The Faerie Curses

Chapter Thirty-Two: The Woodland Spirit

The woodland spirit took a step closer, a fading, flickering figure of soft gray. His steps were soundless on the snow, his boots leaving no footprints. He was in the clearing now. With his presence brought a shuddering chill that seeped through my clothes and tingled my bare skin.

This is who the dwarves were afraid of. This is why they ran.

When I lived on the outskirts of the Grimwood, I would hear the woodland spirits moaning and howling at the Midnight Hour. Their nails would scratch against my windows, their silhouettes floating past my small house. I never left my home when they would come out; the legends were too terrifying even for me. They were the lost ones, as my parents called them, dead souls whose spirits were trapped inside the boundaries of the forest until they found their peace. Some woodland spirits never did. Many wander the Grimwood for eternity, seeking things that will never be restored to them.

I blinked at the woodland spirit, studying him. All color had faded from his body, leaving only a translucent mirage. He wore dark traveling robes and a cloak that rose and fell in the chilling wind. His dark hair was nearly down to his shoulders, rivulets that swirled around his head with minds of their own. I tried not to gasp as my eyes fell onto his chest. A gaping wound was there, a silvery mark that only a knife could have caused. Despite his young face, his eyes were hollow and desolate. My heart wrenched as it saw the agony behind those haunting, dark eyes. There was so much sorrow, so much despair that it seemed to slam into me like a canon blast. Tears gathered in my eyes as I sensed his grief clawing out of him.

But he didn't howl. He didn't attack. He just stood there, a lonely phantom in the night.

Diandre stared at the woodland spirit from his stance on the ground, my ice sword still grasped in his hands. It continued to pulse
its magnificent red color, but I could tell that my blade was slowly fading back to its usual blue. Meanwhile, Glen and I were suspended in the air, our wings quietly buzzing to keep us hovering above the ground. None of us knew what to do.

The woodland spirit didn't react to seeing Diandre. He didn't even seem to notice that he was even there. Instead, he tilted his head upwards, his gaze locking on Glen. Then, the Summer Scepter held in his firm grip. The moment the woodland spirit saw the object of power, his entire face shattered into an expression of complete astonishment. His faded eyes seemed to spring to life, a passionate fire igniting behind them.

I had seen that look of passion once before, I was positive. I had seen this spirit once before. My memory struggled to conjure who he was. I knew him. I somehow knew this desolate ghost.

Who was he?

Then, the woodland spirit spoke. His voice was soft, quiet, but there was no mistaking his words.

"You've freed her."

I started in midair, his words hitting me like a punch to the gut. A lock of the ghost's hair lifted, showcasing pointed, elven ears.

"Dragons above," I whispered. "You're...you're..." Finally, I settled on his name. "...Andrion."

This ghost, this lone spirit walker, was The Protector Oona's lover.

The woodland spirit's gaze settled on me for the first time.

"Yes," he breathed. For a moment, his perfect features seemed to radiate with incredible hope that made my soul shatter.

"It's him," Glen realized, his green eyes glowing with recognition. "The elf that Oona fell in love with."

On the ground, Diandre's hands dropped my ice sword. It fell silently into the snow.