In the time before time, when the mighty Nephilim, who came of the Lord, roamed the wastelands, and when Selene in her beauty had yet to lose her maidenhood, there existed a land, foreign and fae, where glorious Apollo awoke in the west and descended in the east. It was a land of the lionesque, of the fortitudinous masters like perfunctory Pyrrha, the immortal queen of the Myrmidons, and Neptune, progenitor of the golden rams and of whom the earth willingly served. Of the supreme states of the boundless seas, this land of harsh wind and powerful deed was bestowed that title of first amongst equals, an imperial domain of Mistral.

During these golden days, there lived in the kingdom a poor man of great piety. A worker of metals in a land where ores were sparse, he came home every day to only a dinner of gruel and flowers, his dreams ones of impossible wealth and splendour. Yet he never complained, never sought beyond his most basic needs. He was content in his life, surrounded by the family that he cherished so dearly, and they the same. His loyal wife was his Venus, a goddess of beauty and love that had borne him seven children, six sons and one daughter, a family who his pride for exceeded that of any other mortal’s. And yet, it was this pride, this great love, was the one sin that afflicted this poor man.

A boast by nature, the poor smith had declared the greatness of his young family to all those who deigned to hear. In his pride, however, he had drawn to himself the unwanted attentions of a spirit, and found himself cursed to slowly wither away, a once-strong oak succumbing to the harsh cold of winter that was “the Child’s Curse”. His family was left destitute, and the streets became their new home. They begged and they begged, but no salvation found them. They appealed to their neighbours, but the malicious spirit had turned once welcoming hearts to stone. They appealed to their baron, but he utterly ignored them. 

They appealed to the Church, but the Lord himself too was silent.

His young daughter, a quiet girl with raven locks, refused to wait for a saviour. In the dead of the night, when not a single soul could stall her, she left for the forests, her beloved father's antique sabre in hand, fuelled by a resolute determination to save her family and enact vengeance upon those that had harmed them. In her haste, however, the girl had failed to comprehend the danger that waited within the shadowy, eerie woods of her village. Within the merest of breaths, before even the Lord brought the sun down from the celestial sphere, she was savaged, struck by a howling boar of the night that sought the deceasement of her flesh!

The girl fought hard, frantically swinging her blade back against the animal. Each swing of the gleaming sabre went snicker-snack, its cuts striking lightly into the grim beast’s hide. Yet she was but a mere little girl, armed with only a simple sword and a heart full of determination. Her arms tired, her bruises grew in number, and soon she found herself backed against a wisping willow, her breaths growing ragged as she futilely attempted to ignore the pain and escape to save her father. The boar, crimson eyes flashing, lunged, bony tusks ready to pierce her through.

She swung an exhausted arm at the creature.

She missed.

Yet she still breathed.

It was as if by the will of the Lord, a set of vines had descended from the wispy willow branches, enwrapping the horrid creature with great strength, its constrictions choking and seeping at the strength of the boar. The girl watched in awe and fear as the beast that had threatened her finally fell, its lifeless body becoming one with the earth itself. A fae of the forest, a snaking grapevine, had appeared before her, and she knew nothing of what it was, what it could do.

Then it spoke.

“What is your name, human?” hissed the greenery around her, a strangely resonant tone emerging from the vines. “What bringsssss you to thisssss domain?”

Her name. The young girl barely stopped herself from speaking of it. A true name could not be so easily given to anyone, especially not such a spirit, a dangerous fairy who was so above her. But to refuse to answer … that was to court displeasure.

“Valens,” she lied, gulping in her fear. “W-who the [i]hell[/i] are you?”

The grapevine’s tendrils shifted in the dark, as if circling her.

“This one is the vine blessed by heaven,” it seemed to whisper, “a lowly child of a pole star.”

Had this vine truly come from the Lord to save her? Was it not a mere coincidence that a member of the fair folk had arrived to defeat that boar? The girl who had declared herself Valens was unsure, but it was the life of her father at risk. They had prayed, right? Could she place her faith in what could simply be luck?

She could.

“Um … star vine,” said Valens, taking a deep breath. “You … do you know anything about the Child’s Curse?”

It was as if the vines had brightened, but it could only have been her imagination. Plantlife rarely could display emotion, even if it was a creation of the Lord and a fae no less.

“In a fasssshion, yesss,” it rumbled, coiling its body closer to the girl. “But there issss … an exchange that mussssst be made.”

The smith’s daughter did not hesitate. “What do you want?”

“I want a date,” it declared. “An owl … beautiful and white … it owesssss me a date.”

She stared.

“What the fuck?”

“The owl of snow promisssed me it would find me a date as a girlfriend.”

In the stories of the fair folk, the ethereal, mysterious creatures were considered to be dangerous, grand and beyond mortal comprehension. Yet the vines coiled around her seemed so … utterly human, so unlike the image of a creation of the Lord. How could she properly fulfil this strange request of the plant’s? It was so absurd, so completely out of her depth! It was, in a manner of speaking, [b][i]absolutely fucking stupid[/i][/b]. But, it seemed like the only way she could even find out more about the curse that had afflicted her beloved father. She owed it to his very life that she persevere, no matter the situation.

“Do you know where this owl is?” she asked quietly.

“Oh yesssss, it’s on the other ssssside of the foressssst.”

“Actually baby, I’m right here.”

The smith’s daughter could only stare in surprise as a moulting white owl, pure as the snows of the far-off kingdoms in the Atlesian north, descended upon them like an angel from the heavens. It was another spirit, another fair creature of the mysterious wilds that surrounded man’s world. She couldn’t speak. Her eyes could not be torn away by this awe-inspiring beast that now captured her attention. The beast that her grapevine saviour had been waiting for.

“Sorry I’m late hun, but here’s your date,” it chirped, the lilting tones floating through the air much like the single date palm that it dropped from its claws onto the vine.

[i]No seriously, what the fuck?[/i]

The vine seemed to cheer up, absorbing the date palm into its being. Even as it did so, the girl immediately felt that the plant had shifted its attentions to her. She gulped once again. Would it tell her of a cure? She … had not been responsible in any manner for fulfilling its request, after all.

“Asssss promisssssed,” it hissed, a tendril moving to touch the girl’s palm. “My knowledge.”

She nearly yelped as the end of the vine flashed, leaving what appeared to be a root in its place. It was brown, gnarled and possessing a similarity to ginger. The girl stared, trying to comprehend it.

[i]It was …?[/i]

“The cure,” said the vines, pulling away. “The Lord does not leave prayerssss unanssswered, Gratia Mindaro.”

[i]They knew her true name.

The fae knew her name.[/i]

She looked up.

The vines … the owl … they were gone.

She was alone. With a cure for her father.

For the first time in a long while, Gratia Mindaro allowed herself to smile.

They … they would be okay.