Birdie

For the first day in weeks, Pierre is cold to me. It has been four days after we sold the ox to the farmer and from that point on, everything in the house had been going so smoothly. Uncle Edwin and I smiled at each other more and I even attempted to help him -and eventually failed in my attempts and gave up- whenever I could. Pierre and I often took strolls on the path on the way to school and home. We held hands as always, we exchanged a hug here and there, but suddenly, today, everything suddenly went a different direction.

It is early Saturday morning and I bound down the cold marble steps in excitement of having a school free day. As I make my joyful trek down the stairwell, the ash haired faery steps out onto the steps. I stop for a moment just a moment so we can walk together. "Good morning, Pierre," I greet him, a pleased blush on my cheeks.

The faery says nothing, nor does he look at me. He adjusts his shoulders and passes me down the stairs, storming down as if I had done something wrong. I stand there dumbstruck, wondering what in the world I could have done in the last few days that would make him act like this. I would love to say that I can come up for a reason but even after several moments of thought while standing still on the stairs, there isn't a single instance that I can recall. I hadn't said anything nor had I done anything that he had seemed offended by, nor had I done anything that would anger him in any other way.

A damper already on my mood, I continue on about my day. I wander through the manor, doing what I can to help Tinsley, and even spend an hour in the library just reading and organizing the books. I cross paths with Pierre a few times and each time he avoids me as if I'm not there, the only indication of him knowing that I even exist is the fact that he struggles not to make eye contact. Finally, with a big, decisive sigh, I have given up on talking to him for the day. If he wants to act childish, so be it. I have better things to do.

Needing to get my recent shunning out of my head, I find myself in my room with Odette's diary in hand. I run my hands over the black leather binding and frown. I hadn't ready to many entries from the diary in the last few days and the ones I had weren't all that revealing of what had become of Elena. I want so desperately to figure it all out- and it's the perfect distraction from my Pierre drama.
My lips settle into a thin line and I pull the book open and begin to read.

Journal 10,
Entry Nine

Dear Diary,

Edwin seems to have lost the concept of time. He works down in that musty old workshop for hours on end, never coming to bed until early in the morning and then waking up only an hour two later to begin working again. I spied on Edwin this afternoon while he was tinkering with his sheet metal, only to find something truly sad.

Edwin had merely been standing in front of his project, his hands working away but his eyes never moved away from the wall. They were glossy and blank, the dark green of his eyes seemed to have taken over the whites of his eyes. At least, that is the way it looked in the dark. Then, the door had creaked and he had turned his head to me. He did not smile, he did not question me, he did not blink- he did nothing, save for let a tear roll down his left cheek.

I despise myself, but I returned to my chambers after that. I've been sitting here in our bed, quill to paper, in an utter lack for words. I am appalled by the man I married, and even more appalled at myself for letting it get this out of hand. I keep asking myself a thousand little questions that have no answer. Could I have stopped this? Could I have saved him? Can I still save him? Is he too far gone? Will he ever snap back to reality?

The last question is the only one that may have an answer, though I fear it may not be the answer I want it to be. Edwin no longer plays with Elena, no matter how often she begs him. He does not show her any attention or affection, and he does not even bother to acknowledge that I live here. I often catch myself wondering if he even knows who we are anymore. Then, if he does, it raises the most impossible question of all...

Are Elena and I enough to pull him back from the mental water he is drowning in?

I slam the book shut, my mood further darkened, and shove it beneath my pillow. A huff of breath leaves my mouth in a frustrated attempt at calming myself. It doesn't work. Thoughts of my Uncle's past swirl around my brain and I try to answer Odette's questions. There was not very much she could have done about her husband's condition. She did not cause, for the seeds of his insanity had been planted long before he met her. Whether she and her daughter were enough for my Uncle, I could not be sure. I only could think about one question that still had yet to be answered.

Can I save him?

Perhaps she can't, for she has gone and passed away, but is it possible that I could save him? There had been medicines created over five seven hundred years ago that could have possibly restored him, or possibly keep his condition at bay, but such things are long gone now. Although, is it possible that a simple girl like me could repair years of damage and despair done unto the man and make him normal once more?

I pondered this thought and eventually fell asleep, happy to have a long midmorning nap.



When I wake up, it is rapidly approaching early evening. I rub my eyes and sit up, my brown hair falling in tangles over my shoulders. I glanced down at my dress which is now wrinkled and sigh. No use worrying about it now, I figure as I stand and make my descent down the spiral steps. I make my rounds through the mansion, checking to see who is available. I open the door to the workshop to find Uncle Edwin and Pierre working side by side, forming another metal creature. Uncle Edwin raises his head to greet me with a smile but Pierre keeps focused on the hunk of steel, face impassive. I sigh and set off to find Tinsley, but alas, she is working to tidy up the top floors of the manor.

As a last restort, I make my way out of the house and into the open air. It is nearing sunset and the sky seems to be frozen in the golden shade of wheat. There are no clouds but the sun is nowhere to be found either. At one far corner of the sky, the faint outline of the moon can be seen, but just barely. The air itself is cooler than normal and I shiver. The nights would be getting shorter soon, the air would get colder, snow would fall. In a matter of weeks, winter would be upon us.

I cross my arms over my chest in a feeble attempt to keep warm and wander aimless until I find my feet taking me to the old carriage shed. A small candle flame flickers in the window. I smile, open the door, and enter the shed. As I had almost to weeks ago, I come to see Anastas in front of the back wall, staring wistfully at his collection of swords. His pointed ears perk up as I enter but he says nothing, only strains his eyes to examine the small details on the hilts.

I come to rest beside him, the small flame light flickering off of his tan -yet still paler than mine- skin as if it were paper. His pink has grown longer in the time that I have known him, his bangs getting in the way of his white eyes. When I stand next to him, I take my time examining each blade, just as he is. The blades shift the light around the room, illuminating dark corners occasionally. When I had been here with Anastas the previous time, they had been just swords to me. Somehow, they are so much different in my eyes.

They are much more than metal now, I can feel that much. The weapons actually represent something to me, they cause feelings to bubble within my veins and thoughts to course through my mind. The blades form words, feelings, within me. Power. Protection. Independence.

I shiver and rub one hand down the opposite arm, wincing as if my bruises were still there. It had been exactly a week since the two boys had jumped me and beat me bloody, and though I had been healed, I still have the residual feelings of weakness. Seeing Pessle and Freer dismay at my recovery during this past week has made me feel terrific about myself. Although, standing here now makes me feel much, much different. I feel insecure and feeble, insignificant and faint. I grabbed my arm suddenly, gripping the skin painfully within my palm. With a scowl -both at myself and my feelings- I reach toward the wall, grab a sword and bring it down.

I adjust the sword in my hands, adjusting the weight of the blade easily, facing the point toward the ground. Holding the cold metal of the hilt sends a jolt through my body, one that I greet with a rather large grin. I move away from the faery by a couple steps and raise the sword to my face. My tangled hair and determined eyes are reflected back at me. I inhale deeply and slash out with the sword, the metal making a shining arc in the flickering candlelight. Only one thought surrounds my brain, a thought that has become all too familiar. You are a fighter, Skye, whether you know it or not.

Anastas laughs, a happy laugh that does not mock me. I glance at him, a wave of reality washing over me. Grabbing the sword, swinging it even, had just been an impulse. I hadn't meant to act on it but I had. I had half expected Anastas to be angry. Instead, he regards me with admiration, kindness, and something else. If I am correct, I believe the third is encouragement.

"I'm so sorry," I blush, going to hang the sword back on the wall. Before I even get a chance to raise the sword to place it upon its holder, Anastas lays his hand on my shoulder. It feels like touching snow. I turn slowly, hanging my head humbly.

"Do not be," the faery grinned. His eyes are soft and wistful, though I can see that it is not the same yearning he feels when looking upon his collection. "You're graceful with a blade."

I beam at him, the idea already forming inside my head. I carefully hang the sword back in its place and stare down at my arms. I remember the bruises and cuts that covered them. I remember feeling helpless and oh so pathetic. I never want to feel that way again. Pessle and Freer may try something one day in the future and like before, no one will be there to help me. And I know can't keep relying on Tai to heal me every time I get hurt, not only because it's bothersome but also because I need to be independent- or at least more so than I already am. Besides, if those two boys were to attack me again, who is to say they won't take it to far?

"Do you..." I ask, my voice trailing away. I am doubtful about asking for his help. I could do this own my own, can't I? I wouldn't get the same results, though. It's better to ask for help on something that can help yourself improve rather than do it yourself and do it completely wrong. I inhale and gather my courage. "Would you teach me to fight? For self defense?"

Anastas looks thoughtful, thinking this over. He had undoubtedly heard of my injuries not that long ago, but something else seems to hold him back. He thinks for a moments longer. "I will teach you what I know," he says evenly. "However, there are rules you will abide by."

I look down once again but this time it's out of respect. "What would those be?"

"We can only train after both my work and your school work has been completed," he says calmly. "Also, you may not speak of this to Master Edwin. Third, you will do as I say and will not argue against my words. And finally, you shall not work with the swords yet. You must train in hand to hand combat first. Only when I feel you are ready may you swing a blade."

"Oh," I murmur softly. I really want to learn the ways of swordplay, but perhaps the older man is right. I have to learn how to crawl before I can walk.

"Will you abide by the rules I have set?" He asks, leaning over to look me in the eyes. I meet mine with his, setting my mouth in a thin line and clenching my jaw. I nod.

"I will," I say matter-of-factly.