A lump of Coal to Warm Her

A 'naughty' heart goes north in search of warmth to find... she is the other woman?

Every step north into the cold expanses took more out of Fihvyx than she dared measure. Not the effort. Trudging up one mountain and down another, embracing the biting wind. Those came naturally to an 'elf,' however sorely she missed the warmth of her native streets of Balthispeare.

The waiting gnawed at her in ways that time just should not. Forty years, to an elf? The hinn—her ancestors—had moulded themselves to always have time. To be one with the earth, to weather the years like a mountain. Even now she counted herself too young, practically a baby. Her mother begged her to wait. Humans had a curious way of being too old too early. Another three decades and the precious boy Oliver would age out of reach, no matter the potions he brewed.

After at least a score of days, she rounded yet another hill. At the foot of a mountain knelt a human encampment and the promise of real food. She found herself bracing for the rambunctiousness of human cooking. Would they have the funds to enjoy the vibrancy of spices? She found herself looking forward to it like a ride on a wild bull, one of those joys that taste better in memory than the moment.

"Ahoy there." A man called out from above, hiding–in the trees?

Fihvyx displayed her confusion more than it deserved. To be fair, back home, people hide among other people, not leaves. "Ahoy?"

"In the tree. I thought surely by now you'd caught sight of me."

"Not all 'elves' find a home in the wilds." Fihvyx shrugged, showing her empty hands. "I hail from the streets and libraries of Balthispeare."

The man jumped down and staged an eloquent shudder.

Had he learned that from a lion? This man who kept office in a tree likely spent more time observing beasts than men—and not to his detriment.

"That's a nasty place even to be human. Though by the look of it, your smile probably smoothed things over." He offered his hand.

Her fingertips read him as she slid into the handshake.

Steady and gentle, his textured hands gripped her.

The weight of adequate strength in the smoothness of a man who gathered himself to care for his skin. Hands not unlike those of her father.

He bowed slightly. "I bought some lotion from a wandering band of hinn."

The proper word spoke well of the education, here in the distant wilds. Whether drawn to him or him to them, Oliver would be near them.

He laughed. "I was surprised how much stronger a bit of care makes a man."

Humans don't know that–her father's favorite phrase. Though all hinn met humans who could teach them a step or two of the hinn way.

She looked up the mountain, searching for her sweet wizard-boy's sanctum.

"You know, it's ancient myth. They don't really employ Hinn craftsmen."

"I knew him once. He was a boy." How eleven-year-old Oliver would have loved this place, where civilized meant hospitable. She looked back at the human. "You are speaking of my Oliver?"

"The Nikklau." He nodded. "Come. No sense living on trail rations. Sundown meal is nearly ready."

She breathed in the forlorn mint of the winter air, long past shivering against it. "No comment about my age?"

He laughed and touched Fihvyx' shoulder. "When a lone woman tells you she knew an old man when he was a boy, best not argue."


Not every man she met saw the power in an unarmored woman walking the wilderness alone. This forester she could allow to see her back.

#

Spice had been present yet subtle; the cooking had infused the air more than the food.

Her offer of pay long since refused, she ended up hiding a vial of pepper salt in the forester's cabinet—a nod to the very myths he had tried to dispel. As she shut the door she whispered,"Not all elves, but those with a crush on a Nikklau."

The forester laughed. "All right, well, see you don't leave by way of the chimney. Haven't swept it."

Blushing slightly, she offered her best wishes and confirmed the directions toward Oliver's place.

The trek passed in a blur as snow-minted winds stoked her inner fire. The path glimmered in the moonlight.

At long last, she wound her way up the mountain and pulled aside the glittering veil that hid their home.

There waiting, in blue velvet with white trim, a familiar human girl only a tad more mature than Fihvyx.

The haunting image of Oliver's soul-mate, the noble warrior Sigrun—fortunately, Fihvyx told herself, it had to be Sigrun's daughter or granddaughter. "Hello. May I visit… your father?"

The lady blushed and laughed. "I think you mean Oliver."

The voice–a searing acid rose in Fihvyx' stomach. This could not be Sigrun! Fihvyx blinked.

The illusion of age coalesced. Sigrun appeared fifty, even older, if you didn't look too close.

How had she never noticed the otherworldly light in Sigrun's eyes? Fihvyx refused to guess; had it been the mishandled resurrection or her proximity to spirit that kept her rival eternally young? Either way, this woman should have already fallen in battle. Either way, if Fihvyx kept meeting those eyes, she might forget Oliver. Would anyone ever feel like that about Fihvyx?

"I'm sorry, Sigrun, I've…" Sigrun's sky-blue eyes gazed upon Fihvyx like the High King in the heavens. And like so many—unable to defend her actions— Fihvyx found herself needing to hide. "I've made a mistake."


"Please, Fihvyx, do not leave on my account." Sigrun took Fihvyx by the wrist. "You have traveled and waited an unthinkable distance, too far to turn away now."

"But…" She gazed between her eyes. No need to explain: what Sigrun didn't see she would feel. "I do dearly wish to see him."

Sigrun stood aside. The table had three steaming mugs, absent handles, and two seats.

Sigrun took one mug and offered the seat to Fihvyx.

The drink smelled of carrot and the slightest hint of ginger.

When Fihvyx looked up Sigrun had disappeared and out walked Oliver, in matching blue velvet.

The white-bearded gentleman she came to rescue moved with more vigor than he had in his boyhood.

Sigrun had left nothing to be desired. She whispered into her cup, "I erred. Made a mistake. Came all this way for nothing."

Oliver's soft, wrinkled hand laid across her knuckles. "To come so far, the reason had to be more than what stands in your path."

The knot in her throat prevented her answer as the tears blotted her vision.

Oliver sat on the farthest stool. "You've been planning this for a long time."

Fihvyx nodded, and tried to swallow.

"So young, and so beautiful. Surely you've many who wish to ah, see you?—in that light."

She just looked at herself in the reflection of her drink. She had thought herself comely, until seeing herself against Sigrun.

"I'm here, and we're not letting you leave without what you came for." He took a drink. "No need for your voice. Just be here."

Her mind swam. Surely he didn't mean… it must have been some kind of clerical thing. He was talking of closure. Some damn wizard thing.

Among the hinn, crying came easily, washing out the wounds of life. But, try as she might, Fihvyx couldn't fathom this storm, couldn't recognize this pathetic, sobbing version of herself.

When the tears ended, they finished the carrot-cake-smelling mugs of warmth and love in silence as the iron stove crackled beside them.

#

The fire died down a bit and Sigrun brought a blanket and led her to a room.

Fihvyx wrapped herself into it and it infused her with warmth—a feeling strangely unfamiliar to her.

She looked into Sigrun's kind eyes.

"I'm sorry. I waited as long as I dared. Thought you would be done."

Sigrun adjusted the blanket, sending the warmth deeper into the chill in Fihvyx' bones, before turning.

Of course Oliver had enchanted blankets. So much better than the little rocks he had made for the homeless boys, the lumps of summer.

Such a beautiful man. She despaired of ever meeting another like him, anyone, man or woman. And yet Oliver had found one, and she refused to pass. Why did someone so lifeless—a human aging slower than any Hinn—need a man at all? With her fiery crown to keep her warm and her host of angels to guide her through the nights?

One night. She hesitated at what she would give, hoped she would not sell her soul, but would eagerly wager her life.

The weight of that thought bore down on Fihvyx, crushing her under the blanket as she crawled onto the mattress of silk and down.

As the moonlight crept across the floor, Fihvyx spoke to it, in her mother's words:

"Too much time among humans, always... always impatient, always straining to push the seasons."

In the middle of the night it came to her.

Plum scented brimstone and bruisy-black clouds of incense invaded the guest room.

The mark of Sigrun's guardian 'devil,' Vivianca, the hostile guardian spirit that tempted Sigrun and everyone near her.

The words of the banishing came to mind and as easily dropped to the floor. "How can I help you bedevil your nemesis."

"Protege. I would be the nemesis." Vivianca strutted in out of the shadows, as if the door were an inscribed portal.

"As much as I envy her, I bear her no ill will."


"Tonight Sigrun is not my concern. Your quest, however…"

"Please, turn from me."

"I will not be happy and I will not be turned." She raised a scroll. "You will receive your message."

Containment of Vivianca would be worse than useless—a bottled devil would not be imprisoned, only held at the ready. Fihvyx wondered if she had the power to forcefully banish the spirit before her. "Then help me. Give me time. Maturity. Something I can offer."

Vivianca suppressed a laugh. "I have a solution, but first you must promise never to abuse it."

A queer request from a dark angel. "Do you not wish me to do evil?" Fihvyx sat up straight in bed.

"We celebrate when you do regrettable things, but no. And the point is that you understand your decision is your own doing."

"I remind myself that every time I study a spell."

Vivianca bowed her head, the purple black horn dripping something. "Accepted. The following liquid spell will get you past the one who would say no to you. This illusion will get you in the door—what you do once there…" Vivianca shrugged, and proffered the scroll.

The bottle opened physically but not mentally. How Fihvyx detested that the magic had come literally in solution, a bottle of energy and not a text. The energies had been gathered and cloaked in darkness, already.

As she tried to identify its exact nature, her head swam.

A note on the ribbon, "This will create the seeming of appropriateness such that no one will say you are doing something wrong. Unless you yourself do so."

Surely the old devil would not enchant a bottle of wine, and pass it off; that would not satisfy the promise. Vivianca operated unfairly, but by rules. It had to mask her face. She put it aside and returned to sleep.

An older Fihvyx appeared before her.

"You had the moment. Why did you not take it?"

She conjured the spirits of clarity.

The dream twin of Fihvyx showed itself to be Vivianca and faded into the night with a laugh.

Shaking off the sleep, Fihvyx took the drink—a summery philtre, with hints of elderberry and cinnamon—and called forth the bound magic, directing the power to her face.

At last she wore the face that owned Oliver's heart—of Sigrun, she supposed. If only she had Sigrun's beauty as well. Illusions only went skin deep.

Tears—of relief and disappointment in herself— dripped free.

Fearing she might break the spell, she did not draw her mirror but hurried over to Oliver's study.

On a velvet bench, half the size of the bed he had left for her, lay Oliver. A spellbook lay open.

She closed it. 'Echoes and Mirrors,' said the title.

A valuable book. Many things could be copied if one had the power to fuel the proper spell. "If only I'd the magic to duplicate you." She touched his face, and his chest.

He looked up and smiled at her, said something with the sound of a name.

Had he said Sigrun? "Yes, my dear. That terrible woman who wanted to take you from me is in the other room."

He sat up and stretched.

She touched his cheek, the same one she had marked with a painted kiss over an unseen rune so many years ago. Back then, the unspoiled little girl she was wanted only to protect this sweet boy. If only that little girl would come back.

Even under the beard, his rune of benevolence had faded. But for a magical cleaning, it should have outlasted the sky. Surely he had had to purge himself of magic? She bent down to kiss him there.

He rose to meet her, palms facing upward. "My love, that woman will never have any claim on me again."

She sat there, pulling at his robe. "You don't know how many times I have wanted to do this."

"My love, so long as I live, you need never wait again."

"Thank you, but please, don't promise…" Surely, he could not deliver. As Fihvyx looked into those beautiful eyes, everything inside her screamed, 'take him.'

The dream-mirror girl was right. Fihvyx would always regret not doing this. And yet, a small, hollow voice spoke the words, "I can't."

Oliver touched her cheek. "But you can. I am yours."

"I cannot." She couldn't do that. Forget Sigrun. Someone always had to lose. But Fihvyx simply could not tear him in half that way. "I absolutely cannot."

In the back of Fihvyx' mind, Vivianca's distant voice coughed out terrible words.

A hand on Fihvyx' shoulder, a kindly touch.

Over her shoulder she saw Sigrun, tears walking down her cheeks, holding Fihvyx' bag, and one for Oliver. She bent down to kiss Oliver on the cheek. "Good bye." She looked at Fihvyx for a long count, and then nodded.

Human eyes were so intense, so hard to read. Not the previous, divine compassion; something more human. Yet, Fihvyx dared read love, and kindness, a wistful sadness.

Sigrun's hand shook as Fihvyx relieved her of the bags.

Sigrun turned and left.

Like a wayfarer fleeing a bandit. "This is my fault. I did this. I ensorceled you."

Oliver smiled, shook his head, and drew a mirror from the drawer. "This is not the spell that 'Merlin' cast on Igraine or Elaine. It was only a distraction." She looked into her own snowy-white face.

Vivianca's scroll had done nothing—no more than a stiff drink. But she had believed… "I thought to assault you in your bedchambers, like some witchcrafting blackguard."

He tilted his head, and nodded.

"You must hate me."

He took her hands, thumbs caressing her palms, and shook his head. "What did you think would happen?"


"I meant to entrap you, to have my one night and leave. Hoped to be blessed with your child."

"That will not be." His eyes reflected not the edge of judgment, but a gentle, dawning softness.

She ached for the punishment she had rightfully earned, for Sigrun's sake if not for his own.

"You didn't really try." With his finger, he raised her chin. "Fared better against Vivianca than Sigrun."

Better isn't good enough. She blinked back the tears, like some kind of wannabe human, and stared at the floor.

"Do you not see something missing?" He put her hand on his cheek, where the rune should have been.

She shook her head.

"It's not there because that wasn't me. That was Sigrun's husband. Not me."

The bile rose up in her throat. Why would he play her hope like this? "I'm not some drunken wench you can toy with."

"The way you would manipulate me?" He rose to pull her in for a hug. "I would never."

She ached to just hold him until Sigrun pulled her away. "I can't. I don't deserve this."

"You're not supposed to."

"How is this real?"

"How is anything real? We do magic every day. Part of my heart belongs to you, and we are privileged enough that it can be housed in its own body."

She sat down beside him, and laid her head on his shoulder. "I'm not good enough for you. I should have left without doing this."

"You remember the clay lump of summer I gave to Collen? What did he do to earn that?"

"That's different. He was alone in the cold."

Oliver looked at her with that over-the-glasses look that proclaimed, 'quod erat demonstratum.' What wilder men might express as, "Well, yeah."

And she realized that she had never chosen to let in the cold that had been stoking her inner fires.

He stroked her soft brown hair. "If it's easier, my love, return to bed. We don't have to do this now."

His knowing look crowded her. She looked into the distance. "I can't do this at all."

He guided her face toward his, pulling her uncomfortably close. "I exist only for you, you understand that?"

Had her spell done more than she thought? She wanted Oliver to herself, but what kind of woman would destroy something so beautiful? "I really can't face Sigrun again."

"I think you have to, if I am to survive."

She looked at him as if she had never seen him. Only for you, he had said. He could not have been literally split in half, like a fire spreading to a second torch? With magic, everything was possible, but—was this?

He watched her, as if refusing to answer her unspoken question.

"I don't care what tomfoolery Vivianca and you have pulled here." She sat beside him, laid her head on his shoulder. "Let me pretend that this is real, and… I'll do what is right in the morning."

He sighed and pulled her in, shoulder to shoulder. "As you wish, my love."


What magic begins, magic can stop. Since this would soon be over, she knew she needed to take advantage, but all she dared to ask was his presence.

#

The hours passed like a failed conjuring, sands from a broken glass.

"It is time to be off." Sigrun's voice conjured the elf from her reverie. "Fihvyx, dear woman. Please?"

Sigrun looked down upon Fihvyx, smile both warm and pained.

Fihvyx wondered if she could train her heart to smile upon those who had wronged her.

Beside her stood Oliver.

Fihvyx turned to the man on his bench.

Oliver.

Fihvyx' Oliver looked upon Sigrun with a longing that broke her heart.

Sigrun's Oliver looked upon Fihvyx with a sadness that could melt away cities.

Fihvyx stood up to Sigrun's Oliver, hands shaking, tears dripping. The rune still sat where she had placed it, where it would sit for all time. She kissed his cheek.

He kissed hers.

At last she knew her crime, how she had harmed the man she loved. Hurt, not harmed, and not by wrong doing, but by right. "Good-bye, my love." She took her Oliver's hand and her bag and led him from that place.

The snow started to fall behind them, washing away their trail.

As she looked back, she saw the white leaving Oliver's beard.

She turned and took his other hand, looked into his eyes.

The brown of his hair revealed a subtle point on his ears.

"That…" Those ears had been human. She found no illusion, no glimmer of transmutation. "That's not a spell."

His eyes glittered. "Do you like them?"

She shook her head. "I like Oliver. You."

She touched them, a smile slowly dawning as the centuries ahead filled with Oliver. She nodded, and hugged him tight. "You can wait for me."

He shrugged and pulled away, stepping down the way with a wink.

That fell like a chain she didn't know she carried until Oliver unlocked it. She watched him a few steps."But how?"

"Dragons do this all the time."

Changing shape, splitting at crossroads. But … he had been swallowed up. "Did she make you her son?"

He just laughed and gestured toward the road with his head.

Following along, she barely even noticed as the last bits of white flaked off his hair.