In the Land of Fae ♔ (gxg)

1. peasantry

Winters were always the most harsh.

Nonetheless, there was always something to be enjoyed during those long months. If the blizzards allowed it, ones who lived in the agrarian lands could journey to town to acquire little trinkets forged at the local blacksmith to give each other at Christmas. That was usually when the children would slip the little iron figures between the folds of their cloaks, for all the snow and smoke made it hard for the blacksmith to see the reflection of light off his metal being stolen away by the little demons called children.

But for those who could not afford the journey nor the thievery, winters were spent inside their cruck cottages on hillsides suffocated with snow that sometimes made it hard to even open their front doors. For those, enjoyments had to be found inside the home.

Nyx had always loved fire. She would sometimes beg her mother to light the fireplace even in the summer simply because she wanted to sit and watch the bright flames that burned the tip of her nose and made her eyes water. So in the winter months, when the fireplace was always burning, she would sit in front of it for hours at a time with a warm mug of cider gripped in her gloved hands, those bright brown eyes sometimes refraining from blinking for several minutes. She was encompassed by the flames, by the warmth they never failed to bring her.

Her mother would scold her for sitting too close, threatening that her golden blonde locks would catch an ash and burn into raven black. Her mother, Valerie, had always adored Nyx's hair, and even as Nyx grew into a young woman, she would still brush her hair every night. She always said that her golden hair reminded her of the sun and brought her more warmth than it or the fireplace ever did.

Nyx thought about these things as she sat with her legs crossed in front of the fireplace, sipping on her bittersweet apple cider that was already turning cold as her mother chopped up the last of their potatoes and carrots for a stew. They weren't sure where their next batch of potatoes would come from, since there was a horrible blizzard brewing and would surely leave them stuck in their home for weeks.

Her mother never seemed to fret, though. She had this invisible courage that Nyx had always envied, this impenetrable valor that was skeptic of fear itself. Nyx almost believed it was some sort of magic, because right when they had nothing to eat and nothing to drink, some potatoes and carrots would come along their way and give them another night's dinner one way or another.

Finally blinking her dry eyes, she turned them away from the fire, glancing over to her mother who stood at the table across the room with her back facing her daughter, leaning over as she chopped up a small potato.

It was rare that they ever had any beef or venison with their stew. Other families who had fathers that hunted would sometimes give them the leftover scraps out of pity, and her mother would accept them with clenched teeth. Nyx never asked much about her own father, but that was mostly because her mother never said much. She would only ever give a tight smile and tell her he was such a good man, but not once did she ever tell her what happened to him or why she had never even seen his face. Her mother had never outright said it, but Nyx caught on over the years that her father was most likely not alive anymore.

There were always more things to do than pester her mother with questions even if the answers were well-deserved. Their small barn behind their cottage that was filled with a handful of chickens and two cows was more than enough to keep her busy. She had named each of the six chickens, much to her mother's dismay before she told her young daughter that once the hens were older they would be the meat in their stew. Nyx had always thought that the wolves stole away all their chickens while she was growing up.

"I sure hope this blizzard doesn't do more damage," her mother mumbled disinterestedly as she began dicing up a carrot. Her words came right as a strong gust of wind from outside made the little wooden cottage creak and whistled through its skeleton of cracked bones. Nyx's eyes averted to the rusty metal bucket sitting on the floor in the corner of the room right below a leak in the roof. It was almost completely full from all the melted snow on their roof dripping down into it.