Talking of Dust being a faireling, what were the others childhood like? Cross, Horror, Killer, anybody you'd like to talk about, even the first borns.
The ASK where Dust's childhood is briefly talked about.
Cross’s childhood was spent being quite sheltered, and even more so after his mother’s death. His father was, and still is, quite determined to ensure that his faerling is a strong and capable knight. Cross never understood why he wasn’t allowed to play as much as the other faerlings, or why his mother never revealed how her and his father met, but then again, he wasn’t one to pry once he understood that his questions wouldn’t be answered.
The time before his mother died is thought back at with fondness.
He spent a lot of his childhood going back and forth between the valley of summer and the mountains of winter. His mother would have him the most, before her death, and she’d ensure that he didn’t overheat on the days where the sun hung so high, Cross thought it had a personal vendetta against him. After her passing, Cross would permanently move into Error’s Mountain Halls to live with his father. It was… claustrophobic. He learned to manage, but even to this day, he prefers to stay outside.
He doesn’t speak much with his father.
He was so immensely proud the day he received his tiara that not even his father’s ever-scowling-face could dampen the mood. He’d puffed up at learning that Error had designed it.
Horror had a remarkably normal winter fairy childhood. He learned how to fly within a massive lantern nest, which had then quickly followed by him plummeting outside and into the great halls for a proper tour. His mother hadn’t been pleased. His father had laughed loudly before snatching him up to bring him back to the nest. Smithing classes were attended and mastered at great speed. He learned how to forage for food, how to preserve it, how to fight and defend himself and others. He learned how to show no mercy to all big folk Error deemed deserving of death. He was growing up to be the picture-perfect winter knight; a fairy anyone would desire for a mate.
His parents would be proud of what he’s accomplished now, despite the horrors he’s faced. He doesn’t know it, doesn’t believe it to be true, but they’d be happy for him. They’d be happy that their little faerling lives a peaceful life with a mate that he loves above all else in this world. They’d be happy that he’s still alive.
He once had a very pretty tiara that his parents had worked quite hard on to perfect. It must have fallen off when he’d been trapped with the other fairies in the cave-in… probably.
He’s too afraid to go back and look for it. He can’t return to the Mountain Halls, he just can’t.
Killer’s childhood was full of light. As a young faerling, he spent much of his time in his mother’s embrace, rarely leaving the nest due to the strangeness of his SOUL. His parents weren’t quite sure on how to shield it in the beginning of his life, so the first years alive he rarely left the immediate perimeter of his nest. He had become quite restless by the time his parents managed to use their magic to change the shape of his SOUL into that of a flower, and he was more than eager to get out and explore the world he’d been born into.
He was a young faerling. He’d only wanted to see what those strange creatures walking through the forest were. Why were they carrying spheres made of glass with string encircling them? They made such twinkling, pretty sounds. He’d only wanted to take a closer look. He hadn’t meant to be seen, hadn’t meant to be pursued, hadn’t meant for his mother to come screeching and getting caught instead.
He’d hidden beneath a raised root until they were gone. He cried. He cried a lot, until his tears went from shimmering pearlescent to black, until his SOUL shuddered and threatened to shatter. He stopped once his father found him.
He didn’t cry once he found stardust in his nest a month after receiving his tiara, the scent of his father slowly fading away. He had expected it, after all. A fairy rarely survives after losing their mate. It was only because of him that his father had gone on for this long. But now he was a grown fairy. He didn’t need his parents anymore. He left the nest and let the forest reclaim it; his tiara resting upon the very pillow he’d been given upon birth.
Lust’s childhood was one of sweetness and tenderness. He was immensely coddled by his parents, adored by his friends, and hated by the big folk. Lust isn’t a spring fairy that often feeds on the blood of the folk, but he simply cannot help himself when a pretty maiden or a handsome knight comes wandering past the trees in search of either wonder or wealth. His teeth were put to good use in his earlier years.
As a young faerling, he quickly understood why his kin had such quick speed and agility, because on two occasions he was nearly caught in well-hidden fairy traps. His parents had ensured that he didn’t fly too close. The scolding he’d received after was enough to teach him to be more careful. After that, he instead chose to spend his time chasing after birds and riding atop deer and unicorns. He may have been told that big folk blood is something that he should prioritize to feed upon before winter, but Lust… Well, the more he grew, the lazier he became whenever hunting was involved. He likes to sip on dewdrops. He likes to eat pollen, nuts and fruits. He’ll gorge himself before winter, but… if he awakens in January, famished… Well, he’ll find a lonesome human or monster to snack on.
His tiara was designed by Ink and made by one of the finest winter fairy smiths at the time. He’s very proud of it. It reminds him of the sun… and yellow flower petals.
Reaper’s childhood is full of snow. It’s dark. It’s cold. The nest he was born in wasn’t made within a lantern. It was outside, in an exposed alcove. His mother did all she could to keep him warm by shielding him from the winter storms. Reaper can remember how soft her wings had been. He can remember how gentle her voice had sounded even as the storms shrieked in the night. He can remember everything eventually growing clearer, as if someone had spooked the firstborn fairy of winter so badly, he’d frozen in shock. He can remember seeing the stars, and then… Something crawled out from the very air before him; pulled reality apart until… Until…
He’d given him his gift. He’d given him the touch he was meant to be born with. He’d left him, like he’d once been left upon his birth(?). He’d taken his mother with him, even as she’d shuddered and become covered by a veil of ice from just him holding her close. Reaper's not quite sure what he looks like. He’d seen him, but… the sight had been incomprehensible, like tattered silken fabric changing shape in the wind. There’d been a smile, perhaps warped, and white teeth. There’d been eyes, uneven and thin and curving. His touch had been so cold it stung and felt like death, but then it stopped hurting, and it was tender. He’d spoken to him in a voice like thick mist and growing gloom. He’d cradled Reaper.
Then… he, and his mother, was gone.
Becoming an orphaned faerling, Error had, somewhat begrudgingly, allowed him inside the Mountain Halls. An empty alcove had been filled with furs for him, and there he grew up alone. Adult fairies would occasionally show pity and teach him some of the things he needed to know, but they rarely lingered for long. It only took one time for him to touch someone for all to realise that he was dangerous. His touch had hurt, had made their bones cold. It’d made ice crystals form, and they’d feared death by prolonged exposure.
Everyone kept their distance after that, but they didn’t banish him.
His tiara laid resting on his favourite furs within his alcove nest on the day he became a fully grown fairy. He doesn’t know who made it, but it had faintly smelled like his mother. He’d gone looking for her, searching every nook and cranny within the Mountain Halls, but… his mother hadn’t really been allowed inside after his birth, had she? By the time he realised he had to look outside, it was far too late. There had been no trace of any fairy left in either the snow, or the wind.
Despite the horror and the shock of other fairies with young faerlings, Geno’s parents had no trouble with taking him out of the nest at an early age. He was hardly old enough to form proper memories by the time his mother took him with her to the forge. He spent many days being mesmerised by the hot, glowing weapons and armours made by her hands, and even more so as she took her with him to where his father worked. Precise and steady were the hands of Geno’s father, and he watched as he crafted glittering trinkets and pierced the ecto of young and older fairies alike.
Some would say that they’d had it coming, that their recklessness of bringing their faerling everywhere would eventually doom them, but they hadn’t believed that anything bad could have happened. Geno had been strapped to their chests at all hours outside the nest. It was completely safe… until the one single second he’d been put down because his father needed to adjust his armour. It’d been cold. It’d been windy. Geno had seen something flickering between the snowflakes before something went ‘whoosh’ and blinding, agonising pain caused him to cry out in shock.
He’d still been young. No one had seen who’d delivered the blow. It’s like the blade had materialised out of thin air and vanished just as quickly. All his parents knew is that Geno lay upon the ground, gasping as iridescent blood ran like rivers across his form. They screamed and sat beside him but dared not disturb him; afraid of worsening his suffering. He was dying. He’d not yet become a proper fairy. He had just been a small faerling.
It’d truly been a peculiar sight to see the firstborn fairy of winter descend from the snowy storm, only for everything to grow still. The snowflakes, the wind, the chill, all paused in time. Error’s wings had glowed icy blue. Shimmering strings enveloped Geno’s tiny soul, and then… the bleeding froze in time, just like the winter storm.
He was just an insignificant faerling, yet winter blessed him to keep him alive.
