~ in the swamp ~
The swamp lay under a thick mist, despite the heavy hand of the early summer sun. The figure settled in the crook of the long dead oak watched the teeming life about with a critical eye, wary for any danger.
How long had he lived here? It had been a while, though he'd lost track of the days winters ago. It hadn't been easy at first. But now, he knew the old magics and the creatures resulting from them. He smirked as the fairy now and again set up camps on the outskirts and were both drawn in and pushed out by the more wild magics which hid deeper within.
A haniman hung from his fingertips in two pieces like a split lobster, sectioned legs long ago stilled in death. He’d split it open over his knee and was spooning out the only good portion of its flesh with his fingers. A strange, gooey paste that tasted amazingly sweet, it was much like honey and as fruit didn’t grow in the swamp, he’d come to take what he could get. Everything else in the swamp tasted like bog water no matter how you cooked it. The haniman wasn't a pretty creature. But beggars couldn't be choosers.
Having heard the disturbance, cries or strangled screams cut off too soon, he’d glanced around to ensure he was safe then tossed the haniman to the side as he leapt catlike from the tree to investigate.
The man was too close to death for an intervention. There was nothing Garrum could do. He watched for a moment from his vantage behind a bush then his cornflower blue gaze flicked to a small movement across the small peat clearing from himself.
There - to the side of the gruesome fairy and man tableau stood a girl, flush against the back of a tree. She was doing a very good job of hiding. He’d not seen her until she'd startled when the fae had spoken. As there was no breeze, it was likely that the fairy hadn’t scented her either.
He grinned. Teeth flashed impossibly white against his tan skin. Smart. Very smart. She hadn’t tried to save the man either. So many people entered the swamp and tried to be heroes or victims - fighting or running. She’d obviously known better.
The man made a horrible wrenching scream that tapered off into a gurgle. Not dead yet.
Garrum sighed. It was going to be a long day. Things like this only complicated his life. The death of a human in the swamp was like throwing a bloody scarf to a pack of starving wolves.
He slipped soundlessly around the clearing until he was in direct sight of her but had the tree placed between he and the fairy. He popped his head up out of the bush and made a quick motion to get her attention then placed his hands out and indicated she remain still, stay there. Then he slid back out of sight.
The silence throughout the entire transaction lay heavily punctuated by feeble thrashings and moans as well as the soft, sibilance of the fairy’s intent work upon the doomed man.
A sudden guttural cry cut the stillness from the other side of the clearing. It was a sharp, inhuman sound. As it died off into a thick deep grunt, the fairy hissed in frustration.
He watched as she scented the air, realized she’d not be able to scent danger before it was upon her, then plainly decided to take the safer course. She darted off, leaving the dying man in a discarded pile at the side of the clearing.
Garrum crossed the field, past the dying man, and reappeared by the girl. He sighed, his expression grim. "It’s gone. There are bigger predators than it around here. Some of them come to scavenge the bones. No one wants to stay near when they show up." He didn't smile. "It is handy, knowing how to reproduce the cries."
He was an anomaly, this man from the swamp. His body was slender, formed perfectly down to the joints, slim and muscular. Hair, such a pale gold as to seem almost white in the dim light, floated light and soft about his face, dancing on light currents of air, too small to be considered a breeze. The face also was fine, a lordling’s face, with straight nose, strong jaw, and full lips. His gaze fit the rest of the semblance of sun, vibrant in against the rest of his entire self until at times, his eyes alone seemed to be all that he was. Their focus was on the girl right then.
But it wasn’t his looks that created the greatest disconnect with the swampland around - though they would have garnered enough attention anywhere, being exceedingly fine and beautiful - but the fact that his shirt was pure white. Sleeves tucked up around his elbows and tails tucked into finely spun flannel pants, stained at the cuffs with muck, he might have stepped out of a palace riding lesson to take a stroll before tea around his back yard swamp.
He looked from her to the dying man. "We should get out of here," he took her upper arm in a gentle yet iron fast grip. "She’ll be back very soon." His glance to the man was pitying. "There’s nothing we can do for him but join him now."
~ with the Roma ~
Jon watched the gypsy caravan come up upon them. He held the head of his plough horse with a tension playing all over his aging body. An older man in the Roma caravan, at the head of it, gave him a nod which he did not return. Then they were gone and only a girl on a horse was left, passing by - the last of a painful reminder of the turning of the seasons and his loss.
She wasn’t Roma. She didn’t have the same dirty brown skin of the boy in her lap. Instead, her skin was more fair, more sun touched. Her eyes retained some civilization in them while her form was more fine, hair less coarse. She was then, some cross between a Roma and someone else. He hadn’t thought of how that would look, actually. Not that she was the first person he’d seen who wasn’t fully Roma.
As he watched her pass him by, he clung to his horse and felt grief well up within. With a curse, he spit on the ground and turned, shoulders hunched against the pain of their coming once again and the reminder of a too remembered burial mound. He would not be a face seen at the gathering. No - he would remain in his house, wrapped in her blanket, imagining he could catch a faint scent of lavender left over and watching the sun’s rays touch his rooms with red and gold.
At the sound of the bells, and at the next house, Jon could see young Harper come out to lean on his fenceline in hopes of getting a greeting as well. Harper, just turned seventeen, would be there, watching the dancing. His face had the brightness of the innocent, unaware of how his life could turn on a dime from joy into despair. The young man climbed up onto the fence line and waved the gypsies in.
Harper glowed red as the pretty girl rode by on her horse. His grin was shy as he gave a gruff "’Lo" and winked at the boy.
"You guys come from the north?" he asked suddenly, hopped off the fence and trailed alongside her horse as she followed the caravan. It was dusty and he waved his hat before his face in a futile attempt to keep the dust out of his eyes.
"I mean.." he blushed, "just askin’. It’s been a while. I was sixteen last time you all came through. I always get a birthday just before you guys show up every year. But I’ll bet it’s not always you guys, huh? 'Cause I don't always recognize people."
He was babbling but she seemed friendly enough and his parents had always gone to great pains to be kind to the Roma that came through. His mother had said that they needed to have room for all kinds of people, just like they had room for everything else.
"There’s the birds what stay, Harper. Juncoes an’ finches and chickadees. They make it good ta be here all year round. But them song birds, they float in an’ out. The best of ‘em is the ones that are here only stoppin’ over before they go south more. They’re the real pretty singers. All colors an’ song. That’s how we gonna look at them Roma. They’re like th’ song birds."
He’d found a particularly pretty song bird now and like his mother and her birds, he was drawn to her like a moth to a flame.