The Creation of the Fairy, Lukas: A Hesitant Addition

Sigurd Thomassen was a young man who was born into a prominent family in the north. Upon his fifteenth birthday, he was written into his grandfathers will as successor to his company. The company produced sheet music, musical booklets, and the sort. The business was successful, and the grandfather was one of the wealthiest men in the city.

Despite being named the successor, Sigurd found no pleasure in business. There were two things he found pleasure in. One was baking, and the other was dancing. While he desired to dance, he was born with delicate ankles, and was denied entry into a school for performance.

Before Sigurd could attempt to follow his dream of baking, he was swept into a whirlwind that was the death of his grandfather. Creating delicious foods for others was no longer on his mind, and instead it was fortunes and "willed to him" and "willed to her".

Sigurd, being his grandfather's favorite and his successor, was left his vast fortune. While some members of the family were pleased, others were jealous. It didn't seem right that Sigurd should get both the fortune and the company. They kept quiet about this, and Sigurd could sense no resentment.

Weeks after the death of his grandfather, Sigurd received a letter in the mail. It was from his cousin, a man who lived in Denmark. Sigurd had only met his cousin once, and hardly knew him. The letter stated that there was a chest of things that had belonged to their grandfather, but the chest was far too heavy to be shipped, and someone must come down to sort through the items.

Sigurd sent the letter back, suggesting that the cousin keep the contents, but the cousin wrote back, saying that there were ancient books, boxes of jewelry, famous paintings, and more. The word had spread that the cousin had these riches in his grasp, and every person in the family agreed that they needed the items in the chest sorted through and brought up to the city.

Sigurd sent another letter, saying that his cousin ought to ship each piece separately, that he himself would volunteer to pay for them with the money his grandfather had left him, but the cousin refused in his next letter, saying that he did not trust the carriers to not steal such valuable items, and that one of them should come down to Denmark to visit him.

Although Sigurd wanted nothing from his cousin and didn't care for what was in the chest, his family suggested that he go, as he was young and it was important that he see the world before he became too old to do so.

Sigurd set out to Denmark, eager to see what was supposedly so important that he had to leave his home for three weeks. Once he stepped off the carriage that had taken him to his cousin's home, he could not believe how beautiful the house was. He began to walk up the path, but was stopped by the man himself.

He was a wide man with crooked teeth and a crooked pair of spectacles. He put his arm around Sigurd's shoulder and led him back towards the road.

"Good to see you! My God, you've gotten big," he exclaimed, patting Sigurd on the stomach. The young man nodded slightly, gave the cousin a look over, and stepped into a carriage that he'd flagged off of the road.

"I thought it would be best to lighten the mood, hm? I know the best pub in town! I know you will love it. A growing boy like you must have a few drinks a day, hm? A few drinks?"

Sigurd shook his head slowly and said, "Only at mass." He hadn't meant it to be comical, but his cousin chuckled and put a hand firmly on his shoulder.

"Ah, you will have an excellent time! You'll be thanking me after this."

Sigurd highly doubted that statement, but stayed silent. When they arrived at the bar, he expected his cousin to pay the driver, but he stepped out and was silent for the first time since they'd met. Sigurd paid the driver, thanked him, and looked dreadfully at the pub. The sun was already going down and the lights in the building were bright.

"Perhaps we should go elsewhere," the young man said. His words were ignored.

The bar was loud and bustling later into the night. Sigurd had managed to abstain from drinking in the beginning, but eventually, once offered a glass of honey-coloured liquor, he took a drink. It was so foul that he spat it out onto the floor, earning laughs from those around him. He turned bright red and drank the entire glass in response. His cousin clapped him on the back, but didn't offer him another. Sigurd was glad. He was sure that if had to drink another glass, he would be severely ill.

A few minutes passed, and the bitter taste had faded, but now his stomach was aching, although it felt nothing like illness. It felt like he had been hit. He tapped his cousin on the shoulder and said, "I am feeling very ill. I think it would be best if we left now."

"We can't leave now! The party has just begun! Ah, I remember my first drink. There is a door right over there. It leads to an alleyway where you'll be just fine if you need quiet or you think you're going to be ill."

Sigurd shoved past the crowd and stepped outside into the dirty alley. It smelled like rotting food. He rarely faced such filth and it made his stomach churn. He leaned against the wall for a while, trying to control his breathing despite the cold air burning his throat.

"Sigurd?"

"Yes?" He answered. When he turned from the wall, he expected his cousin, but instead there were two men calling his name. One stood on his left side, and other on his right, and both were very intimidating.

"You are coming with us," the first said. The second clutched Sigurd's shoulder, holding him in place. The young man tried to shove that one off, but he was too strong and retaliated by knocking him to the ground.

"Let me go, you criminals," he said, squirming in the grasp of the first man. They both looked at each other, then at Sigurd. The young man couldn't tell what they were thinking, and he was trying to be brave, but he was frightened. The first man lifted him to his feet and handed him to the second, who held him by the arms.

"What do you want? I have money. I can give you money," he offered. His voice trembled and a large tear slid down his throat, but neither cared. The first man took out a gun, then shook his head and put it back. Sigurd sighed in relief, pleased that the man had no intention to kill him.

"I promise I will give you all the—"

Suddenly, Sigurd felt a sharp pain in his side. He looked down to see a knife in his side and his white shirt stained dark red. His breathing picked up and he tried to cry out, but his mouth was covered by a rough hand, and again he felt the knife, but it was no longer on his side. This time, it was across his neck. Tears rolled down his cheeks and his neck felt warm from the blood seeping out of the fresh wound.

Once the man released him, he fell to his knees, then collapsed onto the ground. He was limp there, and his eyes were squeezed shut. He heard the door to the pub open and footsteps. "What is going on?"

It was his cousin. He could have cried in relief. He almost shouted to him, but then heard, "I never told you to kill him." His face fell and he started weeping silently. The first man knelt down, grabbed Sigurd's face, and said, "Look! He isn't dead at all. He's crying. You see?"

"You slit his damn throat! You did a bad job, but look! And you've stabbed him! He is useless to us now. We can't save him. You idiots! Nobody wants a dead hostage!"

"Look," the second man said. "We will cut off his hand, send it to his family, and that should be enough for them to send the money for him. I am sure they know where he keeps his fortune."

Sigurd tried to sit up and scoot away, but he had to hold onto the wound on his side. He tried to say please, but it wouldn't come out. "You know," started the second man, "This is for the best. If you sent him back, he would tell the police, and we would be on the run."

The young man attempted to beg for his release, suggesting that he would tell no one of this night if they were to let him live, but his words fell.

"Take him somewhere and bury him. I am sure that he won't last. Remove his hand. It could be of use if we choose to pursue the money more… persuasively," the cousin said.

Sigurd cried out in agony as he was lifted to his feet and taken over to a carriage. The second man tied him up, shoved him in the back, and slammed the door shut.

Sigurd was losing blood rapidly, and the carriage ride seemed to never end. He rolled onto his side, closed his eyes, and began to cry again. He did it softly, so that the men couldn't hear. His stomach and side were aching, and the lack of blood made his head spin. He buried his face into the cushion, curled up as small as he could get, and whispered wishes under his breath.

He wished he could be somewhere else. He wished he was free. He wished his family was safe and content. He wished that the men would be merciful. He wished he could fly away. He didn't want this to be his last day. He wanted to eat good food again, to dance, to sing, to fall in love someday.

As his mind began to falter and he felt himself slip further into unconsciousness, he could almost taste pastries again. Feel the touch of his mother. The soft sway of his body from soft, sweet music. It all lulled him.

Once his eyes were shut, they never opened again. The men took his left hand and put his body into a crate. They took a ferry onto an island, sure that if the young man was buried there, he would never be found. In the early morning, they wandered into the forest, finding a large tree to bury him under. The hole wasn't dug deep, but it was enough to fit his body in. They removed anything of worth from his body and threw him into the ground. They packed the dirt on top of him, then covered it with grass and flowers to disguise the freshly dug grave.

The second man turned to go, but the first took out his knife and, feeling more sentimental than the other, carved a cross into the tree above his shallow grave.

Time passed and the family of the young man was still grieving their loss, and would for the next coming years. On top of Sigurd's body grew a patch of flowers, each one more beautiful than the next, and it could have been that they were so beautiful because they grew from the blood that pumped through his heart, which was a very pure one.

In the springtime, months after he'd been buried, an especially lovely flower grew right out of where his heart used to be, and it was red and luscious. From the flower came a little creature, a fairy that was only as tall as a woman's hand and as light as a twig. He stretched his arms, fluttered his wings, and looked hopefully out at the bright, warm day.

The fairy would go on to do many wonderful things and meet wonderful people, but there was one mystery in his life that was never solved, and it was that because of his peculiar case, one could never know if he was a fairy, or an angel, and by the time he ceased to exist on this Earth, everyone who had known him would say the latter.

The End.