No Longer Alone

We are right to fear them. The Outlanders… She said so. Old Mother told me that the Old Gods abhor them. That The Hollowed Grounds is because of them; a consequence of the cataclysm that saw them appear. The Spire Demon. I don’t like them either. She said that the dome was meant to contain them and the corruption their arrival will introduce; that they are savages who will poison our forest and infiltrate our society like termites. The idea frightens me. Savages Apparently, they have brought with them strange gods of their own. Probably equally immoral, intent on devouring Caido for whatever profit they see fit. Like my family, and all other Fae, I have sworn to protect The Greatwood. Old Mother told me that Delah has an army rallied and that her scouts patrol both day and night. I have seen her soldiers, the Outlanders should be fearful. I like the War Chief. Perhaps in another life, if my body wasn’t crippled, I might have joined her ranks and fought among her elite. As it stands, I’m not useful for anything. Except detail. My fingers wrap tightly across the top of my leather bag. It rubs against the odd, hobbling motion of my body, weighed down by the books buried inside. Old Mother said there is use for someone with book skills like mine… I pause suddenly, heat returning to my cheeks as I tip one hidden ear to the breeze (though stale and slow it is). I can hear a voice, the appearance of which isn’t initially shocking, but socialisation isn’t my forte; there is something else too which starts a chilled shiver down my spine. Carefully I begin to scan the vegetation with narrowed, wary eyes, wishing I had the capability of crouching down, to hide.   The voice I can hear seems feminine and attractive, merely a hum without the fracture of words. It should be Fae, but suspicion burns my nerves and I wonder whether I should ignore the other and continue home, like certainly Mother would prefer. My body hangs weakly, caught in the limbo-land of my indecision. “Well Fuck…” Deep beneath the awning of cloak, this shadowed face turns. My conscience won’t let me abandon them, though every other inch of me screams in protest. Every other inch of me is right too, I know it. “Can... I aid?” I return foolishly, voice choked by the simmer of uncertainty; I cannot help it. With eyes clenched and my breath held tight, I wait, wishing that perhaps it had been the whistle of a bird all along.