Faerie Blood

Misty... it is so misty, gotten so very misty. He can’t see. Where is he? He walks quicker, getting frightened. This is not the way he had come in, is it? Maybe if he walked this way instead...but no, no that isn’t it either. Is it?

His heartbeat quickens, and he feels it palpitate. A child’s fear grips him quickly, like a child’s fear is prone to do. And all sense and sturdiness leaves this little lad. His walking becomes faster, then his unsteady legs break into a stumbling run as tries to flee, away, out of this dismal, foggy forest. But he does not know, is he running home, or running farther away?

He had run away at first, this he knows, and even now he is reluctant to return, he is a Took after all, stubborn as long as the day is bright and the night is dark. He can’t have them know he misses them. He can’t. He can’t have them know he is beginning to regret this action of his.

But that is another thing – night. He had not thought of that. His childish vengeance did not go so far as to plan the coming of night and the shadows that slither alongside it.

He wonders what time it is. Is it dark yet? He cannot tell, the mist is so heavy. And he stumbles again, this time on the long out-stretched root of a wretched old tree, seeming a gnarled hand beckoning him: stay, stay here in the forest; we shall not hurt you. But this frightens him even more, and the white cloud in his eyes goes unheeded as he hurries to stand up, digging his hands into the dirt and rocks on the forest floor, and darts away from the sly old willow.

Further, further into the blanketed white.

He does not notice how far he has run until he stops, heaving for breath as he doubles over to rest his small hands on his wobbly knees. His breathing is loud in the quiet haze encompassing him and he looks around wearily.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have run... where is he? Fright rises up in his heart once more. He shouldn’t be here. – But they made him! His mind tries to argue with childish reason, making this bleak trouble he has put himself into seem more right somehow, although he knows it is terribly wrong. They deserve it. They’ll be worried about him now. They’ll see what it is like without him, and they won’t ever, ever take him for granted again, or call him a pest or ignore him. Never.

But even as his young mind comes to this resolve, his little heart quakes as he sees the barely visible trunks of the black snaking trees rise up out of the mist in the distance. And then more of them, everyplace he looks, standing morbidly in the white haze, like the weary bodies of restless souls wandering in something less than life. His youthful mind conjures images of monsters and goblins, crunching on the bones of a small, young hobbit in a cave by a lonely fire. Licking their cracked lips with greedy tongues. Monsters with red slit eyes that penetrate the mist and can find him everyplace he’s at. He trembles.

What – what was that? Just a branch. Fallen probably. Hopefully. No, there – there it is again.

A sob, but it is his own, echoes into the silent forest. He knows he is lost, lost and he does not know his way out. He knows nothing else to do, and he is too small and too young to do anything more than fall to the ground and whimper as tears slide down his face.

The tears streak off his cheeks, and he knows soon the monsters in the dreary forest will come to eat him because he has been an awful, dreadful lad. Sobbing still, he finds that he is near a tree and crawls toward it, leaning his back against its crippled trunk. Bringing his dirty knees up to his face, he buries his head in his lap and clutches the too-long scarf he wears around his neck. His muffled crying can be heard by all the creatures of the forest.

The hare peeks his head out of his burrow and looks, he chirps to the mouse, he does not know what the strange sound coming in from the distance could be. The owl that hovers above places his gnarled hands on the branch of a grasping tree and forgets its dinner for a moment, as the fox creeps out from his den and sniffs the air. The mouse is thankful for this strange visitor crying in her forest home, and scurries away from her avian predator. "What, what, is it?" the owl hoots, and someplace off the crying abruptly stops, as if frightened by the sudden noise.

The fox sneers, and says in his wicked voice, "Sounds like a child! Making too much noise... too much. Let’s fix it," and swishes his tail cruelly as he paws his way forward, claws ready.

"No, no!" says the owl, and the fox stops, looking up with a leer at the wise old creature, who is glowering down with his all-seeing gaze.

"Whyever not? I’m sure it’d make a lovely snack!" and the fox snaps its jaw shut with delight and cackles, "Whatever it is."

The owl ruffles his feathers, but says nothing, both contempt and tolerance for this knavish brute quieting him, and keeps the fox in his ever-watchful gaze, shifting his position on the branch.

The hare is not foolish, and stays quietly in his burrow, but frowns.

The swift, graceful wolf suddenly appears from the depths of the mist, and scans the area with his fathomless gaze, dark and knowing. He steps over the fox, and the fox cowers back, fearful of this majestic counterpart. "I have seen the beast that has wakened us all," announces the wolf to his fellow animals, and when he speaks his voice is velvety and deep. "It is a strange creature. Small and fur-less. I have never seen such a thing in all my life. Surely the sparrow, who flies the skies of all the world, will know of what I speak?" The wolf’s voice is smooth and eerie, and the wise old owl nods, twisting his head to find the twittering bird.

"I am here! I am here!" the little bird sings. "Hairless you say? Ah, hah! Indeed! I know of a creature that which you speak of... in fact I know many of them! Hah, ah! Many, indeed! It depends then, doesn’t it, on what he looked like!"

The fox licks his lips at the little bird who has landed, hopping from foot to foot above the owl, with his unquenchable vigor. The wolf regards him coolly and shifts his eyes about, then growls suddenly in intolerant ire for the greedy fox who is slinking closer to the tree, his tongue dangling out of his waiting jaw. The fox darts back, and scowls. How he hates the wolf.

"The creature I saw was small. A child indeed, for he weeps as one. I did not near him, for fear of what he was, and where he came from. I am weary of hunters as you are of me. I am not quick to prey, without forethought, and avoid what is young and innocent," he explains. The fox snorts, and the wolf turns to him and snarls, baring his white, sharp teeth. The fox slinks back further, but does not leave. The wolf looks back to the sparrow, "But he smelled of a place that is foreign to me. Like grass and warmth."

"Ah, hah!" Cries the sparrow gleefully. "I know it! I know what it is, I do!"

"Well, well, what is it?" the old owl asks.

"It is a hobbit! A hobbit, yes! I know it is, I know it!" The sparrow twitters and flaps its little wings.

"I think we should rid of it!" snaps the fox crudely. "It has wakened me," he says and then adds for leverage, "And all of us." His eyes glow in the dark that begins to fall on the forest.

The little hare in his burrow frowns, and the mouse looks to him worriedly. "A child," the mouse says, her whisper small and afraid, "They will not hurt him, will they?"

"I do not know," replies the hare, "But I do not trust these hunters to deal right-kindly in the least, if you catch my meaning. Quickly mouse, go to the glade and fetch help, before it is too late."

The little mouse then squeaks her reply and darts away, hastening her scampering feet.

A little way into the distance, the little hobbit beneath the trees whimpers. What is this place? This is not near home, and he knows this. He should have never left. He was wrong. O! If only his family could find him now, he would not care ever if he was ignored again. He shouldn’t have run away and now he is lost. And he will never get home. He sobs once more. What a foolish thing to do... he cries, what a foolish thing. He is cold now, cold and lonely and afraid, and also hungry too. And those are all terrible, terrible things for a hobbit to be, especially all at once.

He wishes he was at home in his nice, warm, feathery bed, and tears stream down his face. He is so very, very sorry. He shudders and hugs his knees closer. It is getting darker, he can tell, and tries to close his eyes, for when he does the dark around him does not seem so very black, but opens them again quickly. For then the sounds are scarier still.

The little mouse scampers past the wolf and fox and owl, for she is small and goes unnoticed in the heavy fog. She runs and runs as quickly as her small feet will take her, deep, deeper into the forest, and she passes a stream that seems to sing, and runs under trees that whisper and around flowers that dance all the way to a place that not many a-creature will ever see.

A glade it is, around a small waterfall, which bubbles into a clear-running stream that laughs as it disappears down into the mist. The flora is green and dense and beautiful, and the smells are heavy and hypnotizing and sweet. The plants there are so alive that they seem almost to glow, and all around there are little creatures flying here and there like dragonflies and honeybees. The mouse is amazed at the beauty, but mice are not very smart, and therefore do not notice much and do often as they are told, and therefore lack appreciation for most things lovely and ethereal.

And being a very timid creature, and she stutters, "Can, anyone, help me? Please?" she implores looking up, speaking softly, and at first it seems none of the little lights will hear her. And being shy she almost turns to leave. But suddenly a sound like a dragonfly’s wings pounds close to her and she turns and leaps back, startled at the small sprite that stands before her. "Will you help me?" the little mouse asks.

The pixie is taller than the mouse, but still very small, like a blue jay, and has short hair the color of a sunflower, and garments like its leaves and her eyes are green like grass, and her whole body seems to shimmer like the scales of a fish. Her eyes fix on the mouse, her delicate wings still buzzing behind her like a hummingbird, although she stands still on the ground, a thoughtful pucker placed on her lips. Her hands on her hips, she narrows her green eyes that shine like moonbeams on rain-soaked leaves. And there is an aura about her, a glow of green, that encompasses her in its glimmer, and somehow it seems serious and dark.

The little mouse stands, looking scared, like mice mostly do. But faerie are very good judges of character, and the pixie regards her a moment longer, then nods and her wings begin to hum, letting her hover above the ground.

Faerie? Well, they are quite real, yes, yes they are. They live deep in the woods in the trees in places where the eyes of all but the forest creatures’ never venture to see, and even if they did, they would most likely never find them. For the faerie are swift and cunning, and avoid sight most almost always. They are quick to temper but easy to laugh, and they are a jolly folk who use magic and talk to the woods and flowers.

They are often thought to be the products of folktale yes, and they prefer it that way. Just as the hobbits prefer the very same thing. For there are many creatures in the world that none have ever seen, and many more that none ever will see, for all kinds can be hidden and secretive if they wish it. And the Faerie folklore tells of Half-men called Hobbits that grow crops twice their own size and are gifted with making the earth and laughter grow, and of Men, vile and greedy, and of Elves (cousins in some far removed way, if only in love for nature and all her beauty) and of Dwarves and other creatures both terrible and great. But just as those races dismiss the faerie to be folklore, so do the faerie to them, and most often Hobbits and Men and Elves are only found in stories told by bright firefly light.

They are a kind folk mostly, making their lives in the trees, and merrily conjuring homes in vines and the rocky walls of cool, clear streams. They most often take the size of small birds, as to hide themselves from sight. And though they are mostly mild-tempered, they still wish to be left alone, and guard the entrance to their homes with both magic and their own devices of protection.

Faerie are much like Hobbits actually, they are the same size as hobbits are (when they choose to be, and are not weary of being spotted by some unwanted watcher), and they have pointed ears, and they wear no shoes (though their feet have no hair).

But unlike the Little Folk, they have eyes that always seem to glitter with the sparkle of starlight, even when they are sad or lonely. Their voices sound to others like the tinkle of bells, and they have wings that they can use when they want to, that fold up like a lark’s and are as beautiful as a butterfly’s, that shimmer like pale moonlight on a summer’s eve.

But most importantly, they all have an aura-like glow around them, which comes out from their lively, curious hearts, and gleams gently according to their mood. It is always a variation of a certain color that they are born with, which applies to their personage.

Well, anyway, the little mouse says thank you and to hurry and darts quickly through the forest underbrush back to where the hare lay in his den. She squeaks the news of the little hobbit child lost in the forest (though she knew not what in the world a hobbit could possibly be) and the plans of the other creatures to do with it. The faerie flies quickly following her, and when they near the rabbit, she speeds ahead, flying quickly past the little mouse and then vanishes from all sight into the growing dimness of the forest.

Darting up between the trees and down again, and by the forest floor, she hears the whimper and sobs of a little lad, for faerie hearing is very good, and follows it. When she arrives close to the sound she sinks to the ground, and hides before a rising shrub that is near the tree the little lad leans against. Her wings stop their flapping and she slowly peaks out from behind the plant, amazed at seeing such a creature. But she is also then suddenly sad, when she hears him sob, and the green glow around her grows soft as her expression turns pitiful for this poor, lonely child.

The little lad then lifts his head up, looking as if he has sensed something is near, and stops sobbing a moment, and glances around, sniffing sullenly. He suddenly looks toward her, and frightened, she moves back quickly behind the cover of the plant. What a creature it is! The little pixie thinks, and her small heart pounds, and she is overcome with a curiosity that quells her fear, and she peaks out once more. For the strange lad can not see her in the mist, surely?

Upon looking out this time she is startled a moment, and narrowing her eyes, looks closer at the boy. Quietly she flutters a bit closer, and yes! She sees, when he lifts his head up, eyes of green that glitter a bit, somehow, like her own do. A memory then comes back to her of a tale of old that tells of a faerie princess that had taken a hobbit for a husband, and so gifted all the generations of Halfings to come with grace. The pixie has never believed this before... for she was always told hobbits were sweet but stupid folk.

Her kind will travel near them often (when the mood sways them, for they are prone to random bursts of wanderlust and wonder) and they do not mind the hobbits, (for they are harmless and silly beings of no threat at all, except tiredness from amusement, perhaps). And the hobbits would never recognize them, and dismiss their sightings of the pixie-creatures as a trick of the sunlight in the morning, or of beams reflected off the stream (as very dull folk often do when they think they see something that others say is not real).

But this little one, he seems so sweet, and she knows right then that she cannot leave him to the fate that the forest will give him. She does not know how or why he had got himself lost, but she senses it was from anger. And now the emotion was obviously replaced by regret. So she rises into the air and flutters towards him.

He is crying then, but looks up, and sees a glowing green light coming toward him. At first there is fear in his young eyes, but soon it is displaced by curiosity, and the pixie giggles when she sees this; and the lad thinks he hears the ring-a-ling-ling of bells somewhere, and follows the glow with his eyes, still wet with tears.

The pixie moves near to him, and darts round and round, until she has captured his attention completely. And then she begins to sing. She sings a spell of love and trees and flowers and the lad is entranced by the music of her chiming voice and then she begins to lead him up and away through the mist and the darkening shadows.

Forgetting his fears and woes, he follows her as she leads him off, bewitched with the wonder of a child, something he will never lose, now too curious about this strange little mystery to be concerned with much anything else.

The little light begins to flutter quicker and quicker and soon he is running, faster and faster to catch up with it. He wants to catch it. What is it? He is panting now, stumbling, over, under, around, he ducks. There is a fallen tree blocking his path up ahead, reaching up with wizened branches, like claws writhing up out of the mist. He scurries up it, and he jumps! He lands on his feet, and looks, where did it go? There! – He runs again, trying to catch up to it, but he almost slips. He catches himself, rising from the ground and twirling around to find it... He spots the gleam, and bolts again.

And before he knows it... he has come to the very edge of the forest without even realizing he has done so.

Stopping suddenly, the faerie hovers in the air close to him, and he stops too, afraid that if he moves the glow will disappear. Slowly he walks towards it, and the twinkle does not move, but hovers there before him. Soon, he gets close enough to see through the fog and greenish aura.

His eyes widen as he sees inside of the greenish glow a little creature, like a very small person, with eyes that shine back to him the very same color, and holding the very same curiosity as his own. Like a mirror to himself. But he is too young to think anything but fascination of this. Startled, he reaches out, wanting to touch the small thing, and puts his finger out, like to have a bird land on it.

The little pixie is just as enthralled as the lad, and is charmed by the impish look in his young eyes. She flutters closer, slowly, and her small feet are just about to land onto his outstretched fingers when:

"Pippin!"

Pippin’s face shoots to the direction of the sound, and at the noise the pixie is startled and darts upwards, farther from touch and sight.

"Pippin! Are you there? Please! Answer me!" the voice is frightened and tired, but steady and familiar and Pippin thinks he will burst into tears at its sound.

"Merry! Merry! I’m here!" he cries, tears springing to his eyes even as he speaks.

"Pippin!" The voice this time is stunned, and then grateful – but still not willing to believe, when it asks again, doubtfully, as if the speaker fears he has imagined something wonderful, "Pippin, is that you?"

"Yes, Merry! I’m here, I’m here!" Pippin hollers.

"I found him!" he hears Merry shout someplace in the distance, "He’s over here someplace! I found him!" Then Pippin begins to hear many more voices, then some cheering. He feels as if his heart will burst through him. Home! "Pippin!" instructs Merry’s voice. "Whatever you do, do not move. I’m coming for you."

And no less than a minute later, Pippin sees a different light shining in the night coming toward him. A lantern light. It comes closer and closer and soon enough he hears a strangled cry of happiness and relief and the lantern is quickly dropped aside as he finds himself scooped up into his cousin’s warm and tight embrace, and they both weep.

"Oh, Pippin," says Merry into his cousin’s hair, "Please, please don’t ever do that again," he begs. "You foolish Took," Merry loves his cousin so dearly, and holds him close, as if he will never again let him go.

"I’m sorry, Mer," replies Pippin wetly, "I ran away cause I thought my family dinna want me... they are always too busy to play and sometimes are mean, but I love them, Merry! I really do!" And he bursts into tears anew.

"Pippin!" says Merry horrified, pulling the sobbing lad back to look at him seriously. "Your family always loves you! You did not have to run all the way into the Glenwood to have me tell you that! You are our little lad, you know, and that will never change," and he grasps his cousin closer, if such a thing is possible, and in his mind is thankful that they were not in Buckland, and his little cousin had not strayed into the eerie grasp that is the Old Forest.

Relieved beyond words or emotion, Merry holds his little cousin close and waits for the other searchers to come for them. He is grateful that his relations let him join the search, for they had said that he was too young in the beginning – though they had crumbled, watching him in his distraught state. If anyone could find Pippin it would be his Merry. He stands up from the ground, and upon doing so, something catches his eye. Something green flittering up near the tree tops.

The little pixie smiles as the cousins unite, and her glow seems to pulse with happiness. She looks closely and notices that this other hobbit, too, has a glow beneath the sky-blueness of his now dancing eyes. But her ears perk up then, as she hears the sound of others, many others, and she looks once more at them before vanishing into the forest. And as she flees she is suddenly very happy she has helped the small lad, upon recalling that familiar glint in his and his cousin’s gazes... as if they were friends, or at least as dear as some.

Merry’s eyes are attached a moment, wondering about the strange sight, but the calls of the searchers start him back into reality as he turns and sees their lantern lights moving closer to him from all around. Glad the long and terrible night has finally come to a close, he gathers his shuddering cousin up into his arms and walks toward them, ready to go home.

He kisses the top of Pippin’s head and thanks the stars that he has found him.

And when they get back, Pippin is showered with affection from his sisters and mother, and father even, too, and most everyone he has ever met (and not met) and given hugs and kisses and stuffed with food until he almost bursts with love from his family (and desserts). And everyone is too happy to be angry with him, the little hellion, and they all remember how dear he is, and think how awful it would have been to lose him, and are thankful they did not.

Later, he is tucked warmly in the soft, downy quilts of his large bed. He insists on sleeping with Merry, of course, for he loves this cousin of his most of all, and when they go to sleep that night, nestled in each other’s warm embraces they both dream of a little green light glowing outside of their window, checking to make sure they both fall safely fast asleep.