When I woke up, the world was a dark, blurry place. Tilting my head to the side, I was forced to shut my eyes as the world spun ferociously. I groaned and tried to remember what happened; all I was getting were flashes of a cave and a fire. Finally, I managed to lean my back against a cold stone wall and squinted into the room. It was upright, there was only one of them, and it wasn’t making me sick to look at it.
Sitting up, I realized I was in a dungeon of some sort. Stone walls and floor, heavy iron bars on the front, a deep-set window with iron webbing, and I could see the sputtering sparks of magic running through the air between the metal. Clearly, this place was designed to keep fey at bay. I rolled my eyes, which was a mistake, and slowly got to my feet. Rolling my shoulders to work out a stiff kink, I felt my left wing thump limply against my back. When I reached around, the delicate membrane seemed to be intact, but the joints wouldn’t respond; I couldn’t even feel it. I flexed the other, which was fine.
Feeling anger welling up, I shouted, “Where am I?” through the bars, careful not to actually touch the iron with my hands. I was putting all my effort into not crying or panicking about my wing because it wouldn’t do any good, but I feared the worst.
“You don’t qualify for that answer,” a man muttered, standing just beyond the shadow in the open hallway. After a few seconds of awkward silence, he shuffled out into the light of a single torch and I could see claw marks raked across the old man’s face. Haggard, grey hands gripped a gnarly wooden staff with all their might to keep the ma upright. Grinning, his face twisted and rippled like water. “Have we met before?” he asked in a gravelly voice.
I wished to lie, but I’d been caught before; tricks didn’t help in these situations. “You seem familiar,” I murmured as he stepped forward. Instinctively, I stepped back and bumped my numb wing against the cell wall.
“Now, now, don’t be afraid. I only want a few vials of blood for something I’m working on,” he explained, holding a hand out.
When he said that, I realized where I knew him from and shivered. In my youth, I had made a deal with a young man and had promised him a little of my blood in exchange for his firstborn child; this was that young man.
Again, he grinned that horrible grin and whispered, “You don’t look any older than the day we first met, though I have aged beyond my years.” Turning away from me, he picked up a needle from a table and came to the cell. He rested the cane against the bars and eyed me warily. “You promised me six vials, but only gave five,” he stated, knowing that bound me.
“You fell ill and I thought you died,” I replied, wishing I was anywhere but here. Chuckling, I snapped, “You never held up your end of the bargain, anyway.” It bound me to him, but also him to me.
Snickering, he offered the needle to me and suggested, “How about you do the honours and I’ll honour my side of the deal?” When I stared at the needle, he explained, “I’m not strong enough to do it myself.” I remained apprehensive. “You were out cold when I found you; if I wanted to kill you, that would have been the moment,” he added.
Still eyeing him, I took the needle and carefully extracted the blood and placed the vial on his hand again. “Alright, now where is your firstborn?” I asked. Honestly, even back then I didn’t have a use for a child, but it was a fey’s rite of passage to negotiate that deal.
“Oh, well,” he murmured, putting down the blood and returning to the cell, “I suppose I outsmarted a fairie with that one.” I stared at him with my arms crossed. “I never fell in love, never married, remained celibate throughout my life to ensure I never sired a child,” he explained. “I’ll be back for more blood later. And maybe that wing, as you have no use for it,” he cackled as he shuffled back down the hallway.
When he’d gone, I carefully slid down the wall and sat on the floor, watching dust motes dancing in the first shards of sunlight through the window.
Pretty Twisted Mirrors 