Return to Ulgrotha: Balance

In which I exercise more of the post-mending Ulgroth worldbuilding.

***

Laira was a simple faerie.

A bit of sunshine, a warm welcome and the sound of rivulet waters echoing across the creek was enough to please her. Many of her kin lost themselves in Court politics, and that was fine. She wasn’t a good argumentator nor ambitious enough to even try. She’d much rather do her duty out in the fields, watching over farmers and their children, keeping an eye out for danger and blessing the Summer harvests.

She yawned, laying lazily on a branch on the outskirts of Kerselin. Underneath her the children of loggers played, occasionally stealing glimpses of their gracious protector but mostly ignoring her. A faerie’s mystique can only last so long when she’s a regular presence.

Her rest was broken by an argument, laughter suddenly replaced by shouting and crying. Wasting no time, she unfurled her wings and fell from the branch, gliding down gently between her charges.

“Now now, what’s going on?” she asked, firmly but gently.

“Zud won’t stop hitting Tov!” a girl said, pointing at a boy at the periphery of their group.

“Snitch!” he responded angrily.

“Alright” Laira said, “Why were you hitting your friend?”

Though she asked as calmly and gently as she could, this seemed to elicit a jittery, nervous reaction from the aggressor. Clenching his fists, he took a deep breath, and rant:

“He always has it easy! They always pamper him, they always tell me to ‘shut up’ when I tell them my father hits me else it’ll ‘upset him’, they always protect him and leave me to fend for myself! That’s not fair!”

Laira was definitely not expecting that. This was far more complicated than their usual spats. She took a deep breath, and looked at Zud’s eyes, black as the stormy sea. Her’s were the color of light passing through the meadows at dusk, so there was almost a continuity in their gaze, that calmed the young boy.

“Zud, I know you’ve suffered and your friends weren’t fair to you, but you shouldn’t take it out on Tov. He hasn’t done anything to you, your parents did, so nurture that anger to them, not him. Else you’re going to add more people who will hurt you, because these kids will probably tell your parents about this.”

Before the boy could respond, she turned to the others:

“And you should not play favourites. True, Zud is a bully, but if he actually confesses about his pain you shouldn’t dismiss it.”

She turned one last time, so as all of the now guilty children looked at her:

“Your parents or village elders probably told you to ‘kiss and make-up’. You don’t have to, because wounds don’t heal with kisses. Do have, however, to try and work things out. Listen to each other, be there for each other. One day you’ll grow up; what then?”

None of the children responded to that, though it was clear they understood what she meant. They guiltily excused themselves back to the town, gradually growing more friendly among themselves as they approached their homes. Zud and Tov were now talking together, though Laira could not hear them. It was for the best as far as she was concerned, it was likely very personal.

She could, however, hear wing beats, and see a shadow cast on her.

“Well well” said another faerie, “Seems you’re more of a diplomat than you claim.”

“What is it that you want now, Fendart?” Laira said, turning to face the other faerie.

He was perched arrogantly on her tree, hawk-like in demeanour and arrogance. He had the face of a man long gone, a servant of the Dark Barony that no longer lived.

“I want you to take your place seriously” he crooned, “Your days of watching children are far beneath your station, especially with war brewing.”

“You talk about me ‘not knowing my place’, yet you seem to want Autumn Willow’s role…”

“Funny you should mention her. She requests your presence, at once.”

The sheer smugness on Fendart’s face broke Laira’s relaxed demeanour, and it took a lot of self-restraint to prevent her from decapitating the other faerie with a punch. Instead she opened her wings, reaching to the air.

Fendart followed her, two shadows moving fast across the canopy.

***

The Court gathered at a large clearing, cut through by a wide, fast moving river. Moonlight and meadow flower perfumes filled the air, rendering the intersection of forest, plain and island a surreal, almost dreamy landscape. It was in such places — increasing in number as Ulgrotha healed — that Autumn Willow focused her power, and where her faeries met to discuss their new role as arbiters of the holy balance.

Laira landed on the soft grass and moss of the clearing, sitting down. Fendart, on the other hand, paced himself at the center, wings open and chin high like a rooster.

“We have gathered here at the behest of the Mother of the Wilds, to discuss the impending war.”

The faeries gasped and murmured among themselves. Laira was surprised that they were surprised; maybe this was going to be another of Fendart’s paranoid rants?

“May I, Mother of the Court?”

A breeze crossed the clearing, breaking apart the river waters for but a moment. Autumn Willow had sent her approval for an argument, though she hadn’t deigned to materialise herself yet.

“For 50 years Ulgrotha has been healing and for 50 years we maintained the balance while the Floating Isle fell to decadence. We alone maintained the jaws of disaster from striking, and yet now they are gnawing at our foundations. We’ve neglected the Dark Barony for far too long, thinking it to be obsolete, and yet they strike at the edges of the world. They are a disease, and in their squalor they bred another strain to fell us down.”

“Please stop with that and just get to the point” another faerie yawned.

If Fendart had feathers they would be most assuredly ruffled. He had to make do with his butterfly wings instead.

“The point is that one of their werewolves has gone rogue. He now wanders the Koskun and the Isle and even settlements we control, sewing seeds for war. Warbands of mercenaries now gather, aiming to strike at the Barony. Aysen senses this not as help but as danger, and in turn is gathering its armies. No doubt Eron will make his own moves in response, to say nothing of what the Barony will concoct.”

“You are way too paranoid” Laira interjected, “These are mercenaries we’re talking about. For better or for worst they won’t last against Irini, like the other insurrections did.”

“I see you failed to hear the part where I said Aysen is advancing. As usual, your incompetence is astounding.”

A gust of wind knocked Fendart off his feet, making him lose his balance if only for a moment.

“Mother of the Daughters of Autumn, you know me to be true! She has neglected her duties, which could have prevented this situation from escalating. But alas, we must correct her mistake at once.”

“What do you propose?” a voice like spider threads across rustling leaves filled the air.

At once the winds gathered in a tornado, air becoming flesh and hair and piercing yet gentle eyes. Autumn Willow stood above her faeries, feet sinking into the earth as if roots connected her to all of Ulgrotha. Her motherly appearence bellied a great, almost primeval power, that made Laira feel humble and mortified at once. This seemed to have no effect on the arrogant Fendart, however, who simply opened his wings as he continued his argument.

“Either we destroy the Barony, or we cut the loose thread.”

Autumn Willow took a deep breath, a movement of air more subtle yet just as strong as any storm.

“We cannot kill the Barony, for it is what keeps Aysen preoccupied, lest their memory of Serra burn all of the world down. The loose thread we trim, then.”

A movement of her hand, and the Court was dismissed. Fendart, though furious, bowed with proper and sincere respect. At once Autumn Willow dissipated, and the faeries left, all but Laira and Fendart.

“Go fix your mess” Fendart snarled.

“Me? You’re the one who made a fool of himself over that!”

“He’s going to Kerselin” Fendart sneered, “If you are so attached to that town, then do you part. Else you will be another loose thread, that I will gladly cut.”

She stared at his single pitiless eye and eyepatch, both grim in pride and wrath. He would not stop until the Barony was dead, and she was his tool to vent his frustration. She never felt so much hatred for a being.

“Fine, but on my terms” she said, rising to her feet, “Once this is over you will stop with whatever it is that you’re doing. Or else you will die.”

Fendart snorted, and shooed her away.