XLIII
They emerge from the trees like the forest itself is exhaling people.
One moment the copse is quiet, lit only by the soft glow of the hanging orbs. The next, elves step out from hollows, from behind roots, from rope‑bridges overhead, from doorways grown into living trunks. The whole village revealed itself at once. They gather around the square, forming a loose ring around me and Lorian.
The villagers are not uniform the way the guards are. They come in every height, from tall willow‑slender men to shorter, broad‑shouldered women with arms like seasoned hunters. Their hair is long, every single adult had manes of hair, with braids woven through it, threaded with silvery chains, tiny charms, and the occasional bright feather that catches the orb‑light. I guessed that the natives of the fairy realm didn't fear baldness like we did on earth.The only things most of them hand in common were their ears. They all came to soft points at the edge, curled and folding into a tip. Some even had two tips on the edge of their ears like tiny, tilted crowns.
Their clothes are beautiful in a way that feels ancient and practical.
Birch‑colored leather, soft and pale, shaped to the body. The leather was embroidered with animals and plants, deer fauns, bears, squirrels, rabbits. Inside the leather outerwear was another layer of cloth. Linen, transparent crepe or dyed gauze padded the insides in moss‑green, river‑blue, and dusky‑rose.
Belts of woven bark and metal rings held up leather trousers, or kilts.
Boots laced with vines that looked alive covered long, tough, leather legs.
A few of the men are shirtless, their torsos marked with soot and faint glowing runes that tattooed their skin. They're clearly smiths or metalworkers, broad‑chested, carrying tools of their trade. Hammer heads shaped like crescent moons; fire tongs etched with spirals. They smell faintly of smoke and hot metal, even here in the cool forest air.
The villagers don't shout. They don't rush. They simply appear, surrounding the square with quiet, intense attention. Children peek from behind their parents' legs, wide‑eyed and whispering. A few of the women murmur to each other in their sibilant language, their voices like wind through reeds.
The guards keep their formation around me and Lorian, spears angled but not threatening now, more like a protective boundary.
Lorian stands tall beside me, coat still damp, hair dry but frizzy in a pale halo, but his posture is steady. His eyes flick across the crowd, reading expressions, recognizing symbols, measuring danger.
He leans slightly toward you, voice low.
"They didn't expect humans," he says.
"Obviously." I retorted.
The guards part, and the council steps into view with the kind of presence that makes the entire woodland village fall silent.
They're escorted by another unit of guards. The escort seemed lighter, speedier than the ones we had met. These men were less armored, wearing silver uniforms that shimmer like fish scales. Their spears are ceremonial rather than battle‑ready, and for the first time you can see their faces: sharp‑boned, elegant, stern in a way that speaks of long training and heavier responsibility. Their eyes face forward. Their shoulders stay square. These are elves who have been taught to hold authority like a blade, their expressions never flickered.
The council members arrived without fanfare, just stepping into the square with the weight of authority. They had been ruling this place for hundreds of years; it takes at least a few hundred years for a person of fairy to gain one wrinkle. These beings had many. Four council members walk in a line, each one distinct:
A tall wise woman with kind grey eyes and braided silver hair threaded with tiny bells walked in, a birch rod serving as a walking stick in hand. A fluffy brown and grey bird with yellow tipped wings nestles into her shoulder, a wren or lark. It twitters softly.
A broad‑shouldered man with birch‑white tattoos spiraling down his arms stomps his way, fur lined boots seeming overly heavy. A long reddish beard covers his face, framing his ice blue eyes. Leather gauntlets cover his fists. Muscles strained the leather of his vest as his great barrel chest fought against it.
A slender elder whose charcoal gray eyes glow faintly with magic follows, deep forest green cloak swaying. His beard was long and grey, typical of wizards of myriad years. His skin was thin, age lined and pale. Long fingered hands gracefully waved as he acknowledged the crowd. He seemed like a powerful presence making my head hum as he approached.
A younger elf with a feathered mantle, the newest member frowned at the humans. His hair was a stark bone white, styled high like a mohawk. More feathers were braided to the colorful rows on the sides. His handsome high browed face sported a scowl. In contrast to his skin which was ebony dark, easily blending into the night. Clearly, he did not want them here.
Behind them comes the chief of the village, wearing a mantle of woven bark and silver chain. His hair is braided long and dark, the brown of mahogany, adorned with a single bright blue feather. Large, deep brown brows framed surprisingly bright, light green eyes that seemed kind, but stern. His presence is calm but commanding, like a river that can turn into a flood. His presence struck me as fatherly, but strict.
Assistants hurry forward, carrying light‑colored ash chairs carved with leaf motifs. They place them in a semicircle facing you and Lorian. Soft moss cushions are set down with practiced efficiency, and the council members sit with perfect posture, hands folded, eyes fixed on the two of you.
The villagers gather behind them, forming a wide ring around the square. Children sit on parents' shoulders. Smiths lean on their tools. Hunters rest hands on their belts. The glowing orbs overhead sway gently, casting shifting patterns of light across the limestone fountain.
Lorian stands beside me, damp coat clinging to his shoulders, but his posture is steady. His bearing was respectful, but alert, and ready.
The chief lifts his chin, his voice deep and resonant.
"Speak," he says in the liquid language.
Lorian translates softly for you. "They want to know who you are…and why you carry soul‑coins into their realm."
The entire village waits, breath held, eyes fixed on me.
The wizard‑elder steps forward, his long robes brushing the moss, his eyes glowing with a soft inner light. The villagers fall silent, even the children, even the smiths with their soot‑darkened hands. The guards lower their spears just slightly, enough to show respect, not weakness.
Lorian tries to translate my English, but the words stumble out of him like stones. His accent is thick, his grammar broken, and the council members exchange looks that are… not cruel, but unimpressed. One of them even tilts her head, as if listening to a child recite a poem they barely understand. Lorian flushes, jaw tightening.
I kept speaking anyway, slowly and simply. I tried explaining Olivia, the portal, the coins, the lake, the sprites. I speak with urgency, with honesty, with the raw truth of someone who didn't ask for any of this but is trying to survive it.
The council listens. They don't understand. They hadn't heard my language what might have been hundreds of years. Not fully comprehending the council members lean forward look at the wisest elder in his long cloak. They did not need to translate their exasperation.
He stands with a humph. He steps between the guards, his movements slow and deliberate. His hands are thin, knotted with age, glowing faintly at the fingertips. He raises them, one toward me one toward Lorian, placing his palms gently atop our heads. The moment his skin touches, the world tilts.
A shock of light bursts behind my eyes, not painful but overwhelming. This person had opened a door inside my mind and letting in a flood of warm, golden water. Your head jerks back involuntarily, breath catching in your throat.
Lorian gasps beside me.
The elder speaks a single word in a liquid, melodic, ancient tone.
It vibrates through your bones. "Understand."
Knowledge pours in.
The language of the mirror‑land unfurls inside your mind like a blooming flower. Words you heard earlier suddenly make sense. The guards' commands. The villagers' whispers. The council's murmurs. Even the runes carved into the fountain seem to hum with meaning.
The elder withdraws his hands. The glow fades.
I realize instantly that I can understand them completely, and that they now understand me as I speak their words, though not perfectly.
The chief leans forward, eyes sharp and assessing.
"Now," he says, in perfect clarity, "speak again."
The entire village waits, listening not to a stranger's foreign tongue, but to someone who now belongs, at least in language, to their world.
My mouth becomes dry as I explain everything that has happened to me from the library, to entering the portal, and about my great aunt Olivia.
One or two of the older villagers recognized the name. Olivia had visited them long ago.
Lorian then explains his relation to Olivia, and to his line that descended from a person from the fairy mirror-world. The council members nod, acknowledging the blood tie.