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Registered: 02-2013
Location: Australia
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"I don't believe in fairies."

A grubby thing, standing only a foot and a half in height. His trousers are torn about the knees and all but rags near the ankles. He seems to have discarded the cardigan he had been told to wear somewhere amid the grass, now hurrying barefoot and without a shirt around the bases of trees. He doesn't know why he's running, he simply knows that he must. His body compels it, the mind-occupant simply dragged along. Teague climbs the highest of the trees, peers out on the horizon and ponders just what may lie beyond the sight. Everything smells of fruit, jam and the coming summer. The clouds offer intermittent shelter from the sun, though the farmstead remains impossibly bright. Birds chirp on in rhythm in the near distance.

A wreathe of daises encircles his neck, the meaning behind the symbol lost on him. They are pretty and plentiful. Nothing seems disturbed when he rips them from the soil. Their smell is overwhelmed by the others, perhaps carried off by the breeze; he suspects such, believing that is how the winds are. His sister claims that scents are hidden beneath the subtle spices of the faerie, though he knows better. He is no fool. There is no veil nor any hidden thing beyond it. Fairies are to him as bogeymen and the moddey dhoo, nursery rhymes told to caution him away from courage. Fear is unfamiliar. Bonnie is misguided. Girls.

Far off in the distance he can see some ethereal shimmer that he knows to be the promise of better things. Adventures, heroes, journeys to the gold-encrusted sun and silver-lain moon. He shifts uncomfortably. The wooden sword driven down his ragamuffin's trousers constricts his knee. He does not remove it. A hero does not abandon their blade so. Teague watches until the sun sets, ignoring the calls of his mother. The jam-scent is reconstituted into stew. Slowly, hunger prompts him to descend and return to the shanty confines of his family's home. A red ribbon is pinned above the door.

He runs off again so soon as the sun rises, carrying another hand-woven cardigan. His quest is to find the first. Bonnie follows, though he attempts to walk too fast for her puny legs to keep step. She will hinder with her womanliness. She persists in a show of her girlish stubbornness. Teague turns his eyes to the trees. It is difficult to see through a scowl. It is equally difficult to see through the shrubbery. Bonnie's misapprehension about the limitations of reality strikes her with an unrefined cowardice. She will not venture within the bounds of the woodlands.

Teague does not feel fear.

His wooden sword is in his hand. His muddy feet propel him onward, toward the brush and leaves. They crumple beneath him, a delicate whisper to his minuscule weight. Bonnie is almost silent behind. A shrill breath. He feels his chest swell, the courage forcing out against his ribs. Teague hesitates momentarily before crossing the boundary for the first time in his life. As his infinitesimal foot reaches the soil and leaves, he feels it vibrate. The sensation drives him further. His body shivers. Bonnie disappears for an instant.

She emerges again in voice first. "The fairies shall take us." Girlish cowardice. He looks down to her over his shoulder, sight slanted, neck uncomfortable. Her distress shows on her rosy face. He feels at once moved and amused. The sympathy ebbs through him and conflicts with his boyish strength. His strength wins over his concern. His face contorts into a smirk unwelcome on his features and his voice adopts a like-authority.

"I don't believe in fairies, and neither should you. Come on, you girl." She swells now. A bundle overstuffed. Those distressed features become a confidence of their own, a visage inappropriate on something so frail. Her hands bundle her dress. He can see her feet as they follow his, treading beyond the boundary. She does not vibrate. She becomes tense as stone, unmoving. The colour seems to disappear from her in an instant. Fingers clasp her shoulder. Teague and Bonnie are not alone. Bonnie is no longer here, but there, somehow. Teague does not understand.

The new arrival is a smiling man, betwixt their heights and clad in odd clothes of a fabric and hue that Teague could not describe. He could name most colours. The man's face was wooden and his beard made of vine. His teeth were black as he smiled without joy. His voice was a windchime. "Why don't you believe in fairies?" The question had no answer. The old answer was false. "We are quite real."

The wooden-faced man stole Bonnie away, along with the cardigan Teague had been sent to find. Teague returned home alone. Those in the farmstead were dismayed. Teague would leave forever so soon as he was able.

Teague wakes from his reverie-meditation as his cauldron boils over, the heated waters reaching his feet as he half-lies slanted against a wall. He rouses to extinguish the flames.

Last edited by theintrepidgnome, 3/26/2013, 10:24 am

Calchas Blaesus: A mad seer.
3/26/2013, 10:19 am Link to this post Send Email to theintrepidgnome   Send PM to theintrepidgnome Blog

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