There's actually no trigger warning this time. 

For once, haha--

Enjoy! 

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

Elora drifts back to reality with a dull ache in her chest. Even after all these years, she believes that inside Master Azalea, some part of him still holds that man who cried in her arms. She hopes that he hasn't died yet. That someday he'd come back, emerging beyond rare occasions of remorse. If not for her sake, then for his own.

Just then, a sound perks up her pointed ears. Newfound chills scatter across her skin and a shiver jolts up her spine.

Music.

The one and only thing to ever be banned throughout Edelweiss, for Master Azalea loathes it with all his heart. Or whatever's left of one, at least. Anyone who dares to even hum while working away in their magical mines was eligible for execution.

For music will bring forth a swift end in Azalea's land.

At first, it's a sweet, soft song that shocks Elora's system, composed entirely of a warm whistle that leads the way. Low and velvety notes slither past the tangled thoughts in her head. Dancing with doubts, swaying with suspicions. A steady rhythm resonates, conjuring up a numbing calm.

She's captured by this melody's intrusion. Because frankly, she's tired of thinking... of pretty much everything...

White noise emerges from the rise and fall of the guiding whistles. Tidal waves of crackling static drown out the commotion that stirs beyond. The shadows of the royal guards shrink one by one—out of sight, out of mind.

Then, a voice adds onto the enchantment.

A woman.

Her sultry tune starts after the wisp of the last whistle.

Come now, faerie

Let me carry

You away from your cage

Come now, faerie

Forget being canny

Let us flip to the same page

An alluring element uplifts her alto beats, fueling the spell that clouds Elora's consciousness. A rose-colored haze filters her vision as she floats aloft. Even her wings flap with an extra flutter as she finds herself swaying to and fro. However, as she peers at the aforementioned singer across from her, catching onto her hooded cloak and gloved hands, she can't help noticing her eyes too.

Those eyes...

A tempest brews behind them, blue and gray swirling in tandem. The calm before the storm, the sane before the silver... Could it be?

They remind her of Master Azalea.

Not the one who's set her skin aflame, placing her in the face of fiery flames and electrical outrage. No, they can never remind her of Him.

But the other one...

The mystery woman strikes a chord of familiarity, flashing Elora with a vision of the past—of the Master Azalea who had cried for her. Who had shed a light of sympathy and begged for mercy on her behalf, even if it meant plunging deeper into the madness that He would orchestrate.

And just like that, clarity wipes the incantation away. The fog lifts, free and easy from her brain. A gap of silence lingers in its wake. Maybe it had always been possible to erase in the first place, had it not felt so pleasant to simply give into.

Realization dawns on the hooded woman as she stills, stiffening.

"So it's true." Her tone takes a sharp turn as she pulls back her hood, revealing her scarred face. The raspy edge of her voice shifts into something colder. Darker. "They say you can't be charmed. That you're immune to it."

Elora reels back, expanding on the distance between them. "I, um..."

Her heart rate kicks up. She's never had to fight before. Not like this. Not with anyone that wasn't Master Azalea, whom she's always lost to anyways.

"What..." Elora's tongue is heavy, laden with a wary weight. "What are you?"

"What am I?" Her mystery woman scowls at that, clearly offended. "The real question should be what are you? Everyone knows of elves and pixies, but no one knows what you really are: an unnatural cross between the two. Something that was never meant to be."

A mistake.

What else is Elora supposed to say to that? And where are the guards when she actually needs them?

Eloquence leaves her as fast as her wings once they spur to action, blurry with speed. Before she can fly any further, another sound halts her path, pulling her back down to her roots.

Another incantation is on the rise as she falls—a stronger one this time, the magic of it all so crippling that it consumes her mind in a snappy bite. It's not a command, not like what Master Azalea would do.

Instead, there's a whisper.

Look at you, faerie

Scared of your fate

No wonder you're

So easy to hate

The whispers infiltrate with a raspy edge.

Look at you, faerie

What a freak

I didn't think you'd

Be this weak

They increase in frequency now, duplicating in mass. Static resumes and grows. Jagged sound waves spike high, high, high.

You, a princess?

More like pathetic

You, a diamond?

Enough with the lying

Elora's skull pounds and pulses, thumping to the whirlwind of insults. The world spins on its axis.

They say you're their treasure

But you'll never measure

Up to their insatiable pleasure

How long will you perform?

How long will you conform?

How long until you're forlorn?

Shrill rings pierce her headspace next, picking up the pain level. Her eyes scrunch close and her hands clamp down over her wilted ears, but to no avail.

Look at you, faerie

Better off sobbing

Better off groveling

Better off rotting

She can't escape. They're too relentless, their pain too incessant.

Look at you, faerie

You'll never be a fit

In our realm of wonder

So stand down, half-wit

For I am your hunter

The last sentence cycles in a scratchy loop, like a malfunctioning record on the loose. Purple energy radiates from where Elora's headache festers as she slams her face into the grass.

Pebbles vibrate. Petals shake. The ground beneath them undergoes a rumble and quake; meanwhile, the air around them trembles. Glass panels groan and their silver cell bars creak in protest.

A scream rips past Elora's gritted teeth—a bloodcurdling force that grates her throat.

Suddenly, the earth shatters, splintering into hard-packed fragments beneath the faerie's body. A huge dent transpires from down under as she sinks to a new low.

Earlier, she had been curled up in a fetal position, the purple energy that swarmed her head buzzing brighter than ever. Only for the impact to push her, prompting her eyes to fight back with a rebellious pink glow.

Thunder damage rolls off Elora's shoulders like an avalanche, dispelling the purple invasion entirely. A grunt is torn from her mystery woman while she braces herself from the harsh wind that follows. Both of her arms are quick to shield her face, right before she's shoved up the trunk of a nearby citrus tree.

The whispers cease. Flowers freeze and oranges tumble. All is still. And Elora quickly realizes that there's no other choice. If she wants to keep her peace, then...

Magic versus magic it is.