Don’t go any farther if you haven’t read the first chapter of the story!
Here it is! https://walshmountainpublishing.com/2025/02/23/to-sing-an-elven-song-chapter-one/
Merrilee lifted her head to peer around the neck of the swallow as they approached the capital. This was her first visit to Aurelia, though she had often pored over hand-painted illustrations and listened to her mother’s tales of the hidden elven city with wide-eyed wonder. That there could be such a humongous tree at the heart of a human city’s park––still veiled in ancient enchantments––had always seemed more myth than memory. For centuries, human eyes had been blind to the intricate clusters of homes woven into the tree’s broad, ancient branches, or the grand, living archway that led into the palace nestled deep within its trunk.
Behind her, she could hear Frederick’s mate, Flossie, flapping her long, freckled wings as she bore the precious cargo: trunks of gowns and tokens the people of Eldermeadow Glen had scrambled to sew and gather in her honor—gowns made of spider gossamer, stitched with love and dew-kissed pearls, and humble forest treasures offered in the hopes that even the palace-dwellers, so used to city wonders, might treasure something wild and handmade.
Frederick glided into Aurelia’s Canopy Port at the perfect angle to avoid brushing against the perimeter enchantments, wings untouched by the shimmering veil of magic. As his talons gently gripped the landing platform above what appeared to be an ornate, petal-shaped elevator, Merrilee let out a sigh of relief and loosened her white-knuckled grip on the soft feathers at the base of his neck. Yes, fairies had wings, but ever since the Great Aetherstone had been stolen decades ago––its whereabouts still unknown––magic had waned. For safety, woodland sprites now rarely flew higher than the trees.
Merrilee slid off Frederick’s back, reaching up to stroke his feathered head in gratitude. She turned to Flossie, who had just landed beside him with a rustle of wind and leaf, and patted her beak. “I am ever so grateful that the prince sent the two of you to escort me to the Royal Tourney. May the Divine bless you for your strength and kindness.”
Flossie gently nudged Merrilee’s belly with the soft tip of her beak, then curled up on the warm planks as two male fairies in bronze uniforms secured the elevator and began unfastening the cargo from her back.
Merrilee flushed with a ripple of embarrassment as she caught the faint sneer one of them gave her scuffed, well-worn deerskin satchels. But then she lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. We don’t take from life—we honor it, she reminded herself firmly. By treasuring what nature has given us, we preserve its magic. I have nothing to be ashamed of. And if she were sent home after the first round, well, she would still cherish the experience.
She smiled to herself, already imagining Aleta peppering her with breathless questions when she returned to Eldermeadow Glen, twirling in excitement. For her sister’s sake, she would savor every moment. It was long past time to let go of her sorrow.
The elevator itself was a marvel she could scarcely believe. As it descended, she found her eyes fixed on the panels of carved wood around her––etched with swirling depictions of elven history, inlaid with minute gemstones that winked like starlight. When one of the bronze-clad escorts gave a quiet snort, she realized she’d been staring, wide-eyed.
But Merrilee only tilted her head with curiosity. Let them smirk. I may be a forest girl, but awe is no shame.
When the doors finally opened, what lay beyond made her breath catch in her throat. The palace’s grand foyer shimmered with delicate splendor. A wide staircase, fashioned from polished rosewood and inlaid with gems carved into trailing vines and jeweled blossoms, curved toward a domed ceiling of glass and gold-leaf. From above hung chandeliers shaped like snowflakes and icicles—catching the fading daylight and fracturing it into rainbows. On either side of the room, immense murals celebrated the seasons: one glowing with the warm tones of autumn, the other vibrant with summer’s green riot of life.
Merrilee turned slowly, taking it all in with wonder sparkling in her eyes.
Behind her, the bronze escort hissed under his breath, “You’ll not last a day if you make it so obvious you’re just a country bumpkin.”
Without turning, Merrilee swept into a wider spin and paused deliberately in front of the autumn mural, which depicted a fairy village at the edge of a lake ringed with red-gold trees. “If I’m only here for a day, then I might as well make the most of it,” she replied cheerfully.
Then came a chuckle––low and warm, like rain gently tapping moss. She turned, her jaw dropping in yet another moment of awe, as a princely figure descended the staircase with effortless grace. Broad-shouldered, slender, with dark hair that curled just over the tips of his elven ears, and a jawline sharp enough to make a marble statue envious—he looked more like a dream than a man.
Could this be Prince Sterling?
Nimbly, he descended toward her. “You must be our woodland representative from Eldermeadow Glen,” he said with a quiet smile. “Each contender is welcomed equally, regardless of the airs these two peacocks have decided to put on.” He cast a pointed glance at the bronze escorts, who immediately stiffened.
Merrilee’s heartbeat quickened as she breathed in his scent—fir balsam, crushed pine, and the warm nuttiness of roasted chestnuts. But the flutter she felt was only a shadow of what Ambrosine had stirred in her. Perhaps my heart is cracked beyond mending. How else could she stand before such a fairy prince and feel only distant admiration?
“No need for sad thoughts,” the prince murmured as he gently cupped her elbow and guided her toward the stair. “All of the contestants will remain until the final round. The king and queen have allowed my brother to revise the rules. No maiden brave enough to face the scrutiny of the High Fairy Court should be dismissed in shame after one or two challenges.”
So, this was not Prince Sterling. Her heart gave a tiny sigh of relief—and perhaps a dash of disappointment.
As they reached the grand landing, Merrilee turned and met his gaze. He was taller than Ambrosine had been, and she had to tilt her head far back to meet his hazel eyes. “It’s been centuries since a prince has chosen the gift of song as the deciding trial. Is your brother a great lover of music?”
“No more than most,” he replied thoughtfully. “Fairies are drawn to song—it’s part of our essence. But Sterling believes it is a mirror to the soul. A melody cannot lie. He hopes these trials will reveal not just talent, but the heart beneath it.”
When he offered no more, Merrilee tilted her head. “Still, why song? Why not light displays or healing magic? Why not divination or martial skills—the trials chosen by princes of old?”
His expression softened. “Sterling seeks a queen who leads with harmony. A voice may show what spells and weapons cannot. That’s what he hopes to find.” He looked away, almost wistfully. “He deserves someone true.”
Before Merrilee could reply, a willowy elf appeared at the top of the stairs, her hair wound in a high, intricate coil that made her seem taller than the prince himself. “I’ll take the contestant off your hands, Prince Eagen,” she said with a bow that barely dipped.
“I am Seluna, and I will be your liaison with the royal family during the Bridal Tourney,” she said, her tone clipped and frosty, as she led Merrilee away. “You are not to address any member of the court unless granted formal invitation.”
Merrilee blinked. “Would you consider the prince having asked me a question an official invitation?” she asked, doing her best to sound demure. She didn’t want to offend her guide, but neither did she wish to be stepped on like a beetle. “Wouldn’t it be rude to remain silent?”
Seluna tilted her head, the smallest twitch of her lips betraying amusement or disdain—Merrilee couldn’t tell. She changed the subject briskly. “You were the last to arrive. You have two hours to rest and dress for tonight’s procession. Immediately after, your first challenge will be revealed. You will have twenty-four hours to prepare your performance.”
Meeting the other contestants had been… memorable, Merrilee thought, as she later waited alone in her assigned bower, smoothing the folds of her simple gown woven from grass-spider silk and trimmed with milkweed petal lace. She had caught many sideward glances—some pitying, some mocking—during the procession along the boughs of Twilight Hollow, but she had held her head high.
Many hands, calloused and kind, had worked on this gown. It was not grand, but it was hers. And whatever the tourney held, Merrilee knew this: her song would be her own, untrained but sincere, shaped not by tutors, but by wind and water, sorrow and hope.
And perhaps, if the Divine was merciful… it would be enough.
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