Photo by Hamza Baig on Unsplash
“Let the child go, Magnus.”
It is almost sundown in the temple of the Goddess of Order. As the last rays of daylight peek through the windows, Tawny Selverin has finally cornered her man. Magnus the Halfling Harlequin sits upon the mahogany altar, one leg crossed over the other and clad in the cerulean vestments of a priest, his cherubic face marred by an angry scar that threatens to cleave it in two. At his feet, the child kneels bound and gagged- a plump girl with watery blue eyes. “Well, I don’t know, darling,” the kidnapper says in a drawn out drawl, “Our princess here is worth a good seven hundred gold pieces to any buyer.”
“We have this temple surrounded,” says Tawny. The smirking Magnus sees through the bluff. Of the hundreds mobilised to rescue the fair Princess Honoria, every other had given up when a blonde-haired corpse was found with her signet ring and billowing dress. Not Tawny, with her sharp eyes and keen ears. Not Tawny, who had heard the whispers of the forest. Not Tawny, who could travel the fae roads and spirit paths, keeping pace until she had found her way to the city of Khandar. To Magnus.
“Why do you do it?” The diminutive mastermind vaults off the altar, landing with a light thud on the marble floor before strolling towards his foe. He faces Tawny with a scowl, only his eyes betraying the conflict of his heart. “Our folk are told every day that we are fortunate to be alive. How fortunate, to bow and scrape at mankind’s feet. How fortunate, that we aren’t in chains. Little trollops like this-” At that he pulls on the hair of the now hysterically sobbing princess, screaming, “We’re dirt beneath her feet! Seven hundred gold pieces? We’d be lucky to sell for a copper!”
Illuminated by the dying light, Tawny casts a long shadow onto the temple floor. She stands with the grace of her forefathers, complexion unblemished and beauty tarnished only by wrinkles of concern lining her brow. There is the slightest tremor in the elf’s voice as she pleads, “If you give her to me, we can argue your case.” She reaches an outstretched hand towards him. “We could claim that you were coerced. Perhaps controlled. In fifty years, even forty, you would be out. That time is nothing for us. They would forget, and we could start new lives somewhere else. Or we could use the reward money for bail. We could use it to escape, or-”
A smile dances on the halfling’s lips as he lets go of the princess’ golden locks. “You astonish me. Do you know that? The wisdom of our folk in your veins, and you still believe in hope, justice, and goodness inherent. But… I suppose that is what I loved most about you. That no matter what happened, in your eyes all would be well as long as we were together.”
“Mag-”
“May the Goddess of Order bear witness!” His booming voice resonates throughout the temple, the altar humming to life with power. Paralyzed with understanding, the elf realizes her hand has been forced. She sinks to her knees, weighed down by the burden of life now on her shoulders.
“Please… don’t make me do this…”
“I am Sigimond Rindalin, son of Amaranth Rindalin.” The words are spoken with deep resignation as he is bathed in golden light, and every one of Sigimond’s three hundred years is visible on his face. There is the faint shadow of a smile, and memory after memory begins to flash through Tawny’s mind. Stolen moments, fits of laughter, sweet nothings and promises of tomorrow that all fade as the harshness of reality strikes. “Your turn, darling. Just think of the money. What you could do, with seven hundred-”
“I don’t want the damn money!” Her desperate plea falls on the deafened ears of the divine. There is no sign of mercy, no holy herald, no miracle. A challenge has been invoked, the pale glow of the goddess’ halo proof of acknowledgment. The halfling takes the elf’s trembling hands between his calloused fingertips. He has locked swords with pirates on the Lemurian sea, tamed a dragon gone berserk, and stared down the barrel of his own father’s gun. Every moment dancing on the knife’s edge, cheating death again and again. Yet here he is, jumping off willingly.
Struggling to get the words out, the elf’s tongue is like lead as she whispers, “I… am Alleria Selverin, daughter of Lothario Selverin.” There is pure silence now, leaving the lovers a final moment in each other’s embrace before they break away. One step. Two steps. Three. The sun has dropped beneath the horizon, the gleam of the stars shining upon them. Sigimond cannot even speak again before his life is snuffed out by a pale blade of moonlight, fashioned from unspoken magic by Alleria’s tearful gaze.
It is merely a few moments after being ungagged that the princess begins to scream, “It took you long enough, you pointy eared fr-”
The piercing slap that comes next echoes throughout the temple. “Shut up, if you know what’s good for you.”Alleria’s voice is hollow, but there is a hint of steel that creeps into her words, enough for the princess to stay silent.
They leave in silence, the princess nursing her aching cheek and wounded pride. Behind her the elf cradles the corpse in her arms, softly singing as her father taught her a thousand moons ago. She sings of the creatures of the land, who live beneath the sun. She sings of her people, the guardians of the woodlands, and of his people, the gentle folk. She sings of justice, of truth, of kindness and mercy. Threaded in her words, intertwined with every song, is the promise of the Fae. That one day, oaths and gods be damned, the sun will rise, the world will turn, and all will be well.
Kyle Tinga is a dreamer, writer, and full-time complainer from South East Asia. Her fiction has been published in magazines such as Idle Ink, Mineral Lit, and Analogies & Allegories. Being short of stature, she finds herself partial to halflings, and think they deserve much more credit than they typically get.