The Offer of Her Village.
suggestive (but like only a bit)
She had kept her name to herself that evening.
Her hands were not bound anymore, if they ever were.
She couldn’t remember quite well, the faint feeling of soft rope still ghosted over her limbs, yet no mark showed over the surface of easily-bruised skin, no burning left trace, and no real pain ever blossomed from what she recalled as blood, pooling under the tightenings, piling up to a puddle on the dirt and the dry leaves.
Another cup, another drink, was brought to her lips, and she smiled.
Wine had never been quite the treat for the girl, it was bitter, on the best of cases a rotten tasting grape juice she tended to avoid, taking small sips through the night, forgetting the glasses and patting her head in acknowledgement when someone noticed, blaming herself careless as it had been, yet again, her distraction making her misplaced the aged red wine the host had been so kind to open for them all that night.
She remembered it all well, even when it felt a life and a half away, the uncomfortably alcoholic aftertaste it left on her tongue, the ashamed look on her father’s face as her best efforts to prevent a grimace as she gulped down the last bit had fallen unsuccessful. Then why, she wondered, did it taste so sweet.
It was, indeed, intoxicating. But the girl shook her head, hands limp at her sides, it could not be the alcohol.
She leaned further in, chasing the edge of the golden up to her offered, trying still to keep that ladylike, shy sipping she had been taught so long ago. And the cupbearer, the cupbearer smiled at her so sweetly her stomach dropped further down for a moment, when he caressed the skin of her hand, when he cleaned the edge of her mouth, and smiled more.
Dizziness, haziness, were so familiar then she had forgotten how the lucidity of only fake ebrity felt at the parties.
The music echoed across the salon, even with no walls, with no marble floor nor high ceilings, different, as foreign as everything else caught by her wandering sight, like stars popping, like how fireflies should sound if they one day wanted to change their buzzing. Like the church bells, she finally settled, but more delicate, higher pitched and accompanied so well by the sound of an harp, an harp of thicker cords, an arp that sounded like something entirely different.
They were so good at imitating the melodies of the night.
A woman approached, as beautiful as the rest of the crowd, long, dark hair trailing behind her, falling through the antlers sprouting from her skull, a pan flute held to her mouth. The melody consistent, soft and calling.
Light wood was set in between her palms, other’s hands guiding her fingers to the right spots, it was handcrafted, that she could see, some missing polishing here and there, the clear strokes of a thin paintbrush marked on the delicate drawing of flowers.
Broken, far from perfect, and yet, there was clapping, there was praising, and playful laughs. And she smiled, returning it to the musician.
The woman holding her in her lap urged her to continue her story.
Such a stupid, simple story, one repeated far too many times for any of her friends to appreciate anymore, one of her few adventures to the beaches of the neighbouring town, how she had found a fish with a stinger, transparent and apparently, electrical, or something of the sort, as it had stung and scared a child playing around it.
The body was not dangerous, she explained, she had used it to return it to the sea, the string falling down from it was the real problem. And they nodded and cooed in, most probably, fake awe to her words.
She had acquired a peculiar interest for the sea life from then on, she told them, describing a couple more wonders she had found near the ocean grottoes, earning their complete attention.
Carter blushed at the attention.
Such an uninteresting, uncharismatic thing should settle to be seen, even if she’s as much of a treat for the eye as she is for the ears.
A flower crown was placed over her head, daisies and periwinkle intertwined, braided into fitting her perfectly.
“You should stay for a little longer, wouldn’t that be pleasant?” the man she was leaning her back against suggested, hand gently tilting her face to meet his eyes “I would be honoured.”
The woman holding her chuckled, “That would certainly be quite a treat.”
Her fingers traced Carter’s lips, and for a moment, she thought of how dry they had to look, biting them down to hide them.
“Oh none of that now, pretty thing, you don’t need to fix anything.”
“I think I…” the girl stated, eyes fixed on the woman’s, staring limp at the yellow glow they emanated, even under the cold light of the moon “I think I need to go back, my friends were with me and I don’t know…”
“That would be such a shame,” the man interjected, taking the girl from his partner’s lap, pulling her gently to his own, having her lean against him as he ran his hands up and down her back “to leave when the night is still so young.”
The woman chuckled, reaching down for the half-drank cup and placing it to her mouth, watching as she drank.
Her eyes were soft, such a sight the girl did not recognize from ever before, and she met them. Unable to take them away, she stared.
“How are we to make you go home without at these ungodly hours of the night, one so young would get lost so easily.” she added.
“It would be our pleasure if you allowed us to offer you sanctuary, for tonight at least.”
“Safe and sound, of course, enjoying the party just as you are. Oh my, maybe you had a little too much wine,” said the lady, pointing with her open palm at the crowd.
Carter turned slowly, afraid a sudden movement would get the wine working.
A couple clouds dissipated, and she noticed that, sometime ago, the ropes had existed, they had dug into her skin opening more raw spots the more she had tried to get rid of them. But they were no more.
No more on her own wrists at least.
But it was fuzzy still, the faces, those faces looking right back at her, uttering more fear, though silent, as they settled their eyes on her own, and the concept was as blurry as everything else, fear seemed too far away to consider it real, even so well displayed in others' faces.
“What a good offering they gave,” the man said, taking his own cup to his mouth, smiling to her once it was lowered, bringing both faces closer together “and what a cute thing they lost.”
“Offering?” Carter murmured right over his mouth.
“Shh, we do not wish to upset her, do we?” the woman interrupted, quick at the words of the other “No, she’s had just about enough of that with all those hating people from the village, haven’t you, sweet thing?
She nodded mindlessly and the fae giggled behind her fist.
Soft hands, the softest she felt, careful in their touch of the claws idly disguised as nails, twisted her head away from the man into anothers, offering between long fingers a berry, a single, bright red berry, squished if only a little by the grab, and otherwise perfect to the eye, not like the ones from the bushed around her home, mushy and almost brown when the time for picking approached.
A bright red, inhuman perfect berry.
A berry of the fae territory within the forest terrain.
Carter twisted her head away, hiding in the man’s shoulder.
“Perhaps,” the woman continued, taking the fruit away, “we’re still missing something.”
“Would you honour me with this next dance, sweetheart?” she asked next.
“Oh, you hear that? What a delightful thing to know myself as your first dance partner.”
Disappearing for a couple of months and suddenly coming back, no warning no explanation, is my favorite activity.
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