The kitchen was its usual riot of sounds, smells, and activity. Rows of servants hunched over their workstations, preparing a multitude of vegetables and meats. Enormous fireplaces billowed with flame as oar-sized spoons stirred, moving within the hanging cauldrons seemingly of their own accord. Undercooks carefully iced hundreds of tiny, delicate cakes, attempting to stave off the waiters hovering over hastily assembled tea trays. Somewhere, a kettle whistled.
Against the wall stood an enormous washbasin, large enough to fill a bathtub, at which a lone figure was standing, arms submerged to their elbows in near-scalding water and soap, the rest covered in a multitude of scarves. The others gave the figure a wide berth, ignoring them except to gingerly add to the teetering pile of dirty dishes and utensils stacked beside the basin.
"There aren't any extra scraps today," grumbled a lesser faerie from their workstation as they trussed poultry. "We're neck-deep in this war, with no end in sight, and yet the Court still insists on throwing another party."
"We already sent the humans to the laundry room when we caught them stealing food. They're going to riot if they miss another day."
"They're severely outnumbered down here; most died while building the new tunnels and we haven't been able to replace them in seven years. Don't worry, even if they do rebel, they won't get far."
The lesser faerie's companion made a noise of impatience. "I don't know why we keep them to begin with."
"Don't say that! That is as good as treason down here. This Mountain is even more paranoid than usual, they'll look for any excuse to seem like they have this war under control." The first faerie sighed. "Let's just hope this war ends so we can go back to normal. I miss the pastries we used to get, with fresh cream."
The servants continued their lamentations of delicacies past gone in low voices, too busy working over their chopping boards to pay any attention to the human at the sink behind them.
The dishservant finished cleaning and drying a ladle to a spotless shine, then moved to one of the enormous, wood-fired cookstoves and placed it into a large pot of simmering stew.
Immediately, they staggered back, as they were struck across the face by a sous-chef. The nearby servants froze, heads snapping towards the commotion, before hastily returning to their work.
"How dare you defile this food!" the lesser Fae roared, grabbing the figure by the upper arm and yanking them back to the basin. "This entire pot has now been tainted. Get it out of my sight!" A demi-Fae wordlessly pulled the pot from the stove, carrying it to one of the back pantries.
After the supper dishes had been cleaned, the frail, hunched figure hobbled to the hallway of barrack-rooms housing the humans. They opened the door to their tiny room, containing a single cot, but stopped short as another human turned the corner, calling after them.
"Thank you," the human said as she approached. The hunched figure did not move or speak until a bowl of stew was raised towards them. They reached out a weathered hand and took the bowl. From down the hall, a tall, thin figure could be seen, peeking around the corner. Tiny, lovingly gathered curls framed a pair of large, brown, frightened eyes.
The woman continued, "It's been harder to get food the longer this war has raged on. Sometimes there isn't any left for us. Your help hasn't gone unnoticed; thank you."
The hunched figure held the bowl with both hands, nodding slightly to the human, until the woman turned with a final goodbye and went into their bunkroom, taking her daughter by the hand on their way. The figure returned to their tiny closet, closing the door securely behind them.
The figure sat on the edge of their cot for a moment, allowing their eyes to adjust to the small line of light seeping underneath the door, before pulling the scarves from their head with a sigh. Smooth skin belied the cracked, lined hands holding the scarves. They pulled a small vial of powdery, white flour from the folds of their scarf and set it on the floor, next to the bowl of stew.
Also on the floor stood an unlit candle, burned down to a near-stump. The figure debated for a moment, then lit the candle with one of the few remaining matches from a small packet. The tiny room flickered with dull, sputtering light, and the figure breathed slowly, refraining from looking around the claustrophobically small room.
They then reached underneath the thin mattress of their cot, pulling out a scrap of paper and small piece of lead. In a practiced hand, they wrote a few hurried sentences:
Human resistance most likely putting pressure on various Fae Courts, causing disruptions in food distribution. Fae are still trying to keep up appearances; unsure as to how long this will last. If this continues, humans at Court of Nightmares will likely starve in a matter of days, followed by lesser faeries.
The figure took a moment to check their spelling of the High Fae language. They rose from their cot, moving silently to the door. After listening for a moment, they folded the piece of paper into a tiny scroll and felt for a small crack along the doorjamb. Once the paper was securely inside, they returned to the cot. Then, hands shaking, they covered their head once again with the scarves and waited. Minutes passed, then a half-hour.
Suddenly, a phantom breeze blew the candle out, plunging the room into complete darkness. The figure curled their legs further underneath themselves, shrinking back against the wall.
An enormous, looming presence could be felt, somehow, inexplicably; though the door was still securely closed and no movement could be heard save for the quiet, shaking breaths of the human, there was something else in the room.
The figure breathed slow and deep, fighting their panic and the pitch-darkness as best as they could. After several long minutes, the presence abated, and the figure was alone once again in the tiny, dark room.
They let out a slow, haggard breath and leaned backwards, until the back of their head rested against the cold, stone wall.
Their head turned slightly against the rock, as faint orchestral sounds could be heard through the wall. No, not heard—felt, like the tines of a fork against a tooth, as the stone carried the sounds from miles away. The figure turned further, pressing their ear against the wall. Their breathing slowed.
The figure bent over the now-cold bowl of stew and started to eat.
The next morning, the hunched figure, securely re-concealed beneath layers of scarves, fumbled with the handle of their door during Rouse, leaning slightly against the jamb in their efforts to right themselves. When their hand came away from the frame, it contained a small piece of silver.
The previous incident in the kitchens did not go unpunished; the old, hunched figure was sent to the laundry hall for the week. The other humans eyed the newcomer warily, as the ancient figure seemed far too frail to stir the gigantic vats of boiling water and steaming cloth; however the figure soon busied themselves with slowly hanging some bed linens, slightly away from the rest.
"This just came in from one of the nobles," said a human quietly to their work partner. "Apparently, they decided they wanted new curtains. Do you think I can pawn it in the Mines?"
The other looked at the luxurious fabric and nodded, casually leaning forward as their companion tucked and tied the carefully folded yards of fabric into their underskirts. The lone figure continued with their work, unheeding of the conversation occurring nearby.
That evening, the hunched figure hobbled down their usual pathway, past large, stone hallways carved into the Mountain. Once they reached the dingy, dimly-lit corridors of the human settlement, however, they continued past, making their way slowly down a set of steps, and then further down a tiny, downward-sloping hallway, until, finally, the winding path opened into a large, illuminated room.
The vast room rang with echoes, even at an undertone; the cavernous space ensured any words spoken rang clearly throughout the chamber. All one had to do was listen carefully to pick out a singular line, and they would be able to find what it was they were looking for: mismatched, tarnished silverware; small vials of various tonics, potions and remedies; even tiny snuff boxes and trinkets were all being bought, sold, and bartered in the Mines.
The human slowly shuffled past the tables, where various hopefuls were chatting with the vendors. Bits of conversation swirled through the air.
"Now that the War has finally ended, I'm sure we will be receiving many more items from the higher nobles. I'm sure they have tired of their finery and will want to update themselves with the trends."
"Agreed. Perhaps we will get some newer crystal or silverware," the other vendor mused, running his finger over a small chip in the side of a teacup saucer.
The hunched figure continued to make their way down the rows, until at last they reached a long, cluttered table filled with practical items. The vendor nodded to the hunched figure in recognition, who in turn pointed intermittently to a pack of needles and some spools of thread, as well as a thin candle and packet of matches. The vendor accepted a tiny jar containing a few vanilla seeds in exchange for the items. The others couldn't understand it: there was no reason to agree to trade anything with this human; the vendor must have taken pity on them.
No such pity was given by the others. When the figure hobbled over to a table stacked with bolts of fabric, selecting a specific one, the vendor folded his arms over his chest. "That will cost you," he said.
The figure stilled for a moment before reaching into their sleeve and holding a piece of silver out to the vendor. The vendor raised their eyebrows. "Where did you get that?" he asked accusingly. The figure said nothing, holding the coin out further. When the vendor still didn't take it, the human started to turn towards another table, whose vendor, closely eyeing the encounter, stood a bit straighter, eager for the silver.
"Fine, give it here," the cloth vendor snapped, snatching the coin from the figure and handing them the bolt of cloth. The figure tucked the tightly rolled fabric under their arm, covering it with an end of their scarf, and slowly made their way out of the chamber and back towards the human settlement.
The figure sat on the edge of the small, bare cot, unmoving for several long moments, before removing the bundle of fabric from underneath their scarf. They ran their dry, cracked hands along the luxurious fabric, admiring the workmanship.
The figure carefully lit the fresh candle, and slowly, meticulously, started to sew along the edge of their newly acquired fabric, smiling softly to themselves as they worked.
The next week, the old figure stood once again in front of a steaming basin in an overwhelming kitchen. The chef boomed an announcement to the kitchen. "Extra rations for everyone, from the nobles!" The staff cheered, and plates of half-eaten desserts were passed among the crowd. Trays of bread and meat, cobbled together from various platters, were sent to the back pantry, to be shared amongst the humans after work.
But as the day passed, no guards came down from the broad, upper staircase to announce the end of the War, although there were a few whispered words and exchanged glances, a few small smiles among the kitchen staff.
The hunched figure made their way back to their room after the day's work, waiting for the announcement. Perhaps they were going to send a guard to the human settlement, so that they may all laugh and weep and celebrate together. But none came that night; nor the next night. Nor the next.