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I’ve learned to keep a terrarium of fairies under my bed.
I’ve learned what they eat and how to feed them. I’ve learned how they breed and how long they take to grow up. I’ve learned how much water they need to keep the feeling like they’re in one of those fountains where they usually live. The glass tank has to be pretty big to hold it all. And I have to change the water a lot to keep it clean. To be healthy and happy, fairies need crystal clear water and shining stone, as pure as a natural fairy fountain. And there’s not any real good way to filter the water. So it's not easy to keep up with.
But it’s really important I do.
It’s important I can get a jar or something from the kitchen, and scoop one out real quick like. And I can rush it into the other room right away, so it can do its job of reviving dead things. And I don’t scream or cry. Or get sick at the carnage. And that I don’t tell anyone else this is happening.
And I thank the goddesses, every time, that fairies can bring freshly dead things back to life with no problem. With no scars or marks or evidence left behind. Except the blood all over the floor. I guess fairy magic gives the person all new blood? At least it’s easier to mop it up off a wood floor than a rug. So I’m glad the living room and his bedroom don’t have rugs anymore.
Because it happens every so often.
I go in the room and... I guessed he used the old sword. The little one, from the forest, but it’s still sharp enough to kill, and now it did again. It’s sitting there, an inch from his hand, covered in the blood. The blood from... those slices. The ones that were messy the first time. But after a few tries they aren’t anymore.
He’s sitting on the floor, but slumped over like a big tall doll. His eyes are open, like he’s been watching himself die for the past however long it took. His mouth is frozen in a straight line, solemn but almost bored, like... like this is a necessity. Just another chore to do. Find someone’s lost chicken. Fight the monster. Die again.
Die again.
Not to the monsters, or the evil man that created them. But to what they left behind on the inside. Because everyone can love you and that can still be not enough. When there are temples and statues and memorials to the things that are amazing feats to everyone else because they're not the ones doing them.
Until the fairy’s shimmering magic sprinkles over him, and his glassy eyes snap from empty to alive. The little light left in them comes back, and he just kind of lets out a sigh, like the perpetual dad-ish “I'm not mad, just disappointed” sigh. Not at me this time. But at himself. Like saying “here we go again, I'm back on my bullshit” without saying anything at all.
He hardly ever says anything at all. But the times when this happen, sometimes he does. The first time, he did. In his native language, just letting it flow naturally.
“Oh Goddesses, I... didn't mean to make you feel like I abandoned you...”
“Well, I wasn't even thinking that,” I said, responding in the same language. “I was just glad I could get you alive again. But now that you mention it...”
“I wasn't thinking. I wouldn't have done it if I was. I just... lost control.” He shook his head. “You're too little to have to be on your own and take care of yourself.”
“You were younger than me when you did,” I said.
“Yes, and I don't want that for you.”
And I thought that'd be the end of it. Just the one time. But it started to become fairly regular. Maybe he was counting on the fact that I was able to revive him every time. Or maybe the darkness was just so bad, it kept overtaking him. Maybe both. Every time, though, we had a different weird conversation.
“Doesn't that hurt?”
“Not as much as being picked up and flung at a wall. Or burning to death. Or drowning.”
“Yeah, I get it. What's being dead feel like?”
“Like a nightmare. Well, no. Like you're asleep, and life is the nightmare. Like you know there's something urgent you have to do, but you can't get up and do it. Like someone else is slowly dying because of you. Time's running out. Because you can't get up and get to them. Even now. Now I think about you.”
“Why do you do it then?” I couldn't help but wrinkle my eyebrows.
“It's familiar.” Well, that explained everything and nothing at the same time.
And of course, after that, he wouldn't speak for the rest of the day. Or week. Or month. Because one five minute conversation every so often was about his limit. Guess he was really determined to bear everything in silence.
One day I decided to actually tell him. When he was still sitting on the floor clutching his head and I was standing there holding a towel soaked in his blood.
“You know I have a terrarium of fairies under my bed?”
“Why―oh.”
“Yeah. I feed 'em and breed 'em and make sure I always have a good five to ten grown up ones ready for me to use on you when you need it.”
“You shouldn't have to do that.”
“What, and just let you bite it?”
“No...”
“You know, why don't you ever say anything? About it? I know, you're all like, I have to bear everything silently without complaining, for everyone, 'cause I'm the hero, blah blah. But wouldn't you rather break that illusion and vent every so often, rather than slice yourself up every few months?”
“I'm not going to vent to you. You deserve a life free of these kinds of burdens.”
“Yeah, but literally anyone else?”
He shook his head no.
“Oh, and yeah, I'm not exactly free of these burdens if I have to keep reviving your corpse.”
“Ehhhhh...”
“Yeah, so quit it.”
I dropped the towel on the floor with the nastiest wet plop in the world, and snatched up the sword that was still on the floor. It was just my size at this point.
“Do I need to confiscate this?”
No response.
“Yeah, I do. It's a start, at least, although I bet you have ten other things to use. Hidden somewhere, where I'll never find them.”
No response.
“You know, not everything has to be your problem anymore. Even if someone needs help, you can always be like, not my business this time. You did what you had to. You hid it where no one else will find it 'till they need it. It's done with.”
He shook his head no. Looked like he'd already run out of his allotment of speech for the week or whatever.
“I dunno. I guess I don't understand. I mean, it wasn't me that had to do all that crap. It was you, so you're the one who's allowed to be screwed up about it.” I shrugged. “You all good for now?”
He nodded.
“Good, 'cause I better go change the water in the terrarium.”
I guess life's like that, then. That it doesn't really matter if there are temples and statues to him. Or that he's going to be part of his kingdom's legends for generations to come. That people are going to dress their kids like him someday, hoping those kids are gonna get a sliver of his courage. It doesn't matter. Because on his end, all that's left are the terrifying memories, and the breaks left by carrying the weight of the kingdom and its destiny. Just that. And a terrarium full of fairies.