Fyora's Biggest Fan

     As far as Fyora Days go, it was a beautiful one. June sunshine played over Faerieland’s verdant fields and cast the distant pink castles in hazy yellow light. The streets were busy, even here, outside the City. Groups of pets picnicked in the grass, their blankets topped with smorgasbords of pink cupcakes, sparkly sandwiches, Fyora Day fizz. The line for the Wheel of Excitement stretched all the way to the Healing Springs. Everyone seemed to be in a good mood.

     Stella walked towards Faerie City, swishing her long dress, thinking idly of Queen Fyora, what Stella would say to her if given the chance. The Faerie Queen just… did something to Stella. Stella loved the Queen’s lilac hair and eyes, the way she held her face, an expression Stella had tried to replicate in the mirror many times. More than that, Stella loved that Fyora was strong, commanding, and graceful. A far cry from nervous Stella, who stuttered when she spoke, and tripped over stones. Stella disliked these things about herself and thought that spending even a moment in the Queen’s presence might be enough to cure her, to transform her into someone new. Fyora would know what to do; she always did.

     Faerie City was heaving and Stella was overwhelmed. The cobbled streets overflowed with hundreds of revelers. They donned Fyora hats, Fyora shirts, replica Fyora wings, Fyora masks. The shops sold all imaginable variants of Fyora merchandise: stamps, hairbrushes, stickers, yoyos. Pink Fyora bunting, strung between the streetlamps, fluttered in the warm summer breeze.

      “Excuse me,” timid Stella muttered as she weaved through the heaving crowd, being jostled this way and that. “Excuse me, pardon me, does anyone know if Queen Fyora, um, does anyone –”

     Suddenly Stella felt a little silly, frustrated by her own naivete. How did she ever expect to meet Fyora in all of this? It wasn’t like Stella was just going to bump into her. If she was even there… after all, it had only been a rumour…

     A promising sight: between the book and furniture shops sat an information desk, staffed by a Chia wearing a pink plastic replica tiara, a t-shirt featuring Fyora’s enormous visage, and a grumpy, impatient look.

     ”Hi there!” Stella said cheerily, struggling to be heard above the sudden clapping of cymbals from behind her and the low roar of the crowd. “I – sorry, I’ll try and be fast, but I, um –”

     ”Come on then, what is it?”

     Stella adjusted her hennin, self-conscious. “Sorry, I was, um – do you know if the Faerie Queen will be making an appearance today? I’d just, I’d love to meet her – I’d really like to get her advice about –”

     ”What do I look like? Her secretary?”

     Stella blinked. “Um, no. Isn’t this an information desk?”

     ”No! It’s the commemorative Fyora whistle desk. Now here, have a commemorative Fyora whistle and beat it,” the Chia said, handing Stella a little morsel from his pocket. “Good luck with all your questions.”

     Stella marched on, tooting dejectedly into her commemorative Fyora whistle. What a joke.

     Before Stella had time to consider what to do next, a marching band parted the crowd. A Cybunny smashed a pair of cymbals together. A line of trumpet-wielding Elephantes played a royal-sounding tune. Stella stood on tiptoes to try and get a look: Fyora? No sign of her.

     As the crowd jostled her around, Stella was struck by a strange thought, a thought so clear and urgent that the hectic world around her seemed to slow down, and the sounds of the parade faded to a dull hum: this was all a bit much for one person, wasn’t it?

     Look, no doubt Fyora was uniquely beautiful, and uniquely powerful. But all this fanfare! Fyora masks, Fyora cupcakes, Fyora dolls and pens and caps, collectible charms, bobbleheads, cookies, cupcakes, bento boxes! The Queen’s face was replicated with such intensity that Stella ceased being able to process it, like when you hear a word so many times that it stops sounding like a word.

     Fyora was still a person (an… immortal-ish…faerie… person), just like all the rest of them, wasn’t she? Stella thought of her Fyora shrine at home and felt a little embarrassed. Everyone loved Fyora, and clearly, she represented something different to everyone. Could Fyora really help Stella the way she’d hoped? Maybe this whole thing had been a mistake.

     The revelation ended and the world returned to Stella, somehow even louder and brighter than it had been before. The deafening scream of the trumpets, the hot sun on her face, this strange, new thought picking at her mind… Stella’s dress itched. Her brow dampened with sweat. She needed a moment alone.

     Stella dipped out of the crowd and made her way through the cobblestone square. There she found a half-free bench, occupied by . . . someone, wearing a hooded coat, a large pair of sunglasses and replica Fyora wings. “Do you mind if I sit here?” Stella asked the stranger.

     ”Please” the stranger said, and made room.

     Stella sat in a heap and let her face fall into her hands.

      “That’s a lovely dress,” the stranger said.

     Stella startled, then blushed and dusted off her skirt. “Thanks.”

      “Are you enjoying the festivities?”

     Normally Stella would have said yes, to keep the peace. Stella knew it was the answer people wanted when they asked such questions. That’s how it worked: if someone asked how are you, you said fine, no matter how you actually were. But this time Stella, for whatever reason, felt moved to honesty. ‘Ah… not… really.’

     ‘Oh?’

      “Here’s the thing. I’m a huge Queen Fyora fan. I idolize her, a lot. I came to the festival because I wanted to meet her. And now I’m feeling silly because that’s not very realistic. But also, I think I feel silly for idolizing her in the first place. It’s great that the festival brings everyone together, but – she’s just a faerie, you know! Sorry, I don’t mean just a faerie, she’s literally the Queen. But that doesn’t mean she’s perfect. I thought that if I met her, she’d teach me how to be more like her, and it would solve my problems, but now I think that’s an unfair unexpectation… Sorry. I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.”

     Stella’s confession sat between them. The stranger shifted. Stella worried that she said something offensive and thought she should apologize again, but before she could, the stranger said, with a cool, confident tone, “Yes. Idolatry is a pesky thing.”

     Stella tilted her head and turned to look at the stranger closely. Odd to wear a long, hooded coat on such a beautiful day.

      “Now that you can see through the illusion,” the stranger continued, “I think you’re on your way to becoming what you want to be. A festival well spent, as far as I’m concerned.”

     Now Stella noticed the stranger’s artificially shiny white hair: a wig. And those wings, translucent, etched with delicate pink veins… were they real?

     All the noise of the bustling City became a drop of water in a pond. It was only the two of them, together, on this bench. Stella’s heart thudded in her chest. “You’re…”

     The stranger lowered her sunglasses. Violet eyes. “You’re doing great,” Fyora whispered with a mischievous lilt, and winked. “You didn’t need me at all. You see? Good luck. Now, excuse me: I have a festival to attend.”

     Stella, incapable of speech, watched the Faerie Queen rise from the bench and disappear into the crowd.

     Fine… Maybe she was perfect…

     The End.