[WP] Wind is not a natural thing at all, but rather the movement of spirits from one place to another. Whenever anyone dies, their spirit is added to the wind.

...

"Is the Captain still awake?"

"No, and if you try to open that door I figure the elf 'will brain you for it." From outside the thick wooden door, Sola listened as a questioning voice was rebuked by the gruff tones of the remaining Knights. "Aye, she's not particularly loyal to anyone here but 'him. Best wait til' morning."

"I know sir, it's just that the men are worried he was wounded after collapsing like that. They're restless- sealed up on the second floor like this, we've barely got enough food or water for two days."

"Well, that's better then no food and water. Go back and tell the men: He's fine." The gruff reply came with a muffled clamor of armor. "Follow the Captain's orders. We wait for rescue. The battle on Rose Meadow should be over soon, they'll have word."

"But the Goblins! They're set up all over the lower halls, and the barricades in the stairwell won't hold if the Captain doesn't-"

"Soldier, do you have any idea how many spells the Captain spent today?" The voice hushed into an angered growl as Sola's ears followed the drop with a slight twitch. "He needs rest. If I let you in this room, that Dark Elf of his is going to smash your head into the bricks and throw your body off the battlement even if you're the Heir's own kin." The Quiet clinking of armor stepped down and away from the door, with the murmured voice of assurances. "Now go back down to the others, and follow the Captain's orders. Have faith."

"Yes sir."

Sola waited, listening as the clamor of steel slowly returned, before once again settling as a dim shadow beneath the door's edge. Soon, all was silent once more.

The outpost was still as the stone in which it was constructed, and nothing but the deep quiet of late evening and the distant howl of the wind seemed present; but she knew this wasn't quite the truth. It never was, not when in a certain other's company, and if Sola peered closely, she could see the hidden motions scattered about the air and space around her.

The Fae were dancing on the wind this evening.

Thin and translucent specters, orbs and shapes and half imagined things of greater depth, these swirled about the room with total indifference to the stone or furniture that filled the walls and floor. Watching them from her seat on an old chair of aged wood, Sola tried to follow them as they passed her- but found herself unable to hold focus as they slipped through the walls only to reappear elsewhere: constantly changing as they went.

There were far too many on this night, even for the unusual case of the man currently resting with soft sighs from the bunk alongside the far wall of the room. Even for the likes of him, there were far too many for comfort, and evenings such as this made Sola glad that not all humans possessed the sight to realize it as she did.

There were many legends about the fae, and as an Elf, Sola had learned of several from her father and brother when she still lived in the Western lands. Those ancient stories had been passed to her, back down along a line of ancestors which carried on for generations. So far that their origins might each have spanned thousands of years. Back to a time before the Dark Lord of the West came to power, before the Great Betrayals of her people, perhaps even before the ages of man came to rule and mold the world.

Since she had come and traveled to the Eastern lands, meandering about with a rather particular human, Sola had learned of other legends and explanations- though none which seemed more likely than any other. Mankind was of the creative sort, taking what they were told by their ancestors and twisting it about- and though perhaps Elves were little different, Sola suspected there were far less links present in her chain of heritage. There were certainly fewer elves than humans, and by that logic she felt there were fewer voices to forget or change the stories. If Sola herself might live for hundreds of years, a human might only live for close to one hundred at most, only possibly surviving longer by means of magic and sorcery mostly unknown to her.

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

They had short lives, even young as she was, she knew this to be true. Humans seemed so strong until they were gone, and all of this could happen in the blink of an eye to one of her own kind.

It was a problem that troubled Sola greatly since her recent brush with such a reality. Her own feelings and existence were irrelevant to the cold truth that haunted the lives of men. A remarkably unfair truth, for beings that burned so brightly, men could only to fade away, forgotten soon after as if they had never existed to begin with. Even the greatest of them seemed to hold memory in their people for longer than a single lifetime, and even then Sola herself might outlive the praise of such figures, lest they be recorded in books bound by magic and seal against the passages of time.

Mortal.

Humans were very much mortal, and in some ways Sola was very much not. She could die by wound or sickness just like any other, but age was not something that troubled her in its pressing immediacy.

Looking on at her companion, settled on the bunk with soft puffs of quiet air, she could see it. Young in the years as he might be, Sola felt that already his age was hinting. Asleep, the weight of the recent months and seasons seemed to weigh on him- approaching with a steady pace. Beneath the unkept beard, the grit and sweat of past battle, the exhaustion of command, Sola felt as though she could see the grains of sand trickling though the hour's glass.

A trade of heartbeats and crystal grain. One by one she watched them pass, wrenching pain in her own chest and stomach pressing in until it was all but unbearable in the slow howl of wind beyond the quiet room.

But he was still alive.

In this room, while he was laying beyond the realm of waking and she watched on in the dark, unconcerned by the absence of light: Life was still present. As clouds parted in the dull glow of a clouded moon that filtered in from a single broken window, it still remained there- even as with went about escaping in the faintest of intervals.

It was still there, but in the end she had no way to keep it.

The wind lifted to a quiet roar as Sola continued to dwell in silence. With a soft whistle, it spun about on her skin and wrapped about the room, quiet effort to interrupt her meditation not unnoticed. Still, no matter how deeply troubled she might feel, her flawless posture and dignity remained as only a being of an Elf's grace might accomplish. It made no difference, not even when her emotions were in a struggle not unlike the approaching tempest of that distant storm on the horizon.

How long would it be until those dark and brooding anvils reached her?

She couldn't know.

Sola's eyes focused on the faint glows present now, following the twists and turns as they set themselves to trail after the shapes within the wind. There were spirits in the air swirl about and tangle themselves, fluttering like moths and wisps of flame drawn in to the sleeping figure upon the bunk of the dark room. Odd and careful little things, they nestled in on strange and irregular orbits, circling the sleeping figure upon the bed with warmth- even in the nighttime chill.

The fae... such strange things, spirits... entities... emotions perhaps bundled up and set free to the air by man or beast. The Holy Faith of their current residence said that the fae were strange, even evil things at times. Beings of malice or trickery, or even proof of the Dark Lord's influence. Sola knew better, from those ancient legends of her father, and her father's fathers before him.

The fae were the wind. Always present, the wind was the spirit of those fallen and all those not yet willing to leave the world. Of men or elves, beasts and monster: all could find their way to such a form, sometimes visible- and sometimes not. A few rare examples of living might even attract these to them, with their own spirit or actions, and their blessing might be considered to be a source of good fortune, sometimes even power and strength.

But none of those things had manifested in particular for Sola's sleeping companion upon the cot.

Try as he might, the man was only human with all the flaws attached. He had no gift of great strength, no fae-tainted flesh, nor exceptional magic to speak of- but still the spirits spun about him. On nights like this, Sola wondered why they flocked in such numbers.

For rare occasion, she had almost never seem them lend the resting figure their strength as the legends said they easily could, nor did the fae grant him blessing of great fortune or skill. It was as if they simply wanted to follow him out of curiosity: as if they wished to see where him get to some far off role only they could know, or a destiny they intended to witness.

As their odd and wisping orbits twirled about in the rising sun of morning, Sola couldn't stop herself from wondering if she was very much the same.