Cherry: Hi everyone... this isn't exactly my first fic since I deleted The Love Of Enemies or something like that. Anyway... here's my fic!! It's based on Windleaf by Josepha Sherman.
Disclaimer: I don't own CCS or Windleaf!
(A/N: Just to let you know, Faerie is a place, not a kind of people like fairies.)
Chapter One
A Day On The Farm
Fujitaka
The forest was dense and old, its trees thick-trunked, its still, sweet-scented air rich with springtime and the hundred small chirping, whirring voices of the night. Clear, cold moonlight filtered down through the canopy of new leaves, liquid falls of silver through which Fujitaka Kinomoto moved with silent grace.
Fujitaka, Lord of Faerie was tall like all his race, lean almost to the point of gauntness, skin the clear white of someone who has never known sunlight. He was handsome in his own fierce, sharp-edged way, and old as mortals reckoned time, though his age was hinted at only in the weary, bitter brown eyes. Long, silvery-fair hair swirled about his narrow face as Fujitaka stalked restlessly beneath this moon of mortal Earth.
Of all his people, he was the only one old enough or keen enough of memory to remember Faerie: that bright and wondrous land. There, the moon was pure, unstained, not like this shadowed imitation. There, no garish poisonous sun spoiled the perfect sky that glowed with its own clear light. There, magic grew in every leaf and quivered in the very air- Fujitaka sighed softly, to him the list of wonders spelling simply home.
A home none of them might ever see again.
For one wild instant the sheer force of his despair broke free, savage enough to melt stone. But in the next moment it was gone, and the Faerie lord was falling back against a tree, gasping, eyes shut, cursing this mortal land, this human land, this land so weak in Power...
How fair it had seemed once, so long ago, when he'd first found the Gate between the Realms, how deceptively fair when he and his people had wandered through, drawn by the novelty of mortal time. Of course this Realm had never been without its dangers. It had been impossible to ignore the twins perils of sunlight- which fatally burned pale Faerie skin- and worse, the monstrous substance known as 'iron', that metal so alien to Faerie, so totally bound to Earth, that it destroyed magic and magic bearers at a touch. There had been humans, too, the ugly, dirty, primitive creatures so quick to fear and hate. But they had been... manageable. Particularly after Fujitaka had taken a corner of the forest of his own, screening it with spells from sun and humankind, keeping it in safe, magical twilight, turning it to a place of quiet, shimmering beauty.
But I never thought to live in it forever!
Time had betrayed them. Unfamiliar with such a mortal thing, his folk had tarried here far, far too long, never realizing what was happening to them, never dreaming that, bit by tiny bit, the strength was slipping from them, sapped by this alien land. They had never been a fertile race, even in Faerie, and it was the marvel of them all that Fujitaka had sired not one but three children, two daughters and one son. But those daughters were... lost to him. And not a child had been born to any of them since.
Worse, slowly, subtly, his people were losing magic, losing glory, losing the very essence of who and what they were. Soon they would be nothing more than memories to trouble human dreams. Tricked by that treacherous mortal Time, they had- even he, their liege lord- forgotten the way back to Faerie.
Fujitaka started fiercely forward once more, battling all too familiar sorrow. But all at once he froze, alert in every sense, hearing the little night noises stop, feeling the still night air turn sharp with tension, recognizing:
"You," he said shortly.
"Indeed." The other voice was soft and deep, as though the earth itself had spoken, ever so slightly edged with warning, and leaves quivered as though in sympathy. "You wander far tonight, Faerie man."
"What do I do or do not is hardly your concern."
As he spoke, Fujitaka scanned the forest with physical and psychic sight. But, as ever, even Faerie magic couldn't focus on the Other, on this mysterious entity that called itself only Forest Heart. Even Faerie sight couldn't catch more than the briefest, most tantalizing glimpses (hint of feather, glint of fang and fur) of this being that was the very life-force of the forest.
"But it is of my concern," Forest Heart murmured, and the quiet leaves trembled again, without a breath of air to stir them. "This is my Realm in which you trespass, Faerie man."
Fujitaka bit back his anger. He knew only too well what elemental Power Forest Heart represented. His own Faerie magic was alien to this land, totally foreign in style and substance. But Forest Heart was the forest and its native, natural magic. As such, the being was gar stronger than this Faerie foreigner, and they both knew it.
I will not fear you! Fujitaka thought, and hissed, "You are not my master, creature."
"You are not your own master," Forest Heart taunted. "Why do you stay here? Why?"
"Curse you, you know why!"
"Because you are lost, Faerie man, lost as any pathetic human soul."
"No!"
A ripple of amusement stirred the leaves. "You hate to be compared to human folk, don't you?"
"They are inferior."
"Are they?" You didn't always find them so. Not all of them. Not one in particular-"
Fujitaka tensed. "Stop it."
"Why?" Have you forgotten her so soon? Have you denied her memory?"
"No. I-"
"Poor Faerie man. You've worked so hard to banish any soft emotions. You've even banished the ones dear to you."
"I-Enough!"
"What's this? Afraid of truth? You, whose people never lie? Are you afraid of that one brief time of tenderness? Are you afraid to remember-"
"I am afraid of nothing!"
"Oh, but you are," Forest Heart taunted, but there was the faintest hint of something gentle behind the mockery, something sad. "Poor thing, poor thing, you've tried to banish love. Faerie man, Faerie fool, without love even Faerie magic has no strength."
"Has this no strength?" Fujitaka shouted. He hurled Power from him in a white-hot blast of fury.
But Forest Heart had already vanished in a quivering of leaves and an echo of laughter. Power shattered harmlessly against the ground and was gone.
Fujitaka hardly noticed. Aching with the memories the being had roused, he stood lost and alone and anguished in the moonlight.
Syaoran
Syaoran- Syaoran Li, eighteen-year-old count of these lands of Foretterre in this year of our Lord 1510 and latest in a long line of counts- stood leaning lightly against the stone wall surrounding his family's rambling old mansion, breathing in the sweet spring air of this fine April day, looking out over his lands, amber eyes warm with delight.
Spread out before him was a patchwork of neatly fenced fields rich brown from fresh plowing or already green with tender new growth. Beyond were the thatched roofs of Foretterre-the-Village, the newly whitewashed houses and small stone chapel surrounded by a riot of early flowers. Even the usually barren hill towering up to his left, beyond the estate's outer wall, had turned a pal apple green with new grass, and the three graceful birches on its crown were topped with delicate leaves. And beyond that, the vast, ancient forest was a tapestry in a hundred shades of green.
"Beautiful," Syaoran murmured.
The count himself looked anything but noble just now, chestnut hair tied out of the way with a leather band, and tall, lanky body clad in plain leather tunic and leggings like any common farmer. Hardly surprising: He'd spent the morning so far with farmers, the smell of freshly turned earth rich in his nostrils. The folk of Foretterre were free men, not serfs, though they did pay him rent in service and vegetables. They enthusiastically discussed the ongoing sowing of seed, the milking of cows, and the shearing of the communal flock of sheep with their noble landlord, smiling with him over the first of the new lambs and calves and agreeing that the estate's new bull, Goliath, for all his sour temper, seemed to be siring fine offspring.
Syaoran glanced at that restlessly stirring mountain of animal. Goliath, densely muscled, large and dark as something out of a legend, was being moved from old pasture to new, towering over the men at his side. The Count moved uneasily forward to ask Hugo, his cattleherd, "You're sure you can transfer him safely?"
"Oh, easily, my lord. Once he smelled the new pasturage, why, he'll move smooth as cream."
Syaoran nodded dubiously.
"A dark-souled creature, that," murmured a voice, and the count turned to see old Seto, his gardener, tall and thin as a pole topped by a wild thatch of gray hair, standing in the manor's wall doorway. Seto, Syaoran often suspected, had a touch of what the peasants called feyness, and more than a passing acquaintance with the Old Gods. Eh, well, so did a good many of the Foretterre folk, despite all the efforts of Father Denis, the pragmatic village priest. When one's life revolved about the earth, Syaoran thought wryly, one didn't worry too much about Heaven.
But Seto was blatantly eager to discuss his territory. If the man did, indeed, have any magic, it was with the manor garden, and his enthusiasm was contagious. Before he knew it, Syaoran found himself on his knees beside the gardener, sun turning his hair to the exact color of newly turned earth, amiably arguing with Seto over whether or not the lush new spring growth edging the manor's wall really was bean plants escaped from the garden.
A shout and an angry roar made them both look up with a start.
Goliath. The bull was most definitely not happy about being moved, even with that bovine harem awaiting him. Dark-souled, indeed, Syaoran thought. As the count watched, the creature tossed his head with a second roar, sending the men trying to hold him flying as though they were weightless. Goliath hesitated for a moment, as though stunned to suddenly find himself free, and pawed the ground uncertainly.
Now, if they only move gently, they can have him again before he makes up his mind...
But one man's lunge was too quick for the bull's fragile temper. The animal charged, head down, horns glinting like curved blades. The servant yelped, throwing himself over a fence to safety just in time, the top of one horn slicing through his leather jacket as though through gauze. Frustrated, the bull pawed the ground again, then thundered forward in a new direction.
"Corelle!" Seto gasped.
His tiny granddaughter, plump and happily dirty faced. Had eluded her mother and wandered down from the manor through the open doorway. Too young to realize her danger, she stopped at the sound of her name, turning toward her grandfather with a toothless grin, heedless of Goliath.
"Oh, God, Corelle!"
That was the child's mother, Chiharu, rushing frantically forward out of the manor, but she was too far away, and everyone else seemed too stunned to move, so Syaoran lunged into the charging bull's path, snatching blindly for Corelle.
Dear God, don't let me miss...
His arms closed around the toddler. Her startled wail turned to frightened screams as Syaoran tossed her brusquely out of the way. Willing hands caught her as the count's momentum sent him hurtling to the ground right in front of Goliath. Syaoran twisted frantically even as h e fell, desperate to scramble out from under those plunging horns. The bull's breath scorched him, hot as fire, the maddened eyes blazed into his own, he was never going to make it-
But then Goliath was brought up short as men caught him by the ropes dangling from nose ring and halter, too many men even for his strength. Gasping, Syaoran staggered to his feet just in time to give the bull a heartfelt slap on the rump to urge him on. All at once catching sight of the cows awaiting him, Goliath suddenly forgot all about battle and trotted with ponderous majesty into the pasture, and Syaoran let out a shaken laugh.
"Smooth as cream, eh?"
In the next moment he was surrounded by white-faced, anxious folk. Syaoran hastily assured everybody that he wasn't hurt, rather amazing himself by his calmness. In a short time, he knew, he was probably going to be shaking like the proverbial leaf from reaction, but right now he seemed swathed in a blanket of tranquility, graciously accepting Seto's heartfelt words: "I am forever in your debt, my lord."
"Ah, Seto, I could hardly let Corelle be trampled."
But the old man continued to stare at him, eyes dark and shadowy. "In the time to come," Seto murmured in a voice suddenly deep with strength, "you will walk strange paths. Remember then that my blessing goes with you."
But then he blinked, as though surprised by his own words and, flushing, bowed and hurried away. Syaoran glanced after the old man, feeling the faintest chill stealing through him. Feyness...
Ah, ridiculous. Seto was ancient enough to be entitled to a touch of strangeness, but Syaoran had no such excuse. He waved of his cattleherd's shaken apologies- accidents did happen- and looked ruefully down at his dirt-covered rumpled self. Most definitely time for a bath, and a change of clothing. Heigh-ho, maybe he could slip back into the manor before Yoshiyuki saw and-
"My lord!" said an indignant voice. "What have you been doing?"
Syaoran glanced at the stocky, brown-haired, quietly elegant figure standing in the manor doorway and bit back a sigh.
"Playing with Goliath," he said, and received the expected blank stare. Yoshiyuki, Foretterre's steward, was an honest, competent man, efficient and genuinely kindhearted, but no one could ever have accused him of levity. "Never mind." He could feel himself starting to shake; sure enough, reaction to his narrow escape was setting in. "What is it, Master Yoshiyuki?"
"You promised we'd go over the estate's records today."
It was the last thing he wanted to do right now. But a vow was a cow, and Syaoran held up a hand in resignation. "Let me clean myself up a bit, and then I'll surrender myself into your keeping."
Outside, the world was still wild and sweet with spring, full of birdsong. Within the long, narrow manor hall, all was quiet propriety. One of the newer sections of the manor, replacing the cold stone Great hall of a hundred years ago, its walls were paneled in spotless, gleaming wood still smelling faintly of this morning's polish and broken only by the large fireplace of elaborately carved white stone. The hall was fashionably bare of furnishings save for a few chairs and narrow tables lining those walls, and an ornate canopied chair standing in solitary splendor at the hall's far end. Bars of sunlight filtered in through the tall, narrow windows, turning the wooden walls to gleaming amber and hitting the chair's occupant square in the face.
Syaoran, freshly bathed and groomed in brocaded tunic and silken hose more befitting a count, twisted about as best he could to avoid the glare, struggling to keep a look of intent interest on his face as Yoshiyuki, standing tirelessly before him, droned on and on. It had been a long morning, and even after that bath, which had soaked most of the shock out of him, muscles strained by his dance with Goliath were beginning to complain. Syaoran subtly twisted again, struggling not to wince, too polite to hurt Yoshiyuki's feelings by showing open boredom. But God, the wonderful smell of spring! He wished he was back outside, wandering in the green wonder of the forest, or even just on his knees again in the garden, discussing weeds with old Seto.
Ah, Yoshiyuki.
How could he be angry at the man? The steward had been almost a second father to him and kept Foretterre running well during all the years of the count's minority,
But you never do let a single point go by unnoted, do you?
"... and so," Yoshiyuki continued methodically, unaware of his count's discomfort, "to date there are ten healthy new lambs, seven of them eyes, three calves- one heifer, two bull calves-"
"And the spring planting is going as it should," Syaoran cut in. "Yes, I know. I was just out there checking everything myself."
"Uh... yes."
"Why, Master Yoshiyuki!" the count teased. "You don't approve, do you?"
"It's not for me to approve or disapprove, my lord."
"But a nobleman really shouldn't soil his hands with earth, or wander in fields and forest like a commoner, eh?"
Yoshiyuki's silence said volumes. Suddenly guilty, Syaoran sighed. "I'm sorry I'm such a disappointment to you."
The steward stared at him in shock. "Don't even think such a thing! You are a kind, good, intelligent young man, and I-I'm proud of you. I thought you knew that. It's just..."
"That I'm never going to be the proper proud noble you want me to be."
"Oh, I didn't mean-"
"never mind." Syaoran gingerly stretched his stiff muscles. "We both know the estate is going well, God be praised. Now, have you any new business to discuss?"
"Ah, well, there is one thing..."
That suddenly wary stance could only mean one thing. "You're going to bring up marriage again, aren't you?"
"Is there anything so wrong in that?" Yoshiyuki's dark eyes were suddenly very gentle. "it's not such a terrible thing. I- Don't you think I still miss my Rika, even after all these years?"
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean..."
"It's all right. Rika is safe in Heaven. And even though the Lord never saw fit to give us a child of our own, I've had the joy of watching you grow up. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to watch your son grow." Embarrassed, the steward hesitated, then added in a rush, "My lord, I know you're still a young man, but you are the last of your line. If that bull had-If the men hadn't-" Yoshiyuki shuddered, signing himself. "Praise the Lord you weren't hurt. But, to be quite selfish about it, if something happens to you, what becomes of the rest of us? You hold fealty to the king himself, not to some intermediary-"
"I've often wondered how Great-grandfather managed that."
"-and as a result, Foretterre would become Brown property, and we, why, whether or not we even continued to have a roof over our heads would depend on whatever stranger King Charles picked to rule us. My lord, please. You really must begin thinking seriously about a wife, an heir."
Syaoran bit back the urge to remind Yoshiyuki that Foretterre was so isolated it might be years before news of his death reached the king. "I know," he muttered. "I have thought. I went all the way to Paris last summer, remember? To pay courtesies to our good king and his court?"
What a disaster that had been! Paris had seemed one overwhelming mass of close-packed buildings, the royal court a mass of close-packed folk like so many overdressed and smelly dolls... highborn dolls, with the gem-encrusted king on his throne the most unreal of them all, laughing at this awkward country boy who dared claim noble rank... Syaoran winced.
"If I couldn't find a suitable lady among all that glittering lot-"
"You weren't looking very hard," Yoshiyuki said sternly, and the count flushed.
"Could you picture any court lady happy in our little backcountry realm?" Or, for that matter, being able to love the wildwood as I do? No, he wasn't going to say that to Yoshiyuki.
But for a moment Syaoran couldn't help but wonder... What might it be like to be in love? He could almost see himself and... and some fair unknown wandering hand in hand through the forest, he feeding her berries not half as sweet as her lips (he reddened at the thought), showing her where the ferns formed a dark green tapestry unfurling down the hillside, or where flowers burst from shadow like so many stars, or that one spot where the stream turned to silver as it tumbled down the rocks...
Ridiculous. "Bah," he said with forced humor, "a court lady would probably run screaming back to Paris the first time she saw a cow! 'Ooh, a monster! A monster!'"
The made Yoshiyuki smile in spit of himself, and Syaoran pressed his advantage. "I'll give marriage serious thought, I promise. Now, is there any new business to discuss?"
"No, but-"
"Good." The young count got to his feet, stretching again. "I think you, Master Yoshiyuki."
"But my lord, wait! Where are you going?"
A sweet spring breeze was stealing into the hall. Syaoran took a deep appreciative breath and waved a vague hand. "Out," he said, and smiled.
His people whispered about this hill, Syaoran knew, murmuring all manner of dire stories because his ancestors hadn't built their manor on it, but on the lower hill nearby, because it grew so mysteriously free of all but grass and the three slender birches on its crest.
No mystery about it. They didn't build up here because there's no ready source of water, while down there is a nice network of streams and wells.
There wasn't much mystery about the lack of vegetation, either; the hill, he'd discovered as a curious boy with a shovel, was an outcropping of chalk on which few things could row save grass and these three stubborn birches that were so shallowly rooted Syaoran expected to lose them with every storm.
Hoping that would never happen, he reached out a hand to stroke sleek bark. These lovely things were perhaps his favorites of all the trees on his estate.
From where he sprawled comfortably up here on the hill, heedless of his aristocratic clothing, Syaoran could see his entire estate, manor, village, and fields bisected by a thin brown ribbon of road and set against a dark green background of forest. Nibbling on a blade of grass, he picked out the tiny perfect flame from Takashi the smith's forge in the village itself and a bright cloud of gold that was the grain Yuri the goosegirl was tossing at her hungry charges. The sheep in their pastures and the cows in theirs (yes, and old Goliath, too) seemed perfectly wrought miniatures brought magically to life, as did the folk working in the neat, narrow strips of fields. Everything looked totally efficient, so efficient that Syaoran thought wryly that were he to disappear, life in Foretterre would probably go on very nicely without him.
Sorry, Syaoran told them all, good Yoshiyuki in particular, I never will be quite as... dull and stodgy as you'd like.
That wasn't quite fair. They might think him quite eccentric, but they loved him. And he, well, he love the unruly lot of them in return, the extended family, headed by Yoshiyuki, that was all he'd known since his father had died in a riding accident five years back and left the already motherless boy an orphan.
He raised himself on one elbow. From here, the manor house looked like a toy, a rambling mixture of heavy, nearly windowless stone towers from the bad old days of war and siege, and of light, airy halls (some of them even set with precious panes of glass) dating from these more modern days of peace.
Not, Syaoran admitted, that his home ever seen a siege, Lord be praised. Thought the one good road did lead, eventually, all the way to Paris, the mass of forest had pretty much discouraged any would-be invaders.
Ah, yes, forest. There were days when he imagined going off to live in the woodland, at home there as he hadn't been at court. His people could accept his taking a personal interest in such plebeian things as sheep and cattle; after all, it scandalized that the count of Foretterre could survive in the wilderness like a lowborn forester.
But of course he couldn't run away. Yoshiyuki had been quite right; Foretterre really did depend on him. Besides, he didn't really want to run. No, what he really wanted was... was what?
Syaoran stared blankly up at the sky. He should be thoroughly content; it was foolish to be anything else. And yetlately there had been times when he was so lonely (ridiculous, amid all the bustle!) he could weep, and other times when he knew something was waiting for him, something so perilous and wonderful he could barely keep still for excitement.
What's wrong with me? What do I want?
A lady? A-a wife? Syaoran groaned, thinking of the royal court and all that noise and stench and crowding, all those overproud, overpainted ladies, full of gossip and pettiness. God help him, he could never share his life with someone like that!
A peasant had no such problems. Give him enough land and crops on that land so he had time enough to think, and a peasant could afford to happily follow his heart. But nobles must always be cautious, must think in terms of political alliances, strategic advances. The last thing the count of Foretterre should want was something as... common, as unfashionable, as lover.
Syaoran said something short and sharp under his breath. What was that matter with him? He'd never been one for mooning over poet's words or tales of the old Court of Love; overseeing the shearing of sheep or the curing of hams hadn't left much room for romance. And he had no intention of going all soft and messy now!
When Syaoran had first climbed up here, the air had been still, the birches' tender leaves hanging limp. But now their slender branches stirred softly, rustling in the rising breeze. Syaoran's gaze sharpened. The day that had been so clear this morning was rapidly changing. Masses of ominously dark clouds were sweeping in from the west, and there was a sudden sharpness to the air. Fortunately most of the planting was already done, because if a storm wasn't on its way, he'd be very surprised.
Time enough for foolishness when he was safely off this exposed hill. Syaoran got to his feet, shaking off bits of grass, and hurried back down for home.
Cherry: Hello everyone! I hope I didn't bore you all with this overloaded fic. After all, it is my first fic! Well, maybe second but who cares? Same thing, haha.
See ya all later! Bye!
Love Cherry.