The Faeries' Harp
The harp sits in the middle of the river on a smooth, flat rock island, impervious to the melodious rapids around it. Shining gold and formed in fantastical designs, the frame tells the stories of the fae folk, while its strings shimmer invitingly, begging the onlooker to pluck them. Mist rises from the water, sparkling a thousand colors in the pink-tinted sunlight. Around the river is a forest, alive with birdsong and lilting, ethereal voices.
“Saoirse…. Saoirse….” they call, among other words in a tongue unfamiliar.
The same dream, every night for as long as Saoirse can remember. If only she could leave her father’s house to search for it.
“She flew directly into the face of the eternal enemy of the fae, but she can’t bear to face a party?” Elowen remarks, more surprised than anything else.
“She lived in a noble household in the mortal realm,” Rhys explains, “and she hated it.”
“The Duke and Duchess of Chrysanthemum aren’t the only ones here who would use her, or an……