Miralyn[]
“Twenty-five, twenty-six… that’s it.”
“Twenty-six?” my best friend groans, ruffling his silvery hair, “That’s not nearly enough for the whole tribe.”
“Artem, there never is,” I sigh. “At least it’s better than last month.”
The two of us lean back, inspecting the pile of Celestial Fruit sitting sadly in the snow in front of us.
“Maybe you counted wrong…?” he asks, shrugging.
I raise my eyebrows at him. “Seriously?”
He groans, “Who am I kidding… you never count wrong.”
I nod, turning a single crescent-shaped purple fruit in my hands. “Artem, you know the smartest thing is to make contact with-“
“No,” he interrupts immediately, predicting me as he always does. “Miralyn, we always manage in the end. No matter what, we don’t interact with the Whispers. They’re dangerous.” He echoes what every adult and elder has been saying for weeks now.
I roll my silver eyes. “Fine. But since when were you the boss here?”
“Since he was the only boy in the tribe,” a voice calls from behind me, the voice of my mother.
I turn. “Mom, don’t bring that up.”
“Yeah,” Artem says, tossing a fruit up and down with his tail. He gives my mother a false stern look.
“Listen to thy daughter, Lady Luna Moonblade. Thy child is of an eloquence far beyond her years. And as the only male in our tribe, one of striking handsomeness-“
He makes a ridiculous pose.
“-incredible physicality-“
Another stupid pose.
“-if I could have thou hand in mine, if thou wouldst allow her beautiful blue locks to caress against-“
She laughs. “Alright, Artem, you’ve made your point.”
I’m laughing as well, following along with the act. “Sir Artem Moonlover, thy daughter may be beautiful, but her brain works in marvelous ways far beyond your capacity-“
Artem rolls his own light blue eyes. “Hey!”
“-while thou mathematical abilities are that of a brute’s-“
“Mira!”
“-and while thou may be strong in appearance, thy is reckless and may make a fool of thy daughter Miralyn-“
“Okay, okay, enough, both of you,” my mother grumbles, gathering the fruits up with a woven basket. “For such a strong boy and such a smart girl, you two can be ridiculous.”
“That’s why you love me, Luna,” Artem says cockily.
She and I roll our eyes before heading back to the village, Artem flying over us, cloudy white wings flapping, and pelting me with snowballs.
He’s on snowball number about-to-lose-his-best-friend when I scream, “Okay, Artem, enough!”
He lands, laughing, on the ground. “Fine, fine, Mira.”
“And don’t call me Mira.”
“Sorry, Mira,” he retorts with a grin, blowing me a kiss.
We sort the fruits into separate baskets for each family, leaving five for mine and Artem’s family. Then my mother takes the basket and flies off, giving me the remaining five. Two for Artem’s family, one for my father, one for my mother, one for me.
Artem shrugs and takes the two, trying to seem unbothered by the one missing, the one that normally would’ve been for his father. But while we’re immune to sickness and cold, Moon fey can’t fight starvation for two years.
I look up at him, leaning my head into his shoulder. “We’ll be fine. You’ll be fine.”
“How do you know?” He’s skeptical. I can’t blame him - especially now that he’s the last male of our species, period. His father was the other one.
I smile grimly. “62 percent chance. Food amount has improved by five percent. Attacks from the Sun Tribe have waned for five months. Unless they’re planning something big, which would kill them, we’re safe, adding another twenty or so percent since their attacks are a major factor in our population decline. And your mother is happier, she’s even contributed to gathering, hunting, and our festival preparations. That’s 37 percent, or more. Probably way more, but I’m trying to be realistic.”
The fairy smiles, silvery hair the exact color of the moon being whipped around by cold winds. “Thanks.”
I grin back. “It’s just statistics.”
He rolls his pale blue eyes. “And now you’ve ruined the moment. Mira-“
“Who’s Mira?” I respond sarcastically.
Artem shoves me into a snowbank.
I make a sound of outrage and chase after him. He lashes his tail, hard spikes glistening from a coat of snow. I pretend to charge at him, the fairy tensing to dodge. Just as he does, I change directions, slamming into him and sending both of us rolling down the snowy hill and into the village. We’re soaking wet and laughing our heads off, Artem spitting out snow and pine needles before sitting up and helping me to my feet.
I squint at the dark, cloud-covered sky. Here on Moon Mountain, the sun is nothing but a slight blur due to the dark and the cold. I finally catch a glimpse of the aforementioned celestial body, a slight yellow blur that signals its nearly seven in the morning. We’re just in time.
Our beautiful village is nestled near the peak of the mountain. Crescent Creek, the icy cold creek shaped like a crescent moon, trickles lazily through the mountaintop. It’s still frozen in some areas, making it shine like new. Glowing crystals and shiny ice crystal trees are scattered about under a layer of fresh snow from yesterday, making the whole village sparkle subtly.
A few snow foxes slink about in the snow, while a white ermine or two nibbles at pine needles. I sigh and break off a corner of my fruit, tossing the small chunk into the snow. The ermines chatter excitedly and begin gnawing on the blue-purple fruit. I look towards the large hollow where two dozen or so caves branch off, one for each family. Light from faintly glowing crystals emanates from inside, blue and purple and white. I’ve lived in my cave my entire life, and I’ll live there even when I get married. At the very head of the deep hollow, a larger tunnel leads to the chief, Callisto’s, cave. A few fairies mingle in the cave’s front area. Traditionally, the chief’s cave is where celebrations and meetings are held, but there’s too little of us for any proper celebration.
I wave to Lynx, the newest child in our tribe of Moon fairies, and the rest of the Snowshine family. The little fairy waves cluelessly back, drooling as she watches me with bright silvery yellowish eyes.
I enter my cave, sixth to the right, and drop the fruits on the table. A slightly pulsating blue light illuminates a small uneven table made of stone, four crude ottomans draped with fur, and near the back, a large bunch of fur and a smaller one with silvery silk.
The silk one is mine - a starving silk-touched Earth fairy wandered over here a few months ago. He died from starvation and sorrow, but he was kind enough to give us a few swathes of silk.
My father, Solntse, is gone. Not gone, gone. He’s been trading with the Glacier Tribe for the past week is all. But he could be gone, really gone, if he isn’t careful. We could all be gone if we weren’t careful.
I recall a short paragraph from my history book. It’s Faen-written, which means it’s actually true. In summary, ever since we lost the Second Faen War a decade ago, the wizards have been squashing us fairies like flies. The Earth fey died off a month ago, the Ice fey are still surviving, the Storm fey have disappeared, the Fire fey are slowly starving, the Water fey have been trapped on Shipwreck Shore for a few months now and will be dead in weeks, and the Dark fey are terrorizing wizards constantly, many having been imprisoned and tortured much more brutally than us. Nobody knows what happened to the Crystal fairies.
In my completely unbiased opinion, Celestial fey have it worst of all. The Astral fey are gone, and the Sun are on the brink of joining them. They were right in the open, and they trusted the wizards. We’re smarter than that. It’s why we’re alive.
It’s why we’re dying.
I sigh and glance at the cracked mirror standing up between the two piles, where we sleep. Black straps peek out from the collar of my shoulderless dark blue shirt, short puffy sleeves peppered with holes. The pouches hanging from my belt hold all sorts of things. Small drawstring containers and jars and bits of material, a mound of extra bowstrings and arrow tips, and a dozen Shivers that’ll keep me going for about a week. Comfortable blue leggings and silver boots keep me from getting cold, despite the occasional rip and tear.
I leave the mirror and snuggle in my mound of silk, pulling a fur from my parent’s pile and reaching for a book from my nest stack. It’s The Moon is Not the Sun, one of my favorites. I open it and a green worm falls out.
“Fairytale!” The little worm has been my pet ever since I was a baby, when I found it crawling in a classic book of fairy tales. Myths about the Airfolk, the Merlings, the Yetis. I’ve long outgrown fairy tales, passing the book on to Crescent and then Lynx - but it’s a comfort book, one I still have the guilty pleasure of reading. 206 pages, half of which are just pictures.
Fairytale crawls along my hand, stretching her full length across my forearm. I stroke her head absentmindedly as I read, whispering towards the little worm. My mom enters after an hour or so, caked in a fresh layer of snow and clutching the empty basket filled with snowmelt.
I gratefully take the basket and drink, pouring some into my cupped hands so Fairytale can lap from the icy cold and delicious water too.
“Artem’s nearly done practicing. You want to spar with him later?”
I scowl. “His scimitar is short-range, my bow is long-range. It’s an unfair battle that relies solely on the surroundings as opposed to our skillset.”
Mom laughs. “He just beats you every time.”
“That too,” I begrudgingly admit, carefully closing my book, stroking Fairytale, and heading out of the cave.
Artem[]
Snow sprays everywhere as I dodge an arrow, the cold powder stinging my face. It feels amazing, especially now, when I’m sweating and exhausted from hours of sparring practice.
“Mira, will you ever win?” I scream through the roaring winds.
“Artem, will you ever shut up?” my best friend yells back, clearly frustrated from her lack of arrows. She reaches for her quiver and slowly pulls out her second-to-last arrow, pretending to take a smoke with it. Her breath wisps in the cold air and I laugh, hefting my scimitar and mimicking her. Miralyn rolls her eyes and nocks the arrow, her left eye closed.
I skirt to her blind side but she’s already predicted it, firing the arrow. It skims my calf ever so slightly and I curse under my breath, holding up my tail as a signal that I’ve been hurt as I dig a bandage from my pocket and plater it on. The cut just skimmed my skin - it’s almost a paper cut, really. But it’ll get infected if I don’t cover it up.
Miralyn stops and whoops triumphantly. “Finally!”
“Shut up!”
She allows me to bandage myself as she traipses through the snow, single arrow bouncing back and forth in her leather quiver. It’s well-worn, used by nearly every archer before us. My scimitar, however, is one of the only things in the tribe that’s brand-new. It’s awesome. The silver blade catches the light and reflects it in a serene way, the hilt solid white wrapped with leather. The sheath is a pale silvery-blue and hooks neatly around my hip, a wonderfully snug hit for my weapon.
Miralyn sits down next to me. “What do you want to do now that I’ve kicked your a**?”
I make an annoyed sound and smack her lightly with my tail, taking care not to actually hurt her, since my tail is especially hard, sharp, and pointy. And long. It’s very long. The longer the better.
Little pine needles fall to the ground and sprinkle in our hair and clothes, each of us occasionally fluttering our wings to get the needles off. We sit like that for a while while I bandage myself. Miralyn, meanwhile, replaces arrow tips, assembles new ones, and pokes through her belt pouches, rearranging her materials.
“I’m bored,” I say the second I’m done bandaging myself, just to see her reaction. The thing about being best friends with the same person, especially somebody as orderly as Miralyn, that they’re very predictable.
“Are you serious?” the fairy snaps, using the same dialogue as she has basically ever day, “How are you bored already? We just had a spar, you’re still bleeding, you didn’t even bandage yourself right you idiot-“
“LET’S GO TO THE CAVES,” I declare, interrupting her lecture.
“YOU’RE SO STUPID-“