No Longer Alone

In these moments, unable to flee to any real effect, lest still more I reveal the extent of my handicap, I wish for the wisdom of Old Mother; skin scribbled with a lifetime’s learning, she would have known the best way to overcome this queer situation. Without better guidance, my eyes ascend beneath their dimming cover, the whole young face they're set into does, and the thick fabric hood slides back part-way along the mess of my tethered auburn hair. The not-Fae’s smile, though small, seems warm, and friendly enough. I can’t help but wonder what it is about the Outlanders (and Naturals like her, the same), that the Fae despise so. Educated through earlier decades to believe that they are poisonous, greedy, willing to walk over whatever obstacle lies between them (even Fae), and the object of their interest (knowledge? material?), my imagination has formed a far more grotesque identity. ”Yes,” I murmur, a sliver of humbleness returning to the part-muted tone, and though I try, it’s a struggle to find any trace of the monster this one should, by all respects, be. A timid smile is returned as the other further promotes her amicable posture. My own small face tilts slightly at the suggestion of unintended rudeness. “The Greatwood is home,” I begin, pausing though to filter for words that might better relay my meaning. “I mean… Fae aren’t fond of uninvited guests.” Again a quiet smile, pleased with the less accusatory choice of words, and in a show of mutual clemency, I soften the lines of tension through my frame. Before I attempt to guide her direction, my  own curiosity bubbles to the surface. “What lead you here?”