The Queen looks down on me, her icy blue eyes flashing from behind a cream fan, her gloved hands flutter it expertly. “Where is he?” She asked, her tone freezing me to the spot. She’s ignored his many titles, and I’m willing to bet she doesn’t even remember my name. She’s always been like this, for as long as I’ve been alive at least.

I hear footsteps echo down the hallway behind me, and a hand on my shoulder tells me it’s my father. He’s the King, and she respects none of what he does, and yet she expects respect from us. She makes me so angry, and yet I can’t do anything, her eyes freeze me and judge me for what I look like and what I’ve done with my life and every choice I’ve ever made.

“My dearest love, I heard you asked for me? Here, allow me to escort you to the dining room,” He said, extending his elbow to her. His chestnut eyes flash briefly to me as she steps around me, and he smiles at me, before turning to her. Her fan snaps shut, and I wince. Her steps echo along the hallway, tiny and frequent, and her skirt swishes perfectly along the marble corridor.

Looking at their retreating backs, I take stock of my parents. My mother, her back ramrod straight, her hair still the auburn of autumn, but the tips are slowly becoming white and silver, showing the coming of winter. It only ever turns silver when the winter will be long, so I sigh, and remind myself to take out my extra warm clothes this season. It’s piled up in a perfectly calculated bun, ringlets falling around her neck. Her gown is of crimsons and browns, with a cream underskirt and sleeves. The neck is below her black condor wings, folded in the back. I remember in the front it dipped down to show her decolletage. A glint of amber is her necklace, flattering her delicate neck and complimenting her creamy skin tone. She’s tall and lithe, and her every movement is graceful, yet calculated.

My father, in contrast, stays towards the lighter tones of each season. He’s wearing a pale yellow and cream, contrasting against and complimenting his darker skin tone. A thin silver crown in his curly hair is the only marker of Winter. His breeches are of the same cream color as the laces of his shirt. His calf-length boots clomp loudly with each step, his long legs take a single stride for every five of the Queen’s steps. Overall, he cuts an impressive figure, standing at 6’5, and his broad shoulders make him one of the shorter and more well built faeries I’ve known.

Standing next to each other, they’re quite an intimidating image. The average faerie male is taller, yet more lithe than he is, and the average faerie female is shorter and much the same build as her. Obviously there are exceptions, but each faerie’s differences come in their horns or wings, not their bodies.

Looking at my parents, I sigh at my appearance. My hair is a more brown auburn than even the queen’s longest autumn, holding a trace of my father’s curls. My eyes are a pale brown every season of the year. Her strongest daughter’s eyes change with the season, like hers. Naturally these are her favorite daughters, and she brings them up according to how she wishes. I’m glad to be average, it means I get to enjoy life with my father. But every time I see her, I feel inferior.

Even my choice of clothing is utterly average. Where her dress is huge and many layered, mine is slim, with a slit I cut in the back for freedom of movement. It’s a wine red, covered in dust from hiding and occasional spots of mud no one could quite manage to get out. The under panel and sleeves are a goldenrod yellow, a color I’ve been told compliments me. I wear brown shoes almost every season, it’s a color you can’t often go wrong with, which is why it’s so common. I’m not even wearing jewelry, my preferred tiger’s eye pendant left on my bedside table.

I hope this is a short visit… I hate this feeling.