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The forest was never Wemmbu’s home by choice.
Don’t get him wrong; he does see the haunting allure of rustling leaves and wisps of moonlight peeking through the overgrown foliage, but those pretty much always underscore something far more sinister. The forest itself is a predator, lying in wait — perfectly content to watch and pounce when one misstep is made.
Mother Nature is pretty unforgiving, as he’s learnt the hard way. Scrounging up scraps is tough as a kid, but he’s gotten by well enough picking off wildberries. Comes with the occasional poison, but who’s he to complain, really? He’s still alive.
The faeries that prowl the woodland depths pose a far greater threat. Wemmbu’s certainly never seen one face-to-face, but people whisper about them with a revered sense of fear, as if they’re both to be adored and scorned. Strange mix of sentiments, but he supposes that’s just human nature. We all fear what we can’t comprehend, right?
And perhaps that makes him an even bigger fool to take up this offer, but desperation is far more powerful of a motivator than urban myths exchanged around campfires. “A faerie horn in return for this bag of gold,” that mercenary had said gruffly. Come on, now, who could ever turn down such an enticing reward?
Faerie horns were rumoured to contain medicinal properties, or some schmuck like that. Wemmbu doesn’t exactly remember; he never quite got as obsessed with their lore as the rest of the townsfolk seemed to be. As far as he’s aware, no one has ever lived to tell the tale, so these creatures might as well be figments of imagination. Chances are, he could simply saw off some odd-looking goat horn and pass it off as a faerie one. Who’s gonna call him out for it, really?
With a snort, Wemmbu carelessly tosses a few supplies he thinks that he’ll end up needing into his pouch. Rope, dagger and an iron ring he wormed free from a stray finger…not his fault that they weren’t paying attention. Besides, he’d probably need it a lot more than its original owner did, wandering about the village streets — far, far away from any faeries. (If they even existed.)
One half-hearted rummage later, Wemmbu swings the pack over one shoulder, slipping the blade into his belt in one swift motion. He’s about as prepared as he’ll ever be. There’s not exactly a Guide to Trapping Fairies 101 for him to follow.
As for why he’s resorting to a trap of all measures? It’s his area of expertise, after all! He’s always been on the scrawny side from years of malnutrition, so fighting head-on clearly isn’t a smart option. Instead, he busies himself with intricate inventions that the rest can’t even begin to figure out, so he gets to work away at them in peace.
It’s an enjoyable process, if not a little lonely. Ah, well — woe is the brilliant, misunderstood mind. Blowing a stray strand of hair out of his face, Wemmbu’s fingers make quick work of coating a step-trap with another layer of melted-down iron, just for good measure. He doesn’t exactly know how the damned iron thing works, alright? Does rust diminish its effects? How much damage does iron even really do?
Fuck it. He’ll figure it out as he goes.
—
…Famous last words.
Now, Wemmbu doesn’t exactly know what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t — this. A perfectly humanoid figure emerged from the trees, footsteps near-silent against the creaking leaves scattered about the forest floor. A definite far cry from the ruckus Wemmbu had no doubt created when he was trying to set up his trap, so he’s probably just alerted every faerie within a few metre radius of his whereabouts. Great.
Antlers protrude from a mess of raven black curls, which trail down to frame otherworldly ivory eyes. If all beings were created by God, then this faerie was sculpted especially lovingly, with angular lines contrasting those soft features in all the right ways. Long eyelashes flitter as he — well, Wemmbu assumes it’s a he, at least — speaks.
“Are you lost, little human? I can scent your fear on the wind.” For fuck’s sake. Even his voice is a soothing baritone that sends shivers down Wemmbu’s spine. Wisely, Wemmbu says nothing in response.
Some sort of amusement creeps into the faerie’s voice as he steps closer to where Wemmbu waits with bated breath. “Hide and seek, I see. Surely you’ll be my prize when I win, yes?”
A leaf crackles in protest as it gets crushed under a foot. It sounds dangerously close. Wemmbu clamps his mouth shut and begins holding his breath entirely.
C’mon, just a few more steps to the right…
As if the faerie could hear his thoughts, he deliberately pivots to the left instead. There’s a ruffling sound, then Wemmbu hears a screeching clang! from his snap-trap as it bites into a well-aimed pebble. The mechanism grounds to a halt, pitifully still trying to dig into stone.
Wemmbu curses under his breath. He’s definitely as good as dead now.
Suddenly, one clawed hand wraps under his forearm, yanking him upwards with preternatural strength. Wemmbu sucks in a breath through his teeth, already half-wincing.
The faerie regards him strangely, as if he’s the freak of nature sprouting delicately pointed ears from the sides of his head. As he draws up to his full height, however, the groan that escapes Wemmbu’s mouth is a sincere one.
What kind of bullshit is this? This makes everything ten times worse, because Wemmbu refuses to be caught straining his neck to make eye contact right before his impending demise. He would die honourably, thank you very much. There wasn’t much of that to be found in his life — surely it’ll be made up for.
“Care to bend down?” he quips, praying that the faerie has a sense of humour, however convoluted that it may be.
“No.” It’s evidently none, then. Go figure.
“Fine, be like that! Asshole.”
The faerie shoots him a look of disdain, as if Wemmbu is a rat that died in his soup. But he also doesn’t make to bite Wemmbu’s head off, so he takes that as a good sign. Sorta.
It’s enough to make him ask, albeit hesitantly, “So. You have a name?”
“You may call me Minute.” The faerie says stiffly, sounding far more solemn than Wemmbu likes, “True names hold immense power. It isn’t outlandish to suggest that they’re the shortest curse you can ever place on others.”
“Right, so,” Wemmbu interjects, wildly amused, “You clearly haven’t heard of fuck, or shit, or hell-”
Minute cuts him off right back, “I speak of matters beyond your comprehension, impudent child. Your impertinence shall cost you your life one day.”
“One day?” Wemmbu repeats, picking up on the deliberate phrasing immediately. Minute barely manages to suppress a groan before the other purrs, “Aww, is the big bad faerie getting attached to little old me?”
“I never specified which day,” Minute’s answer is dagger-sharp, icy and rimmed with poison. “Yeah, yeah, I’ve gotten the edgelord memo. You can drop it now, thank you very much.” Wemmbu waves a dismissive hand towards him, and Minute is struck with a boiling urge to sink his fangs into the vulnerable, exposed flesh.
He bites down on his own tongue instead, drawing blood. “I’ll never understand the way you humans defile your language.”
That seems to startle an incredulous laugh out of the mortal. “You did not just say that to me with a straight face,” his growing headache says, eyes comically bulging out of their sockets. “Is there a masterclass they make you go through to sound this pretentious? And here I was, thinking it couldn’t possibly get any worse…”
“It’ll get much worse for you if you don’t learn to keep your mouth shut. Do you truly enjoy hearing the sound of your own voice that much?”
“Yes.” Wemmbu’s smile is smug, the tension in his shoulders easing now that he’s successfully goaded the faerie into pointless banter. He knows exactly where to prod at to make Minute tick, and as long as he’s pre-occupied, Wemmbu still has a chance to live.
“I tire of you,” Minute says flatly.
Wemmbu’s brows knit together in a frown. “I thought faeries couldn’t lie.”
Minute’s smirk is disarming; a knife in the dark. Wemmbu involuntarily takes a step back. “Afraid now, little one? You seemed oh so brave earlier.”
“Listen, man,” Wemmbu prattles on, subtly angling himself to turn tail and hurtle off into the distance if need be, “it was kinda intimidating, but then you ruined it with that adorable pet name. You really gotta work on that. I can give you a few pointers if you’d like. Free of charge — a faerie discount just for you, y’know?”
Minute’s gaze narrows, bone-white pupils gleaming in the dark. Wemmbu’s breath hitches in his throat, but he forces himself to swallow. Once. Twice.
“You’d do nicely as entertainment,” the faerie decides.
Wemmbu blinks. “I’m sorry— what?”
“I said-”
“No, I heard you perfectly fine. It was just a ridiculous thing to say.”
Minute is wearing an odd expression of disgust. He spits out, “Rhetorical questions.”
“Yeah, they’re kinda part and parcel of everyday speech.” Wemmbu snickers, “Sure you don’t want English lessons instead? You seem pretty out of touch.”
A clawed hand lunges for him with inhumane speed. It hangs loosely around his neck, going so far as to trace the outline of his blood vessels, but the silent threat is clear. No more snide remarks. Okay. He could deal with that.
“I just meant,” he says, carefully this time, “I would be of more use to you alive than dead. Be it as entertainment, or whatever else.”
Minute takes this as an invitation to rake his gaze down Wemmbu’s body, focus honing in on the dagger still hanging from his belt. Wemmbu swears the faerie snorts at the sight, and it’s beyond outrageous. “Eyes up here, fucker. Christ, chivalry really is dead.”
Minute levels an unimpressed stare at him. “I have no interest in you that way,” he deadpans, completely serious.
“Okay— what the fuck? To hell with you too, then. Sorry not all of us are born looking like angels.”
“Apology accepted,” Minute tells him.
Wemmbu’s mouth falls open.
The glint in Minute’s eye suggests that he knows exactly what he’s doing, but Wemmbu blinks again, and it’s completely vanished. He feels like he’s going insane. Don’t faeries have hypnosis magic or something? Maybe he was getting his mythology mixed up…
The faerie clears his throat, drawing his hand away. “Follow me, and step exactly where I step. If you value your life as much as you’ve led me to believe, that is.”
Wemmbu eyes him warily, but follows anyway. He couldn’t for the life of him explain why he’s listening, but surely the faerie wouldn’t dangle his freedom in front of him as cruel bait.
Scratch that, actually. That’s exactly what a faerie would do.
He pauses in his steps, mind frantically running through all possible options he currently has at his disposal. Run? Minute would catch up in a heartbeat. Stab? Those hunting reflexes would probably kick in and shred him to bits.
Minute is turning, one brow arched in silent question. The iron ring in his pocket chimes softly; a steady rhythm that clears his thoughts. Wemmbu doesn’t let himself hesitate as he plasters on a smile and says, voice dripping honey, “I have a gift for you.”
Faster than the faerie could react, Wemmbu snatches his hand and presses the ring into his palm. There’s a horrible searing sound as metal meets flesh, but Wemmbu is already stumbling through the forest, tripping over branches but escaping all the same.
From behind him, an anguished roar shakes the trees in immortal fury. Countless flocks of birds take flight in a frenzy, trembling against the rage of an apex predator.
Wemmbu keeps running. And running.
He doesn't look back.
—
Beneath the dying moon, a monster prowls its territory with self-assured ease. It grinds its teeth and sharpens its claws, snout raised to the sky.
There is a particular human scent lingering in its nostrils, refusing to leave. It will not stop till it finds peace.
—
Faeries do not take revenge lightly.
In this regard, Minute has no plans on breaking tradition.