How You Make Me Ache

The wind blew hard across the open plain, the long grasses tugged right down to their roots as gale after gale lashed itself upon the land. The branches in the sparse, bowed trees whined against the intrusion, their leaves lifting from tender stems to whip away in the blink of an eye. Shrubs and bushes herded together, shoulders bowed and berries shaking loose, as they stood against the onslaught. The promise of a storm was in the air, and even the landscape could tell as much. Had they been able to do so, perhaps they would have tugged their dirt-clogged roots out of the soil and mooched off to find a more suitable shelter elsewhere.

But they were not able, and remained therefore steadfast, bracing against each blow as their vigil continued. Eventually, the trees and the grasses and the shrubs were treated to a brand new sight: a collection of hard lines coming together into the shape of a man. He appeared to be completely alone, a solitary figure on the horizon, similarly hunched against the wind as the rest of them were. As the minutes ticked by and the man drew closer, the dark blue gleam of his eye and the dark hair atop his head became more apparent. He was dressed simply in a black, fitted t-shirt, thoroughly pocketed trousers and only a single jacket for defence against the wind.

Not that he seemed bothered by it. The curve of his shoulders, tucked forward to protect his chest and front from the wind, was the only indication that the man had taken any note of the weather at all. Otherwise, every step he took was sure, and his path appeared steady. Though it could be argued that there was surely nothing out here that might interest a lone wanderer - shelter nor food could be found in this area, really - but, he certainly seemed to be going somewhere with purpose.

Eventually, however, the man did stop. His boots carried him into a shallow copse of trees, where spindly trunks were spread apart with plenty of tangled bushes underfoot to slow his progress. He looked around himself, first at the nearby plants and then again at the ground underfoot. The long grass was only somewhat shorter here, and he busied himself with the odd practice of kicking at the strands gently, as if trying to see what the ground had been like before so much growth had occurred. Whatever he saw there appeared to satisfy him, because he took his hands out from the pockets of his jacket and huffed a sigh.

“Aye, this seems to be it.” Addressing the wind itself, it seemed, the brunet cast one more glance around. He peered over his shoulder as if he expected someone to be there, but when he found that he was still on his lonesome in the unremarkable glen, he moved down to his knees and reached into his jacket. He came away with a small linen bag and a pair of gleaming silver tweezers, and turned, finally, towards his target.

The shrub that waited before him looked like any other, though the edges of the leaves had a telltale greyish tint that none of the others could hold claim to. On its slender, narrow branches petite clusters of berries so blue as to appear black waited for his attentions, gleaming faintly in the grey light. Amidst the gusting winds, the young man went about snipping the berries at their stems, careful to keep from chopping the ripe flesh of the fruits themselves.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” The voice that interrupted the man was unmistakably feminine but held a strikingly ethereal quality to it. He startled, fumbling the tweezers and dropping them into the long grass. He forsook them there and twisted, turning to face the source of the intruding voice. His eyebrows were already raised, his mouth twisting into a scowl at the audaciousness of the interference.

“If you’re not careful, those berries will kill you.” Continuing as if unbothered by the testy expression on his face, the stranger stepped yet closer. She was a vision of milky white skin and wickedly dark hair, her eyes twinkling like chips of shattered ice in frames of shadowy, thick lashes. That, however, was precisely where the likenesses to humanity came to an abrupt end.

“I know what the berries can do.” He replied, his brows furrowing. The woman that stood before him could not be described as nude, but nor was she entirely dressed. Her alabaster skin was mottled with dewy drops of water, though there was surely no source in the near area. Confusingly, where her ample assets were concerned, those droplets came together to obscure her dignity, glittering on her skin like a veil that was just toeing the line of intangible. The suggestion of her breasts was not enough to distract the man from his task, and he twisted back to the grass. His fingers went hunting for his forsaken tool.

“Then why are you gathering them?” She stepped closer, the milky expanse of her thighs just to the side of the man’s head. All it would take would be a tilt of his head for his hard, blue eyes to catch sight of her womanhood. Though, when his eye just happened to turn that way, it was as though the rainwater had gathered there, too.

“Because it is my task.” He replied, turning his gaze back to the ground at his feet. One hand was lost in the long grass and the other rested on the curve of his knee. He grappled with his focus, arguing with himself to remain turned to his duty. Meanwhile, the glistening creature to his side seemed to have other ideas. She moved to her knees beside him, and the man felt the briefest brush of contact against his spine, though the woman’s hands had never moved from where they had come to gently clasp over her lap. His suspicion rose, alongside a faint blush of colour creeping into his high, strong cheekbones.

“Are you making poisons, then?” Inquisitive, wasn’t she? The man tilted his face towards her, found those icily blue eyes gazing openly at his face. Her questions were presented so softly, as if she was asking him what he had dreamed about the night before, and he was wary of what lay beneath that gentle inquiry.

“No.” He replied, finding the tweezers with the tips of his fingers and swiping them up. The woman’s mouth parted slightly and, yes, there, it seemed as though her teeth shone with points. A cool chill lavished itself upon his spine and shoulders.

“What is your name?” Asked the creature at his side. When he did not immediately respond and instead pointedly cut loose some more of the fruits, she reached for him. Her hand landed upon his extended forearm and her head tilted fractionally, just enough to sweep waves of tumbling locks over her shoulder. The man was hesitant to surrender a piece of himself, but it was not as though his identity was his own, after all. He exhaled steadily through his nose. True as that may be, his recalcitrance tightened its grip of his vocal chords. He had to clear his throat before it would loosen.

“Riley.” He supplied, and shook free his arm. Adamant though he was to avoid looking this stranger in the eye, he couldn’t avoid the draw towards her. Now that he had surrendered this piece of himself, he was interested to see what she made of it. Her expression, however, remained neutral and unreadable.

“Riley... Riley,” he didn’t like the way her mouth toyed with his name, even though a surge of heat moved through his chest and suggested quite the contrary. “This is my glenn.” She gestured with her free hand, her white fingers shivering at the tips. “These winds are mine.” As if to prove her point, a sharp gust tore through the grass and summoned the blades into a chaotic sussurus. “These trees are...” Her hand stretched, her palm open, towards the nearest trunk. Riley had no interest in learning what she might be able to convince the trees to do on her behalf, and he grunted sharply, interrupting her.

“I didn’t think that the fae could make claims of ownership on this side of the realm.” It was a bold guess, but Riley could think of no other species that the woman at his side could call her own. She blinked at him, though still her expression remained totally unruffled. Or, so he thought. The cold press of a stiff breeze nudged at him from all angles, but he didn’t budge. He cast a similarly frosty look at the nameless minx and turned back to his work, knowing that he would rather not risk the consequences of failing in his mission.

“No one is here to dispute me.” She replied, petulant but, blessedly, without ire in her tone. Instead, she regarded him with a flat stare, her rosy pink lips pursing in a pout. “Until you arrived. Who is it that you’re collecting those deathly berries for?”

Riley considered this. He knew, in no uncertain terms, that he could not give the fae the name of his master. He gathered a final handful of the black berries, ensured that they would not be squashed in the bag he had been given to carry them, and tucked the pouch back into the folds of his jacket. He took his time, making a point to tie the drawstring in a sturdy knot before he dared to turn his gaze back to the fairy.

“I cannot say.” For all the other shortcomings of the fae and other magically inclined species that Riley had encountered, he had to admit that he appreciated the fae’s respect for speaking straightly. Even if he could not give her the answer that she wanted, his decision to say as much might just be as good as the answer itself. If he was fortunate. He watched as her lips twisted, like she was gnawing on this response.

“Where do you come from?” She asked instead, when she had appeared to accept Riley’s terse reply. By then, he had pinched the tweezers shut and replaced the tiny rubber band around the tips and tucked the tool into a different pocket.

“Not from here.” Being a somewhat less straightforward answer, Riley anticipated this would irritate the pixie beside him. He did not risk looking at her and instead, elected to ask a question of his own in the hopes of intercepting her response. “What name do you have?”

This did not seem to take her by surprise, as he had hoped. Rather, the fae appeared to have been expecting that his curiosity would turn to her, and she gleamed with a quiet smugness when he lived up to her expectations.

“You can call me Dia.” She replied, and Riley knew immediately that this was not her full name. Some things never changed, and the fae were seldom inclined to surrendering the truest details of themselves. He had read once, somewhere, in his master’s libraries about the nature of the fae and their belief that names possessed power. Riley wasn’t sure he believed one way or the other in the potential of names, but he didn’t feel inclined to risk it. He studied Dia openly, allowing his eyes to move over her mouth, the elegant column of her throat, the inviting slope of her collar bones.

“Aye? And have I offended you, Dia, for plucking the berries from your domain?” Riley’s head tilted to the side. His voice was rough and hoarse, lilting with an accent that reminded the fae of rolling hills and distant horizons. She rather liked it, and Riley watched as a droplet of tension eased out of her shoulders. She shuffled closer, her naked knees crunching dry grass. She was close enough now that Riley ought to be able to feel the warmth emanating from her, but she remained as cold as ice. He stared at her openly, but for all of his knowledge and intuition, he could not read the light that gleamed in her eyes as they regarded one another.

Before she could answer or he could dare to try and reel in his question and pretend as though it never happened, a soft blue light glowed from his chest. He watched as Dia’s eyes lowered and widened, her pupils growing wide and fierce with interest. Riley grimaced and reached for the collar of his t-shirt. He hooked his thumb beneath a tanned leather cord and drew it out. From the thread dangled a glass vial, no larger than his thumb. Inside, a sky-blue wisp of magic coiled around and around, forever chasing its tail in the confined space.

“I have to go.” Riley heaved himself up to standing. He released the bottle and allowed it to come to rest over his shirt. Dia’s eyes continued to study him with unveiled interest, and after a moment, she rose to her feet, too. She was much shorter than he was, the top of her head barely brushing the point where his clavicles met. This gave her an unobstructed view of the trinket hanging from his throat, and he had to backstep away from her as she reached for the glass.

“I said I must go.” He repeated, though it appeared to have no impact on the fae. She stretched her fingers towards him and Riley brought his hand up, aiming to swat her away without taking hold of any part of Dia. Some part of his hind-brain warned him that it would do neither of them any good, but she was too fast for him. Her hand, darting with all the dexterity of a silver fish, lunged around him and closed around the glass jar. There was a single, loaded second that passed between them, her eyes flitting up to find his. The tension in the thread around his throat increased.

“You have a wisp.” Was Dia’s only reply, only acknowledgement, as she yanked her hand backwards. The cord snapped at the nape of Riley’s neck. His eyes widened but, already, the brunette was dancing away from him, carried on the breezes she claimed dominion over. Her hair was a banner streaking behind her, the ends sparking with yet more droplets of unspent water. Riley surged after her, boots crushing the soft earth and springy grass, careful only of the berries in his pocket.