Conversations with Fyora

     Kat, stop writing Terask stories and passing them off as Fyora stories. Sweet Fyora, you're incorrigible.

      ”Do you see all this? Faerie Palace, Faerie City, all of Faerieland…now, it is all mine!”

     The giant red Draik gestured with large, formidable claws toward the single window in the pink and violet tower, his fangs spread in a triumphant, twisted grin. He threw back his head and laughed. The sound boomed throughout the tower room.

     “You thought you could stop me. You told me fear was not everything. Now look at you, Fyora! Look how far you and your armies have fallen!”

     Terask got no response, but that did not deter him as he paced the tower – well, as best he could, considering that his bulk took up so much space. He breathed in and out, plumes of smoke rising to the ceiling.

     “Everyone thought you wise, beyond even your years. Bah! Has your belief in trust and kindness made you senile in your advanced age, or have you simply been naïve all this time?” Terask sneered as he circled his captive audience. “Well? Perhaps if you hadn’t been so nice, you wouldn’t be here, trapped in your own tower, trapped under a spell older than you!”

     Fyora stood in the middle of the tower, unmoving, like another statue adorning Faerie Palace. Though she remained silent, the look in her eyes was defiant, and as Terask circled her and the sunlight streaming in from the window was reflected upon her face, the resulting glint in her gaze was enough to make the Draik pause and stare at her. A nagging voice in the back of his mind wondered about the state of the Faerie Queen – would she be completely unconscious under the arcane immobilization spell, or would she still be able to hear him? See him?

     But Fyora remained motionless, and when Terask started pacing again, the glint in her eyes was gone, and he knew with certainty that she would not be able to move – not until he himself was defeated.

     He laughed again, the only noise echoing all around him. It was almost comforting and reassuring, in a way, even though his laugh was the stuff of any Neopian’s nightmares.

     “That’s right. You’re trapped! Trapped here, while I rule Faerieland the way it was meant to be ruled! Yesterday, I was Professor Terask; today, I am King Terask!”

     * * *

     “So, the Resistance is moving,” Terask began. “Already they’ve entered Faerie City. But the Faerie Thief and her friends will make sure they won’t take Faerie Palace.” He rubbed his claws together gleefully, producing a loud, scraping noise. “Just how far will your loyal lieutenants go? So many of them have fallen or have been taken prisoner…much like you. Others have even defected to me, after seeing the justice and might I offer as king!”

     Again, Fyora said nothing, bound up in the spell.

     “I have taken everything from you,” he hissed, leaning down gingerly to glare at her. “Now, I am also taking your followers – the Faerielanders you love so much. It’s only a matter of time before we destroy the Resistance…and the…” His voice trailed off, and he clutched his chest. “No. Prophecies are never set in stone. I have done everything to delay and derail the Wingshadow Prophecy! I made a mistake once, but never again – that prophecy will never come true!”

     Terask did not realize how deafening his shout was until he heard a knock on the tower door and a faerie’s even tone, unaffected by the sound of the Draik’s voice.

     “Who are you talking to, King Terask?”

     His golden eyes flicked briefly toward Fyora. “No one. What is it, Kiela? Come in!”

     A dark faerie with hair that fell to her shoulders entered the tower room, sparing only the most fleeting glance at the immobilized Fyora before facing her liege with a furrowed brow and the light of urgency and annoyance in her eyes.

     “Our scouts from the north have brought back a message,” she answered. “I hope I am not interrupting anything because this is important.”

     “You are interrupting nothing. Give me the message.”

     Kiela took a deep breath and said, “The one foretold by the Wingshadow Prophecy has been spotted in northern Faerieland with his friends.”

     “What?!”

     With that word, Terask breathed out a crackling plume of fire that licked up the ceiling and singed the rafters. Ash and debris crumbled to the floor.

     “We have dispatched Squadrons Seventy and Seventy-One to deal with them, so they never reach the Northern Watchtower,” Kiela went on. “The Resistance may have broken into Faerie City, but four adventurers? It doesn’t matter if one of them was in our visions, they will be beset on every side.”

     The Draik opened and closed his mouth. He looked over at Fyora, a silent spectator in their conversation.

     “Are you sure Squadrons Seventy and Seventy-One are sufficient to keep them from advancing?” he asked, that last word tinged with a note of worry.

     “Are you worried about four simple adventurers with no war experience?” Kiela asked, tilting her head to one side as though trying to understand a petulant student.

     “Four simple adventurers who have somehow lived through Ramtor’s invasion of Meridell, the disappearance of the Snowager, the storms of the Lost Desert, and the mysterious sunshine in the Haunted Woods,” Terask replied through gritted teeth. “Prophecy or no prophecy, they must be stopped at all costs. Send two more squadrons! We take no chances!”

     Raising his arm, he angrily flicked it and blasted a second window into the tower wall in a shower of multicoloured sparks, the jet of light arcing over Fyora’s shoulder. If Kiela was shocked or appalled at this display, she showed it only through raised eyebrows.

     “Very well, we will send a dispatch to Squadrons Seventy-Two and Seventy-Three. I shall take my leave.”

     Without another word, Kiela turned on her heel primly and left Terask alone with Fyora. He in turn looked at the immobile queen and scowled, meeting her eyes.

     “No prophecy will save you from me, my queen,” he said smoothly. “No one will. My plan is perfect. Faerieland shall be ruled the way it was meant to be ruled – with an iron claw and with true justice. As I’ve said, the Wingshadow Prophecy will never come true. I will make sure of it.”

     * * *

     Terask burst into the tower room, breathing hard. Twin swirls of smoke issued from his nostrils, and heat radiated from his mouth. Though he slammed the door with enough force to create a shower of plaster and tiles and left cracks as he stomped all over the floor, Fyora remained unperturbed, unmoved in the same spot since the day she was locked away.

     “Are you going to gloat? Tell me I was wrong? Lecture me like you used to when I was merely Professor Terask in your little council?” he snarled, gesturing as though he was about to pick up the Faerie Queen and crush her in his grasp. Yet he did not touch her, and he even withdrew from her, shrinking back against the scorched, scratched walls. “Consider yourself lucky that I have shown you the mercy you prized above all else! That doesn’t mean you’ve won, not by a long shot! I’m still king!”

     With unnecessary flourish he pointed to Fyora. “And you…you are still nothing but a statue in your own palace! No one has come to save you, all this time! No one will. Not even…not even the warrior of the prophecy leading his little friends on a pitiful rescue mission.” Clenching his fists, the red Draik puffed his huge chest as though he could look or even feel bigger. Stronger. Invincible. “I will crush them. Those travellers from other worlds, your Resistance…everything you’ve worked for, until all that is left is firmly under my throne! What do you think about that?”

     Needless to say, Fyora did not tell him what she thought about that. It should have been an expected response, but Terask growled, fire continuing to rise from deep within his throat.

     “Why am I even asking you? It doesn’t matter what you think when you can’t even move an inch or defend your own home!”

     * * *

     “This time, I truly will crush them.”

     Now that he was bigger and had two more arms, Terask just barely fit into the place where Fyora was still being held. Even though he was already crouching to glare down at her, his head still brushed the ceiling and the broken, scorched rafters above. With a swipe of his right arms, he obliterated the spiral staircase that led up to the tower’s second landing, turning it into a pile of rubble and refuse.

     “They were lucky. But I am still king. I still hold Faerieland. I’ve worked so hard to become king, to control all my subjects…” His frenzied expression was reflected in Fyora’s unchanging stare, too small now for him to notice, to see, or to even care. “Now, the Wingshadows’ blessing is mine!” Spreading all his arms, he cackled – a terrible, grating noise that just concealed a note of desperation and fear. “They think I am no more, Fyora! Your allies celebrate what they think is their victory, when in truth, it will be mine in the end! Do you hear me, you pathetic little queen? They can try as many times as they like, but I, King Terask, will always prevail! That’s because my subjects fear me and see the power I hold, see the armies I command, see my wisdom and knowledge and magic…I was born to rule!”

     He received no answer. The sunlight streaming into the tower through the window and the hole he had blasted through the wall made him imagine that Fyora’s eyes were twinkling – no, shining with a harsh glint. The same look she had whenever she admonished him.

     “Don’t look at me like that! You know I’m right!” he howled. “Faerieland is still mine, my armies, Faerie Palace…” The Draik gnashed his teeth. “The Wingshadows’ blessing to thwart the Wingshadows’ prophecy, how ironic! These faeries are working with me to ensure that it is proven wrong! But really, only I can make this possible…!”

     Pausing to catch his breath, he heard voices behind his door.

     “…King Terask…”

     “Who is he…”

     “…only Fyora…”

     Whipping around to fling open his door was easier said than done, now that there was even less room to move around in this tower’s landing without bumping into anything, which included Fyora. Nevertheless, he managed to find Kiela and a blue Lupe in a black hooded cloak on his doorstep.

     “What?” he roared, throwing that word like a challenge.

     “I am here to report on the progress of the four adventurers making their way here to save the queen,” the Lupe said, after clearing his throat and straightening up. “They are aided by the Resistance on every side.”

     “There isn’t much time,” Kiela added. “Soon they’ll find out that you are still alive, my lord.”

     Terask hissed. “Let them find out! Let them walk toward their destruction! Let Fyora see what King Terask is truly capable of!” He raised his claws in the air and laughed, a rumble that shook his tower like many bass speakers from a huge Tyrannian concert, never mind that a certain team of adventurers might be able to pick up on the vibrations from this side of the palace.

     The Lupe squinted at the immobilized form of Fyora still adorning Terask’s tower room. “Er…your Majesty, the queen is still…”

     “Would she even still be conscious?” Kiela wondered.

     With a gasp, the red Draik suddenly backed away, colliding with the tower wall and causing a shower of debris. Cracks fanned out from the point of impact.

     “Milord, what is it?” the Lupe asked. After a split second of hesitation, he hurried over to Terask’s side, brandishing his staff.

     Though Terask was unhurt, he leaned against the wall, staring wildly at Fyora.

     There was that adamant look again, her last expression of resistance before she was frozen. Mentally he told himself that Fyora could not talk or even move, she could not hurt him, she could do nothing to free herself from her arcane prison…

     “Your Majesty?”

     He didn’t even hear Kiela call him. The tower room suddenly felt smaller and smaller. The queen’s eyes were alight like gemstones polished to a quick shine to catch the sun. Within them, Terask could almost see himself shrinking back, as though someone had doused him with ice-cold water and was about to do it again. His chest heaved as he breathed in and out, transfixed by Fyora’s unchanging face. It was as if, despite being unable to speak, she was sending him a silent message.

     A message that pierced through his scales and claws, cutting deep into his heart like no words could.