The Sun Sídhe

13 - Trapped

Aeden's most vivid memory of his sister was the night he lost her.

The sky was perfectly clear, a welcome rarity. He and Sorcha laid on the grass outside their home, watching the stars. His mother had told them how humans traced imaginary patterns between them and made stories; they were trying to do it themselves, finding scattered images of birds and trees and roots. The wind rustled the leaves overhead, carrying the scent of rich foliage with it. It was winter, but their parents' powers kept the clearing filled with beds of soft grass and flowers. That was one of Aeden's favourite things about this place.

But this game bored him.

"I can't understand it," he sighed, relaxing into the ground. "Stars are stars. Their patterns are the ones we see."

"That's because you have no imagination. You've got to trace lines in your mind," Sorcha said, poking his temple. Her green eyes roved back to the sky, and she blew a strand of brown hair from her forehead. Like Aeden, her features were beginning to lose the roundness of youth.

"I know that," Aeden snapped. "But why? If I wanted to look at a tree, I'd look at a tree. Not some distant sparks."

"But there's stories in those sparks."

He poked her side. She was sensitive there, and rolled away with a yelp. Leaves were tangled in her hair when she righted herself, sticking her tongue out like a child.

"Not real stories," Aeden said. "Nevan tells us the real ones. The stars are just—"

"Da wouldn't know a good tale if it slapped him," Sorcha sniffed. She made to sit, glared at Aeden until he held his hands up in innocent defeat, laid herself onto the grass. Lifting her arm, she traced some unknown image onto the mosaic of stars stretched above them. Without the moon's light, they shone brighter than ever. "To be honest, I don't understand the patterns either. But... maybe their stories aren't so bad. I like the ones about us."

"Are you serious? We're monsters in half." He waved vaguely, remembering his scattered encounters with humans when he found travellers or ventured too close to the nearby town. Upon seeing him shift, they'd said the same things. Demon, goblin, spirit, omen. And when he snuck away from home, disguised himself, and lingered near the inn—Sorcha often joined him for those visits—he'd heard tales of púcai specifically. One involved taming a púca with iron spurs. His skin itched merely thinking of it.

"Only in half. There are plenty of legends where they admire sídhe and we give them little gifts." Sorcha shrugged, smiling faintly. "But have you ever thought that, maybe, we are a bit like monsters?"

Aeden felt his smile fade. "Don't say that."

"Not us, not really, but there's plenty of sídhe that treat them like toys. I can't blame them for being scared." She hummed. "I think humans are interesting. I want to learn about them too. Maybe I'll give one a gift one day and see what happens."

He thought for a moment, turning her words over in his mind. They weren't toys, but he'd never placed much interest in humans: they were occasionally entertaining to mess with, and that was all. They were too different and too wary, with their iron weapons and charms.

Perhaps Sorcha had seen something he didn't. She was younger than him, and her little whims were ever-changing, but she had that sort of look in her eyes.

"You're strange," he relented, stretching his arms above his head. "But I'd like to see that."

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Aeden had forgotten pain could be so heavy.

The chains burned in a way Maeve's fire never could, every link searing into his flesh like a brand. But the iron cut deeper than that: its power blistered his muscles and nerves raw, sliced his bones with molten claws, tore into his soul and bled him of his strength. If he tried to shift—anything, anything small enough to escape—the agony surged, and he drowned in it. He was trapped as a human. Blunt teeth, clipped nails. No way to slip free.