Born Of Nothing

1 I stood perfectly still in the vacuum of sound that was the Shadow Lands of Faery. My senses were trained intently on the thicket of shrubs some distance ahead. I heard what made no sound, saw what could not be seen, and hunted what was not there. That was the only way to survive in those desolate lands where nothing came easy. After spending centuries in that ungodly wasteland, survival techniques were one of the few things I had in abundance. The other was time. For nearly a millennium, I had called those grassy plains my home. At first look, a newcomer might have believed the land to be barren. Those of us who were unfortunate residents of the Shadow Lands knew it was teeming with life—look hard enough, and you could find every twisted, vile creature imaginable. Granted, not every soul in that dark place sought to destroy. On occasion, I came across a wayward creature equally as out of place as I. In the early years, I would use those rare instances to indulge in the illusion of companionship. Like a snake emerging from its outgrown skin, I shed the weakness that was my need for intimacy and personal connection. I found strength in solitude. The few natives with whom I could converse were individuals I preferred not to encounter. Trading wares with the Shadow Fae was a necessary evil, and one of the only reasons I managed to survive as long as I had. That was what I had done—survive. For some that might not be enough, but for me, there was gratification in survival. It was a fete few could boast. I had no doubt that had any of the people I had known in my prior life been in my place, they would have lost the fight long ago. A life without sun—days in the Shadow Lands were what a moonlit night would have been back home. Nights were shrouded in an inky darkness that hid every type of evil in its velvet curtains. The silence alone was enough to drive any man mad, but together with the darkness and solitude, it had been a miracle I had not devolved into a complete savage. Although, I had my moments through the years. The challenges I faced had molded me into the man I was—every brush with death was a sculptor’s tool, trimming and refining until I myself became a deadly part of the land. When I first arrived, it took me weeks to achieve my first kill, even though I had been an accomplished hunter back home. Despite the seemingly impossible nature of the task, I never gave up. Hunger was a constant motivator to master each skill—the construction of my weaponry, the stealth of my attack, the precision of my aim. Foraging had hardly sustained me, and when I finally witnessed the shaft of my arrow pierce flesh, I experienced a euphoric elation unlike any I had known. Nearly feral with hunger, I dove upon the creature. There would be no roasted meat or stewed bones until after I had quenched my hunger—a naïve mistake only one new to starvation would make. I had hardly made a dent in the small carcass before my distended belly rejected the lumps of raw flesh. Yet another lesson filed away in what would eventually become an extensive archive. The wealth of knowledge I had gathered over the years had honed my instincts until I was a force to be feared in my own right. It was those acquired skills and knowledge that had led me to a thicket of dense shrubs in the hunt of a small wollyhog soundlessly hidden in its depths. I inhaled an inaudible breath as I raised my bow and took aim. Just the slightest wisp of sound was enough to seal the creature’s fate. I released the taut bow and was rewarded with a death squeal from my prey. My aim had been true, and the arrow a direct hit through its heart. It had been an ideal kill, large enough to feed me for the better part of a week, but not too large to carry. Butchering a kill away from home where I was unprotected was not an option. I lowered my pack to the ground and laid out a leather skin in which to roll the carcass and transport back to my camp. Blood dripped from the animal’s rounded snout, and I took care to avoid the sharp spines protruding from its course grey fur. The creature was not large, but well-armed with spines and tusks to defend itself when needed. I secured it in the leather and strapped it to my pack. As I had turned for home, the skin on the soft underside of my forearm began to tingle and burn. A warning—my protection runes back at camp had been triggered. Someone, or something, had encroached upon my home. One of my first missions when I arrived in the Shadow Lands, aside from mastering my ability to acquire food, had been to seek out methods to protect myself and my home. I traveled far and wide, encountering a vast diversity of beings, and assembled an arsenal of spells. With the knowledge I had gathered, I created a home for myself—a shack that may have been unseemly to the eye but was sturdy and well protected. I had outlined the perimeter of my camp with a magical warding spell that alerted me to the presence of outsiders. Within that line, a secondary spell repelled any creature who would do me harm. That had been a black magic spell acquired at a great price. It had not been an easy choice, but I decided the risk of losing my soul to the dark blood magic was worth the protection the magic provided. I was lucky the risk had paid off. With blood magic, there was no telling how many times you could call upon the dark power before you became bound to the need for blood. Upon the activation of my spell, I hurried soundlessly back toward my home on the other side of a cluster of small trees. While I wanted to see what had approached, I had no desire for it to see me. The Shadow Fae were primarily nocturnal, so the daytime alarm was an unusual event, and I had no idea what I might be facing. Reaching a small cluster of trees not far from my home, I paused to scan the area for intruders. My muscles coiled at the ready in preparation for either fight or retreat. “Fenodree?” came a familiar voice. “It’s me, Rebecca. I’m here to get you out of Faery.”