Away with the Faeries

Chapter Two

Hah, Faeries. Guess I had finally lost it.

Marcel stood before me, dark eyes laced with slight concern. He looked so, real. It was disturbing almost, how easily my mind had fabricated all of this.

"Right," I nodded slowly, dragging the word out in agreement. This was all a figment of my imagination. I was likely tied away in a straight jacket, giggling off in some forgotten corner of an asylum. "I've gone mad."

"You've not gone mad," a small voice huffed.

Frightened I pulled the dusty sheet closer to my body, spinning in search of the voice.

"You're squishing me!" The voice mumbled, "Stupid human I'm suffocating!"

Breaking out from under the thin blanket sprang my little ball of glowing annoyance. Stumbling back through the knee-length snow, my jaw slackened shocked at the sight before me. What had once been a ball of light that pestered the living daylights out of me, was now a tiny pixie. Her figure glowed from beneath her intricate gown. Dark, kinky curls framed her face, her small tanned lips twisted into a frown as she held herself up on translucent wings.

"You," I hissed.

"Miss me so soon babe," the tiny pixie smirked.

Marcel shuffled in the snow before us; "You're human," he asked, voice low in warning. Then faster than I'd ever seen anybody move, he slung his longbow from behind his back, knocking an arrow. "Who sent you," he questioned fiercely.

Wind snapped and frost cut at my burning skin. Who sent me? Wouldn't I like to know, Mr. Figment of my Imagination. The sharp blade was aimed directly at my chest. Cute, even my own delusion wants me dead. On numb legs I took a step through the powdery snow, cocking my head to the side as I eyed the deadly weapon.

He watched me closely but made no effort to fire or retreat. Only watching me, a sort of curiosity stirring within his eyes. Once in range, I place a finger on the flat of the blade, pushing it to the side. Marcel kept his firm gaze locked on me as he eased his hold of the arrow, causing the string to slacken and the arrow to fall.

I gazed up at him, gesturing down to the curved bow, "You could really hurt somebody with that," I said, a slight smirk tugging at the corners of my mouth.

Marcel's lips twitched as he slung the bow back across his shoulders. "Apologies," he grumbled smartly, "Hadn't realized."

As the wind grew wilder, I shrunk back into my old ratty blanket; the small pixie joining me. Marcel's eyes fanned over my shivering frame, covered in frost and snow. Then without warning, he swept me into his arms, a surprised yelp escaping me as I was pulled from my feet. Warmth surrounded us as he wrapped us in the heavy crimson cloak he wore. Gladly I welcomed it like an old friend. Unwillingly my head began to bob, rolling until it landed heavily on Marcel's chest.

"Sleep." As he spoke a deep rumble carried through his chest, "Dame de la forêt."

Much to my dismay the words seemed to leak from my sleep-deprived lips before I could stop them, "Ah, Vous Vous trompez, mon ami. Je ne suis pas une dame." And as my heavy eyelids finally drifted closed a soft chuckle bloomed from within Marcel's chest.

---

Warmth. It was all I felt as I stirred awake some hours later. Rays of sun poured in through a foggy glass pane, lighting up the cozy burrow of a room. Slowly righting myself, I sat on the small hay-filled bed gathering my surroundings. A couple of heavy quilts had been wrapped around me; I sat on the single bed in the room, beside it a ceramic bowl in which lay my pixie wrapped snuggly in furs. The room in itself was bare with a single chair and woven rug. At the far end was a splintering wooden door; its brass handle watched me almost tauntingly.

Inching towards the door, I reached out for the handle stopping only when the sound of fighting filled my ears. The words were in French, quick and hushed.

"A human!" Cried a woman, stress seeping into the words.

"She needed our help mama." Retorted a deep voice. Marcel.

"And who will help us, hm," Marcel's mother asked, "not a soul when they find out we took pity on a human girl."

"She was going to die," Marcel stressed.

Silence stretched, the air becoming unnervingly still.

"And now so will we." His mother said softly, boots clicking light against the floor as she began off.

"Would you have rather I left her to die?"

Marcel's mother was quiet a moment; "You have been away too long, your heart has grown too soft. That is a dangerous thing in times like these."

The silence grew once more.

"She does not know who I am," he began once more. When his mother remained silent he spoke again, "And she speaks the old tongue."

"A human," her voice curved the words up in a soft question.

"A human," Marcel agreed.

There was a brief silence before boots began clicking off towards my room; "I want to meet her."

"Mama," Marcel panicked, the sound of his own heavy boots following closely after, "let the poor lady sleep."

Oh, gods. Stumbling over myself I clumsily moved as far from the door as possible. Toying with loose strands of my raven hair I stared out the window. Not suspicious at all. But it was to no avail for as Mrs. Benett tore into my room, Marcel looked me over knowingly. Grinning guiltily back I faced my attention on Mrs. Benett.

You would be doing the woman a huge injustice by calling her pretty, she was absolutely breathtaking. I was not worthy to behold such a sight; should I kneel? I felt like kneeling was proper before someone so beautiful. Mrs. Benett despite whatever her age may be did not look a day over twenty. She had long silk locks of auburn that flowed perfectly to her slim waist. Her large almond eyes were glued to me, colored a magnificent shade of amber. Her cheeks were painted pink with a healthy flush as were her pointed lips.

What stood out the most were her lush feathered wings that fell to the floor behind her in deep colors of chestnut. I tried to keep my mouth from gaping at the sight. Wings, she had wings. Mrs. Benett wiped her hands down her patchy apron once before holding one out to me.

"Happy to see you." Her broken English was dripping in the strange French accent.

Cautiously I extended my own hand to meet hers, the French slipping awkwardly from my lips, "The pleasure is mine, Madam Benett."

It had been too long since I'd spoken my native language, it had begun to feel alien on my tongue. Mrs. Benett's face became aglow as she turned happily to her son, her wings fluttering jovially behind her.

"I told you," he muttered rather smugly.