Part 4.

Mastering the shiver that ran down my spine, I smiled pleasantly and stepped inside. The house was exquisite in a rough-hewn manner, good solid beams in the ceiling, wide planks forming the floor. The doors were hung perfectly plumb, the windows were exact in their sizes, and even the furniture had an air of mastery.

 

I rapped lightly on one wall. “The craftsmanship here, it’s wonderful. Whoever built this place was a skilled carpenter.”

 

Anna’s eyes grew distant a moment, and she nodded her agreement. “It was my husband who built it. And he was.”

 

I said nothing, just felt a welling of sympathy for this young widow. I laid the palm of my hand on the wood, trying to feel his spirit in it, perhaps a ghostly heartbeat. The image of her husband came to me, then. He was a big man, I felt, with sympathetic hands and laughing eyes. He was popular among the other men, but at the same time they found his impenetrable air of quiet somewhat unsettling. Behind his japes lay something old as time, behind each smile sorrow. What was his great sorrow? He loved a girl, I decided. This girl. I looked upon Anna as I thought he might have, hands at her side, hips stretching the fabric of her dress. Yes, he loved her, loved her so much it was painful. And so he had a somber air, as he walked through the streets. But then, when he was in her presence, that disappeared, and he became the man he always knew himself to be, full and enormously human, mythic in stature and generous in feeling, made as perfect as he could by her presence. And so he loved her, even while she thought she did not love him, though it was plain to all others that she loved him as well. And then he asked her hand in marriage, and she consented. The wedding was small, intimate, I decided, with a great deal of dancing and wordless looks. And then one morning she told him she was with child, and I imagined this man gazing in wonderment at her swelling belly, laying a reverent hand over it, laying an ear to it, listening for a heartbeat; just as I laid my hand to the timber of his lasting monument. But the picture was incomplete.

 

Voice quiet, I asked, “His name?”

“Alexander,” she said, voice full of long nights spent wrapped in his strong arms. I looked at her and for a moment, she could read all of my thoughts - my face was transparent as a scrying pool. She nodded, a small gesture, and we were frozen like this. Then the children broke into the room, chasing each other in some child’s squabble. She bent and scooped up the young lad in her arms, eyes glinting with tears as she said, “Mikhail - stop tormenting your little sister.”

 

The golden haired boy squirmed for a few moments, embarrassed at being picked up like a mother cat carries her kittens by the scruff. “Yes, mama,” he said, grave as I imagined Alexander to be. She set him down and patted his head, and he went tearing off again. I thought the injustice of leaving two orphans and a widow behind was somehow salved by this great monument, this structure where the living may live, built by a man now dead.

 

“Let me show you where you are sleeping.”

 

“Thank you, Anna.”

 

I followed her down a brief corridor and into what I immediately recognized as the master bedroom. She opened the door but did not choose to look in, eyes fixed instead upon my neck. I stood there staring at the lone bed, my chest tight, and she murmured, “it’s quite comfortable.” I stepped inside the room, and felt Alexander’s presence all around me. As she made to leave, I caught her by the wrist.

 

“Wait, Anna. Wait.”

 

She did so, looking at me with such emotion I almost took a step back. But I was compelled, and so said to her, “Would you care to talk awhile?” She thought about it a long moment, and I was suddenly quite sure I had made a mistake, that I had presumed too much. I let her wrist slip from my hand.

 

“Yes,” she said. I stood aside in the doorway and she entered, and I was struck by the intuition that it was the first time she had set foot in the room since his death. She shied away from the bed as a horse might from flame, so instead I pulled out the chair at the long desk beneath the window, and she sat on it. I took the bed, my weight sinking into the mattress. An unidentifiable scent rose from it - I knew not what it was, but I knew it was something beautiful. We sat in silence for a moment. I rubbed at the scar upon my palm, remembering this silence as I had sat staring at Morgana at the pool. I knew what I had to say, but did to know if I had the courage to do it.

 

“Tell me how it happened,” I said. Looking up, I met her eyes. I knew then that I had not made a mistake, that this story was one that had been festering in her heart for too long.

 

“It was an accident,” she said. “It is the sort of thing that happens all the time - I just never thought it could happen to him.” I smiled, faintly. Alexander was mighty, I knew, impervious to the hurts of mortals. “The men went out one morning, one of our first days here. I was watching Mikhail and little Lena, who were younger at the time, and Fyodor came into the house. ‘Something’s happened,’ he told me. I remember how I looked at him, not understanding. Why would he come to me? It was one of the other men who had fallen - surely not Alexander. And there was something in his eyes, Robert, something that made me afraid. I set down Mikhail and asked where Alexander was, and Fyodor lead me from the house, to the cabin in the woods they kept when the snows were too heavy and they could not come home. He was in a narrow bed there, and for all the world, I thought he was fine. I thought it was some cruel joke. When I entered the room, he smiled, just like he always smiled, and he beckoned me close and I kissed him. And then he gasped when I embraced him, and I noticed the blood on him. They’d felled a tree, they told me, and he’d been standing in the wrong place. It crushed his back. They told me his legs were useless, and…” Anna broke off, mouth quivering. I laid my scarred hand over hers, and squeezed it. She mastered herself, breathing deeply for a few moments.

 

“He died the next week,” she blurted out, all in a rush.

 

Understand that in my time with the faerie, I had seen things wonderful to behold. I witnessed sorcery, heard the language of the trees, and rode on the back of a deer. None compared to the strangeness of that night - two strangers and a great gulf between them, spanned in a moment by an infinite grief.

“Goodnight, Robert,” she said, standing and smoothing her skirts.

I did not want to let her leave, did not want her to have to retreat back into the cold embrace of her grief and a memory. I was there, at that moment. But I could not do that to Alexander. And so I said goodnight, and she drifted from the room. I lay on their bed as she went to her children’s, and wrestled with spectral thoughts.

 

The next morning, I applied myself to the fruitless task of convincing the camp folk of the very real danger they faced.

 

The Russo-Fey War began that afternoon.

 

FAERIE WARFARE

————–

 

Faerie warfare is no more organized than any faerie activity, often resembling a pub brawl rather than any sort of military action. There is no hierarchy of officers, no brigades or units - merely armed faeries. They fight among themselves with wooden clubs, most often, frequently topped with a jagged stone. Outside the melee, they favor small bows, using arrows fletched with hawk feathers. As combatants, they are peerless, their small stature belying great physical strength, as well as incredible agility.

 

Making war against the humans is largely unheard of, however, which is why the Russo-Fey War is recorded in their annals as something of an anomaly. To be sure, the faerie are more or less always engaging in warfare with humankind, though never in the open. Their casus belli is the continued destruction of their ancestral homes, and their methods are of the guerilla variety - poisoning wells, livestock, and stealing young are all viable tactics. In stark contrast, the Russo-Fey war was a pitched battle.

 

The Russo-Fey war was also remarkable for its duration - the battle was decided over the course of a few bloody days.

 

I woke early in order to plead my case with the men. They bore my natterings with good humor and then sorely tested impatience, shouldering axes and saws and waving me off. I refused to be put aside, however, and followed along as they strode into the woods. Our breath misted in the crisp air, and our voices rang loudly. The men joked and laughed, largely ignoring me as I continued to warn them of the dangers.

 

“Breathe, Robert - you sound like my grandmother.”

“Now see here, Dmitri! What would possibly be my aim, if I were making this up? What sort of madman would do such a thing?”

“An Englishman?” he suggested. I snorted in frustration, and he dropped the axe off his shoulder, letting its heft swing to his side.

“I beg of you - don’t do it.”

He laughed, and drew the axe back, then laid a mighty cut into the heart of the wood. The thock of the axe on wood was loud, too loud, and I felt as if the forest itself hissed in its breath, in pain, in anger. I ran a hand through my hair, and glanced all around us. The trees around us were still.

 

“See? Nothing to fear.”

 

I was not so sure of that - I knew full well the stealth with which a faerie can move.

 

By the time I saw the faerie, arrow nocked to one ear, it was too late. I felt time crystallize, and the events that followed came to me in silent tableaux: the arrow, loosed; my outflung hand; Dmitri’s confused look; the arrow lodging in his heart. And for a moment, I heard nothing, and only looked at his face as it contorted into surprised agony. And then he screamed, and it shattered, and everything after was confusion. The russians shouting, running, me following after, the bleeding Dmitri borne between them, the guttural shriek of the faerie, the buzz of arrows snapping by our heads. Breathless, we stumbled past the treeline into the camp, and turned back. The woods were empty. The men fell to their knees all around Dmitri, who was gasping and moaning, trickles of blood streaming from his mouth. I stood above them, both hands cradling the back of my head, watching Dmitri bleed out at my feet. The men urged him on, but knew that it was hopeless.

 

He wept a bit at the end, and it was the only sound on the still air. When the light left his eyes, we were silent a long moment. And then something inside of me snapped.

 

I turned to the treeline, and roared. “Damn you! I needed more time, just a few more days!” I repeated this ravaged mantra, “just a few more days”, over and over again, until I felt one of the men lay a restraining hand on my shoulder. I convulsed, throwing off his touch, and staggering towards the trees. I took a deep breath, but no words came to me, and instead I loosed a bestial scream, sinking to my knees. Blood on my hands, crimson and glistening in the weak sunlight. I needed more time…

 

Reason reclaimed me from my fugue sometime later, and I found myself some distance away from the body, which was surrounded by the larger portion of the camp - women and children, too. Anna stood their, both hands laid on her son’s shivering shoulders. The circle around Dmitri’s corpse parted for a moment, and I saw the arrow sticking from his chest, an obscene flag. It enraged me, and so I shoved my way to him, crouching down low and wrenching it free from his chest with a sucking noise. The crowd moaned in anguish, and I held it up before them.

 

“Do you see this?” I stabbed a finger at the fletching - hawk’s feathers. “This is the weapon of the faerie.”

 

Anatoly, bearded face mournful, took the arrow from my hand. He examined it thoughtfully, then snapped it in his hand. He let the splintered arrow with its bloodied head fall to the ground, and then struck me in the face. I stumbled backward, heel catching on a bystander’s, and pitched over onto the dirt. He appeared over me, and I was still too stunned to do anything but listen as he seized me by the lapels.

 

“You were right, englishman. And we shall see what price you must pay for it.” He reared back with a heavy hand, and struck me another blow, knocking me insensate.

 

When I came to my senses, I was propped up in Anna’s bed. She sat nearby, in the chair, fingers knitting themselves together of their own accord. I blinked groggily, my face sore. Anna saw me regain consciousness, and hurried over to me, framing my face with her warm hands, peering into my eyes.

 

“Anatoly is sorry,” she said. “He was overcome with grief.”

“If that was grief,” I said, wincing, “I never wish to see anger.”

 

She smiled distractedly, brushing a lock of hair from her forehead. “To think you were right - I thought you mad. The men did too, and now… now they’re talking of revenge.”

 

I released myself from the clutch of the pillows at this. “Where are they?” I asked her.

“Anatoly’s house.”

 

Without a second thought I swung myself out of the bed, snatching up my jacket which lay at the foot of it, and pulled on my shoes. Anna watched this, and then said, “You shouldn’t go to them.”

 

“I have to,” I said. “It was my fault.”

 

I left her and strode from the house, only realizing as I stepped outside that I had no idea which house was Anatoly’s. I interrogated a nearby youth, forlornly playing in the dirt. He pointed vaguely, and I went off, moving quickly so as to stoke my courage. I pounded up the steps and threw open the door, without so much as knocking. The men were in the front room, slumped around a table, a bottle of vodka moving from hand to hand, serving in the stead of words. They looked at me with grim, red-rimmed eyes, and I went to the table, sliding out an unoccupied chair. I sat down, and the men said nothing, only eyed me. Then Anatoly handed me the bottle, and I took a draught from it, fire seeping through my chest.

 

“Tell me about him.”

 

They blinked slowly, placidly, and then Fyodor began to speak. For the second time in as many days, I was told the tale of a dead man. When they finished I simply nodded. If I were to carry the burden of the man’s death, I wanted to know just how heavy he was. And he was heavy indeed, if their glowing tales were any indication - Dmitri was a man of passion and the earth, and now all he had left to him was the silence of the grave.

 

“What do you intend to do now?” I asked them.

 

They did not take time to consider this. “Revenge,” they said as one. I knew from the steel in their voices it was anger and not the spirits speaking. I considered counselling them against that course of action, and then realized it would be pointless. Their man was dead, and that was the end of it. The question of what price they might exact against an enemy who only sought to preserve their home was irrelevant. I cannot say I disagreed with them - had they given me more time, I could have resolved the situation. Now the time for talk was done, and the only speaking would be the grisly song of combat. I shook my head.

 

“How are you going to go about it?”

 

Anatoly took a swig of the vodka, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, the same one that had struck me before. They spoke of their plans.

 

We buried Dmitri at twilight, and the hole was difficult to dig, as if the earth was refusing him. They finally managed, however, and he was laid in it. Words were spoken, and tears were shed - I stood at the side of it, staring at the distant treeline. All I had needed was more time. When the last of the eulogies had faded, and there was nothing left to do, a shovelful of dirt was thrown on him with something like finality. The rest of the camp drifted back to their homes, and I to my lodgings. Mikhail had not come to the funeral - he was exhausted, and was sleeping soundly. I thought it for the best - one can only take so much death, especially at such a young age. So Anna and I walked alone, under the firmament carelessly scattered with cold diamonds. We spoke of little things, Dmitri weighing heavily on both of us. Then she asked me about the faerie.

 

“What are they like? Why are they doing this?”

 

I considered it for some time, not yet having the perspective I do now. “They are… much like us.”

 

“What?”

 

I shrugged. “Those trees the men cut down, those are their homes, their family. They feel the loss of each as deeply as you feel Dmitri’s. Or Alexander’s.” I heard her draw in a sharp breath at this, the name of her beloved invoked. I continued anyway - I had to make her understand. “They would prefer to be left alone, I tell you - but we have never given them that option.”

 

Anna shook her head, her face a mask. “What gives them the right?”

 

“Their kind is older than ours,” I started.

 

She interrupted, saying, “and that makes it right? A tree is alive, yes. But it cannot dance, it cannot laugh, and it cannot change the world. A tree can only be, frozen in a world that no longer exists. Such is the price of progress - who should care if a few miserable trees are cut for it? We have a livelihood to worry about as well.”

 

She looked as if she wished to say more, but sighed instead, hurrying up the steps of the house. I followed after, and she told me she was going to check on the children. I nodded, heading for my room. I sat down heavily, the crush of the day bearing me down to the mattress, the strange gravity of grief making me ponderous, slow. I removed my shoes absently, thinking of the look on Dmitri’s face when he realized what had happened. I heard a tap of glass, and my head flashed up.

 

In the darkness outside my window, Morgana stood, watching me. Great opposing emotions surged within me, and I went to the window with a strange alloy of trepidation and exhilaration. She watched, inscrutable, as I levered open the window. A draught of the chill air and her scent, wild and pure, filled the room.

 

“Robert,” she said. I laid a finger on my lips, wishing instead to lay it on hers, indicating silence. Quietly as I could, I clambered out the window and eased it shut behind me. We moved through the camp like ghosts, skirting the windows glowing with candlelight, saying nothing. When we at last reached a place to speak, at a spot just past the treeline, Morgana turned to me.

 

“Are you well?”

 

“I am fine.” I shrugged, bitterly. “It’s Dmitri you should be concerned about.”

“Who is Dmitri,” she asked?

“The man who was killed today.”

“Dmitri,” she said, testing the name. “His death was unfortunate - but he did not heed your warnings.”

“Unfortunate?” I exploded. “His death was unnecessary - all I needed was time, and your father did not deign to grant it.”

“My father did what he needed to.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose, anger welling up. “Why did you call me out here?”

“To warn you.”

“Of what?”

“The raiders come.”

 

I looked at her lowered eyes. Without another word, I ran. For a moment, I was not myself, racing across the dark earth, but Alexander, sprinting to save his children. I was Dmitri, slipping, stumbling, staggering, a murderous arrow piercing his heart. I was no single man, I was the every man, the only man - protector, redeemer, savior. I bounded up the step and into Anna’s home, stepping inside it as if it were my own. For a moment, this did not matter - I had a biological need to look upon the young and know they were safe. And so I did, watching Mikhail and his mother sleep, the boy tucked in her arms, guarded from evil dreams by her even breathing. I nodded, grimly. I was not too late. I heard the faint creaking of wood, and suddenly realized that the time had come. Without undue haste, I turned on my heel and walked to the door. It opened not with a bang, but a timid little push. One fist clenched, I took the door and threw it open, revealing the faerie before it, crouched, a bone knife in hand. I stood before him, huge in the glow of the hearth. He looked up at me for a moment, perhaps recognizing me, perhaps not. For my part, he was unrecognizable - indeed, his face did not matter - I knew only he was the Enemy.

 

“You will not pass,” I told him, voice deadly still.

 

He started at my use of the faerie tongue, blinking confusedly. He did not believe me, and brought the knife to bear. With nothing more than my bare fists, I faced him.

 

I was not a fighter by nature - indeed, my struggle with Crose was my only experience with sudden violence. But as I stood there, that did not matter. I would fight so long as I was able, because that was my duty - defend against all comers, and defend with your life.

 

He tried a stab, lunging forward, attempting to pierce my stomach. I hopped backwards in an instant, flinging my knee up and knocking aside the oncoming knife. It clattered to the wood, and I threw myself upon the assailant, driving him backwards from the house and onto the dirt. His breath came out of him in a rush as I landed atop him, and I sought to ensure he would never draw more. My hands wrapped around his neck like a prophecy fulfilled, and I felt a great surge of strength as I squeezed.

 

As I throttled him to death, things began to slip. I faded, replaced only by the thrilling pulse of my heartbeat and the weakening pulse of his. He fought it, at first, but I was implacable as time, savage as nature. I was overcome with a pressing desire to see his eyes, and so I bent low as I choked him, and gazed into them, unsure of what precisely I was searching for. He flailed at my face, weakly, like a child, and finally the spark left him, and I held a corpse by the throat.

 

I released it and looked about myself, and found hell raging about me. Men and faerie were locked in mortal combat - I saw an axe swing in a murderous arc, burying itself in a faerie’s abdomen. I saw a faerie’s club crush a man’s skull like overripe fruit.

 

I stood, adrift in a red sea, and retreated into the house, closing the door and pressing my back to it. I found little Mikhail standing in a pool of candlelight. Terror was plain in his eyes, and for a moment we only looked at each other. Then I went to my knees and held open my arms. He came to me, and I embraced him like his father might have, patting his trembling shoulder with my hand. With my murderous hand. Anna came into the room, eyes as fearful as Mikhail’s, and I suddenly felt an intruder. I was merely a boarder, a man using their house. I released Mikhail and gently pushed him towards his mother, who gathered him up. They both seemed bolstered by the contact, and I stayed on my knees at the floor, watching them.

 

“It will be over soon,” I assured them. The sounds of combat and the shrieks and wails of the dying (human or faerie, we could not discern between them) finally faded. We felt as if a great tempest had finally passed. I left the house to survey the aftermath.