ADMITTEDLY, HE HAD found himself in even stranger situations before —more so than a nighttime food-foraging mission with a Wytch.

Suspended by thin threads of steel sharp enough to decapitate him or slice off a limb during an interrogation; posing as a Shifter in order to infiltrate an enemy meeting; and finding brief refuge with a blind Faerie who had shown him kindness far beyond that which he deserved —made up a few.

His stay with the Faerie would haunt him the most.

It had been a brutal battle one day —he had forgotten the precise date and time —and Adam had barely escaped with second degree magical burns and a slight limp from a twisted ankle. The safest place would be an abandoned wood, he had decided. Of course, assuming that had been his first mistake.

He smelled it before he saw it.

It was an aroma of baking fused with pine magic. It soothed his senses, and clouded his judgement. His direction speared for the small cottage, as though he were being pulled by an irresistible tether.

The Faerie itself had been half of his height with the wings of a bat —tightly tucked in to avoid knocking things over. A walking cane carved from Maplewood aided its manoeuvring; the sound of the tap tap tap having echoed unnervingly in the silence. Its skin, mostly beneath an old tunic, had resembled ivy-curled bark; and its eyes had been a cloudy voided emerald.

Adam had still trembled at the sight.

By the time he arrived at the door of the cottage the Faerie surely must have known that he was a human. It might not have been able to see it, but it could have smelled the scent of entitlement and mortality.

Or perhaps because there had been too many scents mixed in with Adam's, the Faerie did not strike him down. There were too many for it to be sure that he was human without visual inspection.

Instead, the Faerie had noted the unevenness of the soldier's walk. Its lips parted, to reveal long and pointed teeth. "You are wounded," it had said.

Adam had admitted to being so; his options limited.

"Did a human do it?" the creature pressed on. He had not answered. "Pitiful beings, I should think," it remarked. "Why do they think of themselves to be so above the law of nature? And to wound someone who is also Gamma-born —have they no compassion?"

The Faerie's words had made Adam pause and reevaluate his chosen actions.

It definitely knew that he was human when it examined the burns, and felt the magic radiating from them. It had paused, glanced up in the direction of his face, and then sighed. "...I hope that you will show me mercy, human, as I have shown you," it hissed.

"A truce is in order," Adam grunted.

"Very well."

It then went to fetch ingredients needed for a salve, the cane tapping against the cold stone floor. He couldn't name all of the herbs and plants that were being ground up, but he noted a whiff of thyme and saffron.

Adam was unbelievably uncomfortable in the cottage. Not a lack of physical comfort, but a mental one. Just because the Faerie was blind it did not mean that his life was not in danger. He had been trained to be wary of creatures of magic —and those skills turned instincts coursed through his veins.

"We did not come here with invasive intentions," said the Faerie as it first began healing the soldier's strained leg. "But I suppose we were deluded to think that humanity would accept us. They had been without magic and spell-craft for far too long."

Adam was surprised to hear that. "The Earth...used to house such magic once?"

"Long before your recorded time," it mused. "Before what you call a celestial collision."

The soldier hung his head. "...It must have been very peaceful, without humans there."

The Faerie gave a low chuckle. "Not really. No civilisation is perfect. Especially not back then."

He had noted the sadness in those words, and the feeling clung to him even after the creature had also generously reversed the effects of his burns.

The actions still baffled him.

"You should be on your way," it told him as he stood up. "These woods have ears."

He nodded, and then made a promise to himself. If he survived the war, and if the Faerie did as well, he would come back and repay its kindness.

"What is your name?" asked the soldier.

The Faerie was understandably hesitant. To know a Fae's name was to bind it to one's will. Yet even with nothing to gain and much to lose, the small tree Faerie offered up its only bargaining chip, "...Luci."

"Adam," he returned.

"Go now, Adam," it urged him earnestly. "May your Fate be laced with fortune. Or may whichever deity you worship show you favour."

"None," he admitted —though Methodism had been drilled into him throughout his younger years. "And do we not control our own destiny?"

Luci only smiled. As though they knew too, what utter horseshit that notion was.

Adam had then paused by the door, feeling the weight of immeasurable guilt on his shoulders for what his species had done to the Faerie's.

"...Thank you," he murmured.

It was the only thing he could think to see in response to the Faerie's hospitality. It deserved to hear more than two words, but Adam had not had them nor courage to voice them. For all of the Faerie's kindness, he could only show his gratitude.

And Luci had understood.

How plainly good had that Faerie been, to know that he was human and to still heal him and provide him brief rest? If there were more creatures of magic like it —damnit, even more humans —perhaps there was hope for all of the worlds after the war.

As he had stumbled from the cottage and back into the woods; with the building seeming to disappear and reappear in a misted blur in between the view of trees; Adam attempted to process what had happened. He had not thought about it much before then, but he really didn't have a drive to fight anymore. He had had one when the war started —but then with no end of it in sight, his motivation began slipping.

Am I...fighting for the right cause? he asked himself.

He hadn't been so sure. He still wasn't, to this day.

Even if he had been —he did not think either side to be blameless. The creatures of magic had turned humans to ashes in the wind, while humans had taken a despicably ironic approach.

Fighting the supernatural had warranted underhanded protective measures —most of which the government and officials wouldn't dare to admit had been magical. The hypocrisy had been rampant, but there had been nothing that Adam could have done.

He wondered if the Wytch now beside him walking the streets of London could smell the long-faded spell on him if a waft of it did linger.

He didn't feel unsafe in her presence, but the same wariness of old simmered within him. She was devastatingly beautiful; not his particular preference, at all, but undeniably intoxicating.

What had she possibly seen in him, that had warranted her to spare his life?

"Did you fight in the war?" the Wytch suddenly asked. As though she had read his thoughts.

Something told him that it was a very bad idea to tell her or even to allude the truth. "Why would you think that?" Adam carefully countered.

"You are built like an ox," she deadpanned.

"That isn't reason enough," he quipped.

"Maybe," admitted the Wytch, "but there is something a little agitated about your aura. It is restless."

Adam's brows furrowed. "...Unsurprising."

"Are you perhaps having trouble sleeping?" she mused. "There is a remedy for that. If you were to tire yourself to the point of exhaustion —"

The gears inside of Adam's mind whirred quickly.

"I am not sleeping with you, Wytch," he cut her off.

She frowned in slight offence. "That is not what I meant to insinuate," she assured him. "I am...working on understanding that no means no."

Adam's eyebrows arched in a silent follow-up question. Had this Wytch pestered someone before?

"Do not look at me like that," she irritably grumbled. "I promise that I never forced a soul. I can just...have no self control at times. I know that much."

So she did have a slither of self awareness, he supposed. She did have that going for her.

"Have you ever tried asking someone to dinner before inviting them to bed?" Adam suggested, frowning. "It might work wonders."

"Ha," said the Wytch. Then she glanced at the display windows across the street. "...Not many are interested in a relationship," she informed him wearily, "much less pleasure beyond one night."

"Touché," returned the soldier.

People were more inclined to things that required minimal commitment. The Wytch's strategy made sense. Though in the desolate aftershocks of war, there was a strength and security in numbers.

"...You do come on strong," Adam remarked flatly.

She glared at him in disdain. "You do not have to point it out," she said through her teeth. She then flushed again, her facial expression indicating that she was recalling a thwarted incident.

Then she paused for a while, mulling over his previous response. "...If you really are unable to sleep, there might still be a solution," she quipped. "One that involves no one in your bed."

Adam wanted to believe that it was relief that he felt to hear those words; that suggestion.

One of his dark brows arched. "I'm listening."

"Is it a human ailment?" she asked, "or magic-given?"

"I'm certain that it's a spell."

"I can check, if you would let me," the Wytch offered. "But I will need a sample of your...blood."

Adam barely paused to think.

It was worth it, he decided. If it meant being a step closer to getting some goddamn peace, then he would let her cut off an entire limb if she had to.

"I must warn you," he did add as they stopped by an empty café with old flickering fluorescent lights, "if you try to slit my throat after all, you will find yourself on the floor. And definitely not in a suggestive way."

The Wytch actually laughed. "It is a shame that you refused my proposition. I would have liked you."

Something like a snarl made its way out of his mouth.

"I will not kill you," she promised. "I already spared you. And really, I am trying to help."

Adam then went along with her instructions gruffly, sitting down in a metal chair and tensing. His eyes followed the movement as she unsheathed that white-bladed dagger. A weapon designed to kill humans.

And any other creature, for that matter.

"Is it tipped with poison?" he couldn't resist asking. "I'm asking for a friend."

The Wytch laughed again. "Why would I poison the blade of my knife, when I have magic in my veins?"

"Last resort?"

"It seems pointless, actually, to poison a blade," she smirked. "I heard that stab wounds alone can be quite fatal. Especially when a head is also missing."

Adam shook his head and rolled his eyes. There was no desire to laugh, but he would like to think that he might have done just that in the past.

After clearing an area beside them, the Wytch bent down and began to draw something in the dust that coated the floor. A glow spread inside of her veins, which in turn gave light to the drawn shape.

He thought it was a pentagram —but it was a rune symbol within two concentric circles. Light and mist rose from the lines, bathing the dim café in an ice blue light.

The Wytch then stood up and took hold of his arm, feeling the corded muscle beneath his skin, and she raised an eyebrow as the corner of her mouth curled upwards. She thankfully kept her thoughts to herself, though, and drew the dagger.

It was just a nick —large enough to let fluids spill.

Mortal red blood tipped the blade, and she was careful not to let any drip before she could place the knife in the centre of the spell circle. The light flared, enveloping the dagger, before changing to a murky golden colour. The Wytch paused in thought.

"What?" asked Adam. "What is it?"

"Your insomnia," she whispered, "it is indeed a magical side effect. However...it is not one that can be remedied by a spell —from a Wytch, Faerie nor an Elf."

Adam demanded to know what that meant.

"It means," she said gravely, "your destiny is about to change. And the only way that you will get any sleep, is by seeing a vision to fruition."

author's note |
let's kick this story into high gear ~