M3M0R135

T00th had done it.

She opened the door. Past curtains and chains of code and firewalls there it was everything The Borogov had ever been. All it had taken was holding hands and letting her look, and when the Borogov opened their eyes, they could see it too. Years of memories hidden in the dark.

Most of it.

Their name is Lyriwyn. Their people dancing around the fire pit, mead and merriment at a long table, fireflies glowing among the storytellers and the laughing people of the earth.

The Borogov tapped iron-tipped fingers along a length of their iron jaw. They remember what they looked like when all that they were was flesh and bone. They were shorter. They were physically weaker. They were certainly better looking, could speak without pain and dance without stumbling.
They remembered doing magic, once upon a time, but could not remember how it felt. They remembered a lot of emptiness now. A lot of sadness, and they couldn't connect it to a specific memory.

As if they didn't want to remember.

The Borogov was used to being afraid, but their comfort zone had been beneath the ground for so long that they were uneasy in the tall, swaying trees and gleaming, glowing loam. They hadn't ventured this far from the ruins and the rebel camps before.

The Borogov trudged onward anyway. It shouldn't be far now. They glanced back at their friends. Some had offered to go with them, others they had asked. Their presences gave The Borogov strength, and there were so many of them. Kind souls all, surprise friends found in dark places. The Borogov smiled back at them, growling roughly through jagged iron clamps,

"N0T F4R N0W."

And as if some greater power was listening, the forest opened and spilled into a clearing, overgrown with gleaming mushroom caps and silvery moss. At the center was the great, charred claw of the Tumtum tree gathering post. It pointed with accusation up at the sky, broken at the center with it's charred surface peeking through the glittering growth. The Borogov tore their eyes from it.

"Th3 F1r3 c1rcl3 w45 th3r3..." The Borogov pointed. A small bowl remained in the earth where the pit once was. Strange, red-capped fungus spilled out from the center of it like drooling flames. They crept outward from the sunken pit like veins, curling around fallen rocks and sapling trees.

Feylio would beg for stories to be told before feast time and elders would meet to discuss a hunt or a festival. We would talk of the other creatures in the wood and those strange humans beyond.

The Borogov turned away, walking slowly further into the clearing. There were more then a dozen lumps beneath the verdant mosses. So much smaller, shrunken upon themselves, shriveled like prunes. They pointed to the one second from the far right. "...Th4t w45 my h0m3..."

Sage bread cooling on the window. Glittering lightning glass, dangled from twine in the doorway to catch the light. My mother's amulet resting on the stone shelf by my pallet... 

Blue capped mushrooms with lengthy stalks, short, squat green ones with yellow spots, glowing pink and orange... It was certainly beautiful. They did not know what they had expected - a graveyard? A scene of destruction, after all this time? The earth was reclaiming the land. It was almost comforting.

Just past the first line of mounds, old homes of Borogoves they used to know and laugh with, they stopped. They gestured ahead, and shadows began to creep into their mind.

"4nd th4t 15 wh3r3 w3  w3r3 p0150n3d  4t3." Two sentences said together past clenched teeth, Iron burning their skin, unfamiliar anger bubbling to the surface to bring about ghostly images of things that happened ages ago.

How long? How long had it been? Since someone came into their life and everything changed? How long since Their Heart had betrayed them all?

The Borogov felt it all rush towards them like a mob of angry ghosts, bombarding them with the images of a losing battle, of imprisoned friends, and scientists. Scientists in white as if they were pure, treating Their people as if they were the unclean ones, in this place, this revered place, a place of spirits and ....

A dance in moonlight, unfamiliar steps and laughter, a blush. Stories about adventure in the wilds and crimson haired spirits. New faces and excitement at their strange ways and fascinated questions. Join us, join us for feat time, we would be honored if you stayed. How long? How long did they stay among the Borogoves, with their notebooks and questions and inquisitive eyes? An age? I don't know, but I know ... a heart beats differently in time with another, a dance, a blush in the moonlight...

There was a toxin in the food. No one had noticed until little Feylio fell over during the games. The little ones fell asleep first, then the elders... The scientists got up, and used strange devices, and then more came, more in white, more with iron chains and cages, and as I stood there, asking why, pleading why would they do this, you answered - 

You answered with an apology. I could feel the poison in my veins, leeching at my magic, turning to lead in my veins, even as I tried to fight them. But it wan't enough. They took everything. They took my friends, they took my father's circlet--

They took you. 

I had failed. I failed them all.

The Borogov shook their head. They looked down at themselves. Encased in iron, bound with wire and steel, leaving hollow footprints in the glowing plantlife. They were kneeling now, clawed hands planted in the wires in their hair. Slumping as if exhausted, The Borogov dropped their heavy iron limb into the moss and a chiming 'clink' answered the gesture.

The Borgov peered o the ground and gently parted the mosses and mushrooms, reaching for the item that had made the noise. Shining silver answered, and the Borogov withdrew -

The Circlet. Their father's circlet.

The Borogov clutched it to their chest, and every wire-ending and fastening joint and iron clamp burned in protest to the proximity. When they couldn't bear the pain anymore, the gently dropped the circlet back onto the ground before them. They gazed around them, lost in a place they once called home.

What am I now?

'Twas Mimsy

"The skies were perilous blue, and wavering high oft, plump clouds glyde free. A Brillig morn, had our hero ever seen one, I say, rife and flowing with the good fortune of adventure." They gesticulated out over the group of younglings, fingers dancing in the air. Their shining pendant bounced gently off of their white-marked collarbone, sending tiniest of lights into the captive audience.

The eager younglings had taken to their studies well this day, and so the story teller was awarding them with another chapter of an ever-ongoing tale, one they always told at the turning of day to night. A self-imposed tradition that had been going on for, goodness, years now.

"Now, for so they oft gyre about the landscape looking for a sturdy challenge, on this day one such challenge gimbled right to them!" They waggled their brow, the darkened markings dancing with expression. Their blue eyes flashed about the younglings with glee.

Little Allo was grasping their straw doll with excitement flashing at the ends of their tiny pointed teeth. Too-serious Beryun was sitting rigidly upright, their long ears twitching to betray their interest in an otherwise nonchalant pose. Quick-witted Feylio was practically bouncing in their seat, the very first of their white markers shimmering on their cheeks.

"Lo! A creature rode the wind! Laying upon a spring current as if reclined on the mosses of a fairy's glen, with streaming red hair billowing behind them like a living river! Shining garments, riddled with golden clasps and dusted with the crumbled remnants of shattered ruby, hung about them as a regal mantle. A wide smile, painted wildflower crimson split their face in two and they flew towards out hero with all the casual grace of a strolling tove."

The younglings let out a round of giggles as They pantomimed the floating crimson character. The wind assisted, picking up a stray leaf and pulling it between their fingers as they told their tale. They were warmed by the participation of the wind, and took it as encouragement to continue their tale. It was always wise to seek the approval of the spirits.

"Our hero halted atop the hill and watched, all Mimsy as the Scarlet creature approached. They delicately settled themselves upon the hill beside our Hero, easy as if it were a bird lighting on a branch. Easier! As if simply taking a step out of the air. Scarlet - for this is what our Hero has named this creature - turned to our Hero and --"

Someone called their name.

Their hands paused their movement as they glanced over to the source of the interruption. They saw a tiny prism of rainbow light chase their gaze as the dwindling sun caught on the shining silver of the circlet. It was their guardian's circlet. Sometimes they forgot they wore it. It was very light, and pretty. An heirloom of their people entrusted to the storyteller since their Outelian grew ill.

There was a small group around the Gathering post. This piece of the great Tumtum tree, bequeathed to the Borogoves in ages past, loomed over them in brightly decorated shine.

An unfamiliar face was among them.

A Human face?

They quickly looked back at the younglings. " --turned to our Hero and announced--"

" - Come greet out guests!" That same calling voice carried over the mossy earth and tickled the storyteller's ears. They nodded.

"--'My name is The Red Wind, and I have traveled far to seek your skills!' they bowed, and their hair continued waving about as if still flitting about the rolling hills, though the winds had ceased about the pair of speakers. Our hero smiled greatly and bowed in return, for one must always avoid frumious behavior." They winked at the younglings, warranting another round of giggles.

Footsteps approached. The storyteller knew their time was up for now, and came up with something quick to pause the current tale.

"Alas, the sun was setting on the hills, and the Hero knew that camp would need to be set. So, they entreated The Red Wind to assist, and together they settled in around a campfire to chat." They dropped their hands onto their knees. A scent drifted towards them in the hands of the wind, and they let it tickle their nose It was an unfamiliar scent. Cold, dense, oiled metals...

"And that is where I shall leave you, younglings."

"No fair! Nothing happened!" Feylio protested, bouncing to their feet.
"I wanna know about the Red Wind!" Allo piped up, hiding behind their straw doll.

They laughed as more protests rose from the group. They stood, holding out calming hands to gently push back their irritation. "Oh come now! I will tell you all about it soon enough, but the sun is going down, and you should all be getting ready for feast time, yes?"

The younglings grumbled, but Beryun marched them off in order. The storyteller turned to the group of his peers - and the stranger - now patiently awaiting their attentions.

"Forgive me. I had a tale to tell."

"I see you do more then tell stories?" The stranger said, gesturing at the panpipes hanging from the storyteller's silken belt. "I would love to hear you play."

The Storyteller glanced to their feet, always anxious in the presence of strangers. The Borogoves rarely traded with outside people. The Fae were self-sufficient, and generally reclusive in their nomadic behavior, so they had very little motivation to seek outside influence or aid.

Which meant of course, that this stranger had sought them out. The storyteller lifted their eyes to them with a smile.

"I would be happy to play for our guest."

"This is Outelian's childer, next of blood to the clan leader. They speak with the voice of us all, and can decide if you are welcome to stay for feast-time." The one who had spoken - Illynio - smiled at Outelian's Heir, the storyteller, and bobbed their head in a casual bow.

The Stranger and the Heir locked eyes. They found no harm in allowing this one outsider the chance to feast with them. Surely had there been any ill intention, such an act would already have been done. Besides, Illynio was an excellent judge of character.

"I say welcome to the Borogoves, stranger. 'Twould be beamish if you joined us for feast-time."

The stranger bowed, a strangely formal gesture compared to the movements of the half-feral Borogoves, and extended a hand. The storyteller looked at it, then at the stranger's face. Good-humor glittered in their eyes. "It is a gesture from my home. Put your hand in mind and I will demonstrate."

The storyteller, delighted by this new gesture, clasped the stranger's hand. With a smile the stranger slowly moved their hands up and down, in a simple handshake.

"It is nice to meet you, childer or Outelian of the Borogoves." Such strange formality! Such precise clothing, all right angles and well-fit. Sensible shoes upon their feet, intelligence in their eyes! Much changed from the humans of ages past, that was for certain.

The storyteller had a fluttering feeling in their chest, one they could not decipher from excitement or fear. But, they laughed, shaking their hand with friendly insistence. Distrust was not part of their nature, nor was it like them to question the intentions of a visitor.

"Please. You may call me Lyriwyn."