Page 1 of Brutal Fae King
Chapter 1 - Ebelor
My fingers burn in the cold as I pull the rope, drawing water from the well. My fingers are pink, slick with the wetness of the rope. This is my least favorite chore; Thawallow’s constantly freezing temperatures make it a miserable task.
I pull the rope one more time, carefully maneuvering the bucket through the ice that has formed over the top of the water on the well. Once I have the bucket, I very carefully lower it down, but I still can’t avoid the ice-cold water slopping over the sides and making my fingers feel worse. My arms are almost immediately aching from carrying it, but I just grit my teeth and keep going.
The well isn’t that far out from the village—just a short, serpentine path that can only be about fifty feet at most—but carrying a bucket, it feels like it will never end.
Eventually, I arrive at the wall that surrounds Thawallow. It’s built of the tallest, thickest logs, sharpened at the tips. It looks like it was built to keep gigantic monsters out, but in reality, they’re only there to hold the net that’s there to try and stop the chunks of ice that routinely fall from the ice wall nearby.
The monsters have no trouble getting inside.
As I walk through the gateway of the wooden wall to Thawallow, movement catches my eye. I look over, and I see Ahfaldor painting a big red X on the front door of his house in the low lighting of the lamp he’s carrying.
Oh, no… his family has the Weeping Fever, too?
My stomach sinks. It feels like it’s spreading faster this year than it has in any previous ones… There might be no one left by the time the next harvest comes… It’s never not flu seasonin Thawallow—the constant cold eking out from the ice wall, combined with being so far toward the edges of the kingdom of Faevea that humans never see the sun anymore, means that recovering from sickness is… difficult. But the greater races than humans have taken the more pleasant lands.
Ahfaldor turns around and spots me. For a moment, he just stares. I look back at him.
Then his face crumples into a sneer, glaring at me. He starts muttering under his breath, walking back into the plague house.
I sigh, realign the bucket in my grip, and keep moving.
Out of all the houses in our village, I’d say nearly half of them now have X’s on their front doors by now. The villagers wander around, going about their regular business, but there is an air of sluggish melancholy amongst them. Unless they spot me—then they glare at me with crinkled noses, narrowed eyes, and sometimes bared teeth. Most of them don’t dare to speak, but Hegtiro, outside her home and washing her family’s clothing in freezing water, never has anything better to do than berate me, so I’m mentally prepared when she screams at me:
“Do you see what you have brought upon us?! You should have kept your filthy magic to yourself, you whore of demons!”
Other people refuse to say anything, but they glare at me in the same way; they don’t need to say anything to show solidarity for Hegtiro.
I suppose she’s right about one thing—I should have kept my magic to myself. I only used my powers once, many years ago, but it was enough to turn me into a social pariah. It didn’t even help; my powers don’t help very much in a small village—all they can do is destroy. I’ve never tried to use them since, but that doesn’t matter to the folks of Thawallow.
I just keep my head down.Just get the water home.I say to myself.
The village has a population of a hundred and thirty at most—it doesn’t take me long to get to my house at the very end of the village. It feels oddly separated from the other houses, and even though I know it wasn’t built like that, it feels like even my house reflects the social pariah status.
The problem is… I’m not the only one who lives here.
I get to my front door, marked with a red X, and I press my shoulder against it to push it open. There’s a flood of warm, stale air smelling of woodsmoke. I welcome the warmth like a loving embrace.
But as I enter my house, I deep, retching cough rattles out.
“Maribelle?” I call lightly.
I enter my house. The entire wooden house is drenched in smoke from the dying fire. The cauldron on it seems to be smothering it, and on the other side of the room is the large bed where Maribelle lies. There are so many fur rugs and other coverings on the bed that it looks triple the size, but I can still hear her shivering.
“Maribelle?” I ask again.
“We-welcome back, Ebelor!” she stutters.
“I have the water!” I say. “I’ll heat it up on the fire for you. The stew should be warmed by now as well. Would you like some?”
Maribelle starts coughing again. It’s a very wet cough laden with phlegm.
“I’ll fill you a bowl,” I state.
I carry the water over to the fire and put it down. After putting a few logs on the fire and restoring it to a crackling flame, I check the cauldron. The stew bubbles lightly, so I ladle a bowlful and carry it over to Maribelle.
My heart sinks into the soles of my shoes; she looks worse than ever. Her skin is flushed and pink, and a steady stream of liquid comes from her nose, ears, and eyes, dribbling out constantly. She’s curled up in bed miserably, wiping her constantly flowing face, extra foam flecking from her lips as she coughs. It’s the final stage of the Weeping Fever.
