Terry: Who are you?
Aeon: I am Aeon. Oberon calls me his mad gardener, but I don’t belong to him. He may have bound me here, but he doesn’t know everything about me. Come, walk with me a bit, but mind your step. My pets can be clingy.
Terry: Where do you live?
Aeon: Why here, in the maze. Is it not a wondrous place? Even I don’t know all its twists and turns.
Terry: Are you the hero of your own story?
Aeon: Oh, you are an amusing fellow. All stories are my story. My roots go back to the very beginning of Fairie. And I am an old tree, indeed. You could even say that Lydia’s story is just a continuation of my own, even if she does not yet realize it. If my trees could talk, they would tell you stories that would hold you spellbound, lost within Faerie. Lucky for you, they are sleepy today.
Terry: How do your friends see you?
Aeon: Until Lydia wandered into my maze, I had not understood how someone with power could offer friendship. We have so long been bound by our hatreds, our petty jealousies. I think Lydia is my friend. It is dangerous to offer such a precious gift to the Fae, and I fear for her. If that means I am her friend, then yes, it must be so.
Terry: How do your enemies see you?
Aeon: That is a much more interesting question. Oberon sees a broken, beaten little man, his power contained in a maze he thinks he created. I let him believe his lovely Faerie tale because it suits me. I wasn’t always his tame gardener. But the green and growing things here have always been my allies. Oberon would do well to remember that.
Terry: How does the author see you? Do you think the author portrayed you accurately?
Aeon: She is an interesting one. I think she sees me as clearly as anyone Mortal can, though perhaps that is unfair. Just because she is ephemeral does not mean her vision is wrong, only limited. She is beginning to be troubled by dreams of my past. Perhaps once, she thought of me as benign, a rare ally for her Lydia, but now she understands that like my garden itself, I am wild and twisted. It will not be easy for her to find my story, but now that it has started to take root inside her, well, I suspect I know how this will end.
Terry: What do you regret?
Aeon: The Fae have no regrets. We are creatures of impulse and power. If there is something we desire, either we take it or will it into being. And yet, I envy Lydia. She is so refreshing in her loyalty. If I regret anything, it is that I cannot give her back that which Oberon has stolen.
Terry: Have you ever betrayed anyone?
Aeon: Have you learned nothing about the Fae? Do not place your trust in us, Mortal. All the stories you tell your littles about us and you still don’t understand. We are not bound by such relationships as you prize. We take lovers, but without the childish expectation of love that you chase all your brief lives. You speak of betrayal as if it were some terrible offense. To us, it is merely another turn in a game of power.
Terry: Do you keep your promises?
Aeon: Ah, well that is a different story. What I bind my name to, takes a payment, a tithe if you will. And if I break that oath, I will forfeit a part of myself. We take our word seriously; it is our very selves. You Mortals, who talk of the pain of betrayal, you break your word without thought, without consequence. For all the centuries I have known the ephemerals, this I will never understand. Raised among you as she was, Lydia still understands the weight of a promise, though it would be easier for her if she did not.
Terry: What is your favorite scent? Why?
Aeon: The scent of a just ripe peach. At the heart of my maze, there is a garden. At the heart of that garden, is my peach tree. It is the oldest tree in Faerie and its fruit reminds me of my life before this punishment. The only time the thorns do not torment me is when I am beneath its boughs.