And Their Lips Dripped Red

It was dawn in the forest. The sun was just waking up, yawning and blinking her dew-soaked eyelashes in a sky painted with perfect, watery brushstrokes of yellow, orange, and lavender interspersed with wispy blush-colored clouds. The trees were shaking water off of their leaves and turning their eyes to the sun, letting the rumors and insults traded by the birds and squirrels populating their branches roll like raindrops off their trunks. The forest's magic was settling itself down in the dewy grass, breathing relieved sighs that sparkled in the slowly strengthening light of the morning. All of the magical creatures were awakening by then, stirred by the chiming voices of the fairies as they flitted between the shyly opening wildflowers.

It was dawn as the stranger walked through the forest.

The elves, their greenish-bluish skin obscured by their camouflage cloaks, the cowls pulled up around their heads, stood perfectly still behind the thick-barked maple trees. The trees, although they could not move anyway, had the air of trying to be still as well; but the nervous rustling of their leaves gave them away. But the elves weren't paying any heed to the slight shake of branches or the way the sun, who had been merrily shining through the forest just a moment ago, had hidden, terrified, behind a cloud. Their attention was focused on the stranger, who was wearing a midnight-colored cloak (without the stars, of course); matching high boots made for a leisurely walk through a courtyard, not a forest; and a striking gold bracelet that shone even in the sudden dimness. 

Suspicious. The elves' hands flew to their daggers.

The fairies had immediately tucked themselves into their respective flowers, folding their wings as fast as they could to hide the telltale glow from the stranger's eyes, which were nowhere to be seen underneath the darkened hood of their cloak. Now, strengthened by the incessant chirping of the chickadees and cardinals (come out, come out, don't be scared! they seemed to be saying; in reality, these birds are scared by almost nothing and were just going about their morning), a few fairies peeked out of the petals. Their wings glowed silver and gold as they fluttered one inch, then two, then a whole foot out of the grass and wildflowers that were much safer than open air.

The stranger heard their wings flapping - a tiny sound, so light even the fairies themselves could barely hear it - and within a millisecond, the stranger's hand had shot out of its sleeve and snatched a beautiful flower fairy straight from the air.

She opened her mouth to scream, but it was too late: the stranger had her grasped tightly in their fist. They laughed silently, throwing back their head, in turn throwing off their hood.

Underneath was a face scarred by years of battle and decades of trauma; a crooked nose that had been broken several times; and one shockingly green eye, the other closed forever under a silver eye patch. The left side of their head was shaved almost to the point of breaking skin, and the right was longer, but not by much. But the thing that made the clouds thunder in disapproval, the delicate sun to tremble with fear, the fairies to hide in the wildflowers yet again, and the elves to let loose dozens of arrows at once was that the stranger smiled.

And

their

lips

dripped

red.