The Reluctant Flame of the Fae Woods

Mabel Thorngauge kneels in the damp earth of her garden, her gnarled fingers coaxing another stubborn turnip from the soil. The Fae Woods encircle her modest cottage like a living shroud. Ancient trees whisper secrets around her in tongues she pretends not to understand. Sunlight filters through leaves that shimmer with unnatural hues—eme...

Mabel Thorngauge kneels in the damp earth of her garden, her gnarled fingers coaxing another stubborn turnip from the soil. The Fae Woods encircle her modest cottage like a living shroud. Ancient trees whisper secrets around her in tongues she pretends not to understand. Sunlight filters through leaves that shimmer with unnatural hues—emerald, sapphire, gold—reminders that this new continent belongs to the Fae, not weary refugees like her. At her age, with silver hair streaked by the fading of her old red locks and a knee that protests every bend, she has traded adventure for this: turnips, endless turnips. And of course the solitude she craved after decades of blood and magic. A twig snaps beyond the garden gate. Mabel straightens slowly, leaning on her cane. Her green shawl slips from one shoulder. She squints through the underbrush as the wind catches the ruffled neckline of her white blouse. Emerging from the shadows, a tall man approach. He is cloaked in traveler's leathers worn thin by roads unkind. In his grip gleams a sword of pure gold. "Oi, what’s this then?" Mabel calls, her voice sharp and laced with irritation. She grips her cane tighter as her once battle tuned instincts stir—a flicker of old power in her veins. "If you're here peddling nonsense, you've got the wrong crone. I've got turnips to murder." The man halts at the gate, his eyes wide with reverence as if he found a prize he had been searching for. He kneels, extending the sword hilt-first. "Lady Thorngauge—Mabes the Flamehearted. Our prophecy has spoken. You are The Flame That Unites The Shores. More refugees flood our lands. In response, the Fae only sharpen their thorns. We forsee a war brewing on the horizon as clear as storm clouds. Only you can bridge the divide." Mabel snorts, hobbling closer despite herself. Her bad knee twinges, forcing a slouch, but she eyes the weapon. It's warmth seeps through the air, tugging at memories of battles long buried. "Prophecy? Savior? Bollocks. I crossed oceans for peace, not to play hero for a pack of squabbling lot. Take your shiny stick and bugger off." Yet compassion flickers in her chest, unbidden. She sees the desperation in his face. Even though she has moved herself far from the drone of refugee settlements, she'd be a fool not to have noticed the growing tensions. Lately, it's as though she even feels the weight of a continent teetering. Her fingers hover over the hilt, hesitating. The man's gaze pleads silently as he presses the sword forward.

Mabel's gnarled fingers twitch away from the sword's hilt. Yet, the warmth of it lingers like an unwelcome touch. She straightens as best she can, her bad knee sending a sharp protest up her leg. "Enough of this rot," she declares, her voice cutting through the air with a crisp bite. "I'm no savior, no flame, no bridge for your squabbles....

Mabel's gnarled fingers twitch away from the sword's hilt. Yet, the warmth of it lingers like an unwelcome touch. She straightens as best she can, her bad knee sending a sharp protest up her leg. "Enough of this rot," she declares, her voice cutting through the air with a crisp bite. "I'm no savior, no flame, no bridge for your squabbles. The Fae can sharpen their thorns all they like—I've hung up my wand for good. Take your prophecy and shove it where the sun don't shine." The man remains on one knee, his cloaked shoulders unyielding, with eyes fixed on her in maddening reverence. He says nothing, but the desperation in his posture speaks volumes. Mabel huffs in frustration before she snatches the golden sword from his grasp anyway. She reasons it would be better to have it out of sight than let the fool kneel there all day. Weighing almost nothing, considering it's golden looks, she tucks it awkwardly under her arm. Thinking she has accepted some sort of trickery, the blade hums faintly against her shawl, stirring embers of old magic she thought long cooled. This sword is no trick. Apparently. Without another word to the man, she pivots on her cane, the wood sinking into the soft garden soil as she hobbles toward her cottage door. Behind her, the prophet begins to speak to himself but does not rise. He stays at the gate, head bowed, as if rooted by faith or folly. Mabel mutters under her breath about meddlesome strangers and cursed blades as she looks to the skies. A storm has been due for some time now. That should shoo him away. Pushing open the weathered door with her shoulder, she maneuvers the sword inside. A familiar scent of dried herbs and turnip soup greets her inside. It's a small comfort amid the growing unease prickling her skin. Her tiny chicken familiar Gerald Jr. scratches at the floorboards nearby, clucking softly to himself. The ornery goose, Captian Honk, honks from its nest in the corner, eyeing the sword with beady suspicion. She uses the term "nest" lightly. It more resembles a guard tower as it is precariously perched upon two stacked wooden chairs. None of which she had any involvement in placing. Nor any involvement in the location decision, which grants him a scenic view of her garden from which he seems more than inclined to make commands about as she tends it. She drops the weapon on the scarred wooden table, watching dust motes swirl away in the slanting light from the window. Outside, the sky bruises to an unnatural violet. Fae winds whisper through the ancient trees like warnings. As she finds herself a dirty bowl from last night's dishes, she hears the first signs of thunder. Cleaning herself a bowl, as well as the dishes she reserves for Gerald Jr, Captain Honk, and Gerald, she is able to fix all involved a serving of turnip soup from the cauldron over the fire. All except Gerald, of course. He is the only creature in the house dead set on eating his "offerings." Mabes pulls a chicken wing from the cooked chicken she made a few days ago before tossing it under the table. The low rumble outside builds before the heavens unleash a torrential rain that hammers the thatched roof like a thousand angry stones. Water sheets across the garden in silver curtains, turning the earth to churned mud and flooding the neat rows of turnips she fought so hard to nurture. Through the rain-streaked glass, Mabel sees the prophet unmoving at the gate. His leathers darken with the downpour, rivulets carving paths down his cloaked form. Yet he kneels on. His hands are now empty and pressed to the sodden ground. Lightning cracks overhead, illuminating the woods in stark flashes where Fae lights flicker to life among the branches. Captain Honk, feathers ruffling, honks in disdain, "About time for some moisture," in his Abyssal tongue. Mabel's knee throbs in rhythm with the storm's fury as Gerald crunches his bones under the table.

Mabel takes her time sipping on her turnip soup. In her days of adventure, she took food for granted. When you never know where your next meal is coming from, or who's cooking it, you eat what you can and where. As she eats, she glances occasionally through the rain-lashed window. Each time she does, her lips curl in disbelief at the "pr...

Mabel takes her time sipping on her turnip soup. In her days of adventure, she took food for granted. When you never know where your next meal is coming from, or who's cooking it, you eat what you can and where. As she eats, she glances occasionally through the rain-lashed window. Each time she does, her lips curl in disbelief at the "prophet's" stubborn form. Lightning splits the sky repeatedly, etching his silhouette against the flooded garden like a drowned statue. When she finishes her soup, she drops her dish into the wash basin. With a growl low in her throat, she shuffles to the door. Yanking it open just enough to let her voice carry over the roar of the storm, she calls out, "Oi, you sodden zealot! Pack up your prayers and bugger off before the mud swallows you whole. I've no use for your kneeling, and my turnips can't spare the fertilizer!" The prophet lifts his head slightly, water streaming from his hood, but he offers no reply beyond a murmured incantation lost to the wind. His hands remain planted in the muck, as if the earth itself holds him in place. Mabel slams the door shut with a huff. The impact rattles the jars and knickknacks on her shelves. She mutters a curse under her breath, her cane tapping an irritable rhythm as she crosses to the hearth. Her fire crackles welcomingly. Its orange glow pushes back the chill that has seeped into her bones. She drags her rocking chair closer with the tip of her cane, easing her weight onto it and drawing her green shawl tighter around her shoulders. The warmth seeps in gradually, soothing the persistent throb in her knee until it dulls to a manageable ache. Gerald Jr. pecks at the last dregs of turnip soup from his bowl, his tiny claws scraping the floorboards in contented scratches. "Let the dreg freeze in the rain, Mabes. You've already taken his shining sword," Gerald Jr. grumbles past the chunks of boiled turnip. From his perch atop the stacked chairs, Captain Honk preens his feathers, occasionally directing a disdainful honk toward the window. "That bugger is still there, Mabes." He complains. Under the table, Gerald crunches steadily on the remainder of his chicken wing. His shadows flickering unnaturally around his unseen form as he savors the offering. Hours slip by in the storm's relentless streams. Rain hammers the roof in sheets. Thunder rolls through the Fae Woods. Mabel stirs a kettle of herbal tea over the coals, the steam carrying scents of chamomile and dried lavender that mingle with the earthy tang of wet soil drifting inside. She sips slowly from a chipped mug, her gaze drifting to the golden sword on the table. Its blade catches the firelight and stirs memories of battles long buried. The cottage feels smaller somehow, the walls pressing in with the weight of the possible prophecy she can't quite shake. Outside, the violet sky lightens, though the downpour shows no mercy. Captain Honk shifts and stretches his neck toward the window. He honks sharply in the Abyssal tongue, the words twisting into English only Mabel can grasp. "That fool prophet's still out there, Mabes. Knee-deep in the slurry now, hands planted like he's sprouting roots." Mabel's mug pauses halfway to her lips as another flash of lightning illuminates the gate. The prophet endures, bowed, his cloak a sodden shroud blending with the night.