hold me 𐦍 yeonbin

042 ᯓᡣ𐭩

Yeonjun is alone on his stump when he notices a change in the air.

You shouldn’t be here.

He looks up. There are no hawks. In the grass around the base of his stump, there are no snakes. No warlocks, no other pixies, not a single fish in the lake behind him. Everything is normal except for one thing Yeonjun can’t place.

You can’t be here.

It is not a telepath. It comes from above him. It sounds it might be coming from Hyeastra herself. The last time they spoke, Hye had predicted his misfortune.

It does not feel nice or refreshing not to feel. It does not feel anything. Yeonjun does not feel any emotions, and the fact he feels nothing at all makes him feel nothing at all. It is familiar, but his body has no reaction to the sense.

There are crickets chirping but none in the grass. There is wind blowing, yet the bluebells stand still. There are willow leaves on the ground around his stump, while no leaves fall from the branches. The well is full, her song is dim.

What’s a human doing here?

A human? Yeonjun spins around. There is no human at his stump. A snake pretending to be a human to try manipulating him? Unlikely. Snakes know pixies are indifferent towards humans.

I don’t know. Should we kill it?

Yeonjun’s body does not react in fear and he does not expect it to. He sits in the moss atop his stump and waits for a being to propose a contract. He is not bored and he is not stimulated. It does not feel nice or not nice not to feel.

The absence of human emotions is something Yeonjun could or could not do without.

It thinks it’s a pixie.

“I am a pixie,” Yeonjun says to the invisible sounds. It has no voice. It is not whispering or yelling. “Are you here to bond a contract?” he asks the wind.

It thinks it’s got a name.

Yeonjun does not have a name. A name requires a sense of self. Yeonjun has no sense and no self of which to have a sense.

Yeonjun, do you know how to kill a pixie?

“Pixies die only when their spirit depletes. You cannot kill me. If you are not seeking a contract, I will not entertain further conversation.”

A butterfly floats above Yeonjun’s head, singing a song familiar in lyric and tune. Butterflies can only speak that which they have heard, unable to create new ideas, only relay information. When a butterfly sings, it is important to listen.

The butterfly’s lyricless song echoes through the meadow:

Yesterday, in desperation, a star that a pixie once knew rearranged the heavens, seeking the remedy for his crimes to relieve himself from damnation.

Yeonjun has heard this song before. He remembers teaching it to the butterfly.

All the star dust at his call hadn’t the force to annul a contract bonded of white pixie dust, and thus, two stars remained untouched.

The human holding the other end of Yeonjun’s final contract must have remembered by now. Yeonjun’s tattoo is faded. He has no more active contracts. He continues to listen to the butterfly, not out of curiosity or boredom, only because it is there and he is here.

Yesterday, a human that a pixie once knew contradicted the star’s teachings which had not yet come to pass. Without wings and without dust, the pixie’s longevity would fade at last.