15.1: The Star Elf

CW// Violence

Author's Note: Hi! It's Hawthorne again! Just in case you've forgotten, because it's been a while, the last time we saw Hawthorne, he was leaving Jemtong by cart to go on a shopping trip to the neighbouring town, Penketh. Or, rather, to hunt a werewolf. Enjoy!

15.1

Hawthorne

Shoot. Shoot. Shoot. Shoot. Shoot.

Mother fudging pancakes, why did those forsaken ice snakes have to be in Penketh’s vicinity today? Why couldn’t they have been near Zudren or Alvengal? I need to get home tonight. I need to make sure everyone’s safe. It’s two moons out, I was so prepared, of course they chose this day to bloody show up.

Long story short; got my shopping done, saw some mates, strolled along the bay while waiting for transport when the freaking alarm bells started ringing, locking the city down. It’s a wonder I even got out. All it took was a crafty lie about living on the outskirts for a distracted guard to let me out. Lil always told me I was a terrible liar, but I guess I’m not. 

For the last eight hours, I’ve been on foot, making my way back home. The pits of my coat must be black with how much I’ve been sweating. I was not built for Myan in fall, don’t even get me started on the summer. 

A hefty bag digs into my shoulder with every step I take as I run. The clearing I’ve been sprinting towards for spirits knows how long should be just ahead; the mountains rise ever taller above me.

A howl breaks the shadowy silence. The hunter has become the hunted.

I spare priceless seconds to lunge downwards, grabbing a sharp branch I see by the light of the moons. It’s better than defending myself with a sack of fish and oil. The extra weight slows me down slightly but I push my legs to their limits, just as I had done a year ago. My legs are stronger now, only ‘cause I’ve been working out almost every second since then. I’ve always been fast but the wind didn’t rip past my ears then as it does now.

The clearing rounds around me, at last. I skid into the centre, my boots rubbing painfully at my heels, and drop my bag, lifting the branch to the last place I heard the curdling cries. The night is silent now, nothing but crickets in the bushes. A rustle above me brings my branch swinging up to meet nothing.

I know there are at least three of them and hopefully no more than that. My heart skitters, jumping in my chest. This is what I’ve prepared for for months but, now that it’s here, I realise how horribly unprepared I am. What did I think a stick would do against a bloody werewolf, let alone multiple?

Breathe, Hawthorne. Everything will be OK.

I suck in the forest air, relax my shoulders, breathe out. I’ve got this. I won’t die tonight. Adjusting my grip on my weapon, I brandish it in front of me like a holy sword. Chaos breaks loose: panting, running, yowling from the direction I had just come from. The insidious noises grow nearer and nearer. My pulse buzzes, shooting energy through my veins. I jog on the spot, repeating what my sister always said to me.

A step at a time, Hawthorne.

A step at a time, one foot in front of the other. Quicker and quicker. The first wolf charges into the clearing and I’m ready, already rushing forward, my sword raised high. With a yell, I bring the branch and all it’s pointy bits slashing into the surprised wolf’s jaw. It’s head swings to the side with an audible crack, spittle flying in the air. Quickly, I take the opportunity to bring the wood down on it’s skull. It crumples immediately. 

To my left, to my right, two more wolves appear, stalking forward with teeth bared and an angry glint in their eyes. I retreat a few steps to my bag, hoping for more space between them and me. 

“Alright, here’s how it’s gonna go you and me,” I shout at them, looping the straps of the bag around my wrist, “I’m gonna give ye to the count of three to bugger off! One,” I lift myself up, my bag in one hand, my branch in the other. I can’t let them bite me.

“Two…” The first wolf crouches. Steady my feet, bend my knees. The second gnashes at the air in front of it, placing one gnarly paw in front of the other earnestly. I shrug as I reach the last number, pouting at the creatures.

“Three.”

The first launches at me. I dodge, one foot behind the next, and bring my bag up and into it’s chin, wincing as the sound of shattering glass breaks from within. Sorry mum, no fish for dinner tomorrow.

The second charges forward, claws out, blood dripping from scars all over it’s chest. It slashes while the first recovers. I deflect the first attack with my stick and then scuttle away from the first wolf who attempts to take a bite out of my arm. My breathing is heavy, my forehead slick with sweat.

Deep breaths, Hawthorne.

Claws, teeth. Dodge, weave. Despite all the months of training, my body can only hold up for much longer before I collapse. I just pray the third doesn’t get up and join the assault.

I score a yelp from one of the werewolves, I can’t tell who’s who anymore, when the branch’s sharp tip slashes across it’s chest as it pounces. In response, the other rips the branch from my hand and snaps it into three pieces with one bite.

Well. That’s it for me.

The second that I drop my guard to stare at my shattered ally on the ground with a knot twisting in my stomach, one of the wolves pounces on top of me, knocking the breath from me as I land heavily on the forest floor. It crouches over me, drool dripping from it’s yellowed teeth, savouring it’s little victory. Desperately, I dig around in my bag, searching for anything, anything at all. It leans forward, its teeth are inches from demolishing my face. My life flashes before my eyes. My dad, smiling at me from the rafters of a building. My mum, guiding my bow along the strings of a violin. The twins prancing in circles around a pile of mud they managed to create with small stones and twigs sticking out of it. My sister, looking at me with her forest eyes, painting a sunrise with my hand on a canvas. Arrow, circling my feet, fluffy face full of puppy joy, little blond curls bobbing. All of it, repeating over and over. I close my eyes, willing it to end.

And then there’s nothing. Nothing but a brush of wind and a rhythmic, ethereal swirl of a language unknown to me. The werewolf is suddenly removed from me with a yelp. Just like that. Are the spirits I pray to actually real? 

I peel my eyes open, my heart still thundering through my veins, and slowly drag myself onto my forearms. By the light of the moons, I see what spirit has endeavoured to save me. A heavy breath whispers through my teeth at the sight of them.

They’re, it’s, she is absolutely radiant. And I mean that both as a compliment and in the literal: she is literally glowing. Silver braids whip around her, seemingly defying gravity as they settle slowly with each of her movements. Her back is turned to me, revealing a torn dress and scarred ankles. With each quick whisper and shout, she flings ice at the wolves that had been attacking me. Though her accuracy is not…wonderful, forgive me, there are still a considerable amount of pointed, now-bloodied, icicles sticking out of the stunned wolves’ chests. In one final bravado, she pushes them, without making contact, forcefully into the solid trunks of trees. Their mouths momentarily open in silent screams as cracks ricochet through their bodies. They fall, lifeless, to the forest floor. Nothing but a pile of fur and guts now.

My saviour does not drop her guard until she is sure of their demise. Then, in a burst of excited energy, she bounces on her toes and claps her hands together, yelling in delight to no one at all. 

She does not disappear as I assumed she would. And she seems to be very much solid and very much here. I attempt to bring myself to standing to thank her when a sharp pain shoots through my side, causing dark spots to flare across my vision.

The spirit finally turns upon hearing my sharp intake of breath and hurries over. Even as the spots speckle my vision, I put together the figure of this incredible being in front of me.

Everything about her shines. Freckles, like stars, dot her dark skin, the colour of a moonless sky. White light emanates from a symbol on her forehead. Her silver hair reflects the moonslight and swims around her like a halo. Her crystal eyes shine at me in the dark, full of wordless worry. Her magnificent, torn dress flutters in a nameless breeze. 

She’s an angel.

I can’t take my eyes off her as she falls to her knees beside me, evaluating my body for injuries. But whatever injuries I had are momentarily forgotten by pure disbelief at everything that just happened. She brushes her hands lightly along my chest and I wince as my heavy trench coat presses into my rib. Oh jeez, I hope I didn’t break them. I realise I’ve forgotten to breathe and take a huge swallow of the crisp air, earning me another burst of pure agony coursing down the left side of my body.

“Ah fudge,” I mutter, making a conscious effort to make my breathing softer, “I think I may have bruised something.” 

“Hello,” The spirit speaks in a rolling voice that seems unaccustomed to the Myan language, “ I am Stellina. What are you? What hurts?” 

Oh shoot, I forgot to thank them. This Stellina.

“Hi!” The very word causes a mean jolt of pain, “Jeezums, where are my manners? The name’s Hawthorne. Thank you for saving me, o’ divine one. That was truly spectacular! I am at your service.” Her eyes widen at this pledge and she stops my hand before I can finish the symbol of gratitude to the Ling qui. The spirits of our present nature. It takes me a moment to process that she can actually touch me. Like, she doesn’t go through me or anything. They can do that?

“What? No. I am not un caelest. I am Stellina,” At my confusion she clarifies, “Drya e’l’estelle, Elf of Star.”

Holy mother of cheese and crackers. 

That’s- She’s-

“You’re the Star Elf?” I blurt out. Everything is meaningless now. Who cares about werewolves and broken/bruised ribs; she’s the freakin’ Star Elf. She’s the one, the legend, that can defeat Hyxver, defeat the Xeoserps; those infernal ice snake monstrosities that destroyed my homeland. 

“I suppose,” She shrugs, ignorant to my amazement. Her eyes have already drawn themselves away from mine and refocused on my pains and injuries. “Do you require healing?”

“Oh wow. Wow! That was amazing! Thank you so so much. I thought that was gonna be the end of me but wow, the Star Elf saved me!” Am I fanboying too much? I think I am. “Oh and yeah, probably. But I can walk it off,” I add as an afterthought. 

This is the person of all my childhood fairytales. Every single nursery rhyme, every single story my mom has told me is about her. The Star Elf. In front of me. She’s going to save us all. She saved me from freaking werewolves without breaking a sweat. She’s our saviour. 

“I will bring you to healer. Come.” She holds out a hand for me and I eagerly accept it, shoving the pain to the side as soon as it arises. Wait until I tell Mae this, she’s going to lose her marbles.