thisisnomyth

It hurts.

That's all he can think of, all he can concentrate on. The pain, the feeling of being broken, torn apart, gutted.

Everything he is bleeds out, scooped out from within him and is spilled 9ouut so that he can see, it stains the table, stains the floor and their hands. He knows it's on their hands and he would be shaking if he could, he would be getting sick to his stomach if he had one.

But he doesn't, everything he did have is slowly being stripped away from him and soon he won't be anything, a shell, a husk, a mockery of what he had been before this.

They finish taking everything from inside him and he feels so empty, so lost. He can barely hold on, surprised that he's still conscious at this point, that he has remained to keep his awareness this long.

And then, when the knife starts cutting into him, he wishes for nothing but sweet darkness, nothing but the blessed unconsciousness.

He doesn't get it though.

Instead he feels the knife hacking away at him, slicing through his flesh as the carve him, make him into what they want, morph and distort and mutilate him.

he wonders if anyone would recognize him, if anyone would know what he had been before they got a hold of him.

He doesn't know and he doesn't really think he wants to.

Eventually they finish, get bored or decide that they're done. he doesn't know, he doesn't care. The pain is still there but it's dulled now. He's not sure if it's because he no longer can feel anything or if it's simply because things aren't as bad as they had been.

They put something warm within him, fire kisses him as they get it to balance within him and it almost feels good, the only thing in this sick ritual that does. It burns but he likes the burning, the warms. it's better than the cold metal of the knife.

Maybe that's all it is, something that's better than the alternative. He's stopped trying to figure it out.

They set him outside and it's only then that he lets himself fee again, really feel. His insides are exposed, the candle warming him in the chilled October night. Then he looks around, looks at the porches around him.

And again, he wonders why he was not given the ability to get sick, why he could not cry or break down or anything.

Because on every porch there was another like him, another pumpkin, broken down and mutilated in the name of a season, in the name of the Harvest.

His forced smile aches and he knows that they all ache too, that they would be screaming if they could.

She is a creature of the wood, no one denies her that. What they don’t know, what they don’t understand is that she *is* the wood. This is her space, the trees are hers, she knows what goes on inside herself, she feels it all.

She knows of the fae that make their home here, she knows of the animals who find shelter here. She even knows of the humans, the silly humans, those who disappear into her woods for a rush.

She knows it all.

And she knows when they cut her trees down, she knows when people trample across her flowers. She knows when the world becomes too small for her to exist and it pains her, it makes her sick and she cries.

The fae gather around her, tell her they will keep her safe but she doesn’t know, she finds it hard to believe.

But when the humans come, when they try and bring her down, it seems that things go wrong, not a lot, just little things that keep them from starting. Things don’t start, things break, things get lost. A thousand little things that keep her trees standing.

She smiles, absolutely touched by the act.

And if the humans deem her to be a haunted wood, a cursed wood, she doesn’t care because she is still standing, she is still alive and well and has her trees for people to take shelter in and her tall grass and forest floor for animals to run across.

She is alive and that is the greatest gift she could have ever received.

He was in love with a gorgon, with someone who he could never look at, with a woman who captured his heart and made him fly and made him feel like no one had ever made him feel before.

And he had never seen her and she had never seen him.

But they loved it that way, their blind love, their colourless love. They saw tih their hands, with their mouths, with their teeth. They learned the curve of each other’s bodies, they learned what it was like to have each other memorized.

He never even tried to have a picture of her in his head because she was so much more than that, so much more than an image, than a face, she was the feel of skin on skin, the sound of her voice wrapping around hsi heart, the taste of sweat and blood and a thousand other things.

He didn’t seed to see her to know that she was beautiful and she didn’t need to see him to know that they belonged together.

Let’s start with once upon a time because that’s how all good tales start. It’s a classic, it’s the way that our ancestors told stories, it may not be the oldest way but it’s a good way.

So, once upon a time there was a fairy.

But no, it wasn’t a fairy. It was a fae. It was a magical creature, tall and thin and mischievous and otherworldly. it had dark hair and dark magic to go with it but not too dark, never too dark. They aren’t evil creatures, they are just different.

They live by their own rules which are ancient and powerful and will probably long outlive ours.

So there was a fae and they were wonderful. They loved the world, loved the forests and the fields and the tall, tall grass. They were a woodland spirit, you see and these things meant a lot to them. The animals were their family and the trees it’s brothers and sisters.

Other fae lived with them, cared for the forest along with them. The woods, in return, sheltered them and loved them in return.

It was a good thing.

Humans rarely came into the forest, for they could feel the magic and were afraid. it set their teeth on edge, made the skin on the back of their necks prick up. They were frightened and they didn’t know why.

But not all humans were this way, not all of them feared magic.

There was a girl, small but strong and very, very brave in her way. She was a dreamer, a writer, a storyteller. She told stories with her friends, and told them to herself. She read books voraciously and reeled in the tales they told.

She went into the forest because she knew there was something there, something interesting, something waiting for her.

And the fae watched from the trees curious to see how far she would go. No one had dared enter their forest in years and only then, they seemed to be brave hunters looking for prey to stalk. This was different, this was new.

They liked new.

The girl kept moving forward but saw nothing to be afraid of. There were foxes daring across her path and, every time she saw one, she made a wish. Nothing scary though, nothing to send people running the way it did.

Until one of the fae stepped out of the trees, a smile on it’s face.

@Come with me,@ they said, their hand extended. @Come with me and I’ll show you something wonderful.@

And it was then that she could feel it, the power, the magic, the wonder in the forest. She knows the rules, knows that you don’t go with strangers but a part of her wanted to go, wanted to damn all the rules that she knew so well and just run.

So she did.

And the fae took her to a ball, all set up in her honor. She danced with them, spun around in a world she barely knew actually existed. She ate food that tasted better than anything she’d ever had before, heard music that moved her to her very soul. it was amazing.

And a part of her knew that, after that first moment, after the second she took the fae’s hand, she was doomed, that she could never leave the forest again.

But she didn’t care because there was magic here, there were stories come a live, there were balls and magic and music and a world she’d never been to before.

So the girl, shedding her human identity, put on the name of Ella and embraced her fate, all the while dancing and singing and telling stories.

She doesn’t call herself a ghost, she can’[t, it hurts too much.

She doesn’t know what she is exactly, a spirit perhaps but spirit sounds too great for her. Spirits are powerful, wonderful thins and she’s not that, she’s just her, just the pretty little girl who haunts the fields at night, just the person who you might see in the corner of your eye, just the story that kids tell at night to scare their younger siblings.

But she’s not scary, not really. She’s just there, just a part of the landscape.

A legend? Maybe she’s a legend. It still sounds too grand for her, still too powerful but it works. She’s become one in the minds of the town she used to live in, she’s a part of the stories that are spread, a part of the tales kids tell at parties and parents think of fondly.

So she’s a legend, she can deal with that.

Se wanted hir wings, it’s just that simple.

There’s no confusion about it, no doubt or uncertainty, no nothing. Se knew what se wanted and se went after it. Perhaps it was unconventional, perhaps there was a little too much blood but there always is when you really want something.

And now they are at hir back, now se can move them and feel them and smile at their presence.

Wings, hir wings. No one can take those away now.

And maybe it’s not perfect, maybe se doesn’t feel completely whole but it’s a step closer, it’s more than what se had.

Se flutters her wings, arching them out and feeling hat it’s like to stretch them for the first time.

They have a good thing going, those two. Most people never get along with their other selves, but not them.

She smiles, brushing her hair while her other self tells stories about what happened that day. They don’t share the same lives, only the same mirror. It’s easy for them to trade stories so neither of them complain.

Both of their mothers say that they shouldn’t get so close to each toher, that it’s not healthy, that it’s not normal but they don’t understand. They are a [part of each other, sure not in the same way that other things are but they are pulled to each other, bound.

And they don’t mind.

So they’ll talk at night, laugh and keep each other awake. They’ll stay in front of their mirrors for longer than they should and laugh at the world around them. Sometimes they talk about switching places, reaching out to each other and trading, just for a day but they never do.

Someone would find out and they’d get in trouble.

But they still think about it, and each other, and the worlds behind their mirrors.

And then they’ll go to sleep and dream and get up the next day and do it all over again.

Other people don’t like their other selves, they avoid looking n the mirror but not them. They look at each other and they smile.

And here they are, the King and Queen. They’ve come to see the show, to put it on, to sit before you and know that you love them.

Because they are good rulers, they are magical ones. They preside over Faerie and reach out to the human realm, twisting it in small ways, making it their own.

They’ll come for it one day, creep in slowly so that the humans don’t notice. In fact, they’ve already started, infusing the world with their magic, with their will.

The wo9rld is so easy, it wants them, it wants their magic and their love and their protection that there’s hardly any effort put forth on their part.

So they’ll come one day, in a whirlwind of magic and mayhem and all sorts of mystery. They’ll sweep up the world and turn it upside down. They’ll pull it into Faerie and make it join in their mad, magical dance.

And the world will rejoice because this is how it should be, a dance, a ball, a blending of the natural forces that surround it.

And as for man Well, who knows what will happen to man. Whatever takes place though, it will be a time to remember.

Her mother worked with light.

She was able to always make people look beautiful, shine the sun just so that they glowed. The starlight would glow in their eyes and the moon would always show them the way, she could light anything just how she wanted to and it was always beautiful.

But she was never really her mother’s daughter and her father has long since been lost to the waves of the sea.

She crafts shadows, weaves them through the world and slips them where they need to be. She’s not the light, could never be, but she likes to think she makes her mother’s light glow that much more brilliantly.

And some people need the darkness, they need the shelter because light is too harsh for the likes of them, sometimes her darkness is a sanctuary, sometimes they see better at night.

So she keeps working, keeps wandering the world and spreading her shadows, painting the land with them and madding just a little darkness to the world.

And, in her dark corner of the world, she takes comfort in knowing that everyone comes to her, everyone shuts their eyes when they sleep, every light casts a shadow, everyone will visit her eventually.

Remember to leave a candle in the window, for anyone looking to find their way in the dark.

Remember to leave a door unlocked but not unchained, just in case it’s not a wolf at the door but someone in wolf’s clothing.

Remember to have the kettle ready with water but never on. I know you love the fire but inviting it’s spirit into your home that way is still dangerous.

Renumber to leave the bread out for the fae. Everyone will benefit when they are pleased.

Remember to leave the books out for the ghosts. You’ll sleep better when they have something to do.

Remember to leave you heart out open to possibilities because all manner of things come to us in the night, even the improbable.

Remember to leave your mind open to the impossible because in dreams, there is no such thing.

Remember to open the door when I knock because I will have finally found my way home to you, just as I promised.

Remember to sleep well tonight because tomorrow, it’s you’re turn to go out into the world.