by Alex Aguilar
John dropped the leather straps instantly, wiping his hands on his brown trousers with a scowl. “Well… I never would have guessed pixies to be so…”
“Strange?”
“Curious,” John corrected him, suddenly coming across a pair of boots with rusty plates still attached to them. He pressed the soles against his own boots to check if they’d fit him.
“Ah yes,” Hudson said. “Inquisitive little things, they are. Really brings a whole new meaning to the phrase ‘be back before sundown or the pixies will get you’.”
John smirked. He’d recuperated most of their belongings, including the silver blade that Viktor Crowley had gifted to him, and kept on sifting through the pile as if it were treasure. Some of the things had to have been several years old, based merely on the dust, rust, and mold. He found a few old daggers, a loaf of stale bread, three wool blankets, an emerald ring, a pair of leather gauntlets, a rusty old guard’s helmet, and two purses with a few coppers still inside.
“Keep looking,” Hudson said over a mouthful of fruit. “Anything worth some coin?”
“A few trinkets here and there,” John said, taking a moment to admire the massive pile, enough to fill the common room in his mother’s cottage. “How could they have gathered all of this? They’re so… small.”
“That surprises you?” Hudson chuckled. “Carrying three unconscious bodies to safety wasn’t intriguing enough, eh?”
John said nothing; he hadn’t stopped to consider that at all. So small and yet somehow they had fished them out of the river to safety. Or not they… but her? The aura surrounding them was eerie, that much was certain, but so far they had only seen one of them.
One pixie, the size of his palm, and yet she managed to save them all.
Fascinating, was all John could think to describe her.
As he dug into the pile again, the tips of his fingers brushed against something cold and smooth like glass. Out of an old sack, he pulled out a dark green bottle labeled ‘Roquefort Liqueur’, still about two thirds full. The clinking must have been loud, because before he knew it, Hudson dropped the melon skin and said, “Oh, you beautiful bastard…”
John gave him a half-smirk, squinting his eyes to read the rest of the faded label. “I’m not sure it’s any good,” he said. “Might be a bit old.”
“All the better,” the thief said with a snap of his fingers, motioning for John to bring him the bottle. The skin on his shoulder was healing rather fast thanks to whatever it was the pixie had done to it, but it was still a bit tender and delicate, and the thief was careful with his movement. John walked over and sat by him on the vast bed of leaves, green and blue under the moon’s unusually bright light. He removed the cork from the bottle and handed it over.
Hudson snatched it and took a good gulp. His eyes widened. He was fully awake now.
“Fuckin’ hells,” he said, pressing his eyes shut from the sting. “Here.”
He handed the bottle back to John, who took it doubtfully.
“Is it… okay?”
“No,” Hudson gave in and coughed loudly, his tanned cheeks tainted with a shade of red. “But the faster you drink it, the drunker you’ll get and the less you’ll taste it.”
John smiled and, with a shrug of the shoulders, took a sip.
It was strong… Quite strong, more so than any whisky or rum he’d ever had.
“By the gods,” he said. “Who in their right mind would drink this?”
“Nobody,” Hudson snatched the bottle from him again. “Only two kinds of people drink Roquefort liqueur, mate. Cold-blooded murderers and those who are too damn smart for their own good. Either way, not people you should ever cross.”
Noted, John thought.
Suddenly a bright glow flew into the scene. Sivvy, the eerie blue pixie, hardly paid them any mind. Instead she floated above the pile of rubbish and grabbed the first rucksack of clothes she saw. With a surprising amount of strength, she lifted and carried it away with as little effort as one would rip a dandelion from its roots.
The sight of her left John a bit bewildered.
Hudson, on the other hand, simply smiled and said, “Never underestimate a pixie, mate.”
He handed the bottle back to John and allowed him to keep it for a few moments, his eyes suddenly becoming more troubled and distracted as the liqueur began to kick in. “What happened back there, anyway?” he asked.
“You mean after you fell to a slumber and scared us half to death?” John asked, trying his best to match the level the humor the thief would often convey. “Not to worry. We won’t be hearing from that bastard or his little beast again. Syrena made sure of it.”
Hudson nodded, his gaze drifting into the distance. John took a whiff of the bottle before taking another drink. The scent was strong and pungent with a hint of something sweet like cinnamon.
“How is our dear Syrena, anyhow?” Hudson asked, and John noticed the unusual look in the thief’s eyes, radiating with something like concern. The witch had been gone for nearly an hour; Sivvy had taken her to a nearby pond to wash herself, and John realized this was the third time Hudson had asked about her since she left.
“She’s fine, I suppose,” John said, his eyes softening. “She wasn’t hurt, if that’s what you mean.”
“Good,” Hudson replied modestly, unsure of what else to say. “That’s, um… good.”
John smiled and decided not to comment further, realizing the thief was coming to terms with the fact that he was indeed fond of the witch. He took a careless gulp from the bottle, forgetting how strong it was, and reacted in a most shameful way; Hudson couldn’t help but burst with laughter.
“Careful now, mate! I warned you. That stuff’s a bit strong for a farmer.”
After a few coughs, John smirked and returned the sarcasm. “Piss off,” he said. “A farmer can drink. We’re just as fit and able as any mercenary or knight.”
“Sure. If you say so.”
They continued to pass the bottle between themselves and the expression of content in both their faces grew with every sip.
“I’ll bet you couldn’t do half the things I do,” John challenged him in a friendly manner. “D’you even know how to use a pickaxe?”
“Of course I do…” Hudson remarked, “…as a weapon, that is.”
They laughed, and for a moment there was not a single concern in their minds, save for the concern of the bottle reaching its last drop. Whatever hostility Hudson felt towards the farmer was starting to fade. And the same went for John; the man had threatened to kill him and yet he’d saved him twice now. Suffice it to say that John hardly felt the need to keep his sword handy anymore.
Nearby there was a soft rustling of leaves, but the two men hardly paid it any mind.
Behind a row of shrubs a good fifty feet or so away, a pond of freshwater glistened under the moon’s light. A beautiful crystal clear pond, it was. Its water was lukewarm and its scent was sweet and crisp, unlike any water in the kingdoms of Vallenghard or Halghard.
Syrena of Morganna stepped out of the pond, nude and dripping wet.
She closed her eyes gently, took a deep breath, and concentrated…
Not two seconds later, her entire body began to exude smoke as the water evaporated from her scorching hot skin. It was a neat trick she had learned at the age of five. Accidentally, of course, but her best tricks had been learned that way.
Within a minute, she was entirely dry except for her the tips of her hair, and then she felt the cold wind prick at her smooth skin like arrows. She shivered and dropped to her knees in front of her belongings. The clothes she wore had seen better days. It had been over a week since Adelina Huxley lent them to her; there were tears on the hems that weren’t there before and they were starting to reek. She was about to slide into the blouse when suddenly the sound of flapping wings startled her.
Sivvy flew in from behind the shrubs, carrying a sack that was easily twenty times her size and yet she held it the same way she
would have held a grain of sand. She dropped it near Syrena’s feet, and the witch noticed a bundle of relatively clean clothes inside. She looked up at the pixie’s eyes, so radiant and blue like the ocean.
“Thank you!” she said with a smile.
Sivvy’s head tilted slightly to the left and her eyes blinked twice.
Peculiar creatures, the witch thought to herself, and then realized she preferred Sivvy’s company than that of the average human.
Suddenly and by instinct, Sivvy’s head twitched… It may have been minimal, but Syrena felt her heart skip a beat. Sivvy had glanced up into the trees and became suddenly frightened. Syrena noticed another bright glow coming from above; she hadn’t noticed it before because the entire place appeared to be glowing. But she saw it then… A much brighter glow, it was…
There were more pixies hiding among the leaves above them. Sivvy released an almost violent hiss and flew towards them, and the other pixies scattered away like flies. After a brief moment Sivvy came back down, gently and carefree as if nothing had happened, and Syrena felt almost silly for worrying.
You peculiar thing, she thought again. I do hope you stick around…
* * *
Old Nyx woke up to a sudden cold breeze and instantly turned towards the spot where he’d last seen Robyn, only to find there was nothing there but dirt. He heard a soft grunt nearby and leapt to his feet, wary and alert, his nose twitching as his eyes searched everywhere for the girl. He shook the dirt from himself and took a walk, brushing past the Beast along the way.
When he heard the grunt again, he realized it was coming from inside the stables.
It wasn’t so much the darkness that bothered him, but more so the idea of Robyn practicing while drunken raiders or travelers could’ve been lurking nearby. He walked deeper into the stables and came across a long corridor with a dozen horse stalls on each side. And there, at the end of the corridor, Robyn stood with her bow held ready, aiming an arrow at the wall.
Nyx kept quiet at first. The girl appeared lost in concentration. She had set up a bundle of hay against the stables’ wall and had drawn a target on it with a piece of coal; there were two arrows already sticking out of the hay, both of them missing the target’s center by just a couple of inches. When she let go, her arrow missed again and she grunted angrily for the third time.
“Can’t sleep?” Nyx finally asked.
Robyn was only a few feet away, but the fox could hear the subtle gasp of surprise under her breath. She looked restless and fidgety, the way a person would look when caught in a rebellious act, and yet with a shoulder shrug and a brusque exhale she shot another arrow. She missed a fourth time, and then she threw her bow on the dirt with a groan of despair.
“Bit late in the night for that, don’t you think?” Nyx asked as he cleared his throat.
Robyn slouched herself against the wood and slid down to a sitting position, all the while running an agitated hand through her tangled black curls.
“I had him, Nyx,” she sighed. “He was sitting right there…”
Nyx took gentle steps towards her, realizing she wasn’t exactly in a perfect state of mind. “The Captain?” he asked, and she replied with a hesitant nod.
“Right in front of me, he was,” she said. “I had a knife to his throat... Why didn’t I just do it? Why did I let him live?”
Nyx sat next to her the way he often would, just close enough for comfort but far enough that they weren’t touching. “Would you like the jovial answer or the honest one?” he asked.
“Neither,” she grunted. “I’d like to figure it out for myself…”
There was a moment of silence. Robyn hoped she hadn’t insulted him, but she persisted all the same.
“Very well,” he responded calmly. “How do you feel?”
She sighed. If only it was easy to answer such a question…
“Angry,” she said first, then bit at her lip. “Restless. Impatient.”
“Good,” he remarked. “And have those feelings ever helped you?”
She scoffed. “See for yourself,” she gestured towards the pile of hay. He didn’t need to glance to see the arrows sticking out inches away from the center.
“Yes. That certainly doesn’t look right,” he said, still as calm as a snail.
“I can do it,” she said, still trying to make an impression. “I know I can. I’ve done it before!”
“Well… what’s changed since then?”
“I dunno,” she stammered.
“What’s missing now that wasn’t before?”
“I dunno!”
“Do you not?”
“Look, it’s not the same!” she snapped at him. “It’s not the same shooting at a pile of hay than shooting a person. It’s just not!”
Nyx remained silent. He knew the girl was smart, too smart for her own good, and was willing to give her the nudge that Mister Beckwit would often deny her. But he also knew that she was a unique soul… Far too stubborn to listen and learn from others’ mistakes, she preferred to make the mistake and learn from it on her own. Robyn Huxley didn’t want to be taught to survive, she preferred to live.
“I’m sorry,” she said nervously. “I didn’t mean to shout at you, I only… I just meant that it’s much more different out here. I’m not shooting at wood or hay or even those damn wolves. And it’s not the same without Mister Beckwit or J…”
She hesitated, feeling a knot building in her throat.
And there, Nyx saw it, a sparkle along the edge of the girl’s eyelid.
Had he palms instead of paws, Nyx wished he could say he’d comfort her… But even then, he was far too reserved for it. The most he was willing to do was sit and allow for her to use his shoulder for comfort, should she need it. But the girl wiped her face before she allowed the first tear.
Ah, Nyx thought. At least the girl’s growing a thicker skin… Good.
“Y’know, he never doubted me,” Robyn spoke suddenly. And though she wasn’t crying, Nyx could see the anguish in her glimmering pupils. “John was the only one who encouraged me. Always. Always… When mum or Mister Beckwit would only see a stubborn inexperienced child, John saw me for me.”
Nyx felt a tug of his own in his chest. He had to look away and stare at the stable walls to avoid further seeing the pain in the girl’s expression.
“When Mister Beckwit would scorn me for missing, John would simply smile and say ‘Fetch it and try it again’. Always,” Robyn kept on, struggling through every word as if it ached her. “I would get so angry… A few years back, I nearly broke Spirit in half, had it not been for him… He gave me a good shove and said, ‘It’s not the bow’s fault. It’s you’… He said, ‘If you spend your whole life telling yourself that you can’t do something, then you never will… But you can do anything in this life. Absolutely anything. You can save the world someday, if you try hard enough’.”
She paused there, and this time a tear ran down her cheek without her knowing.
And as she struggled through every breath, she finally said, “He told me to try telling myself that and see how well it worked. And… From that moment on, any time John was there, I never missed a single shot. Never.”
The wind began to pick up, bringing with it a cloud of dust that made Robyn wince mildly. Nyx glanced at the pile of hay again, at the two arrows far from the center of the target.
So peculiar, it looked… So unlike Robyn…
“So what’s wrong with now?” he decided to ask.
The girl sighed, brushing the dust from her face.
“Well,” she said, somewhat coldly and despairingly. “John’s not here anymore, is he? He’s off doing great things, not worrying about anything that should ever happen to me.”
She rose to her feet, brushing the dirt from the rest of her clothes as she fought back the incoming tears. Nyx wanted to say something… He wanted to tell the girl how strong she was. He wanted to tell her that she had no need for John, that the courage was within her regard
less. Instead he said nothing, for he knew that it wasn’t his place to say any of that.
“We’ve a long day tomorrow,” she said, leaning over to pick up her beloved bow. “We should try and rest.” She began walking away, but Nyx couldn’t bring himself to follow her. He sat there broodingly, sighing gently, reminiscing on the memories that had long been buried somewhere in his mind.
Of course, he had suffered loss. Immortality was just as much a gift as it was a curse; having everyone you loved pass away while you sat and watched was surely worse than dying. And after decades of pain and agony, Nyx had learned to shield himself entirely from it. In that brief moment, however, there was a shred of vulnerability that he couldn’t help but succumb to. He turned his gaze towards her, his sole eye glowing under the moonlight as it always did, and she came to a halt when she heard him speak again.
“Why didn’t you run…?”
The question puzzled her at first. She turned to look at him where she stood.
“What d’you mean?” she asked.
“Back there with the ogre,” he said. “I told you to run. Several times. Why didn’t you?”
It might have been the wind, but Robyn could see that a tear was building up in the corner of his grey furry eyelid, and his blinking wasn’t hiding it a bit.
“Why did you stay?” he asked again, as if her silence bothered him.
“I… I don’t know,” she said with a shrug.
Nyx sighed. “Every person I’ve met in the last two hundred years has looked at me the same way they would look at an orc or an elf,” he said. “I’m no different to them. I’m just another freak… Why risk your life to save mine?”
Robyn stared into his eye far longer than she should have. She wanted desperately to hold him tightly in her arms, to show him that not everyone in the world was cruel and wicked. Instead, she responded with the first thing that crept into her mind.
“How about friendship?” she said. “Or loyalty?”
“You would be loyal to a freak…?”
Her smile was warm and affable and it seemed to lighten the tension in Nyx’s posture.
“You’re not a freak, Nyx,” she said. “You never have been. You’re family.”