“What are you doing on your own out here?” one of them asks curiously with a tip to her head that sends long tangles of hair shaking to her waist.
I go for honesty. “I was trying to get home.”
“Home where?”
They continue circling me, moving like serpents with me, a mouse, in their orbit.
“The Borderlands,” I answer.
“The Borderlands,” they chitter.
“What do you want to go there for?” Their features are human in appearance, only more angular, with sunken cheekbones and slashing lines that scream predator. Their lips protrude and peel back from their excessive teeth as they speak. “Didn’t think they like your kind very much down there.”
“My kind? Where else would I belong? I have family in the Borg.”
“Really?” They all exchange looks as though this is the most interesting tidbit to drop in their ears in a long while. “You have family there? You blend in among the population? Well, then. You must be very,veryskilled. Good for you. Except, how is it you found your way into our nest?”
Their nest? So they live beneath ground and not in caves as dragons do. Clever. I doubt anyone would ever find them. Unless they were unlucky enough to fall through a sinkhole like me.
“Totally accidental,” I assure them.
“There’s no such thing as accidents. Everything happens for a reason. Choices. Decisions. They map the way for us all.” This sage bit of wisdom is offered by one of the smaller harpies. But no lessless. She is still terrifying and grotesque and happens to possess the longest claws of them all, which she flexes and curls in the air as though eager to use them. Hopefully not on me. “Don’t you think so?”
I don’t feel much in the mood for philosophizing with these terrifying creatures...especially this one that looks so eager to slice away.
Since they have not yet turned their sharp teeth and claws onme, I hope they mean me no ill will. They might not get along with dragons, but I am not one of those. I let this embolden me to ask the question. “Could you help me get out of here?”
“Why can’t you help yourself? You’re hardly helpless. You should have no problem getting yourself out of this hole.”
Are they being deliberately cruel? Or do they merely think themselves funny? I assess them warily. “I’ve tried. Unlike you, I don’t have wings.”
“You’ve tried, have you?” Again, they swap peculiar glances with each other.
“Not very hard,” one of them mutters.
“You are a helpless sort of witch,” the little one with the enormous claws says with a snort of disgust. “Not very impressive at all.”
They all nod in agreement, chuckling. “You are right on that score, Drifa!”
I jerk.
They think me a...witch? Is that why they haven’t killed me? Do they have an affinity for witches? I recall someone, Merik or Viggo, saying that harpies were once witches.
“Wh-why...do you call me that?” I ask warily, not wanting to explain I’m not a witch in case it is the one thing keeping me alive.
“Because you are one,” Drifa says, pointing, motioning to the air around me. “Your aura is clear to see.”
My aura.
“No, you misunderstand.” I swallow, uncertain if revealing this truth to them is the right decision, but at this point my demise feels imminent. If not in this moment, then soon, eventually, ultimately. The vulnerable do not thrive in the Crags. I certainly won’t make it to the Borg. Tage always knew that. He told me that, but I ignored him.
“A witch cursed me. Years ago. The light around me...the aura you see,” I clarify, repeating the word as though it’s something I’m now accustomed to saying, to knowing. “It’s because a witch cast a spell over me. I’m trapped under a spell.”
Again, they swap looks.
And then they laugh.
They look so human as they do this. They hold their sides, chortling as though truly enjoying themselves. “Oh, is that so?” one asks, wiping the tears from her eyes.
