The fourth draft of a letter

Date: 2025-01-15 03:46 am (UTC)
heatherbythesea: (011)
A merrow can heal, as long as there's a soul within to sing to.

When I learned that, there wasn't a one of them who could stop me from putting on my magic cap and taking my human form again. There wasn't a one of them who could keep me from going back to the mountains I grew up in, and tracking down my old friend, Harrison Swain.

I only heard it secondhand and years after it happened. But there was a fight between Harrison and one of the town boys, and it ended with Harrison getting kicked in the head. Couple other Swains dragged him out of there, but not to the doctor, it seems. They went back down to the hollow, and it was months before anybody saw Harrison again.

I hardly knew him when I saw him next myself. He let his hair grow long and tangled it up into those nasty mats that're the closest us white folks can get to dreadlocks. Half his face was hidden by a big dark beard, but I could see the white, white teeth whenever he grinned. He grinned a lot, like there was some big joke going on that only he knew about. Which wasn't like him at all -- when my friend Harrison had a joke on his mind, he'd share it. He liked making people laugh, which was why he'd always told so many stories. This new Harrison was laughing at the rest of us.

It was his eyes, though, that unsettled me the most. His eyes were always wide and staring, as if he were trying to see through to the most vulnerable parts of a person. And one of his pupils, the left one, was always blown wide... from the damage that kick to his head had done.

There was something else in his head with him. That was the thought that came into my head when our eyes met the first time after it all, and I wasn't able to shake it. Turns out I was right.

It was his some-kind-of-cousin Rowan Swain who told me about the fits that Harrison would have. These fits were... suspiciously well timed, never happening at a time that would interrupt what Harrison planned, but he had them often. It sounded like epilepsy to me, the way Rowan said Harrison would stare off into nothing and shake, or fall over stiff as a mannequin. Rowan was usually the one to make sure Harrison didn't bite his tongue or choke on his own vomit when the fits happened. That's probably why he talked to me about it, when he saw how worried I was. Because he worried, too.

When I found him, down in the hollow, preaching mad things to his cousins and various other family members, I didn't waste a moment. I sang to heal his hurts, even as it drew every eye to me.

The song did nothing. And as he realized what I had tried to do, he started to laugh. "Oh, little fae. Focalor was called here by his hate, with no thought to his hurt."

There was no soul to sing to. Harrison was dead already, with something else in his skin. And here I was, surrounded by people who saw him as a leader. I couldn't run, and everyone knew it.

The thing in Harrison laughed even harder, so much that it almost sounded like a scream.


[ OOC: If you like, we can pick up the siren Q&A at Heather's inbox. Figured I owed you another statement as well :) ]
This account has disabled anonymous posting.
If you don't have an account you can create one now.
HTML doesn't work in the subject.
More info about formatting