As if I needed reminding.
I roll out of bed, yanking on trousers and a shirt before slipping my feet into boots. I can’t lie here anymore. Can’t stare at the ceiling cataloguing my mistakes while the gods treat us like children sitting in the corner with our shame.
But who is even to blame, really?
All of us. None of us. The system that made us pawns before we were born.
I swing open the door and come face to face with Whispen.
In his adult form. It’s an interesting choice, a blend of the three of us. Smaller than Orion but with the same broad build. Curly hair like mine. And oddly enough, Kieran’s jawline.
I’m not sure if it’s flattering or unsettling.
“Whispen.”
“Morning!” he chirps, and I’m not entirely sure he slept. If he even sleeps. I’ll have to ask Orion.
He also doesn’t move.
“Whispen, is there something you need?”
“Oh, I thought you’d never ask!” He bounces from floor to ceiling before settling back down, grinning with those sharp little teeth.
I wait.
He says nothing.
I inhale the patience I don’t have because I didn’t sleep. “Whispen.”
“Yes?” He leans in, eyes bright with mischief.
This time I push past him. Through him, actually, which we usually try to avoid. It’s an unusual sensation, like diving into pudding. Unpleasant in ways I can’t quite articulate.
I drag my hands down my face, yawning as I head down to the quiet tavern. I have no idea when Donn opens, but since he’s not here, off waking ancient goddesses, apparently, I’m going to make coffee.
The bastard has a stash of the human import. And there are days like today where I crave it with an intensity that borders on pathetic. Only humans have those contraptions that plug into walls and produce coffee on demand.
I do not have that luxury.
I have to start a fire. Which means getting wood. And going outside.
Twilight is just beginning to crest the horizon, where it will sit for hours before sliding back down. Faerie doesn’t rotate like Earth, it wobbles. Tilts. There are lands here so dark that no one dares enter. Places where tales are told of portals deep inside the black forest. Where creatures dwell that even gods avoid.
“What are we doing?” Whispen follows me outside to a woodshed where Donn keeps an axe and stacks of timber.
I pause at the axe. Glare at it. “Making coffee.”
“And that involves an axe.” He gets very close to the tool in question, examining it like a particularly interesting specimen. “How intriguing.”
“Whispen.” I grip the handle, testing its weight. “Did you know Donn was Dagda?”
“Oh yes.” He tries to grab the axe. Fails. His translucent fingers pass right through. “Whispen knows many, many things.”
I breathe in patience. Out impatience. I’m beginning to understand Orion’s constant threats.
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I cannot.” He straightens, and for a moment the mischief fades. His eyes, those strange, shifting eyes, go ancient. Tired. Like he’s seen this game play out a thousand times and already knows how it ends.
