The Chosen and The Fae

Chapter One: The beginning of the End.

Alvera straightened her back, grimacing at the pain rumbling through her protesting muscles. Her mother had only told her to clean the hut before she left for the city, and Alvera knew from past experiences at if it wasn't cleaned by her return, there would be consequences. And so she labored away, scrubbing at the rough wooden floors, as she knew her mother liked them to gleam, and carefully cleaning her mother's mirror. It had been an hour already, and only half the hut was cleaned. Alvera glanced at the sky outside the window, frowning. She didn't have much time until the beginning of the festival.

It was thrown at the beginning of every year, and while her mother had not told her that she could go, she had never told her that she couldn't...that counted, right?

It would have to, because there was no way that Alvera was missing this festival. She had been waiting all year, managing to hide away some of the little money that she had made working for the village baker from her mother for long enough to buy some fabric, and from there she had waited every night till her mother had fallen asleep to carefully sew the thing into a dress she could wear without shame. Every night since she had finished it, she pulled it out of the little box under the loose floorboards to admire it.

She would not miss this festival.

And so she hurried through all of her tasks, ignoring her aching back and arms and scrubbing away at every uncovered inch of their small hut. When she had finished, she took a small break to admire it.

The whole hut was comprised of two rooms, the kitchen/dining area, with its small table and rickety chairs, and a box, turned upside down to act as a small stool. Next was the bedroom. Her mother's small cot stood in the far-left corner of the room, a hard pillow and thin blanket spread across it. In the opposite corner of the room lay a small sleeping mat, her own. The only thing adorning this was a small towel of sorts, riddled with holes. She shivered at the thought of all the cold, lonely nights spent on that mat.

No, not today. For once, I am not going to think about this. I will be happy this day.

And so she carefully rearranged the blanket on her mother's cot, brushing off imaginary dust when she had finished. Finally, she was done. She could barely contain her smile, and after a moment, she stopped trying, letting the grin break over her face as she picked up a large bucket from the corner of the kitchen and raced outside to the small creek in the edge of woods, bordering her backyard. She bent over and filled the bucket with the rushing, clear and cold water, shivering as the cold water brushed over her hands, raising gooseflesh.

When the bucket was full, she turned around and carefully carried it back to the hut, going around to the front of the small structure, she poured the water from the bucket into a large pot suspended over a fire-pit. When the water was inside the pot, she went back into the hut, grabbing a flint and steel from the table an returning to the fire-pit.

Soon there was a small fire roaring away underneath the pot, hissing as it touched the water droplets running down the side of it. She crouched before it, stretching her hands out towards it and sighing as she felt the blissful heat touch her fingertips. She remained that way for a while, only moving when her legs began to scream at her for bending them for that long.

Once the water began to boil, she grabbed a rag from the hut and carefully picked up the pot by a wire slinging over the top of it, and poured it back into the bucket. Walking slowly back into the hut, flinching every time the steaming water sloshed too close to the edge.

When she had reached the hut, she closed the small door with her foot, not even taking her eyes off the bucket in her hands. Slowly she set it down on the table and sighed, flexing her arms over her head. Then she finally began to ready herself for the festival.

She methodically cleaned her body, the rag she had used to grab the pot serving as a washcloth, dunking it periodically in the hot water and rubbing it vigorously against her dirty skin, until soft pink flesh poked out from beneath the grime. When she had cleaned her entire body, thoroughly, she moved to her hair, striding to the doorway and wetting her hair with a portion of the now only warm water. Then came the part that could really get her into trouble if her mother ever found out. She took the small bottle of tonic that her mother rubbed into her hair every morning to clean it and poured a very small amount into her dark red hair. Once she was sure it was on most of the thick tresses, she rubbed it into her scalp, hard. She didn't want even a modicum of the grease and filth to remain. Just for one more night she wanted to be clean.

Was that too much to ask, after everything she had been through?

Alvera soon finished with her hair and used the last of the tepid water to rinse the tonic out, as she had seen her mother doing before her, and then she went dry it off as best she could with another rag. Her hair, being very thick, was still quite damp when she finished with her ministrations, and so she moved back out to the fire, ignoring the cold wind against her wet hair, and held her head close to the dying embers, till at least the very top was dry.

Then she waited for it to stop dripping, and before she knew it, she was in her festival dress, completely awed, and standing in front of her mother's mirror.

The dark green fabric of the simple dress caught the red in Alvera's hair, making it shine more than it had in years, and it was clean. In fact, her whole self was cleaned, looking faintly pink from all the scrubbing, her pale skin fairly glowed in the sunlight, and she watched with amazement as the girl in the reflection mirrored her movement to grab a strand of her now dry hair and sniff it. It smelled of flowers, and the scent of it made her nearly heady.

The dress, being of a simple cut and make, seemed like the finest thing she had ever worn, even though she knew it was not, and she could not stop herself from running her hands down and across the silky fabric, the kiss of it soft against her skin.

The most astounding thing, though, was her face. She had not been able to see it clearly in a very long time, obscured as it was by streaks of mud. Whenever it had been cleaned, usually by the kind hand of the baker's wife, there had never been a mirror for her to see herself before her features were dirtied again. And so she stood still assessing her face. Her cheeks were much thinner than they once had been, giving her a waifish, pale look, and her large eyes, a soft blue, only added to this effect, as they seemed almost empty, never really focusing on anything physical. Her nose was much the same as it had been, long and slightly pointed. Her mouth small, but full, with the upper lip protruding rudely away from the lower. And when her gaze traveled further down, she smiled to see that the dress perfectly accentuated the very small, budding breasts on her thin chest. She looked prettier than she could ever remember looking, and she did a small little dance about the room, laughing and stroking the soft fabric of her dress.

Now I have only to wait till evening bell, she thought eagerly, almost pinching herself.

Only a little longer.

***************Author's Note***************

Hello there!

If there's anyone reading this, I would like to give you a big virtual hug, because ohmygoshsomeoneisreadingthis??

And I would also like to apologize. I know this chapter was really super boring, and there was way too much detail in her readying for the stupid f**king festival, like what the actual s**t, Author?

....Sorry.

Also, the update schedule is kinda lame, like once every OTHER Monday?? And if I get a lot more readers I will change that, however, right now, I just don't have enough time to update weekly, like I would love too.

So anyway, thank you soooooo much for reading this, and if you liked it F**KING SMASH THAT VOTE BUTTON!

...Like seriously, I could really use it :)

Love, The Author

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