Bonds

I sat against the trunk of an oak tree, looking out over a narrow ripping stream, and wondered where else in the world I would ever find such peace. Where else would I find an intact well of living magic, begging for attention? Where else would there be such genuine need of me for efforts other than petty human wants and needs?

An old woman caught my attention by sitting down on my shoulder.

"Greetings and goodwill to you, lord elf. It's been a long time since I've seen one of your kind," she said in a voice as mellow and smooth as a forest stream. In a language that I'd thought long forgotten.

"And long since I've seen yours, grandmother," I answered with no effort, the ritual of our conversation remembered in the depth of my bones. A thousand years ago, this might have been normal.

"I managed to miss your name…"

"It's Nydiel. You shouldn't call me Lord. I'm not that, if ever I was."

"My name is Inlim. I'm the eldest. How has it been for you, out beyond this place? The lifetimes of my grandchildren seven times over can make a mind forgetful."

"It's no different than it was. Humans still rule. Fae, where they live at all, are still slaves, and still bartered for magic."

"I expected no better. In a century or better there've been no newcomers here. What do you think of our mage?"

"I…I'm not certain, as yet, grandmother. I know little enough of human kindness."

"That's because there's little enough of it. Has he told you where we came from?"

"I didn't think to ask."

"Those of us in the first generation came from a bloodletting colony. There were sixteen of us that he took when he'd killed our mage. Twelve women, four men. He kept more of us alive, for breeding. Getting pregnant and staying pregnant meant staying alive. When he needed blood… he wouldn’t take you if you were pregnant. There were a few who were strong enough not to let that sway them. Some who stood by their conviction not to bear children into this kind of life… none of them survived. It shames me, but I made very sure that I always had a babe in my belly or at my breast, even after I watched my own children taken from me and killed for their blood.”

"Nothing so awful as that befell me. My master has never been a mage. No one has ever thought to steal my blood."

"Then you've been more lucky than most. Do you know why I'm telling you this?"

"I suppose it's because I don't know it…"

"And so that you understand. The younger ones don't. They've never known what it is beyond this place. They have no fear of humans. No one has ever been unkind to them. No one dares it. The work we do here… it's not just the garden that calls us to do it. It's not just the need. It's not just the sense of duty that we lesser fae have to you greater, even to your works. It's gratitude to Gray for our salvation. I hope that when the last of my generation has passed from this world that such things are still remembered. I hope that those who survive me…" she looked at me significantly. Looked past me, through me, looked at my immortality in the face of her mortality. "I hope that they'll help the younger ones understand."

"I'll try, grandmother, but I'm not sure that even I understand it yet. I've been here for less than a day."

"You'll come to understand it. Our mage may be a closed book, but keen eyes can still read him. I've never seen him this pleased. I don't think you understand yet how much it means to the garden that you're here. She sings for you. She sang for us as well, when we came. We found her weeping for the loss of the elves who built her. Gray had held her for a handful of years and had slowed the most mortal of her wounds. Every day since it's been a struggle to nurse her back to health. We all go about it in the way most natural to us. She drinks our passion, you understand. It's life that feeds her. Timuil's music. Esith's cooking. The children's games." She chuckled, shaking her head, "Even my great-grandson, who's very direct in unleashing his passion."

"Would that be Venmoth?"

"So you have met him. In truth he's more wise than he seems. He knows his calling, even if it's… unconventional… and he follows it where it leads him. Venmoth has done much in the way of waking up wasted land in the garden. Fifty years ago, not even the grass reached the outer wall. This tree you're leaning against stood alone in a barren field of cracked earth. Nydiel, everything that you do here is your work. So long as you put your soul into it, the garden will drink up anything you choose to do, and she'll sing for your effort. Venmoth leaves flowers in his wake. Find your joy, and who knows what good you'll do?"

"I thank you, grandmother, for your advice, though I don't know if the mage intends the same fate for me as he's laid before you and your kin…"

She looked at me, eyes narrowing a bit, a smile playing at the creases near her mouth.
"You may be right at that, lord Nydiel. But I'm not the one who can answer that question. That's a question for you to ask him and for you to answer yourself. Have you touched the pond yet?"

"I haven't…"

"Then do. It's the center of it all, where all the threads that weave this place begin and end, and if the garden will speak to you anywhere it's there. I leave you to your thoughts, lord elf. We'll speak again sometime soon."

And then, with no more sound than a butterfly, she took wing and left me there. With more to think on than I was entirely certain was welcome. My life had taken an unexpected turn indeed.