Perhaps this is fear, he considers as he approaches the borders of his land, the thought sour in the back of his throat.
These are not his borders with the human world, not even with those of the high queen whose kingdom dwells farther from his in a direction often changing, her love letters stashed within his desk. These lands are not far from his own mountains but are far enough Iohmar cannot see them from his window. With a breath and brush of warmth along his skin, he steps through sunbeam after sunbeam until there comes a place where his trees fade and those before him are strange and still and silent. No animals or fae dwell here. This other land is incorrect to even his eyes, sharp as those of any predator bird.
Iohmar breathes. Though he stands too far for his breath to reach the rippling barrier, the shimmer in the atmosphere seems to curve to his presence. His skin has taken a chill he won’t be able to shed until his own home surrounds him.
He could draw closer if he wished, twist his fingers into the glistening air, step within the trees of the kingdom beside his. Murmuring to himself, he draws on the warmth of his own trees, pressing the ever-present sensation of the magic within him, a swirl of warm sunlight threads, outward. No longer does he need to speak when exercising his magic, but it is how he learned as a child, and he takes comfort in the gesture. Reaching the border and beyond, he is met with a void deeper than the tunnels beneath the earth or the space between the burning stars.
A subtle heat smolders behind his breastbone, a familiar rage, an eternal ache, and his fingers twitch to reach for his parents so long-lost to him.
But the creatures dwelling within the stillness are not encroaching. He finds no evidence they are closer to the edges of the trees. And so he lets his magic relax, drain back into his limbs. Stepping into his trees, his feet find the nearest burst of light breaking the canopy.
A beam of warmth returns him home.
3
Feasts and Letters
Iohmar’s new charge requires no special care.
Woven roots coaxed from the wall beside his bed make a simple crib. The boy sleeps most hours, tucked within blankets. It isn’t a task to feed him or even to keep him clean. It would be simple, almost, to forget the child exists. Iohmar dines with his folk, wanders his Halls and woods and gardens, and partakes in every aspect expected of and enjoyed by him.
Why did I bring the boy to Látwill?
He visits the human lands once, avoiding those whom he frightened along the path, hiding within sunbeams and shadows, and cannot convince himself any family in the nearest village could care for the boy better than he can. Perhaps he needs to widen his search.
The babe has taken to crying when Iohmar nears him—enough he warded his chambers lest his kingsguard hear—never at any other time. Iohmar knows enough of children, fae or otherwise, to realize such is strange and incorrect behavior.
Shouldn’t he scream when he wants food or cleaning or attention? Such is the way of humans, needing and unable to express their wants with words, even the older ones.
The child is frightened of me. The thought comes slow and unwilling. It’s happened a handful of times, and Iohmar sighs as he looks down at the boy.
I should not have brought him here, he thinks but does not say the words aloud.
He was remembering his parents. Yes, he must have been. He remembered his parents, and the ache within his chest worsened, and he attempted to soothe it by saving some helpless child. Yes, this must be the reason.
Humans must exist who share the child’s bloodline. If not in the nearest village, then elsewhere. There are many ways to reach Látwill from the human lands—Iohmar can find other villages, other cities, other families. It would be correct to deliver the babe to one of them.
His gut churns. Satisfied the child is fed and comfortable, Iohmar leaves him to his crib. The crying fades to a sniffle before ceasing. He suppresses another sigh as he drifts from his chambers.
His kingsguard join him at the end of the corridor. Dressed in soft silver and drapes of comfortable fabric, they do not radiate their usual sharp angles and steel nature. But there is little reason for fine armor and knives in Iohmar’s Halls. They are company rather than protection in times of peace. Many have been by Iohmar’s side for over a millennium. One was born not so long after Iohmar that they were both considered children within the same few centuries. Each is younger than him by some decades or centuries, but none are close to childhood.
Much like Galen, they do not need permission to join him, but Iohmar invites them with a curl of his fingers. They rise from lounging within the twisted roots and trees lining the walls, drifting behind him with soft steps. Each carries a curved sword full of grace, for the comfort of habit rather than need. Iohmar’s own is by his bedside. They are silent save a few words of friendship or the shuffle of one nudging another out of balance. Iohmar smiles. They are the closest to a band of brothers existing among the fae. Five children would never be born to a single family, but they are as close to one another as possible. They have fought by his side. Iohmar remembers the three whose footsteps are here no longer.
“How fair the winds?” he asks.
Only Queen Rúnda of their neighboring lands can call the winds at her bidding. Others can ask and hope their call is answered, but often the wildest gales whip over the mountains of their own accord. Iohmar’s folk ride them over the peaks and past the seas and back again, an adventure told of even in human tales, for often the winds carry them past. Iohmar has experienced it many times. His kingsguard never tire of the thrill.
“Bitter cold,” says Oisín, walking closest to him, and the others laugh. Iohmar knows each by the sound of their laughter. “Some of the younglings were taking their first trip. Súiler got a girl who latched on to his arm and wouldn’t let go. She believed she would fall through the clouds.”
Súiler gives a familiar grumble. Iohmar presses his lips together in amusement.
“Glad to know your time was well spent.”
Chuckles greet him before being drowned by the merriments of the evening feast. Iohmar lets them disperse to be with whatever friends or lovers they wish.
Iohmar seats himself at the head of the long table occupying half the hall. This is not the throne room, but the chair is carved with vines and streaks of silver and cushioned with fine fabrics and sprouting flowers. It smells of condensed springtime. Not hungry, he picks at the seeds of a pomegranate. The table is spread with food, curved to match the walls at Iohmar’s back.
All manner of fae dine here: Creatures with sharp senses and sharper minds, bodies adorned with stones or living things, mosses and growing flowers and fresh shoots of vines. Humanoid faces or those no human would recognize. Lesser creatures, slower in wit and just as precious to him, skitter around the table legs and steal treats for the fun of mischief rather than sitting and dining as they’re welcome to. Wine flows. His people feast and drink and break into soft haunting songs, not paying him much mind.
Galen, dressed in blue as deep as the sea, fusses over him and attempts to straighten the edge of his collar until Iohmar shoos him away. He is less formal with his head full of drink, and Iohmar can’t have his caretaker smothering him before his subjects.
Picking at one of the smaller creatures tangling its gossamer wings in his hair, he cradles it within his palm while it recovers. Needle teeth grin up at him. These are the creatures tending to fill the stories of men, with insect wings and flighty minds and small mischievous magic. So quick do the true stories fall to myth. Iohmar considers the men he crossed on the road and the braver of the group to whom he spoke. He held Iohmar’s eye and spoke to him when the others fled or cowered.
Perhaps he is worth a visit. After centuries, there is still some curiosity for the human world—it may be an interesting distraction.
He may have knowledge for a suitable human family for the child. The thought sours Iohmar’s mood.
There is no reason to be so resistant. He has never wanted a child, never considered himself a caretaker. Protecting his own folk has stretched his magic to the thinnest threads when threatened, and he does not know what he would do with something so small and frail and reliant as a babe.
Does such manner of compassion exist in me? He remembers it once, but it was ages past. He has long since lost any family. His love is for his people. Humans will certainly appreciate the babe far more than Iohmar can.
He sets the creature on the table. It dives between the layers of a cake, and those seated closest giggle and avoid reaching for the food.
The day is damp and drizzling rain when Iohmar takes the boy to the human world. His fair lands are broody with clouds, warm as they always are, but once he takes the mountain pass, droplets catch on his horns, soaking into the shoulders of his robes.
It so rarely rains in Látwill. The sensation sends pleasant shivers across his skin. But the babe, human as he is, won’t enjoy the wet. Iohmar folds the blanket around him, covering his squat little face with his long hand.
