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TIMING: Current LOCATION: Banshee court PARTIES: Siobhan, Regan, Wynne, Anita, and many more! SUMMARY: The day has come for Siobhan's re-trial, so that she might be allowed back into Saol Eile. But she's not the only one on trial, as Regan is being heard for her crimes against her grandmother. Faerie court is not quite what the folklore makes it out to be.

“Siobhan Dolan is here for a re-trial. Do you remember her? You may not. Her disobedience of Fate led to the death of seven of our sisters. She was exiled four decades ago and has earned a re-consideration today.”

Siobhan had been here before. Not on the same spot on the stage—why did they call it a stage?—or with her back so straight or her face dry but she had been here before. She’d been down in the audience, she’d been tossed bloodied into center stage—wasn’t it strange to call a feature of justice a stage?—and she’d begged there just as she’d once cheered from the sides. The younger banshees wouldn’t know, but entertainment was hard to come by when you were in an insular community of screaming women. No, “hard to come by” was the wrong turn of phrase, wasn’t it? Siobhan couldn’t look up, the sun was bright and just the quick glance she’d given them had pinked her vision and turned every blink into a lightshow. Everything was different: the stage used to be angled the other way, there used to be a roof, the skeletons still had skin, and Siobhan wanted to be here. Even that day—she wouldn’t think about that day—she had wanted to be here; she thought that was where the tragedy lived. All her life, all she had ever wanted was to be here. She had been here, she wanted to be here, she was here.

It was just that some fraction of her mind was doing this odd thing—it wasn’t so odd, she’d been doing it all her life—but it was such a tiny piece. An insignificant portion—no part of the brain is insignificant to the function of a creature—would occasionally interject. Siobhan was certain, however, trying to adjust her rosy vision of the court, that it wasn’t really her. She smiled over at Anita. She turned and waved and smiled at the crowd—audience. She wasn’t nervous; why would she be nervous? Because she had directly disobeyed Putrecia’s wishes? Because she wasn’t prepared? Because the last time she was here, they—no, she wasn’t thinking about that. There was no good reason to be nervous and because Siobhan was logical, and never—rarely—emotional, she wasn’t worried at all.

They would take her back, because that’s what family did and everyone here was some extension of her family—not by blood, she’d sooner be a snail than be related to any of these women. She noted the moment she was led to the stage that the only person in attendance she did share blood with was Orla, her cousin. She did not look at Orla. Her mother once said these court proceedings were childish drivel—she didn’t seem to find anything so childish when she…

The old door creaked open and murmurs rose from the crowd-audience. Banshees didn’t hope, but something like it sat in Siobhan’s stomach when she turned around. Her pink, sun-devoured vision couldn’t decipher the form until she joined her. No, it was too short to be her—Oh, but maybe it’s—instead, it was Regan. Maybe the stage was apt after all, Siobhan’s deflating body was almost theatrical. “...Regan?” she asked, carrying the broken corpse of hope that somehow the sun had made her see spectors of annoying banshees. But that wasn’t true, the sun couldn’t do that—or maybe it could, she wasn’t the one that was the doctor. Why was she here? Was it not enough that she had their respect? Their need? A grandmother who wanted her? A lifetime of worthiness to earn, easily laid in front of her? What was it that Regan was trying to rob her of now? On the higher side of the stage, Siobhan looked unflattering beside the woman. Now, their incompatible heights were on display, and Siobhan was made to look like a giant; the tight, low-cut dress seemed like the tacky venture that it was. Now, her glamour was stupid. Now, Regan was here, and the world was a little less pink.

———

Putrecia's legacy could be felt in every cruelty of the court. The skeletons (human, mostly) hanging on the walls of what was essentially their town hall, the uneven stage, the way the audience had nothing holding them back to keep them from climbing right up next to those on trial, the array of knives available at the judge’s podium. Most telling was the Ciorcal na Cinniúint – a big, spinning wheel that could make or break a case. With possible outcomes such as “witness to the stand” and “closing arguments” alongside “human sacrifice” and “mushroom dance”. When Regan lived here for years, she never came to watch these cases. She had no interest in seeing banshees turn their daggers on each other (on anyone; no, don’t think about that right now). Her absence seemed like a mistake now that she had little idea of what to expect, other than what she had heard from others, and what she was seeing on the wheel. And though Regan knew she was not about to die, banshees preferred to be far more inventive, anyway, so it meant nothing. (Elias had wished he were dead. Maybe that would have been better.)

Her grandmother wasn’t about to die, either. She would suffer for decades, the banshees providing palliative care, because banshees simply did not kill each other. That she facilitated the death of her grandmother – someone she should have revered – made her crime especially heinous.

Fae needed nothing but words to bind each other, so Regan wore no cuffs as she was led up to the stage – she had promised not to escape or try to harm anyone while court was in session. (Like she was someone who would harm others now. Was she? The blood on her shirt seemed relevant.) Her obedience was not rewarded. When was it? Trudging through the crowd that made her skin catch fire, she was positioned on the lower half of the sloped stage, which made the judge’s podium look a full foot taller. And there, above Regan glittering like the proud, golden statue of Talamh-Ithe, across the stage was… “Siobhan?” A wave of disgust rippled through Regan, but also confusion. The other banshee couldn’t be exiled a second time. Was this some sort of second chance? There had to be something Regan wasn’t seeing yet. There always seemed to be.

Her eyes searched for the tiniest amount of reassurance in the crowd, but no banshees would look at her; it didn’t matter how many times Regan had patched them up at the clinic, had dressed their wounds and kept infections at bay – what she had done to her grandmother was unforgivable. (Was this what Siobhan had felt when they first arrived here? Probably not. That hag thought being despised was better than being forgotten.) One of the banshees had even dusted off the band-aid dispenser and set it in the middle of the audience, a reminder that she, too, was disposable. Regan shivered at the sheer overwhelmingness and uncertainty of the situation. Just when she was about to pull her eyes away in favor of staring at her own feet, twisting her ring endlessly around her finger, she saw Wynne’s curly head of hair, and Metzli standing taller than most of the others (a hallucination?), and behind all of the banshees, a small-eared bear with sooty fur.

Regan had wanted to leave. There. She thought it. She had come so close, so close to– but those rolling jade hills shriveled black and flattened, and the endless highway, tantalizingly close to Saol Eile, coiled and became a noose around her neck. Her grandmother was no longer an obstacle to leaving, but every single banshee packed in here was. Regan had people here who would and had fought for her, people who traveled across half the world to find her – which was stupid; humans were stupid and full of hope, though perhaps those two flaws were synonymous – and now they would watch what happened when lesser beings tried to dismantle and disentangle the threads of fate, what happened when they got their mediocre fingers jammed into the knot and were pulled inside of it instead of unraveling it.

———

“Scread go ciúin while we are in session,” Eithne reminded everyone. It was inappropriate to tell banshees they were not allowed to scream, so the best she could do was remind everyone to do so quietly. “Court will be held in English today.” Whenever that was decided, it never needed an explanation. Banshees all inherently knew it was so that the humans watching the proceedings might have a mental breakdown (they were just so fragile). And most of the banshees here, by now, realized that the aos si now had a few extra humans than they used to. They were eager to take advantage of that, a payback for humans thinking they could sneak in here and walk among them without being caught.

“Siobhan Dolan is here for a re-trial. Do you remember her? You may not. Her disobedience of Fate led to the death of seven of our sisters. She was exiled four decades ago and has earned a re-consideration today.” A few of the banshees in the crowd did not scream so silently. “Putrecia has determined this.” That stopped the uproar. “We will know her fate first, and then move on to a new trial for Regan Kavanagh, the leanbh who pushed Cliodhna Caomhánach, her own grandmother, into Farraige na Buanachta.” Now the other banshees seemed solemn. Cliodhna was not nice, no one would call her nice, but she was respected.

“Siobhan comes to us with her own lawyer, devoid of experience. Regan does not have a lawyer. We have issued her a pubic defender.” Eithne placed the pubis on Regan’s podium. The pubic defender did make compelling arguments sometimes, but Eithne did not think Fate would smile upon Regan Kavanagh today.

“If anyone has questions for Siobhan Dolan and Regan Kavanagh, save them. We will see if the wheel allows it. We first join Putrecia for keening and the judge selection.”

———

Putrecia wobbled onto the stage as quickly as her old legs and hunched back could carry her. Her pendulous breasts swayed with each step. Her mouth was opened in a giddy, toothless gape. She wasn’t the judge anymore, but this still filled her with a juvenile kind of excitement, bringing back fond memories of wings being plucked from the backs of exiles and knives carving up traitors. When she scuttled up, she squinted at the taller banshee on stage with foggy eyes. Who was that? Clare? Odd. Out of her old, dry throat erupted a sharp but melodic keen. Respecting Putrecia and the tradition, other banshees joined in, and the town hall filled with the sound of a hundred wails. The sound droned for about fifteen seconds before Putrecia’s mouth snapped shut. She was hungry now. And tired. Every time she came up here she was reminded how much her knees creaked and why she stopped doing this.

The non-banshees became evident, as if they were not already. When the keening stopped, Putrecia’s eyes glazed over the audience. From behind her cataracts, everything looked like a blur. Even so, she could pick out a hare from a field of foxes. Her crooked finger pointed straight ahead. “Ár breitheamh.” Putrecia did not know English, but the meaning was obvious.

The judge had been chosen.

Putrecia’s skeletal fingers beckoned the judge up to the podium.

———

The aos sí had been abuzz with one of the most horrible sounds it could be. It wasn’t the corpse flies, though Wynne didn’t like those. It wasn’t the screams, which made their ears and head hurt. But it was the news that spread like wildfire, the whispers of Nora and Regan arrested, that had been truly terrifying. That, combined with the fact that Elias was recovering from multiple stab wounds in a dusty attic after mediocre if not bad first aid, left Wynne in a strenuous position.

They weren’t sure if there were any banshees that would petition for their friends’ release. They weren’t sure if there was any feasible way to get Elias out of this place with all this happening, either. Wynne had considered calling Emilio, but they didn’t want to alarm him too much — because this was a situation to be alarmed about, wasn’t it? Somehow they were the only person they knew not restrained or injured gravely, and responsibility was pressing on their shoulders. How were they supposed to solve this, though? They didn’t understand human law, let alone banshee law. They knew how to run away from a place like this, but only by themself, and there was no way they were running by themself. (They wondered if that was what Emilio would want them to do. To just leave now that they still could.)

Unsure of what to do, they had ventured to where all the banshees were gathering, clutching a phalange in their hand and keeping their head low. They had Elias left behind after checking his injuries, promising him that they’d return and trying not to cry at the sight of him. They stood among the crowd, somehow having ended halfway through it and stared at the stage throughout the proceedings. They had only looked away to stare at a bright white bear, vaguely in the distance, and they had wondered how Nora had gotten out, or if they were simply losing their mind.

There was only one other familiar face there — Siobhan. From the coffee and the sometimes good advice, who Emilio had warned them about. There was a spinning wheel that had them very concerned as the words ‘human sacrifice’ were on one of the options. There was Regan, eventually, and then the two women who seemed to be in charge. They knew how to look at these kinds of people with respect, but Wynne found it very hard to look anything but afraid.

So they looked afraid all through the words the tall, curly haired banshee said. They were feeling a kind of dread that was bone deep, that was not dissimilar from the dread they had felt for all of their life — but acute again, rising to press on their chest. The kind of dread that forewarned disaster, if not death. They did not know how to save Regan now.. They did not know how to save Elias. If Nora would be okay, if she appeared as a dangerous beast. They saw no road out of this.

The wheel was spun and told the crowd that a judge was to be chosen. Wynne wasn’t sure how this was done, wondered if there was some kind of ritual — but it was as simple as an old lady pointing a finger into the crowd. Around them, banshees scattered and an opening parted. Like Moses and the sea, a story they’d been taught when they’d been younger. The old lady was pointing at them.

Wynne felt the dread in their stomach grow even larger and they were frozen. The women around them, though, started pushing them towards the stage, nails and fingers pricking in their back as they started moving. Legs as heavy as lead, their stomach sinking through the ground and into the earth. They moved up on the stage, eyes piercing through Regan with quiet panic.

———

Throughout her life, people had always told Anita that she had a unique way of fitting into any situation she found herself in. Some called it delusion, others called it confidence. The lamia never really thought much about it, until she found herself in this aos sí. Agreeing to be Siobhan’s lawyer seemed like an easy thing to do - she used to be infatuated with those Shonda Rimes legal dramas. It seemed like a lot of grandstanding and moral righteousness which were things she could feign with ease. But the reality of what was unfolding before her was beginning to set in. This wasn’t some silly thing that Anita could just put the bare minimum effort into. This was important to Siobhan so that meant it should be important to her, too, didn’t it? Seeing Regan come into the courtroom felt surreal, hearing that she would also be on trial was baffling. But Anita had to focus. She had a job to do.

———

Metzli didn’t know what to expect at a fae trial, but everything seemed just about right. It smelled as if despair and defeat had a scent, and it was foul in a way that made the vampire shudder. Moreover, there was a bone defender. It all made sense, felt natural, even. It just wasn’t the kind of boning Metzli was looking forward to.

———

Things in that silly American town hadn’t gone quite as Max had hoped. She had killed only an insignificant few, had failed to dismember the woman Regan seemed most fond of or the child who lived in her apartment. But things here, she thought, would go better. Things were always better here; things made sense. In Wicked’s Rest, things had been so disjointed, so nonsensical. But Saol Eile, things were right. Everything fit together exactly as it should. The stupid judge who thought they were important, the wheel that gave everything a place and a purpose, the banshees on trial who would get whatever Fate delivered to them. And Max, standing beside her sister with their mother hovering behind them. Saol Eile was right. Saol Eile was home. And Saol Eile would return to her all the little things that Wicked’s Rest had taken — shard by shard.

———

Tina figured that maybe she hadn’t done the best job ever in Maine, in dumb stupid America, but she’d tried (not that trying meant anything unless there was success). She was here now with her sister and her mother, and that was where she was meant to be. It was home, it was Fate, it was where she and Max belonged. Besides, she got to watch Siobhan and Regan have all that they deserved handed to them and that made her belly warm in a sort of way that could’ve been confused for being a feeling of one sort or another if she weren’t above that. She straightened up, trying to seem as tall as she could (which, of course, wasn’t very tall) and grinning over at her sister, watching their mother, admirably stone-faced (one day Tina would be like that, she knew it), eager for the trial to begin.

———

As relieved as Clare was to be home, she was disappointed to leave before she had finished righting Siobhan’s wrongs. There was so much to clean up that she considered going back to that horrid town once this was all said and done. Those worries were an ocean away and for now, she was meant to present in the crowd to view the trial. Well, trials, apparently. It appeared that while she was away, the leanbh had come out to play and had been almost as awful as the wingless wonder. Almost. To remind Siobhan and everyone else there what it was she had done, how far she had fallen, she had borrowed Orla’s garish hat. It was hideous, something she wouldn’t want to be wearing when she received her glao cinniúint, the one announcing her own final Fate, but it felt appropriate for the occasion. The black and red spotted patterns were impossible to miss atop her head, even among the crowd of various wings and what not. She hoped Siobhan enjoyed her fashion choices.

She noticed a handful of unfamiliar faces gathered near the wingless wonder herself. That familiar feeling of death turned on his head and gut open clawed down her back again. Another undead. What, was Siobhan collecting them, now? Every time Clare was certain she couldn’t get worse, she found a way. Disgusting. She’d have to make a note to help steer Fate back on course once the dust was settled. Again.

———

Nora sat in the back of the crowd, a bear among banshees. The additional height made for a great advantage in the crowd, she could see clearly over the banshees heads as they gathered like little ants waiting for carnage. Every now and then a banshee would take too much interest in the bear and the back, and the bear would display her teeth. She meant it as a threat each time, but the banshees always took it as a delightful display. Freaks. A numb nervousness spread over her as she saw Wynne center stage, Wynne who just wanted to leave. There was also a shock to see Metzli here. She hoped Metzli, Wynne and Regan would all escape with ease, but was settled in to watch the show.

———

There were few surprises in human courts. The idea of “discovery” tried to keep things fair between the two opposing sides, however fair irrational humans were capable of pretending to be. Court here was different; that had become immediately clear. And Eithne surely relished Regan’s shock (however muted) at seeing Siobhan when she had walked up here. Eithne spoke of a retrial, which made… some sense; it lined up with her initial thought. Even though Siobhan had fetched Regan and brought her here like a dog wishing to please, they turned her away, because there was more, always more, whenever there was space for it. And with how desperately Siobhan wished to return, there was plenty of space.

Elias was insistent behind her eyes, even when they were open; her grandmother still screeched in her ears; the ring on Regan’s finger begged almost compulsively to be squeezed. Jade had said she had the soggiest, wettest heart. Right now, she couldn’t slow it. Regan knew her best chance of getting out of this was to maintain composure and prove to the other banshees that she was one of them. The thought of that lie coated her stomach in iron. She was not one of them. She had never been one of them. Never had that been more obvious than when she almost watched Elias die.

She glanced desperately at the pubis. It was lovely, but offered no advice. It was really more pubic than defender.

Regan stayed silent during the keening, certain that if she attempted it, a shrill scream would come out instead, and such an embarrassment would not help her right now (actually, she’d prefer to never scream again). But when Putrecia lifted her finger toward the crowd, long, dirty nail pointing at someone she knew, Regan was paying attention. Wynne. She pointed at Wynne. Regan fished for their eyes, but the look she gave was anything but reassuring. It begged Wynne to listen, to obey, which came with a guilt all its own; she knew how many years of Wynne’s life had been spent doing just that. But nothing could change the course of things now, and Wynne was pulled up to the platform, ushered to approach the wheel. To Regan’s relief, Wynne listened.

———

In the years Siobhan was away—exiled—they must’ve developed a new form of comedic justice: a bone-rattling Shakespearan imitation of a court-room tale. All the world’s a stage, and so on. But Regan wouldn’t agree to do something like this because Regan wasn’t fun, and comedy was supposed to be fun. Siobhan wasn’t having fun; Regan didn’t seem like she was having fun; the banshees were serious insofar as they could be with the big wheel and the nonsensical pick of judge who—was that Wynne? Siobhan bit her lip to keep herself from laughing. Reality came to her with new tidings: dead magpies rattling out the news. So, Regan did push her grandmother into Farraige na Buanachta. The pubic defender was silent. Wynne was here. Wynne was the judge. Wynne was going to do a terrible job. When life happened on a stage, it was easy to abstract; when it happened because of Fate, when it happened to performers, when it happened and one was not meant to feel anything at all. They didn’t care. Why would they care? When had they ever cared?

That was her life, her greatest shame, that Eithne had just shared like the morning update on which humans had sunk more into Farraige na Buanachta overnight. Her face burned as she glanced around, hoping to find at least one face that wasn’t horrified. Most had no real expression at all. Of course, this was her life, not theirs. She was on a stage. Why did she care? Why had she ever cared?

Had Regan’s childishness ruined what would have been an easy reunion? Or had it never mattered? Finally, Siobhan turned to Orla, and…who was that there? Those neat strands of blonde hair under a…hat? A very familiar hat? Who gave Clare the hat Orla made from her torn wings? Orla, probably. Orla who grinned at her in a sea of solemn faces, holding two thumbs up in a gesture for something that didn’t exist. Siobhan turned back to the judge’s podium, shaking off fantasies of murdering Clare, and held two thumbs up for Wynne; no matter what they did, it wouldn’t be right. Siobhan had been here before—now she understood why they called it a stage. There was only one thing to do when on one. She didn’t care if Regan understood that when all that mattered was if Wynne did.

———

Eithne paid the human ushered onto the stage little mind. They were nothing if not a tool to spin the wheel. They could be replaced by a humerus or femur. It was nice to spin the wheel with one of those, to push the little rods with the tip of the bone. She preferred it, because it meant she got to hold a bone and wave it around as she spoke. It added weight to her words. But a human would do, too, and she could just use her hands. So she gestured to the wheel and said in her accented English, “Spin the wheel.” She looked at the human for a moment, wondering if they needed to hear the instruction repeated. Sometimes they were a little slow to process a banshee’s demands.

They had been raised obedient. Wynne knew nothing of what was happening around them but they knew what was expected of them. They knew how to act on a stage like this, how to hold themself and how to keep their mouth sealed. How to obey those that stood above them – which were no longer Regan or even Siobhan, but a strange woman who held herself like an elder would.

How many times had they stood like they stood now back at home? Looking over the people that made up the community they belonged to? There was no altar here, but there was sacrifice. There was tradition. There were people to make an example out of. They had done that too, at home, though not in a way like this. In subtler ways, behind closed doors. Not with a large spinning wheel that they had seen only once before. They realized with a pang that it’d been at the renaissance fair they’d attended with Elias.

They moved closer to the wheel and gave it a hefty tug, the noise of the wheel clicking echoing in their bones. They held their breath as the various options passed, their eyes constantly following the portion of the wheel reserved for human sacrifice. It didn’t land close to it, though. Instead the yellow wedge slowly passed over ‘bring out the worms’ before it eventually landed on the next thing: ‘opening statement’. They didn’t say anything.

Eithne glared daggers at the mute human. (This was one of her favorite expressions, if only she could make her glowers send daggers.) It was the judge’s duty to speak the words for those in the crowd who might not be able to read what the result was. Her voice was a cold hiss, “Announce it,” she instructed. It was a very courteous thing for her to do. The humans couldn’t help that they were slow to understand their very logical ways. It was only their shortcoming nature.

Wynne cleared their throat. “Opening statement.” A beat. “Please.”

———

Once the judge? Yes, they seemed to be the judge. Once they asked for an opening statement, Anita quickly rose to her feet and made her way up to the stage - the gentle clack of her stilettos echoing throughout the room muddled only by some faint whispers undoubtedly regarding her aforementioned lack of experience. Surely she didn’t look like she lacked experience. None of the clothes she had brought with her were sufficient for a fae courtroom so she had gone out to the city one day and found a white pantsuit that she looked devastatingly sexy in. After all, that did seem to be a crucial part of the lawyer thing according to Siobhan.

“Go raibh maith agat,” Anita offered as she got to the stage and stood beside Siobhan, but the looks of confusion and disdain that she received from the audience informed her that she had likely butchered the Irish thank you beyond recognition. “Lucanidae - commonly known as stag beetles -are the rarest beetle species in the world. Because of how rare they are, many cultures believe that they symbolize strength and power. Those who collect and preserve beetles will pay several thousands of dollars to acquire a stag for their collection.” Gesturing over towards Siobhan, she continued, “The woman before you is a similarly rare specimen. And I am not just talking about how long her leg bones are.” Anita paused for a laughter that never came. Clearing her throat, she shrugged off the slight awkward silence.

“She is the kind of person you want to have in your community. Like the stag beetle she brings with her beauty, value, strength, and power. I can say from experience that life is never boring when Siobhan Dolan is around. Cheek bones that could draw blood and probably have. Today you will see things like I do, to deny Siobhan would be to deny Fate.” Anita didn’t know a whole lot about the banshees relationship with Fate, but from what she had gathered it was a significant one. Maybe it was a bit of a hail mary, but hell, it wasn’t like she couldn’t tell a lie.

———

Everyone has to die. Some people live longer than others, but every person comes into being and then ceasing. It is the cycle that everyone knows, and the one that banshees revere and forewarn. To Metzli, for a while, it did not matter what choices you made, but the commands you obey.

As long as you follow those, as this supposed Fate wills, all will be right. There is no room for one’s existence outside of what duty calls of them. Metzli would make the argument that that was simply surviving in worship. But they had no voice to give at that moment. They had their own obligation in love, staying silent in a courtroom that looked nothing like the ones on television. That alone felt like a freedom that could only derive from escape. Was that possible for all of them? All Metzli could do was hope, silently, with a reassuring nod to Wynne.

———

It was starting. It was starting and Max, like so many of the banshees here, craved the sense of it. The wheel would spin, the cards would fall, and Regan Kavanagh and Siobhan Dolan would each get exactly what they deserved. Max shot Tina a pleased look. This was what they’d been waiting for. This was what they’d wanted since the first day Regan dared step foot in the same classroom as them, since she’d had the audacity to pretend herself an equal. Whatever justice Fate decided.

———

Clare was certain her eyes were going to roll out her head before the trial was over. A human sacrifice for a judge? What was Putrecia thinking? Clare knew her eyes were going but was her mind gone with it? At least the “lawyer” in question was pitiful. She didn’t know the first thing about Fate or how it worked. And her Irish was dreadful. “Booo,” she hummed under her breath once the statement was finished, one hand obscuring her mouth as if it would help disguise where the sound came from. The daggers Putrecia shot her way was enough to make her stand a little straighter, her fingers lacing together as her hands dropped down towards her waist. Fine, she had enough respect for Fate to play nice. For now.

———

They understood what needed to be done once the lawyer woman was done. The wheel was spun again. Instead of Siors or an absent demon deciding how the proceedings went, it was a spinning wheel of fortune. Wynne spun it again. Once more, the option ‘human sacrifice’ was skipped. They wanted to ask the tall banshee who had instructed them before if judges could be human sacrifices, but instead opened their mouth to announce the result: “Statement from leprechaun.”

Once they’d addressed the crowd their eyes fell on Metzli. That didn’t make sense — why would Metzli be here? Why was Metzli watching them on this stage? Wynne blinked viciously as they stared at their employer and friend. They gave them a look of reassurance and they wondered what that meant — was Metzli here as a savior again? They didn’t dare hope like that and thus averted their gaze, lest they give something away to all the other banshees eyeing the stage.

———

It was a good idea to have Anita as her lawyer. Wise Anita, who would always wear the correct outfits. Smart Anita, who would always praise her appropriately. Ireland so far had been a series of mistakes, but assigning Anita as her lawyer had not been one. Siobhan had enough sense to keep from praising Anita vocally, and in front of several banshees who, for all they cared, probably thought Anita was human. (And Clare, who she knew she heard booing, and whom she didn’t want to do anything in front unless it was stabbing her) Anita’s Irish could use some work though.

It took a moment for her to realize that the wheel had been spun again, and to the only option she had been dreading (she would’ve taken ‘human sacrifice’ any day). “There will be no leprechaun.” Siobhan tried to keep her voice steady despite the rattling inside her chest. The audience erupted into gasps and murmurs, as if she’d conducted the sound out of them. She wouldn’t talk about how she’d kidnapped the one she found (because she couldn’t ask a friend to lie for her) and then how she’d let it go (because she couldn’t ask a friend to endure trauma for her sake; a friend that couldn’t even attend the trial). That was the sort of thing the stage might like, but it was her life. Also, extremely embarrassing. And, they didn’t care about all that, anyway. They hadn’t cared when she tried to explain herself forty-two years ago, they wouldn’t care now about the way she felt concerning lesser creatures—her friends. She was a shameful banshee; had she learned nothing?

The rising whispers were burning her ears. A banshee wouldn’t lie in court but who would expect whole honesty from an actress? Wasn’t the truth elastic? Taking a cue from Anita (also a friend), she channeled the woman’s confidence and bolstered herself. “Why must we bother the leprechauns?” Siobhan straightened up, giving one coordinated boob jiggle. Putrecia didn’t look happy, but Siobhan didn’t care—wasn’t that the point?

She raised her voice carefully, speaking over the din. “How would you feel if you were taken away from your important business to speak on the affairs of some other fae?” The murmurs rose; she was leading them the wrong way. “If you were cleaning your bones, or watching a body decompose, would it seem urgent to abandon your obligation to appreciate Death? To speak to strangers?” She could hear the room split; grumbles of agreement against groans of disapproval and the banshees that didn’t understand English who just wanted to start screaming. Siobhan turned and greeted them, boobs and all. “This court is for us,” Siobhan switched to Irish, “what we want is more bones, more blood, more screaming…not to hear the leprechauns. When have they ever said anything good?” Or comprehensible.

The audience was stirred, if they agreed with her—and Siobhan had just enough self-esteem left to assume they did—they needed a place to go. If she pulled them into a crescendo—and she assumed she did—she needed to deliver them to a final. “Worms,” she said, “péist.” She pointed at Regan (why did she get the more flattering, shorter side?). “Her worms are gray. And tiny. I saw them!” Siobhan pointed at the dispenser, who had been standing in the audience all this time; a little dented from being tossed around, she thought. “Has our old doctor ever pushed any grandmothers? I only want to know how we can trust this leanbh not to push my grandmother?”

———

Regan had been in courtrooms before, many of them, actually, as a distinguished expert witness discussing her autopsy determinations. It was routine, easy, with no surprises. She dressed crisp and conservatively and had an answer for every question. There were no wings on her back or mousey-blonde roots in her hair, and she was so deeply, richly in her element that she didn’t have a spare second to consider the flawed, human stage fright lighting up her brain. She could always defend her work more than she could defend herself. That was a world away. Never before had she felt like some child in front of a jury – awkward, scrawny-limbed, with no nametag (,MD) or lofty introduction. It was Siobhan, it was the stage, it was a hundred looks of reproach, like she was back in school belting out the poorly-pitched notes of Oklahoma, trying to disappear beneath the bare, cardboard branches of her Tree #2 costume.

She had never been able to hit any of the notes, even then, and this presentation was immeasurably worse; she had not even been given the script. Were they supposed to bring leprechauns? Bás síoraí, that must have been customary. Wynne… was pretty short. Maybe they could all pretend they were the leprechaun. No, she had told more than enough lies these last few weeks. They came pouring out of her stomach at least twice a day, mixed with blood and bile. At least she wasn’t on trial for those. No one seemed to know about the lie she’d told to save the ham child’s skin, even if it all fell apart, or the lie to buy Wynne and Elias some time – even though the selection of Wynne had a judge had her worry she might be wrong about that. Well, her grandmother might have known about Wynne, but that seemed– that wouldn’t come up here. No, it seemed to be the lies she told herself that were most apt to get her in trouble. So Regan let Siobhan carve out the path of disappointment, not lying but also not willing to tell the audience just yet that she didn’t have a leprechaun either.

Siobhan seemed to have no such anxieties. Of course she didn’t. She was a banshee, proud and true, on a literal pedestal, here for forgiveness instead of punishment. Her poise made sense. She could roar with the same pride she had when they’d first arrived here, before she realized her name had been forgotten and Putrecia sent her packing (somewhere, presumably). She could work all of this in her favor where Regan could not. Except Siobhan was spinning off in some other direction (as were her breasts) and… what was this, some fae form of veganism? Banshees were not going to see anything wrong with taking something and dragging it here if they thought it belonged in this place. Regan knew that. She knew that down to her shaking bones – every one other than the noble pubis her thumbs smoothed over in her hands. Siobhan did belong here. If others agreed with her, they, like her, were thinking about this backwards – how wrong it would be to be anywhere else.

Despite this, Regan thought this would work for Siobhan. Anita made a strong case for her (sort of… also, why was Anita here?). Siobhan wouldn’t have been receiving this retrial if a return was off the table. This was being handed to her.

And she was using it, her power, her time to appeal, to turn everyone against Regan. Those hundreds of eyes, now sharpened like iron daggers, were set on her again, and her flesh crawled with oppressive fae presence like an army of ants pinched at her skin. Regan flashed Siobhan a sharp look that said are you kidding? They weren’t even on trial against each other. This was not a debate. Why did Jade like this foul banshee? Why did Anita and Metzli? Regan was able to ignore everyone for just as long as it took to snipe at Siobhan. “They were good enough for your worms to lay with, weren’t they?” Siobhan wouldn’t appreciate her speaking of this. So she was. “How embarrassed you were by their tubes of sperm and wriggling affection. How coddled yours were, as if you were used to living in such a manner yourself. I was not the one leaking at the sight of them. Your tear ducts are defective. They work.” Regan crossed her arms, chin pointed up. She had just cried for three days straight. No one had to know that.

It was the mention of the old doctor, of pushing grandmothers, that shot a bullet through Regan’s moment of confidence. The worms in her mind scattered. Was her pubic defender not supposed to do something here? Did it work without the ilia and ischia? When Regan heard the word leanbh, it had not come from Siobhan, but from the tar pit across town. And predictably, the coward that she was, Regan shrank back. That voice said banshees do not fear, do not cower, just as often as it called her a child. It was right on both counts. Regan was no banshee. A banshee would not have pushed her grandmother to her inevitable death. Whatever she was, it did feel fear. Maybe not for Siobhan. She didn’t care very much about Siobhan. But the banshees in the crowd were full of spite, and it was no longer for Siobhan.

———

The pubic defender did not say anything about how Siobhan’s statements against its client were unfair, or irrelevant to the matter at hand. It did not say anything, because it was a bone.

———

The arguments regarding worms caught Anita off guard, she wasn’t expecting her actual area of expertise to come up. “Objection!” She said and stood up from her seat, channeling her inner Elle Woods. “The claims of leaking are, uh, hearsay.” After receiving some unwelcome stares, she quietly sat back down.

———

The phonies did well to block out the noise of the room, but they couldn’t do much more than that. No tool could dull out a banshee’s scream, nor could it block it. A few seconds alone could tear the flesh away and turn Metzli into dust, but they found that outcome far preferable to losing people they cared about. Having to exist in a world where love and freedom were ripped from their friends and replaced with obedience and rot was worse. Time and distance had given both Regan and Siobhan the chance to experience what it meant to connect and love and care. Even as it no longer remained the priority in the Aos Sí, Metzli could see how their time away affected them, changed them to be who they were meant to be as they sat at their podium.

They weren’t sure if they believed in Fate, but for all intents and purposes wasn’t that Fate, too? Weren’t connections a direct cause of Fate? Wasn’t that why the distance between Metzli and their loved ones only made the pull in their chest stronger? As if each connection wound itself tightly like a string and grew taut with each step away. Metzli didn’t understand why that didn’t matter to the crowd that despised their abhorrent existence, but they found they didn’t care anymore. Why would they listen to loveless and cruel creatures that reminded them of their clan? If Metzli deserved to be dead, so did they. But they had to behave. Be better.

———

The human was good at making the wheel spin, though that was hardly something to compliment. A child could do it. As could a gust of wind. As could a bone. Eithne watched them swing at it again and hoped for a little bit of respite. A nice sacrifice or a dance break. She was tired of hearing Siobhan talk of worms, as if her having girthier worms was (though admirable) in any way relevant. It was kind of amusing to see the two banshees argue, though. “We all know by now Regan Kavanagh has no regard for Worms. It is not yet her turn, though, is it?” Eyes flashed at Siobhan. She was no fan of big displays of emotion but plenty of banshees cried over worms. Especially on worm remembrance day, which the leanbh had made all about her. “Spin.”

———

Wynne watched with a weary look on their face how Siobhan and Regan argued about worms. All of the words were white noise, jumbling together like the clacking of the wheel that would come again. It all seemed like filler. Like the air bubbles that formed when you baked sourdough bread, trapped and surrounded and at the end of the day, not all that important. They were there because of a process but they added nothing when you cut the bread. They released hot, baked air and when you put jam or butter on a slice of bread, you had to maneuver around it. They thought this was like that. Baked air.

But who were they to protest? Who had they ever been to protest? Even when they had ran they had not left a long letter, even when they had returned they hadn’t offered a great speech. They looked at Regan with wide eyes but remained quiet and eventually just spun the wheel again, the clicking and clacking as monotone as the words that had been spoken. They wondered how long this would go on. If this really was all a charade and how long this postponed would take until a judgment was passed.

Because if what they were saying was true — if Regan had killed her grandmother, then what did it matter? She would be punished. What did this stage offer? Why were they there, if not to be looked at with a kind of mirth, and not the reverence they had once been used to. Maybe it was a blessing they were all focused on Siobhan now, who Wynne knew less well. Who they were slightly afraid of. Who had been unkind to them, at times, even if she had also offered them a kind of clarity way back when.

Wynne stood very still, afraid that any wrong move might reveal the way they were teetering on the edge of collapse. If regression had given them anything it was composure. They shot into action when they were told to spin again, waiting with baited breath as the wheel clicked around and watching it land on ‘sketch artist’ with a sense of dull relief.

———

She’d gotten a totally dope (that was an American word that she could maybe get on board with) role in this trial, and she wasn’t going to disappoint. She’d spent the whole time carefully observing everyone, her pencil hardly ever leaving the page. Tina might have not killed the child and Regan’s woman back in Maine, but she could do a good job here and now.

So when the scared and beautifully sacrificial human spun the wheel and it finally landed on her, she nearly leapt up (but that would’ve been showing too much emotion, so she didn’t) and held up her drawing. She’d been paying attention so much, and her drawing showed – well, it showed something. Regan, drawn extremely lifelike, being nibbled on by an army of worms, bits of her flesh being consumed. It was delightful and gruesome and her mother had to be proud of this. “It’s something. It’ll be a good and solid memory to have.” Her lips twisted with a certain sense of pride. Tina couldn’t help herself.

———

Eithne moved off the stage for a short moment to approach Tina. She held an important role, as it was good to freeze these kinds of moments in time. The community hadn’t really gotten the hang off backing up mobile phone pictures in the cloud yet, so drawings were still preferable. And so she considered the drawing with an expert’s eye and nodded approvingly after a few beats. “Great, yes — it is certainly a good start. It requires more anguish, though. Keep at it.”

With a swish she turned around, back onto the stage. She cleared her throat just once, which was enough to kick the human in motion.

———

Wynne thought of spinning a bottle with their friends back at home in a game of truth or dare as they pulled at the wheel again. The urge to cry rose and disappeared and they continued to be as they had once been. In control of their emotions, exuding a level of calmness that had been called a gift back at home. The wheel turned. They hoped for a finale.

———

The Ciorcal na Cinniúint clicked and clacked. The yellow wedge it stopped on indicated that it was time for what the crowd clamored for: Siobhan’s judgment. Eithne was a generous soul. She would help the human judge out once again, because humans did not always respect the roles they were meant to fulfill. It was a grand kindness, she thought. She was having a very kind day, so far. “You must decide.”

Everyone looked at Wynne for the verdict, hundreds of eyes staring at the pitiful, trembling human who was clearly trying very hard not to tremble. Eithne offered a little more help, because she was very gracious that day, “Tibia, or fibula?”

———

Wynne blinked at the banshee. They wanted to ask what bones had to do with the so-called judgment, but then remembered where they stood. They turned their head to look at Siobhan and wondered if the next word out of their mouth would determine the course of her life. She already hated them because they hadn’t promised their bones to her, and now they also had to cast judgment.

They thought for a moment, scoured their mind in an attempt to remember what they knew of tibias and fibulas. They were in the lower leg, that was simple enough — one of them was thicker and more supportive, the other was for … stability, something of that sort. They tried to remember which was which, as if this was one of those exams outsiders had to take. Tibia, yes, tibia was the stronger one. The more prominent one. The fibula? Sometimes it was merged with the tibia, in some animals, they remembered that too, from the cattle skeletons at home. Horses barely had a visible one. But did it matter? Was it even a metaphor? Siobhan had once thought their idea that femurs were good for spontaneity was ridiculous, after all. Bones were bones. Bones here were seemingly treasured for rarity and quality, not for function. (Though femurs did seem to be favored.)

And Emilio had said Siobhan was bad, so where did that leave them? Did that mean they should be malicious and choose what they figured to be the worst option? Or should they extend mercy in the face of this court? Their mind was spinning with considerations, with fears of what might happen if they said tibia or what might happen if they said fibula. What Siobhan might do if they chose wrong.

They didn’t want to choose, that was where the dread in their stomach mostly came from. They did not want to participate in a place like this, to once again be a cog in a machine that took part in human sacrifice and other cruel methods. They didn’t want to say either of the two words. They didn’t want to know what would happen once they moved onto Regan or what would happen if they made the wheel land on ‘human sacrifice’ and most of all they did not want to be here, they had never even wanted to be here, even if it had felt like the right thing to do. They didn’t want the banshees to look at them any longer but all of them did, and all of them grew restless with every second the judge did not cast their judgment.

They were no longer feeling calm. They looked away from Siobhan and said, “Tibia.”

———

It took the human long enough. Eithne was pretty sure they would start crying even though she had asked them a very simple and straightforward question. She could have made it harder! She could have asked them the average circumference of a fox’ third rib, after all. She could have asked them to stand on their head while delivering the judgment. It was always very disappointing when she was faced with the frailty of humans, though it was never surprising.

No matter. The human picked tibia, which was a good answer. There were bad answers, of course — like um, or what do you mean, or please let me off the stage, I don’t know what I’m doing and I am going to have a mental breakdown! — and so she was satisfied. Not that it mattered very much, how the human ruled.

As if banshees would let a human decide their verdicts.

Eithne took a step forward and announced the verdict: “Siobhan Dolan will be allowed to return to us. After today, there will be no further stipulations.”

———

Metzli gasped quietly and whipped their gaze toward Siobhan. The verdict had been what she longed for, regardless of some failure. Since they’d arrived, Metzli had prepared themself for the possibility for her illusion to become reality, and still, they found themself mourning. They were supposed to be relieved and happy for her, but they couldn’t fight the sorrow inside. Despite this, Metzli offered yet another lie, and smiled.

———

Anita wasn’t disillusioned enough to think that anything she said in her opening statements made much impact on this decision, but it still felt like a bit of a victory. She looked over at her “client,” someone who would no longer be her co-worker, possibly someone who she could truly call a friend. The reality of the loss took a moment to settle in but she didn’t let her face betray her and reveal those emotions. Instead, she tried to make sense of the expression on Siobhan’s face. There was little sense about much of what was going on, however, she had figured that much out. What she was able to determine was that with Siobhan’s trial concluded, her role was completed, and it was time for her to exit off stage left and rejoin the crowd for act two.

———

It wasn’t what Max had wanted, though like many of the banshees present, she was far less interested in Siobhan’s verdict than Regan’s. After all, she’d never known Siobhan, hadn’t been directly affected by her betrayal. Siobhan’s disgusting mistakes had taken place long before Max and her sister were born, and even longer before they were born as things that mattered. Still, she thought of the terrible, undead thing Siobhan had cared for back in Wicked’s Rest. It would be difficult, sharing a community with someone who could stoop themselves to such levels. Max would make sure Siobhan knew, now and forever, where she stood — that Max was the better banshee, and that Siobhan was little more than a failure being given a second chance she hadn’t earned. Max was good at reminding people of such things.

———

Clare could feel a scream boiling her lungs, like oil bubbling and splashing, trying to spill over a burst through her chest. Siobhan was allowed to return? She was allowed to return to the place she had nearly destroyed with her own arrogance even though it was clear she had learned nothing in her decades away. Clare turned to look at Putrecia, hoping that she would intervene, say there had been a mistake, that the sad, pathetic excuse of a human sacrifice was, in fact, not the proper judge, that this was not the will of Fate.

Siobhan had snapped Fate in two the last time she tried to bend it to her own will, she was the reason that Clare lost her mother, the reason why six other banshees fell before their true fated end, too. This time, though, this time Fate bent to shape itself around her, granted her immunity for her crimes and let her reclaim what she had rightfully had stripped away from her.

It was all she could do not to scream to Fate and ask why it had betrayed her for a second time. Why it favored Siobhan in ways she couldn’t understand. Instead, she pulled the horrendous hat off her head and let a focused, concentrated scream echo within the repurposed wing. It was a more emotional display than she should have allowed herself, Clare knew that, and it almost pulled her down to the wingless wonder’s own level in a way – another way she’d been wronged by Siobhan – but she couldn’t help it.

It was tempting to storm out right then and there to toss the stupid hat into Farraige na Buanachta so it could join its pair but there was more to witness. Maybe Fate would grant at least some rightful justice today.

———

How easy it was to sway a room; how simple to thread the lines of their little play. Stories, like life, were commanded by Fate. Could Romeo comment on the inevitably of his end? Or his idiocy in believing Juliet to be dead? In falling in love at all? Could Wynne say anything to the matter between Tibia and Fibula? And did it matter? Siobhan had what she wanted, even if she’d been one word away from something else. Fate favored her today—No, that wasn’t right. What was that about stories? They were written, chosen, made. What had she been thinking about the room? Those were her words about the Regan’s worms, her words about her grandmother. This stage was made at the direction of someone else. The wheel spun because it was pushed. Wynne was the judge because they were picked out; Wynne’s choice wasn’t Fate, Fate didn’t exist in a coin toss. Who had placed the coin? Who was flipping it? Who said it needed to be done at all? What was Fate? Was it Fate that took her wings—no, that was her mother. Was it Fate that pushed Cliodhna—no, that was Regan.

Siobhan peered down at Regan, staring at her from under her lashes and over the tip of her nose. She was so small but more than just the slope of the stage, she appeared shriveled into herself—thin and sad like her worms. And it was Siobhan that had done that, in some way, not Fate. Regan looked wrong, not because a banshee ought to stand tall and proud but because she remembered the woman that met her with an indignant gaze as she dumped her gray worms out. This was the woman that called her a hag. This was the woman that said she hated her, just the start of this month, and now she was small. It was wrong for Regan, and that wrongness twisted Siobhan’s stomach. Why did she care? She didn’t like Regan; she hadn’t lied when she said she hated her too. She hated her childishness, she hated her lack of humor, she hated how much she envied her. Why did she care? Let the woman feel small. She was, after all.

Siobhan got what she wanted. She won. She was going home. What had she been thinking before about Fate and stories? Oh, it was nonsense anyway. Fate adored her, Fate was appreciative of her almost-century of dedicated service. She loved Fate. She was so happy—no, she didn’t feel much of anything except the twisting in her stomach. If Siobhan assigned the synonyms in her head, she could author her reality. Happy, gleeful, content, joyous, relieved, jovial, merry—she tried to form herself under those words. She was swarming with cheer as she turned and met Orla’s gaze, who wiped a tear. She could feel nothing but pleasure as she turned the other way and found Metzli, who looked sad. Happiness clawed and tore her innards when she met Anita’s gaze, who she would never see again. It was glee inside of her as she looked up at Wynne, who was probably confused. She could imagine the Siobhan that would’ve felt a thesaurus of contentment, but she couldn’t find her.

In reality, there was only a short burst of delight as she met Clare’s gaze and blew her a kiss—she ought to feel more remorse, but it was Clare and she had her wings on her head. So, fuck Clare, boo-hoo and so on. Siobhan won! Clare lost! And the thing Clare lost was…her mother, actually. Clare had lost a long time ago. And now there was Siobhan and she should have been feeling something, a particular way, a sentiment less contradictory. She should’ve been whole.

She was Siobhan and not Siobhan. A shell encased around the woman who carried that name, but also that set of brown eyes and silky brown hair and those memories. And still, the terrible swirling inside and the thoughts that battled and snapped and the expanse of life that couldn’t be put on stage; that words would always fail and that the question of tibia or fibula would never answer. She was haunted by a thousand twins; each of them humiliated by the others and by herself, most of all. The interjecting voice was her. The one who cared was her and she was the one who always had. The woman who berated Regan and would gladly do so again was her. She chose to act on the stage, and she chose to spin the story and she wasn’t happy at all, even now that she’d been given all that she wanted. And she was the one that felt ungrateful and indignant and shamed—why hadn’t her mother come to see her?—and proud and warm—she had friends!—and guilty and annoyed—even at her lowest, Regan could inspire someone to care when no one had ever cared for Siobhan when the stage swallowed her. To be a banshee would mean the rejection of these emotional selves but to be Siobhan meant the acceptance of her own contradictions and confusions; her pain, her life, her words, her mutilated skin, her sympathy for helpless things and her revelry in chaos.

She’d been Siobhan for so long—whatever it meant to be that undignified, embarrassed, fraying woman. For forty-two years she’d been ingloriously Siobhan. And for all one hundred and six years, shamefully, never anything but herself. She couldn’t be a banshee now. Unlike herself and the most like herself she had ever felt, all she wanted to do now was tell Regan she was sorry, but there was nothing she could do to stop a play in its second act.

———

Regan’s gan úsáid human fear still kept her feet from moving (more freeze than fight, flight, or fawn, only one of which was correct for a banshee), and she felt like she was being electrocuted on a wire, but Siobhan’s verdict reached her through it. No further stipulations after today. That was distinct from right now. Had Siobhan noticed that part, or was she basking in the glow of finally getting what she wanted, willing to overlook what should have been obvious, and the opaque and subjective meanings of tibia and fibula here? Regan had spent recent years interacting with other banshees, trying not to become tangled in their words, keeping an ear for any attempts to humiliate her more than she already had herself. Siobhan had not. She might have grown up around banshees, but how carefully did she listen, really? It was how she had ended up in the middle seat in the Economy section of a seven hour flight.

Regan wouldn’t look up at Siobhan to assess her response. Maybe she couldn’t. Regan wasn’t sure if it was a conscious choice or she only convinced herself it was. But she decided – because she could decide things now, or had at least once, which was why she was standing here – that she did not care what Siobhan’s future would look like. She stared straight ahead, her face flat, a distant soldier her grandmother probably would have approved of. “Congratulations,” she muttered, still refusing to look at the other banshee, but she spoke against the shockwave still running through her. “You are perfect for this place”.

#c max

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