The first chapter of my labor of love 🥰 If you enjoy it, the entire work is free to read on RR!

Slow-burn fantasy/adventure/romance

https://www.royalroad.com/fiction/141697/what-burns-beneath

My twelfth birthday was the best day of my life.

It started normally enough; I woke at dawn to the smell of burnt bacon and freshly made oatcakes. Durst was grimly at work in the kitchen, his bushy black eyebrows furrowed in utmost concentration as he measured out a spoonful of golden honey.

Our morning routine was a quiet one. We exchanged hellos, as we always did, and Durst wished me a happy birthday while he smeared the portion of honey onto my pewter plate. I smiled and thanked him, dipping one too-salty cake into the rare treat, and we ate in relative silence.

Relative silence was typical. Familiar. Our home was a small one-story affair nestled in the witchwood grove encircling Fellbrook. You could see most of the small town from our front door, past the young silver trees. Townsfolk spent their days bustling about in the distance, doubtlessly making all sorts of noise, but inside the thick walls of Durst’s sturdy stone home it was nearly silent.

I didn’t mind it. Not usually, at least. Durst spent most of his days hunting and trapping in the woods, then bringing his day’s bounty to the shed for skinning and curing. One day in five we would go into town together to trade furs and meat for whatever it is we might need; thread, wire for one of Durst’s snares, a new dress for me, flour, sugar, seeds. Simple things.

My days were spent tending to the precious witchwood. I don’t think the grove really needed me to do any of the things I did, which was mostly just pulling at stubborn weeds and fetching well water for some of the scalier trunks. The trees never lost their leaves when the weather turned cold, and during storms and winds they always seemed to remain entirely undisturbed. But I at least knew my efforts were appreciated. Most days a night-black, velvet-soft leaf would brush one of my hands in what I liked to think was appreciation, or a branch would stretch itself up to give me shade while I worked.

Sometimes the quiet would stretch on just a bit too much, so I would sing, albeit poorly, or talk to the empty air. The trees didn’t seem to mind that, either. Every now and then some leaves would rub and twine together, rustling out whispers in response to my chatter, but I could never quite make out what they were trying to say.

My nights were spent inside with Durst, usually exchanging meager small talk, before the inevitable quiet would drift back in. I learned early on not to expect much from him in the way of conversation.

Durst is not my father. He told me this when I was very young, but I like to think I would have figured it out eventually from the stark contrast of our appearances. Where he towers above most of the townsfolk, all hard muscle and imposing bulk, my frame is short and slight. His black hair is perpetually shaggy, his beard is thick, and curling dark hairs cover every inch of his limbs. Even his eyebrows always seem bushy and overgrown, jutting out above dark eyes that are distant and sad, but only when he thinks you aren’t looking. My own hair is clove-brown, framing a rounded face and gray eyes that Durst says are the same color as my mother’s.

I have exactly one memory of her; this wonderful, bright thing. She's looking down at me with tears shining in her eyes. But somehow, she doesn't seem sad. She’s smiling. She reaches down to tap the tip of my nose, and the whole thing is like sunshine and starlight and a warm embrace all wrapped up together into this impossibly loving moment.

But we were talking about my birthday, weren't we?

Shortly after breakfast, Durst took his hunting gear and headed out for the day. Before leaving he also attempted to cook a plate of salted pork and roasted cabbage and left it on the table- that part’s important, but I’ll get to it later.

I had just finished lacing up my boots when there was a knock at the door. Opening it revealed a tanned, broad face framed by unruly hair the color of river sand.

Royce’s blue eyes were sparkling, and his smile was wide.

“Mom baked you a cake!” Before I could respond, he had grasped one of my hands, and I was being unceremoniously tugged from the quiet sanctity of Durst’s stone walls. “And I got you a present,” he added proudly as I managed to close the front door behind us.

I grinned and allowed myself to be pulled along. The narrow dirt path leading from Durst’s house to Fellbrook was overshadowed by gleaming witchwood; dangling black leaves hissed softly, but not unkindly, as we walked past, and a few reached out to brush at my shoulders. “You didn’t have to do that,” I said, remembering my manners.

Royce snorted and ducked under a low branch, which ignored him. This was typical; my beautiful silver trees usually ignored anyone and anything besides me. “‘Course I did, Brin! You’ll like it, too! There was a merchant in town a while back, don’t know if you saw him from your hole,” he gestured behind us, towards the small stone house, with an exaggerated eye-roll. I gave him a playful swat on the arm, which earned me a grin. “He had lots of stuff! And I’ve been doing really good about saving my coppers, you know. And I got- well, you’ll see! You’ll love it,” he promised, beaming at me.

Walking from Durst’s house to the town proper was always a bit of a surreal experience. It felt a bit like stepping into a painting; my world of silver-grays and night-blacks and mud-browns was replaced with bright green grass, burnt oranges and reds from flowers dotted along the ground, and cheerful blues and yellows from shuttered windows and brightly painted signposts.

And the sounds. It was still early, but already there were townsfolk trotting up and down the cobblestone streets, calling out greetings to each other and stopping to chat. Birds twittered happily from their perches, chickens clucked and babbled, hunting hounds bayed their greetings, and I even heard the distant bray of a donkey. Royce and I walked unhurriedly, returning smiles and waves from the people passing by.

It didn’t take long to reach Royce’s house. The wooden door was propped open by a fist-sized brown stone, and the enticing smell of fresh bread alongside of something sweet wafted out onto the street.

Royce bounded in, then rounded with a dramatic sweep of his arm. Behind him, on the Freth’s small kitchen table, sat three cracked copper plates around a wooden board laden with still-steaming bread, bright red strawberries, and what appeared to be a small cake garnished with dawn-pink frosting.

“Happy birthday!” he announced, gesturing for me to have a seat. I felt my mouth stretch into a wide, somewhat embarrassed, smile. His mother must have gotten up well before dawn to do all this.

As if on cue, Marion Freth flurried into the kitchen. Her apron was spattered with pink and she was wiping her hands with a rag. Upon seeing me she smiled.

“Brin! Good morning, dear. And happy birthday!” She swept forwards, all dimples and curly brown hair, and wrapped me in a warm embrace. I swallowed and returned it somewhat awkwardly. Life with solemn Durst was generally devoid of warm embraces.

“Thank you, Miss Freth,” I answered politely. “This is really… you didn’t have to do all this.” I glanced shyly at the warm bread and sweet treats on the table.

One plump hand swatted through the air. “Nonsense, sweetheart! It was my pleasure! Have a seat, and you, Royce, there we go. Have you already had breakfast, Brin?”

“Yes, ma’am.” I felt my cheeks redden a bit, thinking back to my black bacon and salty cakes. Durst’s cooking was all I’d know for many years, and I’d spent most of my childhood believing that food was purely for sustenance. I could still remember the first time Royce had invited me over for supper, years ago, and I’d tasted a meal that… well, that Durst hadn’t made. It had been eye-opening, to say the least. I licked my lips and added, “But, um, I’m definitely still hungry.”

She beamed at me. I couldn’t help but smile back. Miss Freth and Royce had broad, expressive faces that, well… just always seemed like they were real. There wasn’t feigned politeness or anything unfriendly behind their smiles, they were just warm and kind and wanted you to know they loved you. It was hard not to return it, despite sometimes feeling a bit overwhelmed by being on the receiving end.

“Good! ‘Cause I’ve been waiting all morning!” Royce declared, fidgeting in his chair. His mother chuckled and reached her dimpled arms out to cut and serve us each a portion of bread, berries, and cake. The two of them made easy conversation as we ate, with me nodding along and offering the occasional comment.

The bread was warm and thick, and the sweet berries were still wet from morning dew. I saved my cake for last. It was fluffy and soft, and tasted a bit like berries and the honey Durst had put on my plate this morning. As soon as I finished my piece, Miss Freth sliced out another and placed it on my plate. I grinned and took a bite.

“Hey, I almost forgot- your present!” Royce, who had finished eating long before me, jumped up and ran out of the kitchen. He returned quickly, looking unusually flushed, with a small piece of what looked like red cotton cloth clutched in one hand. “Uh… here,” he said, placing the small bundle before me.

Miss Freth stood, scooping up her and Royce’s empty plates and moving towards their kitchen washbasin. I gingerly pinched one corner of the soft cloth and unfolded it.

Nestled in folds of lush rose-red was what appeared to be a piece of witchwood. But, though I’d spent every day of my life looking at the sacred trees, this was unlike any I’d seen before.

The wood was ash-gray, polished smooth and cool as glass. It had been bent into a graceful arch and fastened to itself by a small metal clasp. Along the wood were strands of split, night-black leaves that wound and twisted into thin, feather-soft vines.

“It’s a bracelet,” Royce mumbled. I looked up with wide eyes to see that his cheeks were red, and he was rubbing one hand back and forth through his unruly hair.

“Is it… dead?” I whispered after a moment, looking down again at the ornament. It was beautiful. Perhaps the prettiest piece of jewelry I’d ever seen, much less owned, but something about it made me very sad. The ashy wood, maudlin gray instead of proud silver, the broken leaves that didn’t reach out for me… save for Durst’s gleaming arrows, I had never seen witchwood that wasn’t unmistakably alive.

“What? No!” he cried, voice rising an octave, and then he turned an even deeper shade of crimson. I felt a stab of guilt and my own face grew warm. That probably wasn’t the response he had hoped for.

Royce glanced towards his mother, looking uncertain. “Of course it’s not dead.” He shifted from one foot to the other.

“It’s a Fae charm, dear,” Miss Freth added softly from behind me. “I suppose Durst doesn’t keep any, what with where your house is,” she added with a chuckle. One gentle hand reached down past my shoulder and her knuckles brushed against the bracelet. “Travelers take them, Brin. They’re wards for people who don’t… well, who don’t live in a place like Fellbrook. Not like it is now.” Her voice became a bit softer, sadder, and I felt my stomach curl into a knot. Royce’s father had been killed by Fae.

I slid one fingertip along the cool, polished wood. Miss Freth made a small ‘mm’ from behind me and withdrew her hand from the bracelet. I pursed my lips thoughtfully. I supposed it wasn’t so different from when Durst would carve slender silver arrows from the grove.

I glanced up towards my red-faced friend. “It’s beautiful. I’m sorry, I just… I haven’t seen it, er, like this. The wood and the leaves, I mean. But it’s beautiful. Thank you, Royce.”

He ran a hand through his sandy hair again. “You’re welcome,” he mumbled, eyes downcast. I wondered how much the bracelet had cost, how long he’d been waiting to surprise me with it, and felt the knot in my belly tighten.

“Will you help me put it on?” I asked, trying to force some of my prior enthusiasm back into my voice. His blue eyes flicked up, squinting a bit as though he was suspicious of whether I really wanted to wear the charm. I held out my wrist and met his gaze, offering a smile. Behind us, I heard his mom chuckle and drift quietly out of the kitchen.

“S-sure.” He took two quick steps forward and reached down to gingerly pick up the bracelet. I watched the unmoving witchwood as he fastened it around my left wrist; it fit loosely and felt pleasantly cool against my skin.

“It’s really pretty,” I said, and I meant it.

Royce swallowed. “You really like it?”

“I do.” I stood and gave my friend’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “It’s probably the prettiest thing I own,” I added wryly. Durst was one for practicality over embellishment, and the habit had thoroughly rubbed off on me over the years.

Royce flushed beet-red again as I gave him a hug. He mumbled something unintelligible and shifted from foot to foot.

“I love it,” I assured once more, then pulled back and added with a warm smile, “Promise. And this- all of this,” I gestured to the now-bare table and the dirty dishes soaking in a basin, “Was a wonderful surprise.”

He rubbed the back of his hair and ducked his head. “Thought you’d like it.”

“I do. Best birthday morning ever.” I turned towards the wash basin and picked up a nearby brush. Royce huffed and snatched it away from me, and this devolved into several minutes of good-natured arguing about who would help his mother do the dishes. He won, and a short while later I was out the door and headed back towards Durst’s house with a full belly and a happy grin plastered across my face.

The quickest way home brought me past the town square, where townsfolk bustled by and chatted to each other in cheerful tones. I nodded and smiled at a few people I recognized, then slipped into Fellbrook’s small whitestone temple. Brother Clem wasn’t inside, at least not that I could see- and the front chamber was so small that it would have been hard for him to go unnoticed- but that was alright. I tiptoed forwards, towards the three little shrines set up on a curved stone dais, and knelt.

They say that, centuries ago, Fae could enter the human realm as they pleased. To torment, hunt, and kill on a whim. And then the gods had thrown themselves down upon the earth to be eternal, steadfast guardians of our realm.

I knelt before Anduin’s iron sun first and murmured a prayer of thanks for the daylight that burned and blinded monsters. Next I turned to the carved tree and thanked Thalessa for her vigilant witchwood. Finally, at the smallest shrine, I dipped one finger into a tiny basin of clear blue water and honored Virtue for her warding waters.

I always felt a bit awkward, praying at the temple. It wasn’t that I didn’t like it, it just felt a bit… impersonal. Perhaps because kneeling before the still, silent tree and thanking it was an entirely hollow experience compared to the murmuring branches and reaching leaves that waited for me at home.

I crept out of the temple and found my gaze being drawn upwards. It always was when I walked out.

The morning had turned warm and bright with sunshine, and the little fountain in the center of town sparkled merrily. But that wasn’t what drew my eye. It was the statue crafted with utmost care atop the fountain, that of a hooded figure raising a sword aloft in triumph. It was carved from whitestone, just like the little temple, and people in the town regularly stopped by to polish any imperfections from the rock. The hero- ‘divine’, people declared him, ‘sent from the fallen gods’- practically shone in the warm sunlight. His sword, also wrought of sheer whitestone but with a jagged, palm-sized shard of what looked like liquid fire embedded along the blade, blazed fiercely.

No one knew his name. But he’d come when the mortal realm had needed him most; years ago, on the night my mother died.

Durst had told me the story. Or at least, pieces of it, through fumbling lips and long pauses and distant, grief-stricken eyes. When I was just a baby, a monstrous Fae had clawed its way into the mortal realm. People called it the Nightmare. And other Fae had followed it; shadowy monstrosities and creatures wrought of wicked magic. The Fae had swept across the southern realm, leaving only death in their wake. Every city in the realm had sent forces to combat the monsters; runekeepers and paladins and clerics and knights. But it wasn’t enough. The sun itself was choked away by darkness, mortal armies falling before the Nightmare… until the very sky split open and a hooded warrior appeared in a flash of light. He strode fearlessly into battle, wielding a sword of burning gold.

My gaze wandered away from the shining figure, down to the ground nearby. Scorched earth. A gash along dulled cobblestones and once-green grass that was charred black as pitch, like a great wound had been carved into the ground.

The place where the hero and the Nightmare had dealt each other fatal blows. And then, when the smoke had cleared… they were both gone. Nothing remained save a few shattered shards of gleaming golden steel, the remnants of the unknown hero’s sword.

The tale was one of victory… but also of sorrow. Durst’s wife had been killed by the monsters. And Royce’s father, and many brave knights and paladins and…

And my mother. One of the runekeepers. Durst said she’d been found nearby, curled around me. And it was always at this part that his voice would grow thick and he’d turn his head, thoroughly finished with the story.

I swallowed. Sometimes on my journeys through town, when I was feeling especially quiet, I would let my eyes roam across the ground and wonder with vague horror where she had been. I felt myself wondering now, and shivered.

Distant thunder broke my reverie. The townsfolk around me glanced up, noted that the sun was still out in cheery force, and apparently decided that there was no rush to leave. I, having a much farther walk back home, disagreed.

The rain started shortly after I reached our small house. I briefly contemplated going out to weed some of the silver trees. I didn’t really mind the rain, after all, and caring for the witchwood was my favorite way to spend an afternoon, but a few distant flickers of lightning put a quick end to that idea. I spent the next few hours mending some torn clothes and scrubbing dishes. Boredom and restlessness from being trapped indoors began to grow, and in the afternoon I decided to work on embroidery, which I was not particularly good at, but liked to try anyways. The restlessness grew, and it was well into the evening when I decided to thoroughly dust the house.

It was while I was dusting that I realized the door to Durst’s bedroom had been left ajar. I found that quite surprising; in all my childhood, Durst had never once left his door open. I had always assumed that it was just his proclivity for privacy, and didn’t pester him about what treasures he might have tucked away in his room.

I had lit a few candles for light, and now found myself peering curiously past the flickering shadows and into the untold mystery of his small bedroom. I could make out a bedframe with two squat nightstands on either side.

My curiosity swelled, spurred on by hours of quiet tedium. I prodded the door open further and dared to step inside the room. There was a small table beside the door with a large, heavy-looking book on top of it. On the room’s far side sat a wooden rocking chair propped beside a window, a large wooden trunk beside it, and a sturdy black armoire in one corner. My eyes wandered back to the bed. One side was quite rumpled, with a large depression set into the mattress. The other side was smooth and untouched.

I swallowed and felt a wash of guilt. It wasn’t my place to push into Durst’s privacy.

My gaze lingered on the untouched side of the bed for a moment, and then I quickly turned to go. My knee bumped into the small table as I did so, jostling the wood and doubtlessly leaving a bruise on my skin. There was a heavy thud as the book fell.

I winced and clutched my throbbing knee, massaged it gently for a moment, then stooped to pick up the book. The cover seemed to be made of thick brown leather, and the spine had lovely golden thread embroidered in waves and swirls. It seemed like an unusually ornate possession for Durst to have, nevermind the fact that I hardly ever saw him with a book. He’d steadfastly taught me how to read and write years ago, often by candlelight after a day’s hunting, but they weren’t skills either of us exercised often.

I scooped the book up carefully, curious but determined not to pry anymore than I already had. As I did so, a small piece of folded yellowed parchment slipped out and fluttered to the ground. I knelt down again to retrieve it. And then I froze.

Scrawled along one side on the parchment in tidy, unfamiliar handwriting were the words “To my beloved Brin, the light of my life.