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Faires are cute aren't they? They're just sooooo cute! Cutey, cute, cute, cute cute....
Rules of War
By
The creature in the cage wasn’t moving. It sat still and silent in the centre of its prison watching Arathy approach, impassively and unconcerned, with its dull violet eyes. When Arathy’s father, Kyther, had returned from patrol duty and unloaded the cage from the cart, the creature had been shouting in its own language and rattling the bars that surrounded it, but it had quietened down when Kyther had threatened it with an iron rod, and it hadn’t moved since. Even so, Arathy still felt nervous as he crept towards the cage. His heart was pounding, his breathing was ragged and his palms were slick with sweat, but he knew that was as much to do with the fear of his father coming back out of the farm house and catching him avoiding his chores, as it was because of the nervous anticipation he felt at finally being able to see one of the fey.
They had been at
war with the faerie race since his great grandfather’s time, but Arathy had
never actually seen one. He had heard stories about them since he was a child,
how they stole mortal children and enslaved them, made women and animals
infertile, spoiled crops, soured milk and sank ships, but he had always thought
that he would have to wait until he was eighteen, and joined his father and
older brother, Rodir, on patrol, before he would catch a glimpse of one. He had
never thought that his father would actually capture a faerie, so he had
no intention of wasting this opportunity, even if he would face a thrashing if
he were caught.
Inside the
wooden cage, hung all over with its iron disks to keep its prisoner secure, as
everyone knew that the fey were terrified of iron, was a female faerie. She was
a slender, androgynous creature, but her breasts, small and delicately formed,
clearly defined her sex. She was probably as tall as Arathy, but in the small
space of the cage, with her long limbs curled up around her, it was hard to
tell. She seemed to be wearing nothing more than sheer piece of gossamer as a
dress. It was like a spider’s web, draped around her, cut low at the back for
where her wings would have protruded through her skin, only they were gone now.
All that remained were two stubs, no longer bleeding, surrounded by red and
torn skin, and dried blood. Kyther had chopped the wings off to make sure that
she couldn’t fly away, and he was bound to profit from that deed as faerie
wings were prized at markets, like the faeries themselves. Faerie women and
children were very marketable and could sell for a small fortune sometimes. The
men were less desirable as they were considered more dangerous, but Arathy
wasn’t sure about that. The look in this faerie woman’s violet cat-slit eyes
was one of pure murder.
But she looked
scared, too.
“Can I get you
anything?” Arathy asked her softly, not sure that she could even understand
him. “To eat or drink?” There was a pause and then the faerie woman shook her
head, milky-white hair flying about her face. “Are you in pain?” There was
another pause and then an uncomfortable nod. “I will get you something, some
water from the well, try and clean you up. Just hold still-.” Another nod and
Arathy turned and hurried away, heading towards the well.
Arathy worked
quickly to fill the bucket with icy cold water and then stumbled back to the
cage as fast as he could across the uneven ground, spilling a little of the
water as he went. When he reached the
cage he gave the faerie a nervous smile, one that he hoped would comfort her,
before he headed around the back of it to squat in the dirt behind her. He
soaked the hem of his cloak in the cold well water and carefully reached
through the bars to dab it against the faerie’s pale skin.
The faerie girl
cried out at his touch and flinched away.
“I’m sorry,”
Arathy whispered. “I really am-.”
“No,” the girl
said, in a soft, lilting voice that showed that she could not only understand
him, but speak his language. “Please, continue.”
Arathy hesitated
but the girl squared off her shoulders and shoved a fist into her mouth to mask
any cry that she might make, leaving Arathy no choice, but to take a deep, slow
breath and raise the damp cloak corner again to dab at her back.
He did his best
to clean away the dried blood and soothe the sore flesh without hurting her,
but every now and then the faerie would hiss in pain, or flinch away from his
touch. Arathy didn’t blame her for that. Her once glimmering wings were gone
and nothing remained but the stubs and sore and cauterized flesh. It had to
hurt, it had to be distressing, but there was nothing that Arathy could do to
except dab at her skin carefully with the well water.
And then his
mother was calling him in for breakfast.
***
The barn where
Kyther moved the faerie, to keep her out of his way, was draughty and cold and
hung all over with tatty cobwebs that fluttered in the breeze, but at least it
was private. He had moved her there the same evening that she had been brought
to the farm, and since then, hadn’t shown her any interest at all! He had left
her care to Arathy and Rodir, after having set down his stringent rules: neither
Arathy, nor Rodir, were to spend any time with her, other than to push her food
through the small slot in the cage and to empty her chamber-pot; they were not
to talk to her; they were not to look her in the eye, and they were not to touch her.
Faeries were
evil creatures and could cast a spell on a man just by looking at them, Kyther
had said, so they had to be very careful. But in the week that Arathy had been
helping Rodir to take care of the faerie, he had not seen anything about her
that he could consider evil, in fact, she seemed rather vulnerable and sad, and
very fascinating! He knew that he should avoid her, that he should have nothing
to do with her, that she was the enemy, but he couldn’t help himself. She was
an exotic creature, strange, mysterious, with her violet eyes, white hair and
feline features, and he wanted to spend time with her, he wanted to know more
about her, he was captivated.
He tried to win
her affection by taking her gifts: his mother’s healing salve, for the wounds
on her back; a blanket, to keep her warm at night; a comb and a mirror, so that
she could make herself look pretty; and food, that he stole from the larder and
supper table so that she wouldn’t have to eat the table scraps that his mother
set aside for her. And the faerie girl
certainly seemed to appreciate his care and attention.
After only a few
days of coaxing she had told him her name, Ash’ia, and now she always smiled at
him when he entered the barn and asked him how his day had been. Arathy knew
that she didn’t do the same for Rodir! In fact, when his brother was in the
barn Ash’ia wouldn’t lift her head, she became cowed, frightened, although
Arathy was sure that, sometimes, he saw a glitter of something in her violet
eyes, a look of anger, barely kept in check, but then the look was gone and
Arathy couldn’t be sure he hadn’t imagined it after all.
Sometimes, when
Rodir wasn’t around, and Arathy had
enough time, Ash’ia would tell him stories about her life back in the Faerie
Realm. Although she did avoid telling him anything that was personal about
herself, she was full of stories about her brothers and sisters, one of whom
was a scout in the Queen’s Army, a warrior, which Arathy found incredible. A
woman fighting alongside the men! But, judging from Ash’ia’s stories, things
were very different in the Faerie Realm. Women could rule, they could fight,
they didn’t have to get married and have children, they were equal to the men,
and worked alongside them. Ash’ia had actually been horrified at the idea that,
in the Mortal Realm, a woman was expected to stay home and raise children and
she couldn’t understand why any woman would accept just this for herself.
It was these
differences, and the stories that she told, that intrigued Arathy more than
anything else and lured him back, even when he should have been doing his
chores, eating his meals, or sleeping in his bed.
As usual, when
Arathy slid into the barn, Ash’ia’s eyes lit up. “It is good to see you this
evening, Arathy,” she told him. “I grow bored alone in here. It is nice to have
someone to talk to.”
“I brought you
your supper,” Arathy said. He dug out the food that he had procured early in
the evening, two apples, a chunk of white cheese and half a thick sausage.
Ash’ia took them with a bright smile, her soft hand gently touching his as he
passed them through the slot.
“Thank you.” She took a bite of
the apple. “How . . . . how much longer will it be until I am taken to market,
to be sold?” Her voice shook a little as she spoke which didn’t surprise Arathy.
She had to be terrified of what was to come. He knew that he would be, in the
same situation.
“We are taking
you next week,” he said quietly.
“Oh.” Ash’ia’s
mouth twisted. “Oh.”
“Will you be all
right?”
“Would you?” she
countered. “If you were locked away in a small cage, with no room to stand up,
would you be all right? I can’t stretch my legs or my arms, they are so cramped
that they are a mass of pain.” Her violet eyes welled up with tears. “It hurts,”
she said, “so much, that I am even looking forward to being taken to market!
Can you imagine, I am looking forward to being paraded around in front of
gaping mortals, listening to their catcalls, being bid on as if I were a fine
cow, just so that I can get out of this damn cage!”
Arathy
swallowed. “I-I wish that I could let you out-.”
“I know,” Ash’ia
said, with a forced smile. “It’s all right. I do understand. I am an exotic
creature, a pet, I am worth a lot of coin, you can’t take the risk that I might
escape if you were to let me out for a bit.”
Arathy flinched
as he shook his head. “No,” he said. “It’s not that. I can’t let you
out. My father has a key for the lock and he keeps it with him all the time, I
don’t see any way that I could steal it from him to be able to let you out for
a little while. I am sorry.”
“Oh.” Ash’ia’s gave him another weak smile.
“It’s all right. I. . . I will be free of this cage soon enough and you have
made it very comfortable for me. Thank you.”
Arathy smiled.
“My father would tan my hide if he saw half of this! I wasn’t even supposed to
talk to you! He said you would put a spell on me!”
“No,” Ash’ia
said. “No spell. If I could use magic in such a way, I would not be here now,
away from my family, from my friends.”
Arathy blinked.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I suppose that is true.” He bowed his head, reaching
through the bars of the cage to touch Ash’ia’s slim fingers gently. Her touch
was warm, her fingers calloused beneath his. “You . . . you do not blame me for
this, do you?” he whispered. “I-I couldn’t bear it if you held me to blame for
all this.”
“Why would I
blame you?” the faerie replied softly. “You are just a child, it isn’t your
fault. Our people are at war, this is how your people fight, they kill our men,
imprison and sell off the women and the children. It is one of your rules of
war and I knew what might happen to me when I came to your world, I knew the
risks. This is my fate and it is no one’s fault but my own.”
“Oh.” There was
a long pause as Arathy struggled to think of something comforting to say, in
the end he just shrugged. “Will you . . . will you tell me another story?”
Ash’ia smiled
fondly at him as she shook her head. “It is getting late, Arathy, and your
father will wonder where you are, and I would like to eat my meal in peace. I
will tell you another story tomorrow.”
“Can I get you
anything? Do you need me to tend your bruises . . . or . . . or . . .”
“The stubs? No.
No they are fine, your mother’s healing salve did a good job, I would thank her
for it, if she did anything more than spit at me.” Ash’ia yawned, a clear sign
of Arathy’s dismissal. “I will talk to you again tomorrow night? I do look
forward to our talks.”
“Yes,” Arathy
said. “Yes of course. Good night Ash’ia.”
“Goodnight,
Arathy.”
***
Ash’ia was quiet
as she carefully dabbing healing salve onto the large, fresh burn on her arm.
It was starting to blister and it looked extremely painful. Arathy wouldn’t
have believed it was caused by iron touching the faerie’s skin, if he hadn’t
seen it for himself.
When he had come
into the barn that afternoon, following his chores, it had been to catch his
brother threatening Ash’ia with an iron bar and mocking her with tales of what
would happen to her when she had been sold. Arathy had told his brother to
stop, threatened to fetch their father, but the older boy had just laughed and
Arathy had struck out at him, the first time in his life that he had laid a
finger against his bigger, strong brother. When Rodir had recovered from the
initial shock of it, he had turned his attention towards Arathy instead and the
two had fought until the commotion had brought Kyther running.
When he could
breathe easily again, Arathy had explained what had happened, and the burn
marks on Ash’ia’s skin from where the iron had touched her had been enough
proof to convince Kyther. He had beaten Rodir for what he had done, called him
all sorts of names, angry that Rodir had damaged his prize, and then he had
forbidden him from entering the barn again, leaving the faerie girl solely in
Arathy’s hands, much to Arathy’s secret pleasure. But the look of pain in
Ash’ia’s eyes, as he had returned to her hand her the healing salve, had
quashed that. He had wanted to be the only one to take care of Ash’ia, but not
at this cost. He didn’t like to see her hurt.
“Are you all right?” Arathy asked. The
faerie girl nodded her head, but the tears shinning in her violet eyes betrayed
her. “I am sorry about that . . . about Rodir . . .”
“No,” the girl
said, “you saved me from him.”
“He would not
have killed you! Just . . . just . . .”
“Tortured me?”
Ash’ia shrugged. “I am glad that you came in when you did. I am glad that it
was you who saved me.” She lifted her eyes. “Was . . . was it true what your
brother said?” she asked in a quiet voice. “Am I to become a whore?”
“I . . . I don’t know,” Arathy whispered. “I
have heard . . . I have heard that there are brothels in the cities now, where
a man can buy a faerie woman to bed. . . but Rodir was just saying that to be
cruel. I am sure that it won’t happen to you. I am sure that you will be well taken
care of-.”
Ash’ia’s face
became very pale and pinched. “As well taken care of,” she said slowly, “as I
have been here? Locked in a cage in a draughty barn, threatened with iron,
mocked and called a . . . a monster?” Arathy swallowed back a tight lump that
had formed in his throat and he slowly shrugged.
Ash’ia’s jaw
set. “You have been kind to me,” she said in a flat voice. “But I am not a fool
to think that I will always be so well looked after. I am to be sold into
slavery. If I am lucky, I will be put on display like a prized animal, if I am
not, I will be raped day and night while men pay another man for that
privilege! This is the life that awaits me and I do not see why I should lie to
myself and pretend it will be otherwise.”
She tilted her
head to regard Arathy with flat eyes. “But you can pretend it is otherwise,
Arathy, if it will make it easier for you to spend my blood money. You can
pretend I am well and looked after, with kind masters. You can pretend that I
do not miss my family and my friends, or my freedom, if it makes it easier for
you and your family to enjoy your new farm tools or new clothes, or whatever
else your father and mother purchase with coin for my life! You can pretend
what you wish, Arathy, but do not hate me if I do not do the same!”
“I-I could never
hate you!” Arathy gasped. “And please, please, do not talk this way! Ash’ia,
please! You said that you don’t blame me for this, that I am just a child, that
this isn’t my fault!”
“I do not blame
you, Arathy,” Ash’ia said, in a flat, empty tone of voice. “I blame no one for
my fate but my self.” She turned her back, presenting the still fresh scars
from where her wings used to be. “Please, leave me. I want to be alone.”
“Ash’ia!” Arathy
whispered, a protest, as a tight lump seized his chest. “Please, I am sorry,
but none of this is my fault! Ash’ia, you said yourself that it is a rule of
war! It’s what we do! I-it’s not my fault . . .” But the girl’s back was a hard
line and when she refused to even acknowledge him, Arathy had no choice but to
leave.
***
Arathy could
hear the sound of Ash’ia sobbing as he lay in his narrow bed and tried to
sleep. He tried to ignore it, tried to pretend that he couldn’t hear it, but it
was impossible. In the past week, since Rodir had attacked her with the iron
bar, she had not said more than two words to Arathy. She had been detached,
aloof. Arathy had tried to coax her out of it, tried to make her laugh, to make
her smile, but she had barely acknowledged him until that afternoon when he had
told her the news, that the following morning she was to be taken to market.
And she had
started to cry, and she hadn’t stopped. Even now, in the dark stillness of the
night, Arathy could hear her crying. He didn’t blame her for it, not for one
moment, it had to be terrifying, to not know what awaited you, to be so
helpless, to have no control over your own life. And although Arathy felt
sympathy for her, for what she would face in the morning, he was relieved to.
He was glad that
she would soon be gone and he would no longer have to look at her or live with
the guilt that came with having her trapped in the cage in the barn, because
that guilt was incredible. Even though her eyes were violet and her hair was
white, even though she had scarred and bloody stumps where wings had once
fluttered in the breeze, she was little different to Arathy. She had a family,
just as he did, and friends, and hopes, and fears. He found it impossible to
see her as a monster, the way his parents did, he couldn’t even see her as an exotic
pet anymore. No, now she was just a sad, tragic figure and the sound of her
crying tore at his heart.
Arathy rolled
over, pulling a pillow over his head to try and mask the sound of weeping, only
it seemed to be inside his head, still echoing through his mind, heavy gasps,
whimpers of pain, of misery. It was a never ending flood of tears and he could
see her, in his mind’s eye, her pale face red from crying, her violet eyes
watering, her slim body shaking. He couldn’t get the image, or the sound, out of
his head, it was as though it was trapped there, like a captivating song, and
nothing he could do seemed to shift it.
When it finally
grew too much for him to bear, Arathy knew that there was only one thing left
that he could do. He had to go and see her.
Arathy fumbled
to strike his tinderbox so that he could light his lantern and see things more
clearly, and then he reached for his clothes. He dressed quickly, his heart
racing and his mouth dry, and crept out of his bedroom. He had to walk
carefully, avoiding the creaking floorboards, as he made his way through the
house, so as not to alert his parents. His heart was thundering inside his
chest the whole time, like an insistent drum, and the only thing that drowned
it out was the sound of the faerie girl crying.
“I want to go
home!” the girl gasped, as soon as she saw Arathy. Her face was red, just as he
had imagined it, her nose running; she looked a state, miserable and small. “I
miss my sister, and my mother!”
“I am sorry,”
Arathy said, setting down the lantern before sinking to his knees beside the
cage. He pushed his fingers carefully through the bars to try and touch her,
hoping that would bring her some comfort. “I-I really am. I-I wish things were
different, I-I wish-.”
“They will never find me, Arathy!
My family! I sat here and I hoped and I prayed to the gods that they would find
me, that somehow they would rescue me, but they haven’t come! They have left
me, and tomorrow, I will be gone from here and they will never find me!” She
buried her face in her hands and her body shook with sobs so violent that even
the iron disks on the cage rattled, clanging together.
With a heavy
heart Arathy got to his feet. There was nothing he could say, nothing he could
do. He turned, but as he was leaving he caught sight of his father’s tool rack,
and the glint of metal from Kyther’s work knife. Arathy had it in his hand and
was cutting the ropes that tied the iron disks to the cage before he even knew
it.
“What . . . what
are you doing?” Ash’ia whispered.
“Setting you
free.”
“Won’t you get
in trouble?”
Arathy hesitated and then he shrugged.
“Probably,” he said. “If my father finds out, but I will feign innocence and
perhaps he will think it was someone from the village, someone who was jealous
of the money he would have made from you. Even if he does discover it was me
there isn’t a lot he can do. He can beat me, I suppose, but he has done that
before. He may decide I can’t be trusted and try to stop me going on patrol, or
something. But I doubt he can actually do that. It is the law, after all, that
all men of eighteen take their turn on patrol, to protect us all from the
‘evil’ fey.” He gave Ash’ia a quick smile as the last disk fell away and he
turned his attention towards the lock.
“You will join
the patrol when you come of age?” Ash’ia asked, sounding strangely calm.
“Yes,” Arathy
said. “Of course.”
“And you will kill any faerie that you come
across?”
Arathy hesitated
before nodding slowly. “It’s war,” he said. “They are the enemy.”
“Yes,” Ash’ia
agreed. “It is war. But you will not kill me?”
“No!” Arathy
said, surprised that she had even had to ask. “You’re a friend! I can’t kill
you!”
The lock broke
and Arathy swung the cage door open, clearing away the iron disks so that
Ash’ia had a safe path to walk along. She smiled at him, gratefully, and then
climbed from the cage and stretched her whole body, the way that a cat would
after a sleep.
“Thank you for
giving me my life back,” she said, and her slim arms slid around him as she
hugged him tight. “Thank you so much. Thank you for saving me.” She smelt of
dirt and grime, her hair was lank against his face, and Arathy could feel the
pounding of her heart, beneath her breasts that were pressed close against him.
Her body was slim and all too real, all too warm, in his arms. She was
all too real.
A sudden blast
of pain shot through his back, making him cry out and pull free of Ash’ia’s
grip. Blinking back the sudden flurry of tears that had filled his eyes, Arathy
twisted his arm up behind him, seeking out the source of the burning pain.
And his fingers
closed around the hilt of Kyther’s work knife, buried in his back.
Arathy gasped,
with surprise and pain, and collapsed to his knees with a bone-jarring jolt.
His mouth was full of blood, it was thick and salty, and when he coughed, dark
red droplets sprayed onto the ground. “Why?” he asked. It was all he could
think of to say. Tears burned in his eyes and his vision was cloudy as he
struggled to stare up at the faerie woman he had considered a friend, the
faerie woman who had just taken his knife from his hands and plunged it into
his back.
Ash’ia
only shrugged. Her violet eyes were suddenly dry and they were clearer and
calmer than Arathy could remember them being before. They weren’t the eyes of
Ash’ia, the frightened faerie in the cage, now, no, these eyes were cold and
calm and they regarded him impassively as he collapsed onto his side, gasping
like a fish out of water. “It was nothing personal, Arathy,” she said. “In a
few years you would have joined the patrol with your father and killed any of
my kind that you came across. I have just saved a few lives by taking yours.”
She stepped over his fallen body as she headed towards the barn door. “It’s a
rule of war, Arathy, to never leave a live enemy behind you. That’s all it is,
a rule of war.”