The hammering of a blade through bark shocks the tree, startling the raven-haired fairy awake. Startled she looked to see the cause of the ruckus.
"Morning!" The blonde male called up from the bottom of the tree, never faltering in his steady hammering, below the silver glint of his blade, carved into the tree's thick skin, the letters CRYST formed.
She fluttered down between him and the tree as the human took a moment to blow excess wood off his knife. He halted his blade in the air as her emerald eyes pierced through him. "What are you doing?" She asked, fear dripping from her tone.
"Carving your name," He answered confused by her sudden worry. "See – C.R.Y.S –" He pointed to each of the letters in turn.
"No, no, no! You mustn't do that." She interrupted him, grabbing onto his hand, and laying it flat against the injured trunk. "Here, can't you feel it's pain?"
"I can feel it's pain, Crysta!" He called out to the TV; the fairy flitted away from the blonde in despair. Behind him, his mother's twinkling laugh floated into the living room as she chuckled at her energetic son. She was tending to their plants at the kitchen table. Her hands a mess of dirt as she transplanted them and gave them fresh water to drink from.
For the last week she had been in the hospital, and he could tell the plants had missed her. The way they had welted after she had left caused Alwyn pain. He wanted to ease their pain, do anything to make them stand tall and strong like they once had, but no matter what he tried they just refused to stand. But now that his mom was back, they were happier, healthier, and so was he. She looked so much better now; the colour had almost returned to her cheeks. It lit up a flame of happiness in the little boy, and with blind optimism he believed this meant that she was finally getting better; that this would be the last trip into the hospital, and she would get to stay his mom forever. She would get to teach him how to make plants happy, and live long lives, and he would get to work with her at the flower shop, making people happy as they received their floral presents.
"Am I a fairy, mom?" He asked standing up on the back of the sofa, brown eyes trained on her as she paused in her work with their rubber fig.
She smiled softly. "What do you think, baby?"
He thought about the question, little features bunching up as he contemplated the question. He could feel the emotions of their plants like Crysta, but he could not make them grow like his mom could. "I think you're a fairy," He paused, "But not dad."
"Why not dad?" She asked with a surprised laugh.
"He kills plants, not grows them, and when you were gone, he couldn't tell that the plants were sad."
She nodded along with his deduction, as if they were discussing serious politics. "I think you're right, he's probably not a fairy. He's probably a human like Zac, they have the same terrible taste in music." He laughed at his mother, music had nothing to do with being a fairy, she was silly.
He turned back to his movie. It was his favourite, one day he would find Fern Gully and get the fairies to teach him how to make things grow. Then he would be even better than his mom, and she would ask to learn from him.
***?
When Alwyn was fifteen his father gave him a thick leather band that hosted a jade pendant and was engraved with intricate Mesopotamian glyphs. It was a beautiful and light weight, but the best part about the band was that it covered the strange name written on the soft underside of his right wrist. He never took the bracelet off, not even in the shower, it was a second skin so when he woke to the sensation of fingertips ghosting over the sensitive skin, he found himself startled. When had he lost it? Did the strange men take it?
His brown eyes fluttered down to the limb, watching as long fingers traced the inked name with feathery light caresses. It was such a calming feeling, so warm and familiar; it released the ball of stress that had settled into his chest. As he laid there curled in Wynter's arms he imagined they were back at his apartment, having met in some campus event at his school. They could be watching a cheesy film or listening to the radio, just relaxing as Wynter's light touches mapped out his skin. The image sent a wave of warmth through him, a soft sigh escaped his lips before he could stop it. The soft caresses halted on his skin as the other registered his change in consciousness, making Alwyn immediately regret the noise.
"What do they call you?" Wynter's voice cut through the sleepy haze. The question startled him, he had been so distracted and stressed, but to have forgotten to introduce himself? His mother would be so disappointed in him, she always stressed the importance of manners. Pretend every day and every event is a meeting with royalty. He could almost hear his mother's ghost telling him.
"Alwyn, but most people just call me Fyn. Well just my dad and my best friend, no one else really calls me anything – so your free to call me Fyn. I know a lot of people struggle with the Alwyn – my mother chose it, it's Welsh." The word vomit pushed at the closed line of his lips, but the expression on the Gwyllgi's face forced him to pause. It was a strange mixture of fondness and soft admiration that lit a flame under his skin; his mind reeled as his blood buzzes with unfamiliar energy - why was he looking at him like that?
"What happened to your mother?" The question was like a bowl of ice water over him. They had talked so much the night before about their families. He had learnt so much about Wynter's family, and in return he had told him all sorts of stories about him and his dad, even a couple about his mom. But he could not manage himself to tell the shifter about his mother's death, it was still such a painful memory. The tubes and beeping machines, the way she had lashed out at him when her mind had started to go; all of it played like a horror film behind his eyes.
"She… um… She died when I was eight. It was bad, they were never actually able to figure out what was wrong. Though the way it eats away at her energy, her personality, her… everything, they suspected cancer." He paused, pulling in a shaky breath as Wynter's arms tightened around him. The memory of her pale, fragile form hollowed out and twisted in faded sheets played out in his mind "Dad took out a loan against the house, and everything else we had, but it was never enough to cover all the costs. Eventually she insisted we quit, and just try to enjoy what time we had left together – it tore my father apart. We were both broken when she passed and became a little too protective of each other." The heaviness of his thoughts threatened to drown him as his tongue caught on the lump in his throat. Only the strong protective warmth of Wynter's arms kept him from falling apart.
What was his father doing now? The world had grown dark while he had laid unconscious in the forest, and who knows how long they had been in the stony prison before he had woken to Wynter's pacing. It was so hard to tell how time was passing in their stone cell. He must be out of his mind with worry by now. He could not imagine his father arriving home tired and groggy from work only to realise his son was missing. Then for him not to be home by the next morning... had he filed a missing person's report? Did he think he had run away?
The image of his father, just after his mother had passed, plastered drunk, eyes red and drooping as he dragged his stumbling father to the couch, choking under the stench of alcohol, washed over him. Had he started drinking again? Or clogging his arteries with food the doctors had forbidden him? Was he blaming himself? He trembled in the Gwyllgi's arms; he should have texted when he had the chance.
It was the clang of metal against stone that finally broke the hold of his depressive thoughts. The flap at the bottom of their door had been removed and a small tray with two bowls and some form of bread slid into their room. Nothing was said, not even a gruff 'eat', just the tray sliding toward them and then the hole sealed up once more. The smell of soup sparked a ravenous hunger that lodged itself in his throat. The distinct grumbling of a stomach made him blush a moment before he realised it had not come from him but from Wynter. He could see the tips of red ears poking out of his white hair as he moved to grab the tray; the sight made him smile, it made the strange male seem more real, more human. The smile was ripped from his face was the scent of burning flesh and the others pained yelp. Alwyn flew from his seat, as the shifter fell away from the tray of food.
A string of foreign words slid through the Gwyllgi's teeth as he quickly yanked his hand away from the metal tray. Alwyn rushed to the others side, coaxing the injured limb toward him to assess the damage. An angry blistering red mark festered and boiled along Wynter's hand. The wound was unlike any burn Alwyn had seen, its edges puffing and peeling away from the area as if supercharged heat were still spreading along the burn.
"What happened?" He asked, turning back to the injured Gwyllgi, his burnt whiskey eyes watching as Wynter's expression moved from pain to boiling rage.
Spitting at the offending tray he growled, "Tylwyth Teg gwehilion, haeran." The red in his eyes seemed to glow brighter as he snarled the final word toward the tray, his form shifting into that of a giant beast. The beast quickly scampered away from the offending item leaving Alwyn alone and confused near their cell door.
The tray was made from a black metal, rough and uneven much like the door of their cell. It reminded Alwyn of the cast iron pan his father had given his mother as a gift their last Christmas together. She grimaced a moment before hiding the reaction behind a mask of joy. She never did take the pan out of the box; he had always assumed it was because she had gotten sick but maybe it was toxic. He gingerly reached out to it if it was toxic why give food in it? His hand hovered, muscles coiled to move at the sign of any discomfort. Slowly his fingertips brushed the cold metal, nothing happened. Confused he moved to pick up the bowl, it appeared to be made from the same metal but again nothing happened. Okay not toxic... then why did it burn Wynter? It is not even remotely hot?
The soup inside the bowl was a murky pale tan looking mixture of lumps and limp looking greens. Hesitantly Alwyn dipped his finger into the mushy food, testing it. The temperature was as cool as the metal, a bit of the green leaves clung to his finger as he pulled it from the bowl. Nothing burned or scratched at his skin, so gingerly he licked the residue off his finger and was surprised to find he recognised the taste of the concoction, Potato Leek Soup. Mind you the whole thing seemed watered down, the potatoes were cooked beyond the point of being able to retain shape and the leeks were so past due they had been limp before going into the soup, but still it was without a doubt the same thing his mother used to make when he was sick.
He waited to see if his throat began to itch, or if his head began to swim, or if his vision began to blur, or if his breathing became laboured, but nothing happened. The soup did not appear poisoned, so beyond the terrible burn Wynter experienced from touching the tray everything appeared fine. He turned to the Gwyllgi to share his findings; the beast was curled in the far most corner watching with concerned amber eyes.
"I don't know why you got hurt, but its potato leek soup – badly made soup, but not altogether toxic." He offered a reassuring smile as if hoping to coax the angry animal from its corner to eat. The man shifted to human as he inched back toward him.
"They'd have no reason to poison a soup that its prisoners should be unable to touch." Anger and hatred dripped from every word that fell from the shifters tongue. But his eyes remain cautious and concerned as they watched the black metal sitting in Alwyn's hands. The younger followed the amber gaze to his hands, confusion once again filling him.
"Why shouldn't we be able to touch it?" The metal was still cold and rough under his hands. Nothing threatening or immobilizing about it.
"The... it's iron," He replied waving his non-burned hand at the offending metal. "They did this on purpose, just another one of their cruel pranks. Iron burns those from Annwn, we cannot touch it. I suppose it mustn't work on humans," He paused lips pulled back in a snarl as he looked toward the door. "Fae," The word sounded like poison rolling off his tongue.
Alwyn sat back looking at the dark black tray, "Then why give us food? If they don't expect us to be able to touch it; it's cruel and it's a waste!" Iron burns him, and yet they gave us only iron to eat with. An unsettling anger gripped his core as he heard Wynter's stomach grumble. The soups smell had filled their room and was taunting them with its warm aroma.
"It's what the Tylwyth Teg do. They especially hate my kind, blame us for all their misfortune. I should have expected it," The tightness of his features while consumed by anger also held a tinge of sadness and regret. There was more to this than simple bigotry, and cruel trickery, the way Wynter's tone dipped and cut off...
Slowly the emotion simmered and faded as he stared into the swirling sadness of the Gwyllgi's amber eyes. It was the same pain that lingered behind the shifter's expression as he told Alwyn about his family: it was an expression Alwyn knew came from a great loss. "What did they do?" His voice was quiet, and for a moment he had not even realised he had said it out loud, but the shifters features fell and the sadness that had whimpered around the edges of his anger had taken hold in his eyes.
"They killed my family."