Chapter 765

The kettle whistled, a shrill cry that cut through the quiet of Mary's cottage. She sighed, a sound as familiar as the ticking grandfather clock in the hall.

Fifty-five years, and the rhythm of her days in County Clare remained largely unchanged: wake, tend the peat fire, strong tea, and then whatever small task the day offered.

Today it was mending the fence where young Nolan's sheep had decided to test its boundaries.

Sunlight, fractured by the leaded glass of her kitchen window, cast dancing shapes on the worn wooden table.

Mary reached for a chipped mug, the one with the bluebells painted on its side, a gift from her departed mother.

The news crackled from the small radio on the windowsill, a constant murmur of the world beyond her fields. "...unexplained occurrences…across the country…reports of…unusual weather patterns…"

The presenter's voice was clipped, professional, but beneath it Mary sensed a tremor she hadn't heard before.

She poured the boiling water, the steam carrying the scent of Earl Grey and something else, something faint, almost floral, that shouldn't have been there.

Mary dismissed it, blaming it on the blooming honeysuckle outside. Ireland in late spring was always a riot of scents. But this… this was different. Sharper. Unnerving.

The sheep were skittish that morning. Usually, they'd cluster at the gate, bleating for attention, maybe a scratch behind the ears.

Today, they scattered as she approached, their woolly backs turned, eyes wide and watchful, fixed on the ancient hawthorn tree that marked the corner of her land.

Hawthorns were always said to be…fey. Mary shook her head at the thought. Old wives' tales. Superstition. She had no time for such nonsense.

"Alright now, you woolly eejits," she muttered, the familiar sound of her voice grounding her.

She started along the fence line, hammer in hand, replacing loose wires, securing posts that had rotted in the damp Irish soil.

The air was still, unusually so. No breeze rustled the leaves of the ash trees, no birdsong filled the silence, just the distant, muted sound of the radio still murmuring from her kitchen.

By midday, the fence was mended. Sweat beaded on her brow despite the cool air. She straightened, stretching her back, and looked towards the hawthorn.

It seemed…larger. Or perhaps it was just the stillness playing tricks on her eyes.

The blossoms were out, thick and white, almost luminous in the subdued light. And the scent, that strange floral scent from her tea, was stronger here, clinging to the air like morning mist.

Back in the cottage, the radio was still on, the news cycle now focused on Dublin. "...government officials…denied…state of emergency…urging calm…isolated incidents…no cause for alarm…"

Mary frowned. They were saying much but revealing nothing. The tremor in the presenter's voice was more pronounced now, edged with something close to panic.

She made herself a sandwich, thick slices of soda bread and strong cheddar, but her appetite was gone. The floral scent had followed her inside, faint but persistent.

It was in the air, in the fabric of her clothes, in the very wood of her cottage. She opened the window, letting in the cooler outside air, hoping to clear it, but it was no use.

That evening, as dusk began to paint the sky in shades of purple and grey, the sheep started bleating. Not their usual hungry bleating, but a high-pitched, frantic sound that set Mary's teeth on edge.

She went out to check on them, torch in hand, the beam cutting through the gathering gloom.

The field was deserted. No sheep. The gate was still securely latched. No sign of a break in the fence. They'd just…vanished.

Mary felt a chill crawl up her spine, colder than the evening air. This wasn't right. Sheep didn't just disappear.

Walking back to the cottage, she noticed it. A light. Not from her window, not from a neighbor's house, but a soft, green glow emanating from the hawthorn tree.

It pulsed gently, like a heartbeat, bathing the surrounding field in an eerie luminescence. The floral scent was overpowering now, sweet and sickly, making her head spin.

Drawn by a curiosity she couldn't quite name, Mary approached the tree. As she got closer, the glow intensified, revealing details she hadn't noticed before.

The blossoms weren't just white; they shimmered with an iridescent sheen, tiny points of light dancing within each petal.

And the branches… they seemed to twist and writhe, almost imperceptibly, like living things.

A voice, soft as the rustle of leaves, whispered in her ear. Not from outside, but from inside her own head. Welcome.

Mary stumbled back, heart hammering against her ribs. She whirled around, searching for the source of the voice, but there was no one there.

Only the glowing hawthorn, pulsating with its strange green light. We have been waiting. The voice again, clearer this time, laced with a melody that both soothed and terrified.

She ran. Ran back to the cottage, slammed the door shut, bolted it, and then leaned against it, gasping for breath.

The voice followed her, a constant whisper in her mind. Do not be afraid. We are home.

The radio, still chattering in the kitchen, was now just static. No news, no music, just a hiss of white noise. Mary switched it off, the silence amplifying the whispering voice, the insistent, sweet scent that filled every corner of the cottage.

Days blurred into nights. Outside, the green glow from the hawthorn intensified, spreading outwards, engulfing the fields, the trees, the entire valley.

More disappearances. First, livestock, then pets, then…people. Whispers turned to shouts, then to screams, before fading into an unnatural silence.

Mary stayed inside, barricaded in her cottage, the peat fire her only companion.

She rationed her food, listened to the incessant whispering, watched as the world outside transformed.

The green glow was everywhere now, a perpetual twilight, casting long, distorted shadows. The scent was so strong it was almost a physical presence, coating her tongue, filling her lungs.

One morning, or what she guessed was morning in this perpetual twilight, she woke to find the door open. She hadn't unbolted it. She was sure of it.

Standing in the doorway was…a figure. Tall and slender, cloaked in woven leaves and blossoms, face hidden by a crown of thorns interwoven with glowing hawthorn flowers.

The scent emanating from it was intoxicating, overwhelming.

"You are expected," the figure said, voice like wind chimes in a summer breeze, yet carrying a weight of ancient power. It stepped aside, gesturing for her to follow.

Mary knew, somehow, that resistance was pointless. This was inevitable. This was…the Faery King. Returned.

She stepped out of her cottage, into the green-tinged twilight, and followed him.

The valley was transformed. No longer the familiar patchwork of fields and farms, but a woodland realm, ancient trees towering towards a sky obscured by shimmering green mist.

Faery folk moved through the trees, lithe and beautiful, with eyes that glowed with an inner light. They were welcoming her, smiling, beckoning her deeper into their realm.

They led her to a clearing dominated by the hawthorn, now impossibly large, its branches reaching up like gnarled fingers, blossoms showering the ground like fallen stars.

At the base of the tree sat a throne carved from living wood, and upon it sat another figure, more imposing than the first, radiating power and ancient majesty. This was him. The Faery King.

He smiled, a slow, captivating smile that promised both wonder and terror. "Welcome, mortal," he said, his voice resonating through the clearing. "You are one of the first. Many more will follow."

Mary found her voice, though it was thin and reedy. "Follow? Follow where?"

He chuckled, a sound like rustling leaves. "Into our kingdom, of course. This land is ours once more. And you… you will be our subjects."

He gestured around at the transformed valley. "Look around you, mortal. Is it not beautiful?"

It was beautiful, in a terrifying, otherworldly way. But it wasn't home. "What…what about my home?" Mary asked, her voice trembling. "My cottage?"

The Faery King's smile faltered, just for a moment, replaced by something colder, harder. "Your home is here now. All of Ireland is our home. And you are part of it."

He snapped his fingers, and one of the faery folk approached, bearing a goblet crafted from a hollowed-out acorn, filled with a shimmering green liquid. "Drink," the King commanded. "And become one of us."

Mary hesitated. She knew, instinctively, that this was a point of no return. To drink would be to surrender herself, to become part of this faery realm, to lose herself completely.

But what choice did she have? Resistance was impossible. Hope was gone.

She took the goblet, the acorn cool and smooth in her hand. The scent of the liquid was intoxicating, promise and peril mingled in its aroma.

She raised it to her lips, her gaze fixed on the Faery King, his eyes like chips of emerald ice, watching her, waiting.

Just as she was about to drink, a sound pierced the eerie silence. A familiar sound. The shrill whistle of a kettle.

Not real, not here in this faery realm, but…a memory. A memory of her kitchen, the chipped mug, the smell of Earl Grey, the crackle of the radio… a memory of home.

Tears welled in Mary's eyes. Not tears of fear, but of grief. Grief for what was lost, for what could never be again.

For the life she had known, the simple rhythms of her days in County Clare, the familiar comfort of her cottage, the bleating of her sheep… all gone. Taken.

With a trembling hand, she lowered the goblet. "No," she whispered, the sound barely audible, but firm, resolute. "No, I won't."

The Faery King's smile vanished completely. His eyes narrowed, the emerald ice turning to glacial frost.

"You…defy me?" His voice, once melodic, now resonated with a terrifying power, the air around him crackling with unseen energy.

Mary stood her ground, despite her trembling legs, despite the fear that clawed at her throat. "It's not my home," she said, her voice stronger now, fueled by a sudden surge of defiance. "This…this beautiful terror…it's not mine."

Rage contorted the Faery King's face. He raised a hand, and the faery folk around them tensed, their glowing eyes fixed on Mary.

She knew what was coming. She knew this was the end. But she didn't care. She had made her choice. She would not surrender. She would not become one of them.

She would die as herself, as Mary from County Clare, remembering the taste of strong tea, the warmth of the peat fire, the simple beauty of her lost home.

The Faery King spoke, his voice a low, sibilant whisper that carried more menace than any shout. "Then you will be alone," he said. "Forever alone, in a world that is no longer yours."

He gestured again, and the faery folk moved. Not to harm her, not to kill her, but to…step aside.

To leave her standing alone in the clearing, as the green glow intensified, as the faery realm solidified around her, and as the last vestiges of the old world faded away, leaving her utterly, heartbreakingly, and uniquely alone.

The world was transformed, and she was left behind, a ghost in her own life, in a kingdom not meant for her, forever an outsider in her own land.

The scent of hawthorn blossoms was the only constant, a perpetual reminder of what she had lost, and what she had refused.