Warm Beneath the Blanket

Flakes of ice settled and stung against the dwarf's already cold sore skin on her outstretched arms. Eyes squeezed shut, she crumbled the copper within her concentration, shoving the crumbles away, sparsely as she could into the ground, squeezing them back into the holes and pockets from which they'd come.

But it wasn't enough. Copper was not a thing found casually within the ground, in clumps or even pebbles of its pure form. It was something found stuffed into rock cracks and air-pockets and mixed up with dirt and gems and other metals. But she couldn't control dirt, just as she couldn't control random rocks. Not with her powers.

Gretta kicked the mush of dirt and snow further into the gaping holes her spires had made, shivering in the falling twilight. The snow melted upon her dry skin and cursed every little, chilly breeze to be more vivid to her nerves.

The dwarf coughed onto her hand, kicking as much of the snow into the holes as she could before she had to give up and go, her red hair flying up and falling over her face in the recoil of her forceful jabs.

Hah...hah..ah-

Cough

Cough

It was too cold to go on, she knew that.--She could only hope she'd displaced enough mud and separated the evidence of the magic enough that it all wouldn't be noticeable when the snow melted. Ice covered the ground so thoroughly that she wasn't sure her boots even touched ground with all those kicks, and more snow had already settled upon the dirt she'd misplaced by the time she'd gotten back in the half darkness. She knew the way from here on, but she couldn't walk in the dark-- it would only get colder, from here on. Her already wet self, further soaked by blood, would surely die out here.

Gretta trecked through the shin high snow that had settled the familiar path as quickly as she could, coughing more, the cold making it hard to breathe, making the fleshy insides of her nose and throat feel chapped. Her feet were the only things that were dry, but she could still feel the icy smush wetly through her leather boots. The strings were soaked through, she was only lucky the snow hadn't found its way through wrinkles in the lacing. She blew onto her hands and rubbed them on her cheeks, holding the red scarf around her head up to shield part of her face, squinting through the only gaps in the fabric she needed to see.

It was nearly completely dark when she found herself back amongst the familiar grove where the ground was more level and the forest opened up. She dug the shovel out from the padding of snow that had formed against a nearby tree, and roughly shoveled aside the layer of snow that had begun to bury the path forwards.

Then, she dropped it where she she stood to duck safely between the tendrils of roots that formed an air pocket of protection between the snowy outside and the stacked stone walls, and climbed down the steep steps of earth and root until she was sliding open the heavy front door and into the small, cozy cottage built into the roots of a tree, safe from the snow and wetness outside.

She fumbled in the near pure blackness. It was better without the wind, and it was more bearable being slightly underground, but it wasn't warm enough to provide relief for the already shivering dwarf.

The walls curved and bent organically to accomodate the full space the rootwork of the huge tree allowed, but she could still occasionally bump onto the hard corner of a table or clank against something that had been hanging from a hook. Somehow, she found the cabinet that opened into a wall, and wiping her face and her hands enough that she wouldn't drip onto it, pulled out the tiny wooden tinderbox, and the steel and flint piece inside.

Striking it so that sparks flew against the strip of a rag, she tried and tried and blew against the settled sparks until they came alive into a little flame, and the flame took life, moving from the kindling to the bigger logs. The fire grew strong, illuminating the dwarf and casting warmth against her icy form.

Having changed into dryer clothes, the dwarf curled up with her chest and her feet facing front against the small hearth. Gretta squeezed water and picked bits of ice out of her damp hair, her mouth scrunched up into a grimace.

Hhj.

A clay cooking pot was left abandoned on the hearth, its half-cooked, probably ruined content having waited and shriveled up for hours she'd been gone. The house was completely cold, obviously unoccupied for many hours. The floor was dusty, and now it was wet, and everything was just about as messy at it had been when she'd first plucked herself up from her moping to decide to visit a graveyard in the middle of a snowstorm, without a coat or a hood or any more protective gear than her shoes. And she was too exhausted to do anything about any of it.

She plucked at bits of dried up blood that had seeped through her clothes and stuck to her skin, squinting into the flickering lights.

Dread.

She stared across the dark room illuminated only by the flickering, weak orange lights.She could still hear the faint howling of the wind, outside.

She stared at a little flake of dark blood on her fingertip, crushing it between her fingers. She winced. She could still picture the fresh, open wound. The spasms and screaming. Blood, a lot of blood, more blood than she'd realized a person could lose and still be alive. The shadow wolves, impaled on stakes. Her shoulder blades tensed, her elbows pressed inwards towards her ribs. The fae would know.

She curled her head down into her body, pressing on it with her hands.

They would come for her, if they could figure out she'd been the one. If they found out what she could do. Gratefully, the snow would hide her footprints. But they had eyes everywhere. Surely at least one of them had been around. Powerful beasts did not go hunting people of their own volition, in these relatively calm woods.

The squeezed her eyes tighter, shielding her forehead from the light. Her fingers twitched, recalling the loose loom of her veil, wrapping it inexpertly around a very bad wound. She pulled her feet up and tucked her skirt around them with her toes. Shivers radiated out from her core, late shivers. The fire hardly helped.

It was dark; dark and lonely. Who knew when her father would be home. Her mother had been kidnapped by the fae.

She clasped her hands worriedly, pressing then against her lips. She laid there, all there was left to do was wait. Among her normal breaths occasionally exhaled fearful wavers.

She would die.

Her brown eyes snapped open, staring into the bright orange fire.

The girl she'd attempted to save would die. It was a truth that came from somewhere inside her that had known all along, too quiet to hear until her thoughts had settled down to this degree.

She dug her nails against her skull, contorting her face as she tried to banish it from her mind. But a sick feeling rose up from within, and all at once she knew what she'd been feeling all this time.

She was too late.

Perhaps if she'd been a little bit sooner. But the fairies had already set their eyes upon her. Nobody could run from them forever. If the Winter snow hadn't already taken her, the fae would. She couldn't protect somebody from them, that would put herself in danger.

Tears bubbled up in her eyes, again. An acidic residue had settled onto the back of her mouth.

"Mother." She whispered.

Threading carefully across mushy, late autumn leaves and stroking frost off the leaves of bushes they passed. Her mother's hand was warm and slender. It squeezed hers tightly, and her head snapped to look up. She could feel her heavy braids flick from the motion. She hadn't worn them like that since-- she never figured out how to manage her messy hair into even enough partitions to try, and her tension was never even enough to not make a mess of it all, if she ever got so far.

Her mother had stopped walking, squinting seriously into the distance. Her honey blond hair was tied tightly into a braided bun, that was mostly visible only by the way it draped the back of the modest veil that covered half her head. It was short enough that she could glimpse part of it from the sides as it swayed while she walked, but it was there to keep the little strands that may have come free of her hair out of the way through the day.

"Tidyness, Gretta." She would emphasize as she pinned her veil into place. But there really was no helping it-- her hair wasn't like her mother's. It sprung and twisted and got free. No matter how cute and tidy it looked indoors, it was merely minutes between her leaving the door and the first blows of wind or trickles of sweat that triggered her hair into a wild mane of frizz. If combing and fixing the little strands that had come free through the day was all it took, Gretta would have much rather worn it freely that way.

"Go."

It was a soft murmur, a stroke of nails against her fingers as her mother nudged her hand away. She couldn't see what was ahead of them, it was too foggy. She hadn't made super sure with her mother if some of the mushrooms in her hands were safe to put into the basket. If they were poisonous, should she drop them onto the ground? Something else, a small feeling told her to not go. She tugged at her mom's skirt.

"Mother?"

Rather than push her away further, her mother's hand grabbed hers, then squeezed nervously. The short woman took steps forwards, adjusting her position so she was in front of her daughter, standing in between Gretta and whatever shadow she could barely make out in the distance. The knuckles of her hand had gone pale from squeezing so tightly, but she was only slightly frailer than her Gretta herself. Nearly to her height at thirteen, she would probably go on to grow a little taller than her in the next year or two, given that she tended to take more closely after her father. Still, her mother's hands were a lot longer and ladylike, while hers still very much looked somewhat stubby and childish. Or was it boyish?

She heard the sound of footsteps nearing them. Her mother held her behind her by gripping her other arm as well, and she could barely peek around her shoulder to see what was going on without scaring her further. Her mother was always on edge about the folk, when they went outside together. She never let her get too close, and never let her see them, as though Gretta would be snatched away from her and never seen again.

A tall shadow.

At first she thought the being was on horseback, but she soon found that it only had the upper torso and body of a man, sprouting from the body of a deer, where the neck would have been. He had wide, majestic antlers sprouting from his head, adorned with strings of delicate vines and tiny translucent, glassy berries shimmering with dew. The back of his coat had an excessively drawn up collar, with heavy looping, leafy designs and elaborately threaded trim. His hair was the same color as his fur, a fawny grey-brown.

She was very briefly reminded of the small faun she'd befriended and played games with as a child, earning her a ban from going out unattended for many weeks. But unlike that faun, the cervitaur's swampy eyes were cold and voided, devoid of readable emotion. The eyes of a fully fledged, adult fae.

"Fairy."

The tall being received that curtest of greetings. Though a fairy of his caliber was closer to the noble status of a person belonging to a kingdom outside the enchanted forest, and dwarves lived alongside the fairies and followed their rules, but they were in no way their subjects. They did not bow to the fairies, as their elf servants did--the depraved, willless, drunken beings they, among the the rest of the world, shunned.

The ginger haired dwarf found herself hiding further behind her mother's shadow. Still, she watched the cervitaur's cloudy eyes move towards her. Her parents had always been overprotective of her from the fae. If one was near, she was supposed to run and return home as quickly as she could. Most of the fairies themselves, that she had seen so far, did not seem dangerous enough to warrant this type of precaution, and curiosity pulled her, along with the tales of both great brilliance and great benevolence of ancient beings within them, but her parents probably knew better than her, and that itself struck enough fear into her heart whenever one actually appeared.

His eyes moved back towards her mother's.

"You have reaped fruit of the tree you sought." The fairy's emotionless expression softened into a skin-deep smile as his eyes drifted forwards. Gretta hid her face before they could meet eyes.

"...Is this your firstborn?"

Her arm trembled ever slightly, gripping Gretta's as tightly as it could.

"My onlyborn."

With that, the fairy momentarily scrunched up his brows, and they softned briefly.

Her mother kept eye contact with the fairy. Slowly, her hands pushed her daughter back.

"Gretta... go back to the village. Find someone big. Stick to their side till you find your father."

Something made Gretta clutch to her tighter, like a child. She shook her head, eyes wide.

"...Fourteen years.

You have partaken in the gift I gave in extended peace. I've come to rightfully take what is equal and mine in reciprocal."

Tears of fear welled up in Gretta's eyes, uncontrollably.

"Gretta." Her mother hissed underbreath.

"Grêta"

It was a terrifying echo of her mother's call.

"That is its name?"

Her mind and her body felt like two disconnected things, laggy. Even if it wasnt, her mother suddenly pulled her back behind her again.

"Leave my daughter out of this." The dwarf braved. Her voice faltered, though. Her shivers betrayed her. Willpower and maternal instinct could only lend the dwarf so much power.

Gretta felt the fae's eyes burn into her again, upon the smallest shift backwards. This one was different from the preoccupied beings she'd seen before, from afar.

"Stay. You'll not be reaching wherever you intend to go, if your only plan is to run."

"I wont be going anywhere." The dwarf glared. She hesitated, then finally released Gretta's hands. "Just her."

The fairy's eyes darkened.

"Run back to the village, Gretta. Find someone big. Stick to their side till your father comes home."

Gretta took a tentative step backwards. She glanced back and forth from the fairy to her mother. The thought of using her powers here crossed her mind. As bad as she knew it was, the longing to take that plan grew even stronger. What would happen the moment she left, even if she did?

She took two more steps back, scared. Her mother did not move. The fae was watching her, testing to see if she'd truly try to flee.

"Never have you had, and never will have anything else of near value to the gifts you received. You have had and raised a child to love, and it is a child no longer." Its eyes shined with the entitlement to power, more so than actual interest in the scared redhead backing away from them. Still, it did not attack. "You made your choice long ago, and till now paid nothing for your word. Yet you have no claim over that which you were neither granted to begin with, nor ever would have ever been within your means to possess."

She barely glanced backwards to Gretta, then held the fairy's gaze for a long time. She slowly turned back to Gretta, meeting her eyes urgently.

"It's okay. Go." Her voice was softer, almost believably assuring. A weak part of Gretta latched on to it, eager to trust it.

"Let the adults talk."

Just talk.

Gretta clutched her basket of mushrooms to herself, her eyes snapping back and foth between the dwarf and the large cervitaur. Her shivery legs started backwards. She stared over her shoulder and back onto the path and stumbled, somehow making it out of the main path and into the shadows of off of it without anything happening behind her. As she got further and further away, she could almost believe nothing was going to happen. Her steps got faster and faster, trying instead to get to the village in time, to hurry to get help, if she couldn't be that help, herself.

She wished she could have heard a little bit more into their conversation, or used her powers to at least distract the fairy so they could have escaped. But doing so would have been against her mother's wishes, and did she truly know better than her at thirteen?

Still, the remorse never went away. The sick feeling of letting somebody protect you, never knowing what happened to them, could make one feel like less than a person.

Did she pat herself on the back for not running the first two times she was told to? Did she take achievement in halfhearted attempts to clear her own conscience, as she had with the shadow wolves?

She thought not.

She tried to erase it from her mind, among the chill of her cold skull, and the heat of the fire against her face.

...

The heat of the fire against her nose and cheeks was much hotter, when she came to. She must have dried off a bit. She must have fallen asleep.

Her attention moved to the rest of her body to sit up, but she felt the weight of a warm, heavy blanket. The tinderbox she'd left by her side, and the boots she'd left to dry, were both gone.

She squinted into the darkness of the room, but all she saw was emptyness.

Dad?

He'd probably gotten home and was long gone to sleep. How else would a blanket have found its way conveniently placed over her?

The redness of the scarf that had been the only thing remaining where her mother had been, strewn on the ground, blinked in eyelids. She looked upon herself first, then, finding and remembering that she'd changed, found it upon the edge of the hearth, drying.

She remembered the holes in the ground she'd messily made. Hoped it couldn't get her or her father in trouble with the fairies. She hoped that when the snow melts, it'll hide the evidence not expose it.

Her stomach turned.

She got up from the floor, scrunching up the blanket in her arms. She picked up the scarf as well, rolling it up and hugging it to her chest, though the familiar scent was weeks gone. She went to bed.