A Heroic Encounter with Faeries

The Nithmeren Deep-Creek was a tributary stream, a mere strand of the spooky Nithrangoth, that river-road that conducted spirits to the sloshing sea. Etheomere followed that road to those banks, where supple trees sprouted from the ground, and the earth was softened by thin carpets of old, festering leaves. Etheomere followed the creek thither; when he arrived, little dark green shapes flitted about; shyly detached themselves from the undersides of branches; up-sprung from clumps of river-rushes. Moss was skin to them; the film of their wings was veined with roots. They were the earth-sperm, the life-seeders, true ambassadors from the buried earth-halls; they were the errand-runners of Agd. Verily, they were strange things! Upon perceiving them, flickering here and there, Etheomere reached under his tunic, pulled a knife from it's sheath; the blade was dirty, nicked in many places. He thought to engage those bobbing things, fight those evil-doers, dole out justice to those that merited it. But they mocked him, countered his fighting urge. Indeed, his blade whistled, slashed across the wind. The faeries tittered. They buzzed about, whispered strange, fundamental words: they spoke so that Etheomere understood. They assailed him with crafted words, drew his ire out, and then whizzed away between the trees. Etheomere plunged ahead, he pursued them. The land fell down a slight hill; the Nithrangoth's voice-mutter became a roar, white water dashed against protruding rocks and broken planks, sloshed up high into the air. Along the banks, the humus thickened, became slick. Slender trees sprang up in thickening groups from the sloping terrain. Still, in many places sunlight filtered through the outspread boughs, pierced the umbrage. The sun cast rays upon the land, making gems of water droplets and drawing rainbows out of the splashing water. The faeries slowed, buzzed, chirped—there were fewer than ten in that mischievous tribe. Then real rage slipped it's wonted fetters, bestowed it's dubious gifts. Etheomere tore through the underbrush, heedless of pain; he ran onward, now leaping over stumps and stones, now ducking low-hanging branches and half-toppled trees. The faeries lured him on toward a rotting thing, a bloated deer-corpse sleeping on the riverside. Etheomere's foot caught the yielding bulk; the hide split, spewed death-ichor onto the leaves. He sprawled upon the ground; his hands clutched for the dagger-haft; he gripped it and twisted onto his back. Just then, the fluttering things swooped down and pulled back softened hide, pulled clumps of hair, revealed bones and muscles and tendons and guts; gas escaped from the opened spaces. Faery-bodies entered the broken entrails, exited the slackened anus, exposed the gentiles. They spoke “this is you, every bit and piece. This is your fate, you thing of the earth, you slave to cause and effect! Are you afraid?” Etheomere breathed in the reek: he wretched and vomited; the verdant shapes laughed, buzzing and cackling; they gripped his hair, tugged at his ears, lifted his eye-shades; opened his nostrils. They spoke up in thrumming-whispers “such are you, in our eyes, fellow!” The faeries tittered. Etheomere shook them off: he fled from the riverbanks, and the stink of dead, festering things.