Sunlight and Birdsong flew into the room Gillan was sleeping in. The first, a natural phenomenon, tickled her on the eyelids with its gentle warmth. The other one sat on a rafter and looked with worry at the awakening girl.
Gillan tried to get up. That turned out impossible due to her cursed hair's tendency to transform into a uniform monolith after any amount of sleep. She pushed the bunch of locks as far on the floor as she could and then reached for a sack on her bedside. The sack was filled to the brim with combs. All wooden, some painted with flowers out of boredom, others — chipped on the sides from whenever a daydream invaded her while combing.
Birdsong let her legs from the rafter and swung them in thoughtless motions. She watched the girl slowly make her way through the slab of hair, more and more locks separating with each movement of the comb. When she got to the last bit — just after splitting away the last few curls — the comb broke.
She discarded the broken tool under her bed, where it joined others of its kind. A sack like that usually lasted her for a few months. What frightened her, was that initially none of the combs broke. It was only four years ago that the wood started weakening as if it had lost its spirit of toughness.
Gillan stood up in front of an old, tarnished mirror, and ran her hands through the neatly separated locks. All fell nicely into place, but yesterday's braiding had taken a toll on the curls. She tried smiling to herself in the mirror. The girl then looked to the side and her heart skipped a beat.
On her bed, in her room, in her cabin, there lay an armoured devil whose skin are scales of mirrors. With rocks for feet. Birdsong flew onto Gillan's shoulder and the two stared at the sleeping man. His mirror-scaled breast rose and fell with every breath.
They tried shaking him, the pixie attempted a spell, then a different one, but nothing worked. After another few fails, both the fairy and the girl dropped to the floor in disappointment.
"Do you want to..." Birdsong started, "Talk about umm...yesterday?"
Gillan tensed up. She still had no idea what to make of what had happened. The tightly-corked bottle of feelings she'd been holding inside of her certainly opened up. What — to the best of her knowledge — she now needed was a bit of peace, quiet, and a task to complete. Then she'd work through what had happened. After all, why bother idly sitting with nothing but thoughts for company when there were things to be done.
Birdsong didn't need her to answer. She turned her sight away from her human and stared blankly at the sleeping devil.
A decisive knock on the door pulled them both out of the daydream. They heard a distant bark.
Gillan's pupils tightened. Her muscles flexed as her brain locked into battle stations, expecting the worst. Both her and Birdsong knew exactly what waited outside the door, and both knew there was no chance of avoiding its opening. The only choice present was who'd open it.
At a silent command, the fairy flew into a small hole in the wall near the ceiling and tried her best to obscure her accompanying music. In the hole itself she had a few scraps of snailwool with which she'd muffle her sounds whenever they expected company. She gave Gillan a chirp of readiness and covered the last inch of her body. The door creaked open.
"I uhh..." her father began upon seeing her. "I brought you this."
Gillan eyed him from head to toe and noticed a large shape shifting behind the man. The bloodhound was here.
Every second villager had one by now. In general, the Little People's attack was kept secret from the wider world, even though they didn't know whether the First Star's falling had affected anyone else. And why? For profit.
Turns out, in a world where fairies were the definition of neutral yet dangerous enough in their wit to curse any foe — if a few of them were to go on a mindless rampage — killing them was not only justified, but easy. The Starfall had made the Good Neighbours of the area lose whatever larger connection to the Here they had. The Here, of course, was their realm, where all of the fey courts operated.
Bloodhounds — like crows — were deeply anti-magical beings. The difference being only that, when crows' feathers could obscure one from the faeries sight, those dogs could sniff out Little People like they were pigs searching for truffles. And one such dog was at Gillan's doorstep.
The father handed her a circular wrapping. She accepted it and revealed its contents. Inside lay a basket-hilt, like one that would go on a broadsword. This one was surprisingly well-made, given that the village's blacksmith — Gillan's mother — was long dead. And the pattern's imagery of it told straight up that it was something that couldn't have been made before her passing.
"It's for you," he repeated, "I know you have that blade, and I think you know how to mount it."
"...yes." She managed to get out.
The father turned the hilt in her hands so that she could see the pattern. "Wolfsbane," he said. "May it protect you from those um..." he paused. His guru game wasn't on top at the moment. "From all evil that howls in the woods. Do you mind if I just—"
He let the bloodhounds loose. Immediately, before Gillan could do so much as blink, the dog ran into the cabin. The dog's large ears flapped as it frantically sniffed the air for any semblance of magic. Gillan silently prayed that Birdsong had covered herself up enough.
After a good five minutes the dog came back, walking slowly, its head lowered in disappointment. The feeling wasn't caused by its not finding of the fairy, at least not directly. Dog's, by themselves, aren't evil. It's their masters that are most-often the problem, and that was the case here. The bloodhound was only sad because it failed to do its master's bidding.
Gillan couldn't get any words out. Some part of her had thought that after yesterday the whole thing with hunting fairies would stop. That her father not killing her signalled the end of an awful era. Some part of her was visibly wrong. Maybe people couldn't change.
Her father stroked the dogs head, disappointment likewise riddling his face. At least he didn't beat the poor animal when it failed to deliver. Other owners wouldn't be so kind.
He opened his mouth, evidently wanting to say something. He then closed it, as if he either remembered something else or forgot whatever he wanted to get out. The father grabbed the leash — an iron chain — and went home, leaving Gillan trying to calm down from the sudden occurrence.
She came back into the cabin and locked the door. She put her back to it and slid onto the ground. Birdsong's tiny head popped out of the hole in the wall. Gillan took a few deep breaths and tried to loosen up. That promptly failed, as what happened next only caused her to tense up even more. She heard a sneeze. The devil had woken up.
