Snow ✓

An Enchanted Conception

Waiting, it was all the faeries did anymore. Here, in the shadows of the Holókaustos, trapped between this world and the next for seventy orbits with nothing to stir them but thoughts of retribution—human concept they had had to learn the hard way.

But the wait was nearly over.

The clearing buzzed with anticipation. Faeries, each a slender reed rising from the barren forest floor, were gathered at the edges, whispering in a tongue the larger world had all but forgotten. Every so often, one would look to the night sky where particles of light, burning balls of pure magic, flitted in and out of a hazy disturbance in the air, a ripple that made the stars beyond it dance. It was a tear made by old and powerful magic, a tear never repaired that suckled at their souls even now.

The werelights reminded Tres of lightbugs.

He dispelled the childish thought and stood a little straighter, feeling Alastor's eyes burning into the side of his head. Between Tres and the Faery King, a white glint as the methuselah grinned at Tres' expense. Not even that bloodsucker could ruin Tres' mood, not tonight.

Born to a human mother and raised by her for his first dozen formative orbits, Tres had always been a thing apart, shunned all his life by his own. Even during the Great War, they hadn't trusted him to do more than build walls to keep the mortals out of the Holóspiritus. In a sick twist of fate, it had been his lovesick father turned traitor who set fire to the forest and tore open that portal so that oblivion might swallow them whole.

Tres had killed Aelfric himself before he could complete the spell, but the damage had been done—it took everything in them to quell the inferno and what remained of their magic to conceal themselves from the humans.

The war was lost and the Holóspiritus did not survive. Ash and soot and burned limbs grasping like drowning men up at an indifferent sky were all that remined. That and the faeries, ghosts of their selves.

For orbits, Tres poured over the grimores in Alferic's study, searching for a way to seal the tear that continued to sap at their power. Only recently had he discovered how to end this hellish purgatory, and tonight, he would see it put into motion.

The insignia etched into his chest flared at so many thoughts of the traitor who had carved it, a parting gift, so that Tres might be the sole survivor of the Holókaustos.

He fought the urge to itch it as a hush fell over the crowd and Tres' white-pelted solthus Hurgo trotted into the clearing, tongue lolling. Close behind followed a human woman, barefoot, in nothing but a shift. The only hesitation was on her face, framed by golden tendrils shorn short. Hurgo went straight to Tres and sat back on his haunches. Not a word was spoken. Not a noise made as the woman stepped over the lip and into the crater the size of a one-room hut covered in white flowers with golden centers, looking around like she couldn't see them but knew someone was there. She hiked up her shift, got on her knees and started ripping flowers up by the roots and shoveling them into her mouth.

Tres' heart knocked against his ribcage as her slavering picked at the quiet. Tears ran dirty trails down her plumped-up cheeks. Her fingers and lips were quickly caked in pollen. Once she had grazed half the crater clean, she began to choke. She clutched at her chest, retching between gags as all that green started to back up her throat.

Tres took a step with the intention of thumping her on the back to ease the load when she swallowed and bent back to her task, gorging on stems, roots and all.

She would not remember this. He'd make sure of it. Still, he wondered as she inhaled the very last one how aware she was now. Was her conscience curled up, looking out at the world, waiting for the door open? Or was it screaming, tearing itself to shreds as it tried to gain control of a runaway body?