The Stolen Rain

Chapter 1: The Tipsy Tree Inn

Every night at midnight, the purple clouds came out to dance with the blushing sky. Purple clouds pregnant with rain drifted over both towns and castles alike, ready to flood without discrimination. When the bright spirits of the sky drank these clouds, they were satisfied with their work and returned to their world between the sky and the heavens. Unreachable as they were, they could hear the cries of those below.

‘Some spirits are nice, some are selfish’ Freya thought, staring at the moon in melancholy.

“Are you going to stare up at the sky all night?” A small, green leaf-spirit looked at her.

“I’ll be right there, Duilleog,” she replied, knowing the spirit to be her companion. He floated as if he was always caught on a gust of wind, winding his way through her orange hair, often settling there to rest on their travels. He did exactly that as Freya continued to stare.

“Come on,” he twinkled “there’s a warm tavern over there, I floated over the trees and saw it. The Tipsy Tree Inn, it said,” the leaf spirit couldn’t smile, instead he wiggled excitedly.

“Stop it! You’ll tangle my braids,” Freya chastised. Duilleog stopped momentarily before wiggling again with fervour.

‘Cheeky little thing’ Freya smiled to herself.

They arrived at the inn quickly, having strode through the forest swiftly. Upon arrival, they saw the sorry state of the tavern. The building was white, with dark brown wood beams supporting the structure, though not very well as the walls were either bulging or concave. A thatched roof perched atop the leaning walls looked dusty and the ivy that climbed the walls was looking grey and flaky. The hanging sign was splintered and faded but read ‘The T_psy Tr_e Inn’ with a painting of a lopsided tree to boot.

Despite all of these deterrents, Freya thought the place looked welcoming. There was a warm orange glow radiating from inside that could be seen through the small windows. Well, the ones that weren’t covered with wooden slats - they were another indicator of the inn’s recent difficulties.

Freya walked toward the door, noting how the horse troughs lining the side of the building were holding nothing but a thin layer of muddy, thick sludge. Duilleog floated over to them, leaving a trail of green sparkles behind him.

“Shame, the well must have run dry” he commented, looking into the troughs.

Freya turned, seeing a stone well as she did. She walked over to the side and released the bucket rope, letting the vessel fall fast. Instead of hearing the telltale splash of a wooden bucket hitting the water below, they heard a dull thud and a clatter. Duilleog snickered.

“I think you broke their bucket,” he teased.

After deciding not to try and wind the (possibly fragmented) bucket back up, Freya made her way into the tavern, with Duilleog safely tucked into her hair.

It was indeed warm inside, as Freya had expected, but not nearly as welcoming as she had hoped. A barmaid scrubbed the bar at one end and on the other, sat the singular patron: a hooded figure. The barmaid’s head was the only one to move when Freya entered, nodding over to her.

Upon sitting on the farthest available stool from the hooded figure, Freya looked at the woman. She had a round face, hooded eyes, and blonde, greasy hair tied into a bun. Heavy green skirts drooped from her wide hips and a white shirt cloaked her shoulders. Well, the shirt may have started as white, but now it wore the stains of a lifetime. Indeed, her face was in a similar condition. Young eyes stared sharply from under wrinkled skin. Duilleog, from within his nest of hair, thought the wrinkles looked like kind ones, not the nasty ones that some humans carried on their faces.

“What’ll it be?” She asked Freya, leaning a heavy arm onto the shiny wooden bar.

Freya took a breath, being charming was not her strong suit.

“Well, kind lady, I came here to refill my water, my supply is low,” Freya held up her leather canteen, which sloshed quietly. At this, the lady grimaced.

“a..and a bed for the night, a meal if you provide and also, we would love a drop of ale” Freya spewed hurriedly

The woman softened.

“Well, I think I could see t’that!” she smiled, happy to have requests she could fulfil. “Veal pie and a deep flagon of ale comin’ up!”

With surprising speed, the lady scuffled away behind a door, presumably leading to a kitchen area, before Freya could thank her.

Freya sat in silence, unused to such a condition as Duilleog usually spent his time chattering in her ear. They couldn’t do that here, nor in any company. Since the spirits in the sky stole the rain, spirits had seen indiscriminate persecution. Years ago, spirits and humans used to live in near-perfect harmony, but not any more.

Freya was reminded of her childhood. She was raised in a small village near a river and, as such, was untouched by the lack of rain for a few years. Her parents, a blacksmith and a fisher, had raised her with such softness and always maintained a strict rule around spirits.

"Spirits are no different to us, some are kind, and some are not."Her father used to warn her.

Her mother, on the other hand, took a gentler approach, often saying: "The spirits are protectors of their homes, be kind to their homes and they will be kind to you."

However, there was one thing they did agree on:

‘if a spirit ever approaches you, do not let it too close!’

Naturally, as a child, Freya had done exactly what her parents had told her not to. She ventured into the forest looking to encounter spirits. She found many: tree spirits, shrub spirits, root spirits; the forest was packed full! They paid her no mind, having seen many curious children over the years, and she returned from her trip disappointed. However, as she was walking back to the village, a gust of wind blew fiercely and a leaf blew into her hair.

“Hey! Watch it! I’m flying here!” The tiny spirit raged. A small voice with a big pride, it seemed. Freya was too stunned to respond. Her heart beat fast and her parent’s voices ran through her head.

‘if a spirit ever approaches you, do not let it too close!’

Now there was one in her hair! She did what any young child would do and screamed, flapping her arms into her hair, tangling it further.

Thankfully, her mother was nearby and swiftly untangled the mess of hair which had accumulated on Freya’s head with the gentleness only a mother can refine with their child's hair. Waving the spirit away with her hand like a pesky fly. Her mother was certainly not afraid of spirits.

After a thorough chastising from her parents, Freya visited the same spot in the forest and sat, waiting for the leaf spirit to return. Eventually, he did, and slowly made his way over to Freya.

“Say, you aren’t as dangerous as my leafmates say, are you?” He asked, circling the girl's head and leaving a sparkling green trail as he went. Freya thought him quite beautiful as he moved, so graceful and bright!

“I don’t think I’m dangerous at all. I’m just Freya.” She said sadly, looking at her small hands.

The leaf floated to look into her eyes, the green trail disappearing as he did so.

“Good! I am not dangerous either!” His voice seemed to smile. Freya smirked, a leaf telling you it isn’t a threat was funny to her younger self.

“I am Duilleog.”

“Freya - but you already knew that!”

They giggled together and, from that point forwards, were firm, if secret, friends. Such friends, they were, that when his leafmates left the forest, Freya snuck him indoors and cradled him by the fire as he wept - and when Freya's parents were taken by water-raiders one horrible night, Duilleog sang her poems until she could sleep again. One day, they set off together, into the forest in search of new beginnings.

“Who is ‘we’?”

Freya was pulled from her recollections, noting the sting she felt in her eyes at the memories. She was back in the bar and the hooded patron had turned to look at her.

“E-excuse me?”

“Who is ‘we?’” he repeated sharply.

“I am not sure I know what you…”

“You said: we would love a drop of ale. Not ‘I’” He challenged impatiently.

Freya realised her mistake. She had been travelling with Duilleog for so long she had let the true number of travellers slip into her request of the barmaid.

“I don’ see no one else ‘ere,” he slurred, gesturing around the empty inn before taking another sip from his flagon.

“A slip of the tongue, sir” Freya replied, straightening her back.

“Well... can’t be too care’ful,” he stated, considering her for a moment, before turning back towards the bar.

Freya let a breath out, the tension didn’t leave her shoulders.

The barmaid returned with a full pie and a tall flagon of ale. Freya couldn’t think of a more beautiful sight at that moment and not just because of her empty stomach. The woman’s company was very welcome.

“Here you are, dearie,” the ale sloshed within its pewter confines as she chucked it down in front of Freya.

“Thank you, very much!” Freya exclaimed at the feast, fishing out a generous amount of bronze coin for the barmaid, who smiled in thanks.

“Welcome! Now, about this room, you ‘appy with a small one?”

“Yes, anything will do, just a place to rest my head.”

“Good! It should be ready for you, here’s the key,” the woman fished in her skirts for a moment before pulling out a small, well-worn key and sliding it across the bar to Freya. As she did so, she whispered into her ear.

“I may be able to spare a little drop o’ water too, but don’t go spreading that around to anyone else, y’understand?”

Freya simply winked at her in thanks as she leaned back. The barmaid smiled, satisfied at her silent answer.

Buttered crust, rich salty gravy, and thick red meat – the pie was simply wonderful! Freya ate with fervour, feeling the heavy food sit comfortably in her stomach as she did.

‘What a simply exquisite feeling, a full stomach!’ she thought, humming to herself. She ate fast and without guilt. Duilleog would never touch such a thing. He drank clear water and ate small clumps of moss quite happily. Well, he had when they were available. Now the ground was much too dry to maintain moss, and he was a little less bright than he had been when they first met.

The ale was just as delicate as the pie; lumpy and hard to swallow. However, a journey with little water left Freya thirsty, and she gulped down as much as her body could handle. Soon enough, the pie tray sat with no more than a few crumbs and the ale flagon was empty. Freya leaned back and groaned like a satisfied bear.

She had almost forgotten about her hooded companion when he stood abruptly and started walking towards her. His heavy footsteps fell behind her as he walked by and towards a set of stairs.

“Ah, going up already, sir?” the landlady asked.

‘Oh no!’ Freya thought 'Is he staying at the inn too?’

“Yup.” He replied to the landlady.

'Dammit!' her stomach began to churn uncomfortably with the revelation.

He took the first step and then seemed to hesitate. Part of Freya wondered if he may fall back down in his stupor. Instead, he looked back at her. It was the first good look she had gotten at his face. Black eyes, long in the nose and thinly lipped, he stood with a face full of rage. The most glaring feature was a large purple scar down the centre of his face. It glowed in the darkness, small flecks illuminating his dark orb eyes. His expression screwed into one of pointed consideration.

“We…” he taunted her earlier mistake. “We can’t be too careful, little girly, because... there are spirits about…”

Freya bristled at the nickname but decided it was too much hassle to correct the stranger.

“Nasty ones, like the ones that took our precious rain! Be careful and mark my words! You can never know what they will take from you!” At this, he pointed a crooked finger at her.

Freya calmly took a breath, ready to retort, when the man raised his hand to her hair, pointing directly at where Duilleog lay hidden. She gasped, her breath stolen from her chest. 'How could he see him? We are more careful than this!' Freya turned quickly, intending to flee but saw, to her dismay, that the sun had indeed fallen outside of the window.

“Too late to stay anywhere else, girly. See you in the morning.” The man chuckled as he made his way upstairs.

Faintly, Freya could hear the landlady reprimanding him for his behaviour – towards a young girl, no less, not in my Inn! – but her ears were filled with the whoosh of blood.

'He saw Duilleog! How? Oh, it doesn’t matter how, we are done for!’

“Sorry dearie, if he didn’t pay so well I’d ‘ave ‘im out on his ear!” The landlady ranted. “Say you’ve gone all pale! Let me get you some o’ that water, ‘ere!”

Freya’s body seemed to catch up with her mind at that moment.

“No! That’s alright I will go straight to bed. Pie was delicious thanks!” She ran up to where the stranger had been and found two doors. Luckily, the first she tried fitted the key. Freya tumbled inside and locked the door behind her – the stanger’s voice echoing in her mind

'See you in the morning!'

“Oh, Frey, what are we going to do?” Duilleog whispered shakily, too afraid to leave her hair.

There was a pause, the only noise being Freya's laboured breathing. After a few moments, she steadied herself.

“Well, we have exactly one night to think of a plan,” she laughed dryly.

“We had better get to it then…” Duilleog laughed too, still shaken.

'See you in the morning!'

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End of Chapter 1

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A/N: Hi there!

I hope you enjoyed reading my entry for this prompt. I loved writing this one! It is a rare privilidge when a story seems to leap out from my fingertips but this one certainly did - my hands had a hard time keeping up with my brain!

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ThatWriterWoman