17 Mortals and Legends

Mingan found Elloreah in the hall just outside her room. He was attuned to her, despite his desire to be anything but. He'd felt her stirring and thought it best to cut her off before she could wander about the old ranch house. If she got into trouble in the old kelpie's home, he'd have to answer for it.

"Feeling better?" he asked.

She nodded and shifted anxiously.

"I assume your feet are healed well enough."

"Oh, yes. I suppose," she muttered, stumbling as he guided her almost roughly into her room.

He leaned down to speak into her ear. "You can drop the act. I know what you're doing."

"Act?" she asked. "I assure you, sir, I am doing nothing—"

He grinned. "Oh?" he added with only a vague hint of menace as he pulled the door closed behind him. "So you are not attempting to manipulate me?"

She shook her arm out of his grasp, turning away from him. "I do not mean to," she said, hoarsely. "Though I cannot help but wish that you would not loathe me."

He chuckled. "Loathe you? Resent, perhaps, but nothing as strong as that."

"Resent, then," she said softly, settling down on the bed.

He crossed his arms over his chest, studying her. "You're stuck with me until I deliver you to the Tutelar. I will be considerably less irritable if you do not go about hoping for a pat on the head like some pitiable little dog."

She searched his eyes as he spoke. He resisted the urge to look away, put off by the way she studied him.

"You are a lady, are you not?" he asked.

She nodded again, eyes averted, now, as if more shamed by being asked if she were a lady rather than being compared to a dog. He furrowed his brow at this, confused by this foreign girl.

"How is your side?" he asked, changing the subject.

"Well enough. Resting will help..."

"I'll take out the stitches in a day or so."

"What should I keep secret from the mortals?" She asked suddenly.

Mingan raised an eyebrow. It was a sensible thing to ask. She would need to know such things. "Sarah's one of us as much as a mortal can be." He explained. "The rest, well, keep all magics hidden and don't let on that you can heal quickly. Don't let on that you are immortal."

"It is as I thought, like our old legends," she said wonderingly.

"Legends?"

"They speak of a people who would both worship and fear our kind. Whose lives were short, like our livestock. There were those of our kind who saw them as little more than that, animals.

"They fed upon them, until finally there was rift so great among our kind that those of the Light sent the mortals away, out of the reach of those who would harm them."

Mingan took this story in, realizing, not for the first time, how little he actually knew of her world. "And where do the wild fae come into these legends?"

"Wild fae, such as kelpies and dryads?" she whispered, her reluctance to speak of such things clear in her tone.

"They are all just another type of Mythic as far as I'm concerned," Mingan replied. "But you do not think they are as benign as I do."

"They are dangerous. Not Light, not Dark. They upset the balance, and cannot be trusted," she caught herself. "And yet, I sense you trust John. Why?"

"Trust?" he mused. "He is one of my oldest friends. So yes, I do. But trust is not something I believe you can afford at the moment. You do not know any of us well enough for that," he warned.

She frowned. "I have little choice," she said softly, "but to trust those who will help me."

"If you wish to call it help, so be it. You should not trust me, nor the others of the Tutelar. In this world, you have no friends."

"You are cruel," she whispered.

"Honesty is not cruelty." He sighed. He was laying it on a bit thick. "Let me see how your stitches are healing and then you should join John and Sarah for dinner."

She glanced at him, then down at her loose fitting dress, a gift from Sarah. She flushed slightly before closing her eyes and hitching up the hem. There was that modesty again, he noted, wondering how the daughter of creatures who were known to dance naked through the woods could afford such modesty.

He knelt, examining his handiwork. It was a sloppy job, he noted, the stitches, hastily placed in the fading light that that first evening – yesterday, he reminded himself – would leave her with an unpleasant scar for some time. But it was no longer infected, and she was healing, though slowly.

"I can remove the stitches in a few more days. I'm not sure if it is the strain of your injuries or the fact that you are not native to this land, but your healing is not as quick as it might be." He pulled away, and she pushed down her clothing hastily, cheeks red. She refused to meet his eye, rubbing at her right arm nervously.

"You are not like other dryads I've known," he commented, rising slowly to cross his arms, watching her.

"I do not wish to be," she replied. "My very survival depended on it. I would have lost my birthright, father's lands..." she trailed off. It was a sad confession, and he knew, utterly hopeless. There was no chance of her return to her home, to this inheritance she spoke of. He only nodded.

"Come on, then. It's almost dinner time. I'll walk you there. You can walk, can't you?"

"I should be able to," she said, taking his offered hand. There was another spark of warmth between them at the touch, and she paused momentarily before rising gingerly. He tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow, a practiced gesture from his time among the gentry of mortals and Mythics alike. The cloth of his sleeve did little to mute the strength of the connection he felt with her. He grit his teeth against it, deciding, instead, to give her the small comfort of companionship she desired.

"You'll enjoy John's cooking," he said conversationally as they made a slow progression down the hall. "Considering that eating too many of the townsfolk didn't go over very well with the locals, he's become a rather impressive cook."

She glanced at him warily. "Surely you jest," she commented.

Mingan grinned and shrugged. "Only a little. John is a talented cook, and he doesn't eat the locals... anymore."

Her grip tightened slightly on his arm, the scent of her anxiety and fear, the nervous uptick of her pulse, coupled with the way she pulled at him with her abilities. "Elloreah," he admonished. "He is no more a monster than I am..."

She froze in place at that, loosening her grip on him as he continued forward. He turned to her, surprised by her stricken expression. "Do you eat people?" she demanded. "Do you kill for pleasure, feast on the fear and pain of those you hunt?" She shook her head. "No," she muttered to herself. "Don't tell me. I do not wish to know. I read you as one above such things, but perhaps— "

"Elloreah," he cut her off. "I meant nothing by it." He furrowed his brow, wondering, suddenly, how she'd gotten the upper hand. How she'd managed to catch him off guard — and did he dare admit it? – she'd even shamed him.

She shook her head sadly. "My people are not perfect. But we are not cruel, not like those of the dark and wild."

He snorted. "Well, Princess, this isn't your world now, is it?" He snapped, regretting having shown her the courtesy of compassion. "You'd best get used to things as they are, now as you and your gleaming, perfect people would have them be."

She met his eye briefly before glancing away. "Of course," she muttered. "I did not mean to insult—"

"Your host? My good friend?" He filled in, taking her by the arm, less kindly this time. "You've much to learn, girl. I suggest you take the time to listen before you judge those who will help you in this world. Because if I understand right, your own people, as saintly as they may be, don't exactly want you."