You never really believe your mother will die. But when I woke, and saw a small, spinning bit of matter, no bigger than a human’s cerebellum, floating in the air in front of me, I could feel it. My mother, the great fae Yonya, was dead. The insignificant nub of essence and flesh before me would eventually, painfully, grow back into her full self, but, for now, she was gone.
I screamed and thrashed at the Interstitial manifestations around me, but of course I could not affect them. I created chimeral adornments in her honour, vast ephemeral statues, with intricate moving parts, in her image, and dreamlike animated paintings on the walls of the surfaces of Ottawa. My faeries, always close, waiting for orders, tried to stay out of my way, lest they become victims of my bereavement.
I called a faerie to my side.
“Yes, my lady Eventua.” He bowed.
“I want to talk to all of my faeries; we will have revenge for my mother’s death.”
My mind was ablaze, ruminating on plans to remake Ottawa with the vision of my aesthetic.
Mother, this will be for you.
