There’s a Fable about these creatures. It goes…
“Once, there was a Nightingale who longed for a mate,”a male voice recites.
The chick zooms past me. I flip around and follow its trajectory toward a masculine outline lounging against a trunk, the black satin shape of him intangible, nighttime painting his angular features in dark teal.
Cerulean advances, the javelin harnessed to his hip. His ear caps swerve outward with a flourish, and the deep V of his shirt exposes flexing muscles as solid as a breastplate.
Hot damn. What’s the milk laced with here?
When Faeries are gruesome to behold, it’s the stuff of nightmares. But when they’re pretty…
Never mind. I thought he’d left. Has he been out here waiting? Doesn’t he have mountain-monarch chores to do? By the way, where’s his trusty owl?
The nightingale chick flutters around the mussed midnight of his hair. The Fae’s eyes sink to the pump of my breasts—it had been a vigorous chase—then rise to my face. Holding my gaze, he crooks a finger for the animal to land upon, then whispers something I can’t hear. The bird listens and vaults into the offshoots.
After a pause, Cerulean debates with our winged spectators. “What do you think, precious ones?” he asks them while focusing on me. “Does she know the rest?”
I plunk my hands on my hips and sidle toward him.“The mystical Nightingale sang but received no answer.”
Cerulean swaggers backward, but not in a submissive way. It’s a come-hither kind of way, luring me up a hill nestled between the trees.“So the bird shifted, using magic to grow larger, knowing its call would be heard at a vaster distance across Faerie.”
I mosey after him.“For days, the bird remained taller than the trees and sang its melody. Still, it received no reply. For Faeries, mating is fated. But for the Fae fauna, many must search high and low.”
Cerulean crests the hill and inverts his palm, a feather materializing midair. With a few deft rotations of his wrists, the quill pirouettes.“Thus, the Nightingale failed to notice another bird waiting quietly in the underbrush.”The plume disappears as he wiggles his fingers like an illusionist. Then he murmurs conspiratorially,“For the Nightingale had shifted too largely to inspect its surroundings. It did not realize its mate had indeed followed the song and was there all along.”
His dark lips curl.“So the mate gave up and found an owl to fuck, since they see much better in the dark.”
“Hey now,” I say. “Improvising is cheating.”
“That’s immaterial. You’re merely disappointed I’ve left out the consummation scene.”
My mouth wads, holding back a laugh. In spite of himself, he glances sideways, reluctant mirth puffing from his nostrils.
It’s a minor slipup, an unexpected pinch of humor. All the same, we sober quickly, idling beneath a wind chime, its music having subsided the moment we’d approached.
I don’t know what to make of our recital. Worse, I don’t know why it makes me feel years younger, the same way these creatures had while I chased them.
But I do know something horrendous. If this Fae and I were tykes, we’d like each other, because we wouldn’t know better, because instead of thinking about hate and hierarchies, we’d be too busy learning how our imaginations worked.
Then I remember we’re not tykes. Then I remember he’s not my friend.
The moment deflates, and I cross my arms to prove it doesn’t matter either way. “Can’t get rid of you, can I?”
Cerulean raises his arms to indicate The Watch of Nightingales. “I’ve been out here, entertaining my peers. They have grievances occasionally, and I’m not often in this area, which apparentlywasthe grievance. After holding court, I waited to see how long you would dally before exploring the wild. You exhibited a rather jubilant picture instead of a petrified one. More’s the pity.”
I shrug. “If nothing’s what it appears on this mountain, then maybe I’m supposed to trust its fauna, in order to survive this place. There’s no way to do that without risking a flub or two.”
“Then tell me. What do you see when you look around? An answer for an answer.”
“That’s easy pickings. I’ve always thought of nature as alive, but it’s magnified here. I’m getting random ideas. Like, does the wind have a pulse? If I spread my arms, will I feel its heartbeat?”
“Or will it snatch you?” he indulges.
“Or will it lift me off the ground?” I add. “What can I say? When I was a tyke, I wanted to become a bird.”
“A lark who favors animals with wings.”
“As much as you fancy ruling the sky.”
