Michael T. Hare

Ayden worked strenuously, completing his duties before the sun melted behind the western summit. As usual, the work was grueling, and it ended with a furious Odhran who couldn’t produce another chore.

In spite of that, Ayden was glad to be alone and at ease, basking in the cool evening air as it breathed through his bedroom window.

Thumb braced against the spine of his whittling blade, Ayden shaved impurities from his wooden dragon sculpture. When he deemed it symmetrical, he turned the wooden drake over in his hands, angling its snout to face him. Nothing seemed askew, but in due time, that would change; Ayden had limited esteem for his three dragon sculptures, and he was constantly improving them.

His other two dragons were poised on his bedside table, tails lashing like the fire he’d carved from their jaws. Such artistry couldn’t match that of Alina’s hand, but Ayden delighted in his creations. They’d begun as nothing more than wood chunks, which Barken had happily given up, saying, ‘Out of all the gifts and blessings the fae have wrought, they cannot craft something so pure as a tree. They bring hope, shelter, and light. But most important of all, they allow us to create.’

Ayden cleaned his sculpture of dust and put it away, feeling sleep tug at his eyelids.

No.

He slapped himself hard on the forehead to expel his weariness. Should sleep take him, the morning would come and another day of pain with it. Another… just as today had been—an insipid, agonizing recurrence of the day before. It was a vicious cycle, one that had buried the child he was and replaced it with a man he wasn’t ready to know.

Ayden’s belly croaked with hunger, and he gave it a tender massage, promptly conscious of how it ached. For a long while, he lingered on the edge of his mattress, pondering something else as he touched his abdomen. He was outlandishly thin, and much to Odhran’s amusement, that never changed. Not even the constant swing of an axe could thicken Ayden’s wiry arms or strengthen his build.

He snorted the subject off and tried to ignore his hunger. Stale bread and cheese were his last meal, and Odhran had provided nothing else since then. Then an idea hit him—a perilous idea, but an idea regardless. On rare occasions, Ayden would tiptoe into the kitchen and steal a nibble of bread or jerky. He’d succeeded in the past, so why not risk it again?

Slow, ungainly footfalls rattled the door, and a dark shape filled the gap above the threshold. Biting his lower lip, Ayden froze until Odhran’s steps withered to faint thuds, followed by a door slam. With Father in bed, I actually have a chance.

With calculated steps, Ayden opened his door and ensured that Odhran’s was closed. Given their bedrooms faced one another, it was both an easy and precarious check, but the man’s bedroom was closed off as expected. Hushed curses and swears emanated from within.

Ayden crept down the hall and into the kitchen; a floorboard squealed under his foot, and the blood whistling in his ears grew shrill as if to caution him. His stomach was louder, though, and regardless of the risk, there was no better time to act.

Ayden held his breath as he pulled open one of the birchwood cabinets beside the window, revealing a larder packed with foodstuffs. He skimmed over the salted cheese and rye bread, feeling the jerky was a more attractive meal—not least because it was from yesterday’s elk.

“More rat than human now, are we?” barked a voice.

With a flinch, Ayden shut his eyes, ashamed and terrified. He didn’t want to turn around, as if meeting his father’s gaze would aggravate the situation.

“By the Giants, boy, it’s like I’m speaking to a tree! ANSWER!”

Ayden closed the larder, turned, and saw Odhran’s eyes. The fury within them seemed to spew fire, burning whoever beheld them. Leaning against the counter, Ayden fidgeted with his hands as he spoke. “I… I was only hungry, Father.”

“Hoping to fill out, I suppose?” Odhran said with disgust. “A shame you even try— ehrr! Will anything satisfy this blasted headache!?” He snarled, letting one of his hands crash to the table before him.

Ayden puffed out his chest, trying to act bravely. “Shall I fetch you that Eväyus Leaf, Father? You still have it from the day before.”

“One minute, you steal from me, and the next, you serve me,” mused Odhran, a vein bulging on his temple. “I am beginning to understand your love for those blasted dragon riders. Were they not thieves before they took to the skies and killed themselves at Grenadâx?”

“Shall I fetch your leaf?” Ayden asked again, trying to evade the subject.

Odhran seemed to consider, and he suddenly looked very drunk. “Do it,” he finally said.

Feeling relieved to please his father, Ayden opened the larder again and rummaged its contents. He didn’t stop until his eyes fell upon a familiar jar. It was crafted from jadeite stone and felt warm against his hands, which were cold with trepidation.

“Grant me it, laggard,” demanded Odhran.

“Yes, sir.”

Ayden fished the Eväyus Leaf from the jar, then pinched it between his fingers. “Ôrjl Inìzsh ij Odhran,” he whispered, and the leaf issued a white glow from its veins. A coolness raced through Ayden’s body, filling him with a whit of vigor, and for a rare, transient time, he felt peace in the Fairy Magic’s brilliance.

Odhran snatched the leaf away, severing Ayden’s connection with it. “You need only grant it,” he said, clubbing his son on the head. “Don’t mistake someone’s property for your own.” He huffed and started preparing a brew with all the clumsiness of a troll.

“I was going to give it to you,” blurted Ayden.

“Shut up, nuisance. The privileges you receive are dictated by me and will stay so forever. I will always be your superior. Your overseer.” He stomped to the licking fireplace and hung a silver kettle over it, then rubbed the Eväyus Leaf between his hands until little green flakes fluttered into the kettle. “Besides,” he muttered darkly, “I think you owe me the service after what you did to Iris.”

The pain in his chest returned, and Ayden clenched his jaw. He had been expecting this, the moment when Odhran finally broached the subject—the death of Iris Ejgard. “I-I was too young, Father. Her death can’t be my f—”

“Oh yes, and I have broken a geelabeast’s neck with my bare hands!” Odhran roared, bumbling into the kitchen and dusting off his hands. “Let us be clear on one matter, boy: you are the reason you have no mother. Call it ill fate if you desire, but I shan’t give into such lies.” He spat onto Ayden’s tunic from across the table that separated them. “In the past, I had no sympathy for those who harmed my wife.” An ugly, wolfish grin twisted across Odhran’s face. “I haven’t changed that much, you filthy rodent….”

Ayden wanted to scream back at him but couldn’t find the words. He had no defense against his father’s accusations, mainly because he couldn’t remember his mother. All he knew was that Odhran had dearly loved her, and one day, she’d perished—as for how, Ayden was never told, only that he played a crucial role in it during infancy.

“To kill my mother at such an age is absurd,” Ayden said, his voice a well of guilt and shame. “I would never do such a thing, and certainly not on purpose!”

“Silence!” screamed Odhran, slamming his hands on the table.

Ayden jumped back, heart pounding. A long hush passed over the kitchen, the only sound being the huffing of Odhran’s breaths and the crackling of the fireplace. When Ayden’s father next spoke, his words could’ve shaken stone, and his eyes revealed something close to bloodlust. “Hungry, eh?” he asked through yellow teeth.

Alas, just as Ayden thought he might escape by the skin of his teeth, he’d been wrong. The look on Odhran’s face said it all: punishment. He chided himself for defending the issue of his mother again, but his shame always prevailed.

“Very well, then.” Odhran lumbered to the front door, kicking a chair out of his way and into the sitting room. Violent hands made quick work of the doorlock, and Ayden’s father marched out of the house, hollering curses and oaths as he went. Anyone else would’ve considered this behavior silly, but Ayden knew a storm when he sensed one. A rock-hard lump swelled in his throat.

“I’ve given you privileges!” Odhran howled, stomping into the house again. “But looting my reserves was never one of them.” He carried a hunting bow and a quiver of arrows, yet he wouldn’t be their master tonight. “You knew the consequences….”

Heat pricked the corners of Ayden’s eyes. Not again, he thought.He loathed this punishment most of all, not only because it required him to hunt, but because there was no slinking out of it. Odhran would expect a freshly killed animal by daybreak.

“Bring me a buck,” Odhran grunted. “It will go nicely with a cup of tea.”

Ayden’s gut plummeted, and he choked on a gasp. A deer would be nigh impossible to haul back home. He was doomed.

“Return before the sun rises, Ejgard. For your sake, I hope you do not disappoint me.”

* * *

Fear was a constant companion in the forest, and it grew more prominent as the land faded into darkness. Ayden slung his bow over his shoulder and squinted through copses of pines, thinking he might catch a buck unawares. Rays of moonlight soaked through the bristly tree limbs, carving out irregular paths through the forest. With tentative steps, Ayden watched for any signs of deer, but the rough breeze garbled his senses—clumps of sagebrush rustled loudly, and the trees leaned to and fro. Yet those weren’t his only distractions; his mind was yet to overlook his aforementioned mother.

For so many years, Ayden knew himself to be the perpetrator of her death and was refused any stories concerning her lifetime; the most he understood was that Iris begot him in the frozen kingdom of Thillyerd, where warfare had forced her and Odhran into the West. All other details about Iris never left the lips of Ayden’s father, specifically the event of her demise. Ayden knew nothing of that.

Only that it was my fault….

Ayden halted despite himself, feeling as though an iron fist had clamped over his heart, forbidding him to place another foot forward. He had no answer to the sadness this time, no excuse for the grief, no strength for a fight. Mother. The name was a lament to his soul. If only he’d known her, bore witness to her voice, felt her soothing touch before she died…

Ayden tossed his bow and quiver to the foliage, taking advantage of the forest’s murky privacy. One tear fell, then another, and then another, until his shoulders slumped and he cried. What son slaughtered his own mother, whether willingly or by accident? Indeed, a wretched one, just as Odhran claimed.

Ayden hoped it was all a lie.

I wonder if she thinks the same as Father. Would she despise me? He looked up at the sky, imagining what she might be thinking if she were up there, watching him every night as he toiled. I want you here, Mother, he thought. From Ayden’s perspective, she was always a kind spirit, not a foul one like Odhran, but the notion of her always brought crossbred emotions of guilt and peace. Such a torturous thing it was.

Ayden blinked away his tears, and through his bleary eyesight, he saw the distorted shape of his bow on the grass. He’d forgotten all about the punishment, which he had no choice but to carry out. He squatted down to collect his weapons, but as he re-stocked his quiver with arrows, something shimmered in the darkness, catching his eye like a lightning bolt.

An impulsive hope sprang to life in his chest, and before he knew it, Ayden was racing to its origin.

Yes!

Blood sprinkled the grass, refracting the moon’s light in tiny crimson droplets. The chances of it belonging to an animal—a buck in particular—were slim, but indolent hunters were known to injure their game and leave them to wander; if this turned out to be a like circumstance, Ayden was a lucky man.

Meat you shall have, Father, he thought.

The blood looked awfully fresh, and when he observed it more closely, he realized it formed a trail. So, after nocking an arrow, he followed its lustrous guidance and ascended into the mountainside forest.

A slim chance is still a chance.

Ayden stalked the ‘hopefully-wounded’ creature for many hours, and through all of them, the world seemed to grow darker and more foreboding. Wolves howled in the distance, sceer packs chittered anxiously in the brush, and owls screeched from above. Some of them were probably on the trail as well, and Ayden tightened his grip on the arrow.

Flashes of his first hunt came in painful waves: a fourteen-year-old boy, lost and afraid, wading through snow drifts, praying he’d live to see another sunrise. Somehow, he’d earned the Hunting Punishment, but many years of similar penalties smeared the memory. His most vivid memory was huddling under a tree and covering his ears, trying to blunt the frightening noises of twilight.

Eventually, the cold had grown too fierce, forcing him to return home without Odhran’s quarry. Ayden had slept in Sprint’s stables that night, nestled in prickly hay as his tears turned to ice…. Ever since then, he opted to train with a bow in case another Hunting Punishment came.

Tonight, he wouldn’t fail as he did three years ago.

Its injury must’ve been grievous, Ayden thought.

The blood’s narrow trail had become thick and dense, giving off the impression of a hemorrhage. Bits of brown and white fur floated in the red puddles, and Ayden plucked a stray tuft from the ground and rubbed it between his fingers.

The wind had lessened by now, albeit the moon stayed bright enough for him to identify what he was tracking.

A fallow deer…. It was attacked at this spot.

Ayden raised his head to further investigate and was shocked to find his destination was a devastated clearing. With his eyes invariably on the trail, he hadn’t noticed the havoc until now. Claw marks lacerated everything, blood pooled in great heaps, and shreds of clothing blew haphazardly in the breeze.

“By the Giants,” Ayden muttered, inching away from the blood on wobbly legs. What fresh horror was this? Had there been a brawl? The blood’s slipshod patterns suggested it, but such violence wasn’t typical in Ruksfen…

A numbing cold struck Ayden from behind, and his spine tingled as a foreign terror overcame his thoughts. He could not say what triggered it, only that it was subtle like a braced predator, one that threatened to sink its fangs into his soul yet prowled just out of reach.

Unquenchable shivers plagued Ayden’s body as the icy sensation grew, and he felt an instinctual urge to turn around, to uncover this strange source of power. A hint of familiar magic lingered in its essence… a power Ayden was well acquainted with.

Fairy Magic.

How? he pondered, still rooted to the spot and trembling. Could this be the work of Gifted Ones? He reconsidered the eerie rumors Barius had spoken of. It was true that some Gifted Ones turned their backs on Eldíra, but the happening was rare. And even if they did, their vanquishment would usually follow in a day’s time, whether by mortal soldiers or their own magical brethren.

Turn around! urged his conscience. Turn around!

The mysterious fear became frantic, causing Ayden to go stiff as a board and his breath to quicken. He was too afraid to move. His words came out as a choked rasp, and he uttered them to himself, hoping it would restore his physical control. “T-turn… around!” Some of the terror abated, and Ayden looked over his shoulder.

Clawed hands lunged for his face.