> Mir fado

>

> MeerFah−doh

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> Type: Phrase

>

> Meaning: A sense or omen that something is about to happen, both good and bad. Used to express a premonition or feeling that something significant is about to occur.

Noctavia's knuckles whitened as she clenched the wooden scrub brush, her arms tense with exertion as she attacked the blue blood stains on the cotton sheet. The skin of her hands turned vivid blue, soapy water splashing onto her dress and the grassy bank beside the river. Her golden hair tumbled over her face like a veil, as if trying to shield her from on-lookers who would see the tears that she stubbornly held back.

Finally, with a growl of frustration, she flung the bar of soap into the river, watching it skip twice before sinking into the murky depths. She stood there on her knees, staring at the water, her hands trembling, the scrub brush falling from her grasp. Then she broke. Her shoulders shuddered, and her eyes flooded. She covered her face with her soapy, raw hands and sobbed.

Tears escaped through her fingers, mingling with the river as if they, too, were trying to scrub away the pain. The sheet lay forgotten on the washing stone. Noctavia felt the weight of the stain as if it were a brand, searing through cloth and skin, marking her as useless—that she was not woman enough.

"Noctavia?"

She turned her head suddenly and saw a faerie running in her direction. Claramae was shorter than her, with little brown moth wings that complimented her hair and eyes. She wore an adorable white dress with colourful embroidery as per the Menschen tradition. Even though Claramae was a faerie and presented all the common characteristics of one, she was still a Menschen, born with blue blood instead of green. How? Nobody knew.

"What's wrong? Why are you sad?" asked the faerie.

Noctavia muttered, “Scheida!” in Menschen, "Eu mir blut!" her voice edged with bitterness.

With a playful smile, Claramae tucked a golden strand of Noctavia's hair behind her ear. "You know we're all ordered not to reply to you when you speak in Menschen. You have to say it in Human."

Exasperated, Noctavia slammed her palms onto her knees and pushed herself up to her feet. Her colourful skirt twirled around her, her blouse and intricately embroidered vest catching the sunlight in an explosion of hues. She was a striking vision—her hair a cascade of pure gold, her eyes a captivating shade of blue, every bit as vibrant as her Menschen lineage promised.

Communicating in a language that wasn't her own frustrated her to no end, especially when everyone around her spoke her mother tongue with ease. She longed to express herself in the mellifluous cadences of Menschen, to encapsulate the nuances of her emotions without tripping over unfamiliar syntax. Yet there she stood, her words whittled down to the bare minimum as if language itself had betrayed her. Not that Noctavia didn’t know how to speak human; she was as fluent as Yeso. But she didn’t like it.

Her transparent wings unfurled behind her, trailing on the ground like a queen's cape. Barefoot, as was the custom for any Magi, she stood there—imperfections none, save for the anguish that clouded her visage.

"I’m… bleeding, again,'" she finally spoke in Human. "So... no baby, again."

Claramae giggled, relieved, as she was already thinking of the worst scenario possible. She closed the distance between them and grasped Noctavia's shoulders. "Listen, you're a Menschen. It will happen in due time. You'll have a child eventually. Until then... well," her cheeks flushed a rosy hue, "just enjoy the process of trying. You know… o-o."

Noctavia snorted and lightly pushed Claramae away. "Is not a joke! You can’t understand. You can’t…"

"I think I do," Claramae retorted, bending down to pick the stubbornly stained sheet from the river's edge. "You have an eternity ahead with Yeso. It's not like he's going anywhere, especially after binding both of you with that curse. Honestly, it makes me a bit envious that someone would hex themselves just to be with another. That's quite foolish and… romantic, isn't it?"

"Very," was Noctavia's terse reply.

"So don't dwell on it. Just enjoy the journey. By the way, the others are preparing the reception of the Magis... they should arrive now at any moment. Maybe it would be good if you help, to set your mind into something other than your belly and..."

Claramae cut herself off, rushing to gather Noctavia's golden strands out of the way as she doubled over, retching into the river. "Oh dear, not again," she murmured sympathetically.

Yeso and Noctavia were bound by what any sentimental romance lover would call a romantic blessed hex. Its consequences, however, were far from idyllic. Every time Yeso or Noctavia drew far from one another and then drew near, they would be struck with a violent nausea, followed by an overpowering exhaustion that rendered them immobile. Tremours and chills that would push them into the ground.

As she stood there, trembling and gasping for air, Claramae knew that Yeso would be experiencing similar symptoms wherever he was. But for sure, he was close.

The faerie gently patted Noctavia's back, understanding the burden of the hex's paradox: a spell Yeso crafted meant to bond to each other and trick fate if it ever intended to separate them.

"There, there," Claramae soothed, "it's almost over. Yeso must be arriving. Maybe you should go lie down until they arrive?"

Noctavia wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, her eyes heavy with fatigue but also tinged with a distant hope. If Yeso and the other Magis were indeed nearing, then perhaps they brought with them the prospect of change—hope.

Noctavia slowly rose to her feet, and her eyes still glazed over with lingering nausea. The faerie remained at her side, holding her, "I still can’t believe you two went and did it… hexing yourselves..."

Claramae looked up in the air like daydreaming and spoke more to herself than to Noctavia, "You feel each other's joys, your sorrows, your deepest fears. You're forever bound by this invisible fate string that pulls you together. When Yeso is in pain, so are you. When he's happy, your heart's happier. But the same goes for sickness, for suffering. And... if something happens to one of you, the other—"

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

"I know," Noctavia interrupted, "If he dies, I die." She almost said those words as a welcomed blessing.

Somewhere between the entanglement of their magic and love, Noctavia and Yeso had sown the seeds of an everlasting romance. Their love, radiant and encompassing as it was, also harboured the power to destroy them both. For as much as they were united in every conceivable way, they were also each other's most vulnerable point—their ultimate undoing if fate ever willed it so.

"As much as you two are blessed," Claramae finally spoke, breaking the silence, "you're also hexed. Love like yours, only on fairy tales."

As she took a deep breath, steadying herself for the next wave of physical upheaval that would inevitably strike when Yeso arrived, Noctavia couldn't help but smile as wide as she could.

Shortly after, she weaved her way through the camp, slipping through the whirl of activity like a breeze. Her eyes caught the joy of every interaction, every bit of labour. Men laughed as they hoisted timber into place, their banter easy despite the sweat that drenched their brows. The women had their hands in motion and revelled in the preparation of dishes and delicate pastries. A group of youngsters darted around the camp, their laughter blending with the rhythmic beats of drums and the lilting melodies of flutes.

Amid all this liveliness, Noctavia couldn't help but feel like an outsider looking in—both part of the celebration and, apart from it, bound as she was to another seed, another destiny. She made her rounds, smiling and nodding, lending a hand here and offering a word of praise there. But it was as if she were walking through a vivid dream, one in which she was a spectator rather than a participant.

When she reached her tent, she pushed aside the intricately woven flap and stepped inside. The moment the fabric fell back into place, sealing her off from the exuberance outside, she exhaled deeply. As if on cue, her body seemed to unravel, letting go of all the tension she'd been holding. Noctavia sank into an opulent nest of velvet pillows. Her wings, iridescent with a hint of lunar glow, folded gently around her as if they were a cocoon spun from ethereal threads.

It didn't take long for a rustle of fur and paws to give away the arrival of the Howling Night. With grace, the Spirit nestled his muscular frame next to hers. His thick and lavish fur was a tactile contrast to the plush pillows. Noctavia's fingers found their way by heart behind his ear, scratching softly. In response, the wolf's tail swayed like a metronome set to the rhythm of contentment.

"Where is he?" Noctavia broke the lazy silence with a whisper.

The Howling Night remained mute, his gaze deliberately evasive.

"Howl, I asked you a question!" Her voice sharpened like a knife meeting a whetstone. Ignoring her, the wolf theatrically rolled onto his back, exposing his belly.

Annoyed, Noctavia withdrew her touch and turned away from him. "Fine, you can pretend you don't understand me. I can also pretend, you know. I'll pretend I don't see you."

At her rebuff, the Howling Night let out a subdued yelp, his muzzle gently nudging her neck, trying to lick her cheek as an offering of truce.

"Where is he?" She looked back, her eyes narrowing as she examined the wolf's expressive face.

"In the village," the Howling Night finally relented.

Noctavia rotated fully now to lock eyes with the wolf. "Doing what?"

The wolf hesitated. "I'd rather not say."

An arch formed on her brow. "Really, Howl? You won't tell your master what my own Hexe is up to?"

With a reluctant sigh, the wolf spilt the secret. "He's buying you a gift."

Noctavia's stern demeanour broke into a chuckle as she resumed her earlier position and rubbed the wolf's exposed belly. "Who's a good boy, then? Who?"

The Howling Night's tail resumed its joyful wagging, and for a moment, all was right as long his master was happy and rubbing his belly.

Noctavia's fingers froze midway in the wolf’s fur as a distant clamour filled the air. The sound of hooves striking the earth reverberated like a drumbeat, accompanied by a chorus of voices heralding the arrival of the Magis.

Springing to her feet, she burst through the silken flaps of her tent and found herself in a sea of faces—enthusiastic settlers, curious travellers, and apprentices—all meshed together in an almost impenetrable wall of bodies. She hopped up a few times, craning her neck, but could catch only fleeting glimpses of the Magi procession through the gaps between heads and shoulders.

Exasperated, she started to weave her way through the crowd, but her petite frame was lost in the sea of people taller than she was. Just as she felt a sense of futility creeping in, Noctavia focused, closing her eyes and feeling the very fabric of her core.

Instantly, time seemed to freeze; dust motes hung suspended in the air, breaths were captured mid-exhalation, and even the flicker of a smile paused on the faces around her. Her magic had ensnared the very weave of time.

She turned at the sound of footsteps that broke through the eerie stillness. Each crunch seemed to echo in the silence as it grew nearer. When their eyes finally met, the moment felt like an eternity. Her eyes were pools of endless blue while his—Yeso's—possessed a shade so unique it defied description.

As soon as she saw him, Noctavia cupped her hands together, forming a shell of anticipation. Yeso chuckled softly. "I should've known better than to trust a wolf to keep a secret."

Eyes closed, arms extended, Noctavia awaited her gift as if it were her divine right. Smiling indulgently, Yeso reached into the voluminous pocket of his robe and, then let several small, wrapped spheres fall into her open hands.

Opening her eyes, she looked down at the tiny parcels, confused and intrigued. "What are these?"

"Chocolate," Yeso replied, the corners of his eyes crinkling with an enigmatic kind of joy. Then, he reached into another pocket of his robe and begot a small flask.

Eyebrows knitting together, Noctavia observed, "That doesn't look like chocolate," as she started to unwrap one of the small candy parcels.

"It's medicine," he clarified. "That's what took me so long to return."

"I'm not sick," she retorted but softened the words by pressing the unwrapped chocolate against his lips. He accepted the sweet offering with a grateful bite, nibbling her fingers.

"I know you're not sick, but you do get cramps. You always have them around this time."

Her cheeks flushed, ashamed. "Oh... you know."

He chuckled. "Did you really think you could hide it from me?" Pausing for effect, he continued, "I consulted an herbalist. It's an anti-inflammatory concoction. A few drops should do the trick."

For a moment, she looked down, her wings folding a bit as if to shield her. "I'm sorry," she murmured.

He reached out, tilting her chin up to meet his eyes. "Why are you sorry?"

"Because you suffered on account of me. I'm... used to the pain."

He stepped closer, so close that their foreheads touched, his voice tinged with disbelief and concern. "You're used to it? I spent my audience with kings feeling like I was being stabbed from the inside by an invisible imp. I had to traverse lands populated by centaurs, each step an agony, and you say you're used to this sort of pain?"

She met his eyes, her own widening a bit. "Uh... yes?"

A complex emotion flickered across Yeso's face—part exasperation, part deep affection—as he took a step back. "Then it's high time you get used to something else: not bearing it alone."

Yeso leaned in, his lips descending toward hers. Noctavia's gaze suddenly shifted. Her eyes landed on a young, chubby-faced individual astride a horse next to Mediah. The magnetic pull between her and Yeso broke, leaving a lingering tension in the air.

"Who's that?" she asked, her voice tinged with a note of concern she couldn't fully mask.

Yeso followed her gaze and replied, "That's Xendrix, a human prince who wants to learn magic. Quiet the chatter."

Noctavia kept her eyes locked on the young prince. A bitter taste surged in her mouth, a mingling of iron and blood that seemed to crawl its way up her throat. Her wings subtly tensed as if preparing for an unfathomable threat.

Yeso sensed the change in her, the way her muscles tightened, and her eyes narrowed just so. "Is something wrong?" he ventured, studying her face for clues.

She hesitated, then finally broke her gaze from the young prince to meet Yeso's eyes. "I don't know," she confessed. "But something feels... mir fado."

> "While humans approach the act of procreation with a degree of latitude, for the Menschen, the stakes are profoundly higher. Our biology permits us but a single opportunity to reproduce in our lifetime, both female and male, infusing the choice of a partner with an existential gravitas. In this context, Veilla Mageschstea, known to history as The Fallqueen, stands as an unfathomable outlier. Defying our most sacred biological edict, she bore multiple offspring, each of whom, legend claims, was from two different male partners. To this day, I remain confounded by this deviation. How did she circumvent a rule that binds the very fabric of our species—the Menschen?"

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> ——Between Lore and Legacy: The Mystifying Histories of the Menschen Vol. I by Professor Edgar O. Duvencrune