"Legend of the Whisper Wood, Ch.1.2" by Jon Midget

" 'Who knew there were such different worlds in one small forest?' " Fauna repeated. "I'll have to remember that one. It will add entertainment when I judge disputes."

"Entertainment?" Paladin asked.

"Oh yes," Fauna smiled. "Lords come to me all the time to settle arguments between them. No matter who is involved I always get two wildly different stories explaining the argument. That's when I can use it. It will baffle everyone involved and give me a bit of a laugh."

"I doubt it will baffle any of your Lords any more than it baffles me," Paladin said. He walked into the cottage, pausing to see if Fauna had followed. She did not.

He walked into his small kitchen and pumped water up from the well. He splashed his face to wash away the sweat, letting the water trickle down his cheeks and drip to his shoulders. He grimaced at several small rips in his coarsely sewn tunic. It was hardly fine clothing, but it was one of his newer tunics, and he had spent several days experimenting with leaf pigments in order to dye it the dark green he had wanted. He wasn't sure if he could make the same color again.

Nothing to do about it now.

He rummaged through several pots, all filled with dried leaves or roots, until he found the stash of silvery kingsfoil. He placed some in a bowl, added a bit of water, and mixed it into a paste. Rubbing it into his arms, he winced at the sting as it seeped into each little cut and scrape. He yanked out several downy feathers from his forearms, which had been mangled as he had salved the merdona vines.

Only half the crop left to do.

He looked out the window. Fauna was there, sitting against a large branch and looking off at the distance. Shadows swayed; insects buzzed. A large purple butterfly, the kind Paladin's mother had always called the Silverdrop, fluttered near her shoulder, but Fauna sat perfectly still.

She was so alien — the green eyes, the green feathers, the light skin, the perfect stillness, the cold unwavering looks. But he couldn't look away. Not until she turned her head and their eyes met and held steady for a brief instant. Then he moved away from the window, forcing his thoughts away from her.

The afternoon was young, and he had more work to do. He rinsed the paste, now dry and flaky, from his arms and returned to the merdona vines outside.

The salve was there, in the pot where he had left it. He picked it up, slung it between the brown feathered wings folded behind his back, grabbed the branches overhead, and pulled himself up. He stayed there, crawling and pulling himself along the vines twisting around the mallorn branches, until evening. Finally, when there was less than an hour before the sunlight was completely gone, he was finished. The crop would be safe until it was ripe, and Paladin would likely have enough money to go the Harvest Festival again.

He stretched his arms and wings again, which were again battered and scraped up. A quarter moon shone in the sky. Crickets began chirping. Soon, Paladin knew, he would be able to hear the faint music of the dryads, dancing and singing on the forest bed far, far below. Sometimes, if he stayed outside long enough, he could start to pick out the melodies.

He went inside.

Fauna had started a fire, and she was stirring something in a large pot. A strange scent filled Paladin's cottage, and the pain in his arms and deep aches in his wings were, for a moment, forgotten. Fauna's eyes were fixed on Paladin's, and her mouth was curled into a slight smile.

"That didn't look easy," she said. "What you were doing out there. I thought maybe you would like something to eat when you were done."

"You're right," Paladin said. "I–I don't think I've ever smelled anything like that before," he said, pointing to the pot.

"It's supposed to be stew," Fauna said. "To be honest, I don't think I've ever cooked anything before."

"You have plenty of servants to do that too, I suppose," Paladin said.

"We have plenty of servants to do just about everything," Fauna said, her eyes and face suddenly icy and intense. "Except make the hard decisions: deciding what kind of inter-province trade policy will ensure that everybody has something to eat; deciding whether a murder was intentional or accidental; deciding what to words will help the dragons feel reassured that nobody's going to invade their mountains. Those are all left to me."

Her eyes softened again, and she held the stirring spoon up to Paladin. "I kind of had to improvise on what to put into the pot. You'll have to tell me how it is."

Paladin took a sip from the spoon.

"It's good," he smiled, his eyes looking down. "Definitely different, but good. Is that Arrowroot you put in it?"

Fauna stepped closer, their bodies almost touching. Paladin looked up again, sharply, and her eyes looked straight into his. "I have no idea what I put into it," she whispered, smiled, and quickly pulled away.

She spooned several scoops into a wooden bowl and handed it to Paladin. He took it and sat down at a chair in the far corner of the room while Fauna served herself. When she was done she leaned back, wings pressed against the wall, and ate.

The fire beneath the kettle continued to burn, and as the light outside disappeared with the setting sun the shadows inside became deep and shifting. The fire slowly became smaller and smaller, and the night overtook the room. But no matter how dark the shadows in Fauna's eyes were, Paladin could only see the same cold, green intensity in them that always held him transfixed and pushed him away at the same time.

A soft chill filled the room as the fire continued dying. The bits of stew still in the kettle cooled, and the scent disappeared.

"Do you still write poetry?" Fauna asked. "Songs?"

"Sometimes," Paladin said. "Nights like this — quiet nights when I'm alone and the fire's dying and it's just cold enough for you to notice — those nights are where poetry comes from. And I have a lot of those kind of nights."

"I don't think I've ever heard one of your poems," Fauna said.

"That's because they aren't all that good."

"If they aren't any good, then why spend the time composing them?"

"Well, obviously I like them. But I've heard the poets from Valora, the ones that get invited to perform in your court, and I've felt the power in their songs. I've never composed anything like that."

"How do you know?"

"Because ..." Paladin trailed off. He took his lute and performed at the Harvest Festival in Lamorra every year. He did it for himself, because after as many lonely nights as he had, living alone in his little cottage and working alone on his little farm, he needed to share them with others. And people enjoyed them. They listened. They applauded. But that was all. And that was all he really expected and wanted.

But it was nothing like the great poets. When they sang, enormous crowds gathered around. When they spoke, they could whisper because everyone was riveted, breathlessly anticipating the next word. When they told stories, grown men and women were moved to tears and laughter.

And though he had always admired them, the great poets, Paladin had always known he would never rival them. And he was fine with that. He was happy with what he did compose. It suited him.

But to sing his songs to Fauna ...?

"Because why?" Fauna demanded.

"Because the great songs burst like lightning in the hearts of the entire audience, it moves them to the point that they almost can't breathe. Mine don't do that."

"Let me be the judge," Fauna said.

She walked toward Paladin, pulling a stool with her, and finally sat down right next to him. She leaned forward.

"And what do you want to hear?" Paladin whispered.

"A nice one," Fauna said. "Something about beauty and hope. The good things in our world."

Paladin laughed and shook his head. "I wrote a song about hauling my crops to the village every other week," he said. "But that's probably not the kind of beauty and hope you're looking for."

Fauna's eyes did not blink. "Have you ... have you ever written a song about me?"

Silence. An ember popped in the dying fire.

"Yes," Paladin finally said.

"Sing it to me."

"I can't," Paladin looked away. "I couldn't – I never finished it. I knew how to start it, but I didn't know where it should go."

Fauna finally looked away. She traced a finger along the wood grain of the wall. She turned her head to the window, looking from the darkness within to the darkness without.

"If you listen closely," Fauna broke the silence, "you can hear the dryads' songs. Even from up here."

"But you can't see the dances from up here."

"I don't understand them anyway," she looked back at Paladin, smiling sadly. "You didn't know where it should go? &mdash the poem, I mean. The poem about ... me?"

"I still don't."

Fauna left the next morning. She had told Paladin as soon as he was awake but had lingered long past sunrise. Finally, just as the day's heat began to settle, she walked out to one end of a large branch extending from the cottage. Her wings unfolded, and she turned back to look at Paladin one last time with thos cold, icy, sparkling, beautiful green eyes.

"Goodbye," she said.

"Goodbye."