The Price of Wings

The fog came without warning, rolling down the mountainside like winter's breath. Thristle watched it sweep over the trees below, erasing the familiar landmarks one by one. The wind carried the sharp scent of pine and wet stone, and somewhere in the distance, a raven's cry echoed off the cliffs. She should have turned back then, but she was young and angry and had something to prove.

"Stupid Rose," she muttered, kicking at loose stones. They clattered down the slope, each bounce and skip amplified by the thickening air. Her red hair whipped around her face in the rising wind, tangling into knots that would make her mother despair. "Stupid rules. Stupid everyone."

The rain started as a whisper, barely more than mist. Drops caught in spider webs between branches, turning them into strings of tiny pearls. Each gust of wind sent water cascading from the needles above, pattering on rocks, like distant chimes. Thristle pulled her too-thin coat tighter, pretending she wasn't cold. Her mother would be furious when she got home. If she got home. The thought made her smile, though something twisted in her gut.

It was when the fog thickened that Thristle realized she was lost. The mountain path had disappeared beneath her feet, replaced by unfamiliar rocks and treacherous drops. Even the birds had gone silent as if the mist had swallowed their songs. Each step sent loose pebbles skittering into unseen depths. She reached for a tree branch and found only empty air.

That's when she saw it. Through the curtain of fog and rain - a figure, tall and still. Dark wings spread wide enough to block out what little light remained, the air around them humming like fire caught beneath frozen ponds. Above its head, a perfect circle of radiance cut through the gloom, making the raindrops glitter like fallen stars. It looked like the angels from her mother's stories, but something was... wrong about the way it moved.

"Never approach them," her mother had warned about the winged ones, voice quavering even in memory. "Never speak to them. Never look them in the eye."

But Thristle was done with following rules.

Her fingers, numb with cold, fumbled with fallen branches. The wet bark scraped against her palms as she wove them together with strands from her pocket, the wood creaking in protest at being bent. The work kept her hands busy and her mind from dwelling on how lost she truly was. The twigs yielded to her will, forming delicate crossed patterns that, while simple, held a wild grace of their own. When finished, she had fashioned a pair of wings that spoke of her childlike wonder - crude but capturing something of that impossible beauty she saw before her. Above her head, balanced on slender twigs, the wreath of twigs caught the rain's gleam - a humble mirror to the fae's brilliant halo. The figure hadn't moved, but she could feel its attention on her like sunshine through ice.

The ground squelched beneath her feet as she approached, dead leaves and mud clinging to her boots. "Hello!" She bounced toward it, wings flapping awkwardly, sending droplets flying. "Do you like my wings? I made them myself! Not as pretty as yours though." She twirled, nearly losing her twig-wreath, the makeshift wings whistling trailing droplets through the damp air. "Can you teach me to float like that? You make it look so easy!"

The figure turned. Through the fog, Thristle saw a wide grin gleaming with teeth like shards of ice. The air around it smelled of winter mornings and burning bonfires.

"Curious little flame," it said, each word forming frost patterns that spelled different words entirely. "Such warmth you bring to these cold heights. Such heat in your blood." A pause, during which the fog seemed to hold its breath. "Would you share it?"

Thristle hesitated. She should say no. She knew that.

"Don't you know better than to play with fire, don't you understand?" Above her, the fae's head tilted with an owl-like grace that made her stomach lurch.

"I understand plenty!" Thristle stumbled forward, her makeshift wings dragging in the mud with a wet slurp. "I understand everyone treats me like I'm stupid just 'cause I'm small. Like I can't do anything myself!" She pouted, voice echoing strangely in the thick air.

The creature drifted closer, the ground beneath its feet crackling with frost. Each movement sent ripples through the fog like stones dropped in still water. "Is that why you ran? Such fire in your heart. Such defiance in your blood." Its wings cast moving shadows that seemed to dance across the rocks. "Tell me, little spark, what drives you to climb so high?"

"I'm not little!" Thristle brandished her stick-halo, bark crumbling between her fingers. The fae tilted its head, its too-wide sharp grin glinting in the dim light. The mist around them seemed to thicken, pressing in, as if listening.

"I'm going to be important! You'll see - everyone will!" She grinned back, showing her own rows of straight teeth. "But mother says I never learn. Are you really an angel? Only you don't look much like the pictures in mother's books." Her voice echoed oddly in the mist, coming back distorted like a broken mirror's reflection.

"Pictures lie, little ember. As do names." The creature's movements left trails in the air, like ripples in water that hadn't quite settled. Frost patterns bloomed and died with each step. "How brightly you burn. Such warmth. Tell me why you climb where sparks dare not roam?"

"Adventure!" Thristle spread her makeshift wings, sending a shower of twigs and water droplets cascading around her. The fog swirled in her wake, forming shapes that seemed almost deliberate. "Everyone's always saying 'don't go here' and 'don't do that' and 'be careful.' But you're not being careful and you're fine! Could you show me how to fly?"

"Flight has its price." The creature's laugh frosted the air, turning raindrops into tiny crystals that chimed as they fell. "Would you pay it, little flame? Would you trade your warmth for wings?"

"Maybe!" The word slipped out before she could catch it, hanging in the air like smoke. "I mean... what kind of price?"

The creature's smile widened, and the temperature dropped until Thristle's breath came out in white puffs. "Your mother searches for you even now, you know. Her hands shake as she mixes medicines. Your father searches these treacherous paths, calling your name until his voice grows hoarse, each echo bouncing back emptier than the last."

Something cold that had nothing to do with the rain settled in Thristle's stomach. The wind carried a distant sound - her name, perhaps, worn thin by distance. "They're... looking for me?"

That's when she saw it - a chain delicate as frost but strong as winter, trailing from the creature's ankle into the mist. It shifted as the fae moved, and Thristle noticed how the being never strayed too far from where it disappeared into the rocks. The metal had a dull sheen that seemed to drink in the light, marked with symbols that hurt her eyes to look at. And there, where chain met ankle - a thick simple pin, unremarkable except for how the fae's gaze seemed to slide past it when following hers.

"Such concern in your voice now. But it may be too late. The paths are treacherous in the dark. One misstep..." The creature gestured at the fog-shrouded drops around them, the chain clinking softly with the movement. "Would you like to see? Would you like to know what becomes of those who wander these heights?"

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She should run. Should turn away before anything worse happened. But she remembered the way the chain clinked, how it seemed to pull at something deeper than just flesh. Her fingers reached for the pin that the fae couldn't touch.

"Don’t move," she whispered, stepping closer. The fae went very still as she reached for the chains pin. "This isn't right, keeping you bound like-"

The metal was cold enough to burn. One touch and she felt frost race up her arm, but she didn't stop. She grabbed it and pulled with all her miserable might, feet slipping on the mud.

The chain fell away, dissolving into mist. The fae smiled wide, showing all those sharp teeth. At that moment, something shifted in the air around it - the fog glowed with inner fire, and where its wings spread, Thristle caught the briefest glimpse of embers dancing like fallen stars. The cold around them turned to scorching heat for just a heartbeat, then back to winter's bite.

"Oh, little spark," it said, voice like a winter storm. "Such interesting choices you make."

"I must go back." Her playfulness vanished like mist in sunlight. She turned to run, her crude wings catching on rocks with splintering cracks as she scrambled down the path. Behind her, the fae's presence grew fainter with each frantic step. The fog parted just enough to show her the way – but then her foot slipped.

The world tilted with a sickening lurch. Rock scraped against her as she fell, each impact bringing fresh pain and the sharp crack of breaking bones. Her mouth filled with blood and broken teeth, copper-sharp and burning. The world spun in a blur of gray fog and dark stone. She felt bones snap like twigs as she tumbled toward the edge, each break sending white-hot agony through her small frame. She landed hard on a narrow ledge, nothing but empty air beneath her, the wind whistling past her ears. The rain-slick stone offered no mercy, and she felt herself sliding towards the edge, her broken body screaming in protest at every movement.

"H-help” She whispered faintly, the words slurring through bloodied lips. But there was no mortal near to save her in time.

"Please, anyone," she breathed.

Hands colder than midnight seized her limbs, the touch burning like frostbite. The grip seared through cloth and flesh as they pulled her from the abyss, wings cutting through fog as they soared back to the mountain path, a sound like sizzling ice around them. Where they touched, her skin blazed with a faint light that sank beneath her flesh like roots taking hold, spreading through her veins like liquid fire.

"Such spirit you have, little flame. Your decision-making is truly captivating." The creature's voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, each word leaving ice crystals in the air. "But every choice has its price."

Thristle tried to stand, but the pain overwhelmed her. Bones grinding together and shifting back into place with a nauseating feeling, the light pulsed beneath her skin like a second heartbeat, each beat leaving her weaker. Through blurred vision, she watched her red hair turning white as frost spread through each strand with tiny crackling sounds.

"Go home, little flame," the creature whispered, its words leaving patterns of ice on her skin. "Your mother waits with her medicines. Tell her what you've learned about playing with fire."

Thristle ran. Each step sent jolts of agony through her bones, but she couldn't stop. She ran through the fog that now seemed to part before her, showing her the way home like a path of ghost-light. The rain had turned to sleet, stinging her face and freezing in her newly white hair. The wind howled through the trees, twisting into voices she didn’t trust. Behind her, she thought she heard laughter like breaking icicles.

Her feet knew the way even as her mind spun with fever and pain. Her name drifted through the air, so faint she almost thought it was another trick of the wind. The village torches appeared through the mist like drowning stars, and she heard voices calling her name. Search parties moved through the trees, lanterns swaying, their lights distorted by the thickening weather. She stumbled past them, unseen, the light under her skin dimming whenever anyone looked her way.

The sound reached her first - her father's voice, hoarse from calling, now twisted into a cry of pain. She rounded the last bend to see them carrying him down from a higher path, his leg bent at an angle that made her stomach lurch. The marks on her skin pulsed in time with his groans, as if remembering their breaking.

Her mother's workshop glowed like a beacon through the storm, herbs and medicines casting strange shadows through the windows. The familiar scents of lavender and thyme mixed with something sharper - her mother's worry driving her to combine the stronger remedies she usually kept locked away.

The door felt impossibly heavy as she pushed it open. Old hinges creaked a warning, and her mother turned, mortar and pestle still in hand. The scream died in her mother's throat as Thristle collapsed across the threshold, trailing sleet and something that glowed faintly.

Quick hands caught her before she hit the floor, already moving with the healer's precision over breaks and burns. The marks pulsed beneath her skin where the creature had grabbed her, and Thristle watched through fevered eyes as her mother's face went pale with recognition.

"Oh my girl," her mother whispered, fingers hovering over the marks that burned like branded ice. Dried herbs crushed underfoot filled the air with healing scents as she worked. "What have you done?"

That night, as her mother worked to set bones and ease pain, the workshop filled with steam from boiling potions and the sharp smell of forbidden medicines. Through the haze, Thristle caught glimpses of her new reflection in her mother's mixing bowls - white hair where red had been, catching the candlelight like fresh snow. Her teeth had turned sharp, a fae's gift that made her mother flinch when she saw them. And those strange green markings that burned like brands where the creature had grabbed her, pulsing in time with her racing heart.

The night wore on, filled with the bubbling of potions and her mother's quiet prayers. Steam carried the scent of herbs Thristle had never smelled before, things her mother kept hidden away for emergencies she hoped would never come. Outside, she could hear the village stirring, and questions starting to form.

Her mother worked quickly, spinning the story even as she worked her healing—a fever, nothing more. The marks were hidden beneath bandages smelling of lavender and stronger things. The white hair was explained away as shock from the fall, her mother's voice steady even as her hands shook. The teeth... well, children lost teeth all the time, and they weren't that rare here, were they? Each lie wrapped around the truth like fog around the mountain.

But sometimes, on dark nights when fog rolled down from the mountain, bringing that familiar scent of winter, Thristle would catch Fern watching her with worried eyes. Her mother's healer's instincts never quite rested when it came to her daughter now. The green now marks would tingle beneath her skin, and the scent of frost and burning would fill her nose. In those moments, she could swear she heard laughter like wind through ice, and feel those cold hands reaching for her again.

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