Ariel's Tear

by Justin Rose

  Around the keep, in twos and tens and sevens and twelves, groups of fairies headed for the doors, the strong separating from the weak, the protectors from the innocent.

  Chapter 7

  Reheuel stepped slowly from the boat. His stomach churned, and he nearly slipped back into the water as he struggled up the muddy bank. He felt like vomiting but refrained, clinging to what slight bodily control he retained. The world swam before his eyes, caught up in the rhythm of motion that had blurred his vision for nearly two days.

  Ariel flew out over the water and gave her thanks to the sprites. They chortled a joyful answer and then dissipated back into the currents, leaving the boat to drift as it would.

  Reheuel collapsed to the ground and stretched out, reveling in the solid earth beneath his body. Ariel sighed. “I knew a time when such a little trip would barely have phased you.”

  Reheuel nodded as he searched through his pack. “Times change.”

  “I sometimes forget,” Ariel replied. “Time changes so little in my city. What are thirty years? A pause in a conversation? For you they could be a lifetime.”

  “For many they are a lifetime,” Reheuel replied. “I’ve been fortunate.”

  “It’s so beautiful,” Ariel said, her voice musing, abstract. “You have to fit so much into so little time. You have to love, to fight, to share, to cling, to punish, to forgive. You have to feel pride and shame and wonder and disgust. You have to love. All in the space of a fairy’s laughter. It is beautiful that men find the time.”

  Reheuel sat up. “Do you miss it?” he asked.

  “Miss what?”

  “Death, I suppose. Do you miss knowing that each second only comes once?”

  “Sometimes,” Ariel replied. “But other times I fear death even in my current state. It would be so hard for me to die, but sometimes I awake in the night and scream, afraid that I might slip away in my sleep and lose everything I’ve worked for. I think of the centuries I have wasted, the time unimaginable ill spent and realize how I have wasted immortality. Then I fear its loss even more.”

  Reheuel stood. “Well, let’s not waste any time then.” He set off toward the mountain which rose a few miles off, carefully setting his boots against the oak roots and rocks that offered themselves on the upward trek.

  Ariel followed about twenty feet above, watching the surrounding forests for movement. Every hour or so, as Reheuel climbed, Ariel descended and gave him instructions, leading him to the quickest paths, avoiding steeper inclines and shale.

  The going was slow, and Reheuel paused often to rest. His legs burned beneath him, shin splints aching with every new step. But he continued, often hand over hand up the side of steep hills, tearing the flesh from his fingers and gouging the leather of his boots. When night fell, he slept in a flat wood, stretched out beneath a canopy of ferns.

  * * *

  On the second day of travel, Hefthon stopped at the edge of a forest to hunt. He formed snares from his spare bowstrings and searched for rabbit trails to set them over. Tressa and Veil gathered strawberries and early raspberries in the fields around the wood. Hefthon hated to leave them alone, but he knew that food was their primary concern. Hunger was a far more pressing danger than goblins.

  He quietly stalked the woods for most of that day, hoping to find turkey, or perhaps a deer. In the evening, he returned to the camp with three squirrels and a rabbit from his snare. Nightfall found the game spitting grease over a small campfire.

  Veil rocked on her heels a few feet off, staring into the fire. “Will they be all right, Hefthon?” she asked.

  Hefthon smiled. “We’ve beaten the goblins before. I’m sure we can do it again. When we get home, they’ll all be waiting there. Old Shoen will be sitting on his porch, barking at the children as they chase the carts bound for market. Kezeik will be drilling in the courtyard of the keep. Euri will be fighting with her customers in the market, squabbling over seeds and cloth. It’ll be just like it was.”

  Tressa laid her hand on her son’s shoulder and squeezed gently in thanks. Veil resumed staring into the fire, trying to put together another question. She could feel the burden of her city bearing down on her young shoulders, but her mind could scarcely process the true nature of its danger. The age old war of youth raged within her, her heart yearning to tremble but her mind unable to process real fear.

  Tressa sat down beside her son and passed him a rag full of berries. “Geuel will warn them,” she whispered. “Don’t worry for home.”

  Hefthon nodded. “It feels so wrong. I can see them all, all my friends, lining up to fight. Rishka and Toman with their axes and pitchforks and Hayden with his sling. They’ll all be fighting. And I’ll be here, safe and useless.”

  Tressa squeezed his hand. “Duty doesn’t always bring glory. This is your duty. And not one man in Gath Odrenoch would ever doubt your desire to be there.”

  “Then why do I feel like I’m deserting them?” Hefthon asked. “I’m out here, leaving them to defend my home. They’ll grow up together in one night, and years from now, around fires in the evening, they’ll all say, ‘Remember that night when the goblins attacked? Remember how . . .’ And they’ll remember together and be together, secure in a perfect knowledge of each other’s mettle. And I’ll be apart.”

  “Perhaps,” Tressa replied. “But will that matter if you did your duty? Just because one task receives the glory does not mean that others should be left undone.” Tressa pointed over at Veil, who was lying down now, staring at the stars.

  “She is your duty. And as long as you do right by her, then no man in Gath Odrenoch will ever have just call to shame you.”

  Just then a glimmer of light flashed by above them. Veil sat up. “A fairy!” she cried.

  Hefthon watched the light as it dipped down into the trees and paused on a branch. “They must be gathering again.”

  “Perhaps they’re recovering,” Tressa said. “Perhaps they can live without the Tear.”

  The three remained silent for several seconds as they watched the Fairy fly out of sight once more. For the rest of that evening, a strange peace filled each of them, a reassurance they could not put words to.

  * * *

  Within the fairy keep, a choir of voices, crystalline and ethereal, swelled and echoed in stone passages. With each passing second, new voices joined the song as fairies, unused to relying on their own volition, let the music draw them in.

  Throughout the keep, in passages and rooms all around the central hall, the council members led the singing, their own voices stronger and lower than the others.

  Randiriel floated in the center of the main hall and listened to the music, feeling her people growing stronger. The music was a mere triviality to her, a pleasantry. But to the other fairies, it was a decision, an action taken without another’s direction. And each fairy that joined felt itself grow closer to the others singing, discovering the bonds of natural affection.

  Beside Randiriel, another fairy floated, his gold clothing tinting his glow nearly as brightly as Randiriel’s own. “We have enough food for tomorrow,” he said. “All of the gatherers have returned.”

  Randiriel nodded. “Thank you, Rylen. How are they?”

  “Stronger,” he replied. “They’re not children anymore. None of us are.”

  “Take me to them,” Randiriel said. She followed him upward several levels and down the hall to the throne room. About two hundred fairies were gathered there, engaged variously. Some were sorting the food. Others were talking. A number stood chattering excitedly by the far wall, clustered around something not quite visible.

  Randiriel approached these and floated over them to see what they were discussing. A single fairy stood on the ground with her hands pressed to the wall. A bright glow shone from beneath her hands, filtering through the flesh on her fingers and darkly shadowing the bones of her palm. Her face was set and hard, her eyes closed in concentration. Beneath her hands, the dull, rotting wall of the keep shone bright
silver, fresh and pure. Randiriel smiled. “Beautiful,” she said.

  The fairy opened her eyes and removed her hands from the wall. The glow faded, and slowly the wall dulled, as if the silver were melting into the surrounding rot. “It’s like before,” she said excitedly. “I can still create.”

  “We all can,” Randiriel said. She opened her hand, and a tiny bluebarrel made of light sprouted from her palm, shooting out leaves that draped from her palm and opening its flower between her fingers. Randiriel looked up, and the flower faded, turning to dust and sifting down to the floor. “But not like before. Without the Tear, we are weaker.” She pointed to the now barely perceptible spot of silver on the wall. “But we are still fairy.”

  Several of the other fairies began placing their hands on the wall, struggling to rediscover their former strengths. Some were rewarded by tiny glimmers of light. Most were not. Soon, the other fairies around the room drew closer and began trying as well. Randiriel smiled as she watched them. They were growing. Even if the Tear was never reclaimed, this group would survive. This group would find a way.

  Occasionally, she approached those that were struggling and tried to help, to explain. But words fell short of aid. Creating was like moving, like breathing. You merely did it. There was no process, no command. Just volition. Learning to create was like finding a new muscle.

  All that night, the fairies worked in the throne room, struggling to rediscover their power. They seemed oblivious to all else, absorbed in the necessity of understanding their new lives. Occasionally Randiriel wondered how they would ever return to their old selves once the Tear was returned. Fairies could not work so hard, focus so long. How could this group ever forget their single-mindedness, the drive that now motivated them?

  She cast the thought aside as trivial, trusting that Ariel would have the answers. Ariel always had the answers.

  A hand alighted on her shoulder, and she turned to face one of the council members, a dark-haired female with a silver dress. “Brylle,” Randiriel said with a smile, “what is it?”

  Brylle pointed to the fairies fluttering around the walls, struggling to rebuild. “This isn’t a good idea,” she said. “They can’t use the Tear.”

  “Neither can we,” Randiriel replied. “Yet we’re holding this entire building. They’re growing—just like us.”

  “They can’t though,” Brylle replied. “They can’t—be like us. Do you want them to never go back?”

  “I want them to go forward. To learn.”

  “They’ll fall,” Brylle said softly, “just like you fell. They’ll learn too much to ever be innocent again. And even the Tear won’t save them. They’ll be trapped—like this.”

  Randiriel looked over at the glowing walls, at the faces of the fairies that worked there. Their eyes were flashing with knowledge, with thought. A haze that had always seemed to veil their features was gone. “Well, maybe this isn’t so bad,” Randiriel replied. “I feel fine.”

  “That’s because you’re not like them,” Brylle said. “You’ve never been like them. You’re stronger, already past innocence. The children who become fairies, they’re the weakest, the most fragile. If you try to make them like us, they won’t survive.”

  “If the Tear isn’t found,” Randiriel replied, “what then? Will they be better off as children?”

  “No, no they won’t.”

  Randiriel nodded. “Then let them learn.”

  * * *

  The heavy scent of flowering valerian filled Geuel’s nostrils as he half-trotted, half-staggered through the plains below the Blue Hills. The tall, white flowers clustered thickly all around him. Often, he bent to pull his feet from under them, long since exhausted with snapping their strong stalks. His chaps were stained deep green, and the tiny white flowers filled every crevice of his clothing. Their fresh scent had been invigorating at first, a refreshing change from the smell of pine sap and moldering forest. But now it was sickening, heavy and full. Geuel had long since tied his handkerchief around his face, trying to get a breath of clean, unscented air. His lungs burned with exertion, and his legs ached.

  One more day, he kept telling himself, one more day. He knew that sometime the following night he would reach Gath Odrenoch, and there would be warm water and clean bandages and a real bed. He glanced down at his arm where he had cut himself on the sword. The wound was closed but already discolored. The scabs were blackish and covered in grime. His sweat ran muddily over the surface of the wound. Soon he would be facing serious trouble if he couldn’t get it cleaned.

  When he reached the edge of the Blue Hills in the early afternoon, he rested on the brow of the first and ate. The short grass and squat bluebarrels were a welcome change from the field grass and valerians of the plain. His water was nearly gone, but several streams ran through the Blue Hills, some of the Faeja’s many tributaries between the Gath mountains and the Fairy City. The rest of his food would last him for the journey. Hefthon’s pack had paid off.

  As he ate, he stared off at the Gath mountains. He could see the first few peaks clearly from where he sat. The others were shrouded in mist and cloud. The first mountains of the Gath chain were relatively small. Stark and intimidating in appearance but almost childish compared to the later peaks. Geuel wondered how far his father would have to climb, whether he would have to face the farther heights. Either way, the task was insanity.

  He ate slowly, allowing himself a rare rest before starting again. He regretted it as soon as he stood. His legs, already aching, felt as stiff as boards. Each step sent a jolt through his shins that terminated sharply in his knees. The pain was becoming unbearable.

  He was nearing the end of the Blue Hills when night fell. It was cold, colder with no trees or vegetation to block the wind. He shivered for several hours before finally drifting into a shaky sleep. Once more, dreams haunted him. He saw Gath Odrenoch burning, his people dying. But now he was merely an observer, detached from the events themselves. His location changed with the progression of the dream, fluctuating between the Gath mountains and the city. He saw his father, trapped and struggling in a cave, overpowered by a mass of writhing creatures—goblins but changed, stronger and larger. He saw the Blue Hills and Hefthon left alone protecting his mother and sister, failing and dying. In the distance, smoke rose from somewhere. And though he couldn’t see it, he knew that it was the last remnant of the fairy city—burning. And where was he? Where was Geuel? Trapped, somewhere between. He alone was safe and secure. He couldn’t protect any of them.

  He awoke on the fourth morning, cold but somehow still covered in sweat. Thick clouds blotted out the eastern horizon where he knew the sun was already rising. The air smelled of rain.

  * * *

  Reheuel awoke on the third day to the whistle of a silver byrce. The large bird sat preening itself in the boughs of a gnarled oak jutting out from the edge of a nearby cliff. Ariel was already awake. She sat still on a milkweed plant, caressing the back of a monarch caterpillar. Reheuel watched her for a few seconds. Before the boat ride, he had never seen a fairy so still before. They were always dashing and flitting about, ever in the bustle and hurry of youth. Even when they sat in one place, they trembled constantly, as if all their energy were struggling for an outlet. Between their constant movement and the bright light that emanated from their bodies, it was rare to see them in detail.

  Ariel wasn’t like the other fairies though. She moved with a kind of gravity, slow and dignified. And as she sat on the milkweed plant, her calm dimmed the light within her. She looked almost human aside from her size. She had pale white skin and dark black hair. Her build was slight, like all of her kind. But at that moment, there was nothing childish in her appearance, nothing fantastic or magical. She was simply a tiny woman with transparent wings.

  Reheuel felt vaguely puzzled by her appearance. She was, in every respect aside from size, what one would call beautiful. In fact, all of the fairies were beautiful. And yet he could not imagine anyone finding Ariel �
�attractive.” It was as if her people held the beauty of art, something as distinct from fleshly beauty as the beauty of a sunrise.

  Even Ariel, a fallen fairy who lacked the twinkling eyes and eternal laughter of youth, was so detached from humanity’s pains and pleasures that her very beauty took on the hue of the unnatural.

  She looked over at Reheuel and nodded to the mountain. “Ready to start?” she asked.

  “Guess it doesn’t really matter,” he replied, lifting the pack he had been using as a pillow and strapping it back into place.

  Ariel rose and stroked the caterpillar one last time as if in farewell and then flashed upward several feet, her light burning brighter with the exertion of her wings. She pointed to the cliff where the oak tree hung twenty feet above. “We’ll head up here,” she said.

  Reheuel laughed. “Not all of us have wings, and I’m not climbing shale.”

  “You won’t have to,” Ariel replied and approached the cliff. She extended one hand and clenched it tightly, grinding her fist until it burned too brightly to look at. A set of six stairs, shimmering with an internal sunlight, materialized in front of her, stretching upward toward the cliff.

  Reheuel glanced at them uncertainly. “You’re sure you can hold them?” he asked.

  “No,” Ariel replied, “but no one lives forever.”

  Reheuel laughed as he stepped onto the stairs. “Easy for you to say.”

  He climbed steadily, struggling to keep his eyes trained in front of him. But even without looking down, he could feel the lighting change as the stairs behind him dissipated and new ones flickered to life in front of him. They felt brittle and smooth, like walking on glass. And the slower he walked, the more he felt that they might crack beneath his weight. By the time he reached the top, he was nearly running, the stairs evaporating as soon as he left them and appearing beneath his already falling feet. He tumbled to the top of the cliff and lay face down, grasping clumps of field grass to assure his body that he was on solid ground again.