The Glōm

He stood at the edge of the forest, near the edge of Barrow. His dark eyes and curly dark hair gave his ageless face a cherubic sweetness. As he leaned against a tree, a woman crossed his path. A fairy in white silk with glimmering pink wings and large doe-like eyes. She sat on a stump nearby at twilight, weeping into a bouquet of flowers.

“Why do you cry?” The man asked, holding his handkerchief out to the fairy woman.

My fiance is dead. We were supposed to marry today. But, there was an accident.” She wept, blowing her button nose into the handkerchief he offered.

“Poor heart in pain,” He frowned, “I can take it away if you like.”

“Take what away?”

“The pain,” He offered, holding out his hand to her this time, “All you have to do is follow me into the wood.”

“Into the wood,” She replied, nodding, taking his head, “I don’t want to hurt anymore.”

“I know, pet.” He smiled, wiping her eyes with his sleeve, “Come on, it won’t be long now. I have a friend you need to meet.”

The bride followed him deep into the wood and was never seen again.

***

Sylli was unconscious and blessed to be alive as she lay at Berol's feet. Reconnected to the magic of Lolandil, he was sure she would recover quickly. Removing his shoes, Berol stepped onto the soil of his homeland, the innate warmth of the ground he had not felt in almost two decades.

Taking a moment, attempting to get their bearings, the shadows around them warped and throbbed in an unnatural rhythm. Berol would feel better once they were back in the light. Carrying Sylli through the woods, she was light as a feather. Bristling, he would feel better once they returned to the light.

The sign at the top of the road said, “Barrow,” and Berol did not wish to call any more of this place to memory than necessary. But, of course, the teleportation magic would have led them somewhere familiar. This was the village he was born in. The town he had once thought he would die in.

A lantern hung, still lit, in the window of the Wayward Rest, the village inn. Berol elbowed the door open, only pausing to gain the attention of a male faerie who swept the inn as two or three patrons sat at the bar. Approaching the male faerie was unfamiliar to him.

“A bed, a doctor, and some information.” Berol gruffed, “If you don’t mind.” He added, remembering civility.

Calling over an elf from the bar, the male faerie sent her to fetch a healer. Directing Berol to a side room, Berol lay Sylli upon one of the long tables. Rechecking her pulse, relieved, she was only seeping. Her coloring looked better; back in Lolandil, a shimmer came to her wings and radiance to her skin.

Folk like her did not belong in Thyrame; the girl he met had been a pale imitation of this one.

“Many faeries are arriving in Lolandil depleted; she’s lucky it did not use the last of her magic.” The healer stated, closing his examination bag.

“What would have happened?”

“She would have severed her connection to Lolandil.” The healer shook his head, “I’ve seen it. So many are desperate to flee Thyrame.”

“No connection to Lolandil, no magic.” Berol frowned, nodding his head, “We were foolish,”

“Indeed, but no permanent damage done. Sylli will be fine once she rests properly and gets a couple of meals.”

Thanking the healer, Berol arranged for Sylli to have a room at the inn before getting himself something to eat and drink. Mulling over their foolishness, he noted it beside his teleportation spell. Then, speaking to some other patrons, he heard a rumor of something sinister haunting the nearby woods. A woman in white.

***

Berol hated waiting, and the rumor bore checking out. Berol wandered the familiar village streets in the morning fog, looking for his childhood home. Finding it at the end of the lane, he did not stop to inquire. Having abandoned the house, he doubted he knew the person who occupied it now.

Instead, Berol headed around back, picking up a gardening shovel. Counting the stones in the wall, he found the place. Using the trowel to pry one of the stones away, he easily unstacked the others. Behind the rocks was a rusty-looking strongbox.

Prying the dust-crusted case open, inside were a few uninteresting things. There were a couple of copper coins, various standard components, and other meaningless trinkets. But everything made sense to Berol. Dumping the contents and rifling around them, he found a tiny key.

Slotting the key into a little hole, he popped open a secret hatch. Shaking it gently, dislodging the contents, he found a waxed piece of parchment held in a roll by a silver band. Placing the ring on his left finger, he pulled out his spellbook. Carefully unrolling the waxed page, he put its torn edge beside the torn edge in his spellbook.

Berol had never wanted to return to this place, to remember. But how could he forget her? Her sun-kissed freckled skin and fawn-colored eyes. Her hair had been wheat-colored with just the faintest hint of strawberry in the sunlight. Her death drove him out of Lolandil.

He took up his spellbook, following the torn page, a map to the place of Cyrene’s eternal rest. A spirit haunted this town, a woman in white. He hoped against hope that her soul had moved on. That it was not her soul wandering this place.

Berol had not buried her in the town cemetery. Instead, he buried her near the weeping willow where they first met beneath the tree’s sagging boughs. Thoughts of her restless soul wandering this place alone, in eternal twilight, grieved him.

Walking into the forest, Berol ignored the flickering lights as he passed them; he had no business with wisps. But, like pixies, they often caused more trouble than they were worth. Finally, approaching the willow, he saw it was bare. Its boughs were broken, hanging in jagged shards. The ground beneath it was dead with rot.

“What has happened here, Cyrene?” He questioned, kneeling on the ground and placing his hand upon the weathered stone which served as her grave marker.

The question was rhetorical Berol had not expected an answer. Taking out his spellbook, he flipped through his notes, trying to find solutions that were not there. Though he had encountered many odd happenings in his long life, he had never seen such a localized amount of festering magic.

Rifling through his component pouch, Berol produced a stick of incense. Lighting it, he muttered a prayer to the elven gods, asking them for guidance, but he knew they would not answer. The voices of the elven gods belonged to the old world.

Closing his eyes, he knelt, calling upon the magic of Lolandil for answers. He did not know how long he sat there, meditating on the charm. But, when he opened his eyes, she stood before him. The woman in white, her pale hand extended to grasp him, but he quickly dodged.

The magic had given him a name, a sense of what this spirit wanted. She was not his beloved, for he was grateful, but she wanted to love. A faerie in a past life, scorned by the man she loved, she wandered the woods looking for something precious to her.

“What is it that holds you here, spirit?” Berol questioned.

Giving no reply, tears flowed from her dead-white eyes, and her longer jaw hung limply from its socket. Her pale skin was dappled with tinges of green and gray sagged at the edges. Frayed spectral black wings turned frayed behind her back. The whole of her was spectral and slightly luminescent.

He had little experience with spirits, and the usual remedies were limited by his elven nature. Iron was the last resort, aggravating his allergy and burning him. Silver was the next best option.

Reaching into his component pouch, he coated his fingers in two preparations. One was powdered silver, and the other was fire powder.

“What is it you want?” He asked the spirit again. This time she lifted a crooked emaciated hand and pointed at him, prompting his next question, “What do you want with me?”

She pointed at him again, this time to his hand covered in silver and fire powder. His brow furrowed, irritated at his own misunderstanding. There was something the spirit wanted with his left hand. Then, she grasped his wrist. The world dissolved around him, and he fell. Shuddering at her cold, damp touch, he looked around.

Standing before the altar of a small moldering chapel covered in moss and mud. The scent of vegetative decay is heavy in the humid air. The apparitions of a wedding party sit in the destroyed pews. A lilting and melodic song floats upon the ambiance, a bridal march.

A spectral woman walks down the muddy aisle, no longer the emaciated spirit of before. Instead, her eyes glitter, and her wings sparkle a pale pink. Her dress is no longer in tatters. Swallowing heavily, Berol reminds himself that she is not alive; she is not real.

Coming to stand beside him, she looks deep into his eyes. Then, reaching out, she touches his cheek. Expecting the cold, wet touch of before, he is pleasantly surprised to find it warm and corporal. Almond-colored doe-eyes. Long strawberry-blond hair. He knows every one of her freckles, his Cyrene.

His breath catches in his throat as he looks upon her radiant face, his long-lost bride standing before him. Then, reaching out with trembling fingers, he closed his eyes, stopping himself. But, of course, none of this was real, and the spirit was attempting to trick him.

It took all of his willpower not to open his eyes again, but then her face invaded his thoughts, inviting him to lose himself in the memory. A memory he reminded himself was not his own. He and Cyrene married in secret; her father disapproved of a half-elf. Cyrene had not been a faerie either.

He had to adhere to different facts, even as the spirit attempted to rectify them. Opening his eyes, he reached out with his left hand coated in fire powder and silver. Muttering the spell beneath his breath, the flames leaped toward her.

The spirit hissed and moved away from him; the illusion shattered. He was back beside the broken willow beneath which Cyrene lay. Feeling pain in his left hand, he was reminded why he did not wear jewelry. The silver ring had become too hot, almost melding with his skin.

Tearing the ring from his hand and dropping it in the dirt, he sucked on his finger to try and draw out the heat. But, the sound of the ring hitting the soil drew the spirit to him again. But, this time, she did not try and delude him. Instead, she grabbed the ring and held it in her spectral hand.

Her tears flowed freely as she touched the silver band, holding it out to him, clutching her other hand to her heart.

“Keep it,” Berol frowned, looking at his finger; at least it had not permanently fused to his skin.

The spirit shook her head, dropping the ring back on the ground and touching her chest; she attempted to tell him what she needed. Unsure if this spirit could be trusted, Berol followed his gut.

“No more visions about Cyrene,” He scowled, “Show me what you need.”

The spirit stared at him for a moment. Berol wondered if she could think or if she was a compilation of memory. Then, reaching out, she touched him again, showing him the town cemetery. Two headstones, one with a man’s name and another with a woman’s. The woman’s grave was empty.

“You were murdered.” Then, he concluded, “Where are you buried? I assume you want me to bring you there.”

The spirit shrugged her emaciated shoulders, shaking her head. Berol frowned, “Great,” he mumbled, “A spirit who had no idea where she is buried is terrorizing the town, trying to find someone to bury her next to her beloved.”

She shook her head fervently, the tears stopping for a moment as he reached the correct conclusion. He wondered if she recalled anything from her death that might help, but it was useless unless she could tell him. Rubbing his eyes, he rummaged through his pack for some spare paper.

Writing down the details, he needed to go into town and ask about the headstone. Before picking up his pack, he took the silver ring from the spirit and placed it upon the stacked stones of Cyrene’s grave marker as a sign of their agreement. Then, heading back to town, plodding through the muck, he stopped at the cemetery.

Rubbing the woman’s grave with a piece of charcoal, he headed back to the Wayward Rest. He did not expect Sylli to remain, not after almost killing her. But, she sat at the bar, conversing with a male elf that looked vaguely familiar to him. But, Berol could not quite place where. He had dark eyes, curly black hair, and a round, cherubic face, unlike any other elf he had ever seen. Maybe he, too, was part human.

Berol had decided to let Sylli be when she waved him over, so Berol complied. Standing beside Sylli and the elf, he waited for an introduction, wiping his hands on his pants. They were still covered in charcoal dust.

“Berol, this is Landon, an elf fresh from Thyrame too.” She smiled, “Landon, this is Berol Strake, the hero of Dayne.”

“Good to meet you,” Berol smiled, holding out his hand, “You seem familiar. Do you frequent the night market?”

“Not at all,” Landon sneered, “Not at all.” He ignored Berol’s hand and kept his attention on Sylli.

“I suppose I meet a lot of people in my travels.” Berol brushed it off, turning his attention to Sylli, “I didn’t think you would want anything to do with me.”

Sylli chuckled, flickering her wings, “No, I have no regrets. Where have you been?”

“Some patrons explained a situation to me; I was investigating.”

“Always the hero?” Landon grinned, “Would it happen to be the woman in white?”

“Yes, she’s a faerie named Mayloria who passed away long ago. Her headstone is in the city graveyard, but her body does not rest there. So she needs someone to find her body and rest her near her loved one.”

“Does anyone know what happened to her?” Sylli questioned, looking at Landon.

“I’m sorry, I’ve been traveling for years.” Landon shrugged, “Maybe there is a historian at city hall?”

“I suppose that is as good a place as any to begin.”

“May I join you? You’ve piqued my curiosity.” Landon smiled again, looking at Sylli; his eyes darted to her wings.

There’s no harm in it. Are you joining us as well, Sylli? Berol wanted to keep a close eye on Landon. Something about him and the situation did not sit right with him.

“Yes, I have nothing better to do. As I explained to Landon before you arrived, I have no friends or family here in Lolandil. My mother moved to Thyrame while still pregnant with me.”

***

They traveled to the town hall, a willowy elder with long silver hair and subtle green eyes. She pulled a tome from a shelf and handed it to Berol. A record of lives and deaths within the city. Scanning the pages, Berol did find the name Mayloria, her birth, among the documents, but he found no mention of her death.

“What if this is a dead end?” He frowned, “I promised the spirit I would lay her to rest.”

“Is that the only way to appease the spirit?” Landon questioned, cocking his head.

“I suppose not, but I am a man of my word; if there is no way to help this spirit, I may have done more harm than good. I do not know much about spirits, but I know not to make one angry.”

Sylli scanned the books on the shelf, using her wings to boost her up to the higher annuals. Unfortunately, they were not arranged in any way that made sense to Sylli. Shaking her head, she reached out to touch one of them.

“What do you think you are doing?”

“Getting down a book?” Sylli frowned, “Did I do something wrong?”

“I am the only one allowed behind this desk.” The elf stated, shooing Sylli back to the other side.

“Alright, is there some sort of courier report? We are specifically looking for anything regarding a faerie named Mayloria. The lost bride?” Berol fished.

The historian looked at him as if she had swallowed something foul, thinking, “No one has asked about that poor girl in a very long time.”

“It is important; tell us everything we know; her spirit is walking Lolandil, luring people into the forest,” Sylli stated, looking at Berol and Landon for support.

“Well,” The historian leaned in, lowering her voice to a whisper, “It is said that the poor bride was sacrificed to the Glōm.”

“What is a Glōm?” Berol questioned.

“I cannot tell you,” The historian shrugs, “No one talks about it. Instead, it became a local legend and explanation for anyone who goes missing. Contradictions on who or whatever the Glōm is, it is but a servant to a dark master.”

Berol nodded, “Thank you for your time,” Berol nodded, leaving Landon and Sylli standing at the desk with more questions than answers.

Sylli followed Berol after a moment, leaving Landon to catch up.

Mouthing, “Thank you,” Landon gave the elf a wink. She cowered as she watched them leave. Clutching her head to her heart, she never thought she would see the servant in person. The servant of the Glōm, the little fairy, was doomed.

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