The morning lark, the evening sparrow. The softest touch of frost before eternal slumber. The blinding brilliance of life's peak, the desolate void that is it's end.
He wandered the world, adjacent to them all. His footsteps bringing decline and decay, beautiful and sorrowful in their own ways. He was the king of the autumn clan, the golden-red throne in the southern reaches of the Unseelie Court. He was the heritor of the final days of life, who ushered in the season of gentle rest before the long night and the end of the cycle. He was the third of the Fairy Kings of Seasons-- The Fairy of Sorrows, known by his subjects as 'Tyrnalhann, the Longing One'.
"A-Aaahhh! Crap, it still hurts a bit..."
"It's not too late for him to just chop the leg right off, y'know-- And we've got the funds from that last quest. You'd look good with a stump!"
"Fuck off, Marlow! Ugh... Thanks again, doc. Dunno what you're doin' all the way out here, but you're one hell of a life saver."
"My pleasure. You two take care on your way back to town, now!"
Granted, Erste (as he much preferred to be called) didn't particularly care for such titles-- or responsibilities, to be honest. The seasons came and went with or without his presence at court-- so he made the most of the time he had and did as he pleased. He wandered the lands of Le'raana, often in search of the adorable little saplings that now littered the land with their intriguing structures and their silly little disputes. Mortals were such amusing creatures-- he couldn't fathom how so many of his kin were opposed to showing themselves before their ilk.
Take for instance, those two. As Erste waved kindly at the departing pair of adventurer-types, the brash, insecure boy... Hector, was it? And his doting partner, too afraid of rejection to share her own feelings, Marlow. They'd crossed paths with him on their way into... oh, what did the mortals call these lands... Featherfall? Yes, that sounded right-- and it was during their chance encounter that the autumn fae noticed the festering wound that Hector had received likely some few days prior. He could barely stand-- supported in body and spirit by Marlow as they prayed that they could make it back to civilization in time enough to save him.
It was always so tragic to see such young saplings wilting away before they had their chance to bear fruit, so Erste couldn't help but interfere-- applying the knowledge he'd accrued from his own time among mortal medicine-makers to draw out some of the poison that coursed through the boy's veins. Enough, at least, that he might survive the rest of the way to his home town. Erste smiled kindly as their silhouettes disappeared into the distance, before he closed his eyes, and took in the afternoon air, and the gentle breeze that seemed to caress and envelop his very being.
Yes, the boy would certainly die soon. He was quite familiar with the poison that he'd pulled from his wound-- It was born of the fangs of a wild fae-- primitive creatures that often dwelled within his domain. There was a cure, but retrieving it meant he'd have to return home-- and that would mean the most horrible of fates for him...
...Getting scolded by his subjects again. Oh, what tragedy... Yet, his endearment with the mortal adventurer-lovers was such that he had long-since made the decision to endure it for their sake.
