Desperate Correspondence

[The Whisperer]

The gentle hum of a lantern bug’s wings.

Its unsteady light casting a small cone of illumination.

The frantic scratch of a small quill against parchment.

Estelar’s brows were knit tight as he poured over the letters. Beads of sweat clung to his wrinkled forehead despite the chill night air. Pausing, he considered the page’s contents for a minute before tossing it aside. The desperation in his eyes grew more frantic.

Archimus,

I know you have been gone for some time, traveling the world. I am sending this letter to your last known location – the Institute – in the hopes that it finds you. I… no, all of the fae… need your help.

His writing was absent the artistic, flowing script that Estelar preferred. The letters were bunched and truncated. As he was coming to the end of the first missive there was a brief period of darkness. Startled, Estelar’s hand slipped and marked a steak across the parchment.

The last elder scowled at the lantern bug. “Bloody… stay still! We don’t have much time.” With a sigh the old faerie set the letter atop a nearby pile and began another. “The scouting parties are right outside. I don’t imagine they will be patient for much longer.”

Gualorium was asleep by now, so the silence was almost complete except for his scribbling. His voice was almost deafening in his ears. Hunching over the small writing desk with his back to the door, Estelar continued to write. The pen strokes were darker, heavier with every word.

To the mages of the Savant tower:

I am Estelar, last elder of the Fae Court, and my people are in mortal danger. Our Source fades for reasons unknown and I fear it will soon extinguish entirely. When it does, my people and I will be cut from the flows of magic that sustain us.

Age had begun to take its toll, or perhaps it was the dire circumstances. Estelar’s breath was ragged and his hands shook, he felt feverish. For a moment he thought… but then pushed the thought aside. There had to be more time.

The Source had dimmed markedly over the last weeks. Where a darkening event would occur every few days, now it was every few hours. Even when it was at peak intensity the Source didn’t burn as brightly as it once did. The decline was getting faster.

But the elder refused to believe this was the end. His people couldn’t be allowed to simply pass into history like this, withering away! He’d reached out when things had advanced beyond his control, when fae started to die… had he waited too long?

Thoughts like this had been eating away at him for months, robbing him of sleep. He hadn’t been eating properly, often going a whole day before remembering to take something. The Fae’s last elder was pale and gaunt. His wings were wrinkled and dry. He’d begun to develop a cough.

What about the ones he’d contacted? Thyrius had been a wild hope – a desperate gamble that perhaps the Herald druid would know something he didn’t. It was a foolish gambit, of course. The Source was so old that no one – not even the fae – knew its origins. He hadn’t heard much from him or the other one, the one who called herself a vagabond.

What hubris, to think that this integral piece of their existence would last forever. For generations his people had walked right by the center of Gualorium without giving the Source a passing thought. Perhaps this was punishment by whatever put the Source there, whatever tied them to magic – penance for taking this gift for granted. He felt sick to his stomach.

Another note added to the pile. Almost mechanically Estelar retrieved another parchment, dipped his quill, and continued to write. There was considerably more halting as he considered how to phrase this one, however.

To the generals of the Nexus,

The Temple was again plunged into darkness, forcing Estelar to pause.

“Blasted insect!” He cursed, slamming his quill against the parchment. But when he raised his head Estelar saw that the light was still there, only interrupted. A silhouette cast its shadow over him and the desk. Before his eyes adjusted there was only the black shape; stooped, disheveled and emaciated. What faint light there was from the lantern bug played off the chains dripping from his visitor’s wrists.

No…

Estelar opened his mouth but no sound came out. His heart had leapt into his throat, stealing his breath. Shaky legs managed to get him to his feet, but they became tangled in the legs of the chair. With a pitiful yelp he hit the ground.

The figure stepped closer, sending his shadow across the floor like the dark specter of death. It reached out to pluck up one of the letters, the last one. Silence stretched for a long time as dark eyes merely… stared. The paper was dropped back atop the pile.

The elder gathered his wits enough to roll over. Trembling arms groped at the smooth floor to drag him forward. If he could get some distance there was a chance. The window, there. His old wings still had some strength left in them.

The cold touch of iron slithered around his neck before he got very far. Wide eyes rolled to the side where he saw a hand tightening around chains. Paper-thin flesh, bony but strong. As it pulled he felt the chain biting into his wrinkled skin. Gasping, Estelar reached back, frantically searching for any purchase.

“I won’t die here,” a hoarse voice croaked in his ear. “If our time is up then I’m I will perish a free fae.”

Thin arms continued to pull with a strength born from decades of anger until…

Pop.

With a faint, tell-tale snap Estelar’s hands went limp. The last elder of the Fae Court slumped from his attacker’s grip and was left face down on the cold stone. Bulging, bloodshot eyes gazed sightlessly out of the nearby window where the light of the Source dimmed, then brightened.

The figure rose back to its full height and stretched its frail wings. A deep breath of contentment filled its lungs. With a final look toward the writing desk, the shadow crept through the Temple doors and vanished.