AN: this is the first story me an my sister have written ( her ideas my control) and we hope you like it, if you do please review so we know to continue.
the title comes from The Stolen Child by William butler Yates
and i give credit to J.K Rowling in the discovery of this great character (with some twists), who allows us to play around with her characters
From a young age Hermina always knew she was different. It only took a look in the mirror to see that she wasn't the same as the rest of her "family" her black hair looked like the wing of a raven witch contrasted heavily with her pale skin which was topped off with her startling green "witch" eyes. It wasn't that Hermina was ignorant to the fact that her family dis-liked her, it was the fact that her family was too lazy to come up with a proper way to torture her, there was nothing with roots in this world had refused to grow for her and to give her gardening for a punishment was as foolish a giving a fish swimming as a punishment for being able to breathe underwater.
Her aunt, a true twig of a woman tried to strike an imposing figure at a meagre 5.6'ft , though her unnatural thinness bordered on monsters her overall appearance and attitude just made you feel sorry for her, as if all the food had been eaten and she was only left the scraps.
Her cousin Dudley was a sad excuse for the male species (full stop). As a child he needed an in-ordinary amount of attention to complete even the most simple of tasks.
Her uncle on the other hand was simply put an idiot. Which in its self was amazing see as many people previously classed as stupid have proven themselves with a plethora of medical conditions to be battling an alternative way of working with one's brains? Anyway the roses this year seem especially eager, as if none of their ancestors even bothered to allow them to touch the soil.
Privet drive was a strange place at best a terrifying place at worst, every single house looked the same except for the house number, in her 9 years of residency she had learned the one vital lesson that every woman should have learned in order to survive. Fake it till you can get the hell out of dodge. Hell its what she does.
Well even her family begrudge her the very air that allows its self into her lungs. If she had learned one thing from opera it was that she was a strong independent woman… well she was almost a strong independent woman only three more years and she would be ready for all the responsibilities that being a woman included (including the whole bleeding thing which doesn't seem too hard)
Privet drive its self wasn't much to look at but the garden at number 12 was like something out of a story book, heirloom roses of all colours and sizes in that made up a wall guarding against the peasants (number 9 that used social benefits to rent their property), the roses varied from the blackest reds to the whitest yellows all created because of her presence.
As beautiful as the roses where she couldn't for the life of her figure out why the neighbours refused to sit in the garden, the garden its self was beautiful and the butterflies seemed o visit every day even through the winter but the neighbours refused to visit and look longingly at the beautiful garden. Not to mention the fruit trees that hung gracefully down onto the garden gates.
The fruit was so sweet and so full of life a reviewer once said it took her soul back to the first world war and the season's first cherries, sweet but with the promise of more. Though if she was honest with herself even she the create of Eden (as she liked to call herself was uncomfortable) had heard whispers coming from the thick rose bushes, the rose bushes so thick that birds flew in never to be seen by another soul.
She had heard whispers begging her to crawl through the rose roots and into a land that never rests, "come away young human child" the voices would whisper so tempting like melting milk chocolate on a summer day.
" Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim grey sands with light
Far off by the furfest roses ." The whispers had grown louder since she first heard them, almost screams beseeching her to come away with them. But she had heard the tails spoken to cousin by her uncle and aunt about little children that went o the toilet by themselves only to return different or not at all.
Whilst her so called family didn't feel it important enough to warn her she had long ago to steal the things given to her cousin (if only because he didn't appreciate them). As a child she used to dream of the wild untamed wilds of a new forest in bloom every colour of new life, green, blue, pink, red, white and orange in so many shades it was shocking. But then again she also used to dream about a beautiful red headed woman falling into an eternal slumber after being struck down by the beautiful curse of maleficent the great and evil fairy.
She knew what waited for her when her uncle returned half an hour of abuse waited for her when he entered the house, at first she didn't understand what was happening to her until adult she spoke about stopped coming around her but it wasn't for her to question the decisions of the "adults around her. But this time she knew she would survive the encounter with the extremely obese uncle.
In the most simplest terms her uncle scared her. He scared her in a way that most people don't understand but she's always known existed. That a man in a position of power will always take that which doesn't belong to him to feel more empowered, like a school ground bully who finally realised that he's no longer the scariest monster on the tarmac when he reaches secondary school.
"Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand.
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand."
This time she couldn't deny the beauty of the whispered words, whispered as if she was only supposed to hear.
"Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star,"
The voices where even more tempting then they where before. Knowing what waited for her when her incle returned wore away at her common sence she was nine years old for god sake four years away from being an adult. Being able to live on her own.
"We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams."
Was she the truth in this world dreaming quietly listening to the whispers of the wicked, wicked fey. That has come to steal her sense of self to sing stories of the dark haired child they stole and kept in her bed. The time was coming when a choice had to be made, to live as a being less than human or to live in a land of the dreams of humans.
As she heard her uncle's car pull up on the curb she knew that there was only one choice, the pain of the roses thorns was only incentive to crawl into the dark deep soil where the voices beckoned.
Where dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water rats;
There we've hid our faery vats,
Full of berries
And of reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand.
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.
Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim gray sands with light,
Far off by furthest roses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.
Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.
Away with us he's going,
The solemn-eyed:
He'll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal chest
For he comes, the human child
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand
From a world more full of weeping than he can understand
…..
Thranduil looked upon the desolation of faery and feared for the future, both winter and summer had dominated the lands (and fey world) for millennia even mortals had forgotten about the equally strong and deadly courts spring and autumn leaving the few fey of both courts with little amount to draw from.
The few spring fey that existed shared many of the same traits, pale hair and skin that ranged from tan to the darkest of ebonies. Thranduil was no different his skin looked like midnight weaved into skin, his hair was like moon light through an amber spy glass. But it was his eyes that finished the frighteningly perfect face, where two perfect disks of gold in human shaped irises.
As the red sky parted Thranduil looked onto the small Lithe figure that fell towards the unyielding ground. It had been many years since the faery paths had been used by a being that belonged in faery.
…..
The pain was something Hermina was used to. When she went through the bush she expected pain like when one of Mrs Figg's cat clung a bit too closely to her skin, but her whole body felt like she had just been hit by a car (an accident her uncle had made only once) as her eyes began to focus they found the face of something out of a cartoon.
Pourless skin like polished obsidian ( aunt petunia's favourite gem stone as most of her neighbours didn't have the skin tone to pull it off) disks of gold sat in a face of perfect dark angles.
"Queen of spring, at last you awaken"