thin white trees stand tall, stretching across glittering hills. Ice and pale leaves from white to silver to blue decorate their branches.

Wren holds out his arms. The trees lean towards him, welcoming their prince. Their leaves brush his fingertips and the sky darkens as snow falls.

"I've returned," he calls to the wind, the snow, the ice, and everything cold. This power is not like what he felt in summer, for this is his domain. Everything is his to command, and he does so with a flourish of his hand, sending a wall of ice through the trees that arcs into the sky.

Wren giggles like a child with a new toy. He slides across the snow faster and faster, callous towards any fae unlucky enough to be in his path. One or two may have gotten a little maimed, but he certainly didn't care. Especially not when his castle comes into view, a fierce wonder of ice and stone perched between two mountains. From a distance, the sun reflects off it like a star. Up close, it's a weapon of sharp peaks threatening to impale any that grow near. In a burst of wind, Wren ascends, marveling at the tiered stone floors brandished with snow and ice. He drops on a veranda overlooking his lands.

"Your Highness, what a surprise to see you," an all too familiar voice remarks, sounding bored.

"Not going to welcome me back?" Wren asks, facing neither friend nor foe; Dust Everglow.

Dust looms over most, long-limbed and thin. Pale violet hair rests on his shoulder, braided and reaching his hip. He steps forward. Gray eyes crinkle from a polite smile. "Why would I do that? I've rather enjoyed your time away. There has been more fun than trouble."

"One cannot have fun without courting trouble."

"And yet here I am." Dust holds out his hands. "Never having reaped repercussions such as yours."

"Because you lack creativity."

"Or stupidity."

Wren clicks his tongue.

Walking inside, he admires the home he hadn't seen in so long he fears he has forgotten his way. The narrow halls arch to a peak. Stairs spiral to floors below, narrow and steep. Frost goblins and snow nymphs stutter and bow in his presence. One too slow or foolish doesn't and gets a frozen limb or two.

"Should I clear out the castle as you relieve your boredom? While I'm all for heinous fun, I'd rather not search for new rats to clean the halls," Dust declares, following Wren to his bedroom.

"I won't be here long." Wren discards his crown and clothes, tossing them to the floor. "Have those destroyed."

He has no wish to see the garbs he was trapped in.

"You're planning to leave after finally returning?" Dust questions, watching Wren disappear into his closet. The clothes are old, taken care of while he was gone, but possibly out of fashion and prosaic. And if there is one thing the prince isn't, it's prosaic.

"I need new clothes if I'm to visit my family."

Dust huffs. "How strange of you to seek torture for yourself rather than others."

"Are they not also tortured by my presence?" Wren exits the closet wearing a loose white top and fitted pants. Snapping his fingers, the doors open and a goblin limps in. "Fetch me a meal, and have new clothes made for me, something positively garish for the courts... and a little ferocious."

The goblin nods, then disappears. When the doors close, Dust says, "Your presence will be garish and ferocious enough. None suspected to see you--"

"Ever again?" Wren chortles, flopping himself on the sofa. "If they could be rid of me that easily, I would have been gone many years ago."

Dust approaches, leaning against the arm of the sofa. His eyes, gray as quartz, scrutinize the prince from head to toe. In a whisper, he calls for, "How did you wake?"

Smirking, Wren replies, "Wouldn't you like to know?"

Wren would like to know himself, as he hadn't quite put together the reasoning either. It didn't help that he did not know what the spell set upon him was. The only ones who did were his father and the bitch who did it to him. And there wasn't a damn thing he could do to her, unless he wanted to start a war. That was one reason he had to go to court. His father, the High King of Grim, may have answers concerning the curse, and Wren would love to see the expression on everyone's faces when he showed up. It'd be a sight he'd never forget.

"How long have I been gone?" Wren asks.

"A little over four hundred years."

"That's all?" He hums. It felt so much longer.

"Four hundred years without the marvelous me--" Wren smiles deviously at Dust. "How did you survive such dismal times?"

"I shall repeat that times have been far opposite of dismal. The revels have been to die for, and not one of us have been cursed."

"That is why it sounds dismal. How is it fun if your life isn't on the line?"

Dust rolls their eyes. "I'd prefer lives other than my own to be on the line."

"Boring." Wren huffs. "I imagine there have been some... changes since my absence." He taps his fingers against the arm of the sofa. Having slept for so long, his legs wish to run.

"More than you could imagine," Dust replies. "For starters, the Ashen Plains are on the move."

Wren stiffens. He looks out the window, avoiding Dust's perceptive gaze to say, "The Ashen Plains are always on the move, even during our supposed times of peace. The High King will handle Queen Ignit as he always has."

"Except he isn't."

The prince faces Dust, eyebrow raised curiously.

"The High King is doing nothing, claiming Queen Ignit would never dare step into our lands with ill intentions."

Wren throws his head back in hollow laughter. "She has never stepped into our lands without ill intentions. Has time finally caught up to him? Is his brain rotting in his self-important skull?"

Dust shrugs. A knock sounds at the door. Wren snaps his fingers again. The goblin enters, a tray of vegetables and steaming meat in one hand and a silver goblet almost as big as his head swishing with golden wine in the other. Both are set carefully on the table in front of the sofa. Bowing his head, the goblin walks backward to the exit, never lifting his gaze until the door shuts.

"Continue," Wren orders, taking a long gulp of wine he hasn't drunk in, apparently, four hundred years.

"The High King commands we do nothing. War will be called should she break the treaty. The Seasons are..." Dust drops onto the sofa, arms crossed. "Displeased, to say the least."

"Don't be a bore, Dust. We both know displeased could never properly describe how any of them feel."

"Solana nearly burned the throne room to the ground."

With his mouth full of food, Wren barked, "Now that sounds like my sister!" Bouncing in place, he looks at Dust, excitement brimming in his eyes. "How did Aurelia take it?"

"There were too many corpses to count."

Wren pouts. "I missed all the fun." Then he grins. "But I suppose, when they're all so riled up, there's a chance they'll do it again upon seeing me, wouldn't you agree?"

Dust shakes his head, but can't contain his own amusement from gleaming in his eyes. "Yes. I imagine the court will be in an uproar the moment you step into the room."

"You will attend the revel with me, won't you?"

"Certainly not." Dust rises from the sofa, adjusting his robes. "I have my garden to tend to."

"Your garden," Wren huffs. "Why does one so infatuated with flowers live in my domain? Visit Cypress. He's more accommodating to such mediocre hobbies."

"Says the one whose hobby is freezing any unfortunate enough to cross his path."

Wren giggles.

"Besides, Cypress has no taste and is incapable of keeping his nose out of other's gardens. Here, I am free." Dust heads for the door.

"One last question," Wren calls, shifting to face Dust. "Where is Madelia?"

Dust doesn't answer. He observes Wren with an almost disappointed scowl. Then he steps out the door, saying, "Where she always is."

Wren finishes his meal in silence. His cup sits empty, but even after calling for another and another, he doesn't feel up to seeing her just yet. The sun sets. Humming blue lights flicker throughout the castle. A chandelier made of ice illuminates the room, casting a gloomy shadow across Wren's already dark expression.

He can't avoid her forever. He has tried. It never works.

The castle halls are quiet, nothing but a natural breeze keeping the prince company. He ascends to the top floor where music carries louder. Every note a plucked string of an instrument that feels to be beating within Wren's chest. The music emanates from the double doors at the end of the hall, unlocked as they always are. As if she's been waiting... but he knows she hasn't.

Swinging open the doors, Wren looks upon Madelia; his mother. She sits within the octagonal room, illuminated by the moonlight filtering in through the windowed walls. Frozen chandeliers hang from the ceiling, dancing in the wind, reflecting shimmering stars across the floor. She sits at the center of the tiles playing a somber tune on an old silver harp. Long black hair flowers over a pale, thin shoulder, reaching the floor. Her long white dress trimmed with blue glitters in the light, almost forming a halo, but don't be fooled. When she raises her gaze, there's fire within, smoldering rage threatening to melt the castle beneath her feet.

"Madelia," Wren says because he no longer calls her Mother aloud. To utter such a word makes him feel like a child. Like he's powerless.

"You're back," she states. No remorse, no worry, nothing but contempt in her tone.

"Much to your displeasure, I'm sure."

"Of course. These last four centuries have been the best in a long time, too long."

Wren holds his hands behind his back to hide the trembling. He puts on the mask, a show he has given for so long he's no longer sure when the show starts and when it ends.

Smiling, the prince says, "You're more beautiful than ever, although never quite up to par with myself. Don't feel bad, though. No one ever is."

Madelia doesn't react. Her stony stare bites worse than a knife to the back. Wren would know. He's pissed off a few for skimping out before morning.

"Is there a reason you're here?" Madelia asks, returning to playing the harp. The melancholy song has taken a drastic turn to something sinister and haunting.

"This is my castle. That's reason enough to be here."

Madelia continues playing, not uttering another word. Her eyes stay focused on the harp, but remain narrowed.

"You have nothing to say to me?" Wren asks foolishly, as if he expects anything other than what he has always been given.

Madelia doesn't look up when Wren huffs and walks out. The door slams shut behind him, accompanied by a freezing blast of wind that wails through the halls.

It was pointless bothering her. If she cared even a little, she would have visited, but she didn't. No one did... only a stranger, a human that happened to stumble across him.

Wren doesn't understand Artemis' concerns. A mother under a spell to love the son she shunned. What more could he want? If Wren could do the same to his own mother, if he could force her to love him, he'd do it in a heartbeat. He hates himself for that because yearning for love is weakness. He can't afford to be weak.

Wren chokes a laugh, shielding his eyes behind his quivering hand. If one sees the heartache in his eyes, they'd recognize an opening. Sorrow is a mortal emotion, so he waits, breathes slowly, then smiles brightly even if it hurts.

"Well, mother dearest is out of the way," he says, stalking down the hall. "Soon, it will be time to see the rest of the family."

But in truth, the only one Wren wishes to see is his lonely knight; a human who only happened to stumble upon him.

That night, the yearning to see Artemis grows. When Wren lays in bed, finally letting sleep take him, he fears the dark. What he fears more though is falling into an endless sleep in his castle, far away from the only person who would care to visit him. But this sleep is not like the one from the cave because he dreams of his knight and his stories.

Maybe Wren should go see him one last time.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:✧*⋆.*:･ﾟ✧.: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ☾