At some point through the night, the fever fell. It had not disappeared completely, but it was enough for strength to slowly return to his body. When Anon opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was his guardian goddess asleep in the chair at the desk. His heart melted at the sight. Books were surrounding her, some opened to random pages. As the elf slipped out of bed, he felt relatively self conscious. Quietly as he could, Anon tended his own wounds on his arms and legs.

Old bandages were removed, the chest opened and medical kit acquired. He cleaned the wounds and rebandaged them in fresh cloth. For the matter of being near naked, despite the bandages and undergarments, Anon felt there had to be something he could use. Silently padding over to the wardrobe, and found suitable clothing that just barely fit. Fully dressed, the supplies used were returned to their proper location, The elf sat at the edge of the bed, contemplating his situation while staring at the goddess.

Oberon's curse was partially countered, or was it that he managed to disable it and his body now needed to recover from the magic inflicted upon it? Curious, he tried to speak her name, yet no sound came still. His voice was still gone. He stood, moving to Nelanna's side, spying on some of the books she was reading. The hostess was researching possible ailments and remedies. 'Not going to work, sweetie. Oberon's curses are not found in any book.' Sapphire orbs drifted onto her peaceful face, her beauty striking through him once more.

Reluctant, a single, warm hand reached out and touched her own, gently squeezing her fingers. When her eyes opened, he smiled kindly at her, grateful for everything she had done for him. Once more looking at the books, he realized he could understand the writing, and an idea formed in his mind. Pointing to himself, then to a letter, Anon shook his head if she spoke the word it was in. Using two fingers, he hid everything but the C. He continued until he spelled out the word Cecil. The name was finally chosen.

    Awoken by the feeling of something warm squeezing her hand, Nelanna opened her eyes to see the elf smiling at her. She sat up quickly, startled to see that he was up, and smiled. “You’re up,” she said happily. As he started pointing at letters on a page in one of the opened books, her eyes followed. At first she didn’t know what he was trying to spell out, until she realized it was a name. “Cecil,” without her meaning to, the name escaped her lips in a quiet mutter. Her eyes lit up when it suddenly hit her. That was his name.

With a bright smile, she looked back up at him. “So you’re Cecil. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” After speaking those words, she took a moment to look over him, wondering if he was alright. He seemed to have found some clothing to wear, which reminded her she needed to wash and tailor his initial clothing. She hoped that him being up meant that he was feeling a little better. If that were the case, then perhaps her remedies had helped some after all. But it didn’t fix everything. He still couldn’t speak. And the fact that he had tried speaking twice already meant that he hadn’t always been mute. Those whom were mute would never attempt to speak, knowing it was futile. Which meant he was used to speaking, and somehow lost the ability. But what could take one’s voice away?

She stood from her chair, smiling at him. “You’ve been asleep for quite some time. Do you feel any better? Are you hungry? I can fix you something to eat if you wish.” She almost rambled, cutting herself short so she wouldn’t get overwhelmed with excitement. She was happy to see him up and moving about, to say the least.

The name flowed from her lips exquisitly, his face beaming with delight, nodding almost too enthusiastically. He instantly stopped, fingers on his temple as he realized his mistake, head throbbing and slightly dizzy. Nelanna spoke, to which Cecil gave a deep bow of the head, hand flourishing out. She was looking him over, and the elf held out his hands as he slowly turned in a complete circle. When the elvish woman came back into view, Cecil pointed to the neatly piled bandages.

If he knew what do with them, he would take care of them himself, let alone the fact he had remembered precisely where the kit was to do the task himself. Forcing his eyes to slide off of her face, worried he might be staring, Cecil found his clothing. With a frown, he picked up the shirt and inspected it. An exhale through his nose was fast enough to be heard, showing his irritation. Stupid crows ruined it beyond salvagability!

Hearing her onslaught of questions, almost excitedly caused Cecil to throw his head back in silent laughter. It wasn't meant to be condenscending, he found the excitement refreshing, even if he didn't understand why. Another smile flashed toward her, a nod in consent, the fae wondered if he would ever gain the ability to talk to this sweet stranger. Motioning toward the stairs, he was attempting to be a gentleman, allowing her to lead the way. While this was her house, and he was the guest without any knowledge of where anything was, he was still polite. It was a vow he had made when he ran away from home all those years ago.

Yet, his smile faded as he watched her, following slowly behind. Why was she helping him? Fairies are cruel, and it was all he had known. Most creatures took advantage of almost any situation. Cecil could not detect any ulterior motive from her, Nelanna seemed to genuinely care for his welfare. The concept rolled around and around, making absolutely no sense to him. Before leaving the room, he took a moment to rummage through the drawers to pull out blank paper and some charcoal pencils. There has to be a way to communicate with her!

As man followed woman, opening any door for her, he could not help but follow the curves of her back, notice the way her hips swayed when she walked. The grace of her kind did not fail her, and he wondered how aware she was to the knowledge that many, including himself, would find her extremely attractive. With her gentle heart, however, Cecil was afraid he would frighten her away, or get thrown out if he tried anything. How did mortals do this, again? If he could talk, what kind of conversations would they have? That's where they started, right?

Into the kitchen they went on the first floor. Feeling a bit guilty about not offering to help, the cursed elf sat down at the table, spreading the sheets before him. On the first, he attempted to write, but what was supposed to be beautiful archs and swirls, each line flowing into the next seamlessly turned out a jumbled scribbled mess. A child could have done better than him! Frustrated, he crumpled the paper into a ball and threw it. The next blank sheet glared at him, mocking him.

Knowing it was futile, Cecil sighed, lifted the pencil and began making soft marks on the page. He stopped thinking, stopped forcing himself. By the time she was done cooking breakfast, most of the page was filled with a beautiful charcoal scene. In the clearing of a forest, a gorgeous woman sat and held her child. The smile on her face was so loving, so tender. All that could be seen of the child was its back, with long hair. Both had insect-like wings, though the child's seemed tattered, possibly ripped in comparison. Cecil looked upon the drawing longingly.

    His enthusiastic smile, the brightness that shone in his eyes, it made her heart warm as she witnessed it all. Even everything he did afterwards, from circling to show he was alright, to pointing out that he had even managed to change his bandages. It all made her beam with overwhelming joy. Seeing him in the horrible state he had previously been in pained her dearly, so seeing this improvement gave her hope that he could be healed. There was even a glimmer of hope that his voice might return, but perhaps she was becoming too wishful. Not everything could be fixed. Somethings were permanent, and they had to accept that.

As he motioned towards the door, she blinked obliviously for a moment before she realized he was wanting her to take the lead. Ah, of course. With a light nod of her head she obligingly showed him out of the room and down to the first floor, paying no mind to him taking paper and pencils. Why he wished to bring such things with them, she didn’t know, but she didn’t really mind either. Down on the first floor, she left him at the dining table whilst she started the preparations for cooking breakfast. A flat iron skillet, some eggs, sausage and bread was all she needed. It was all used for making such a simple meal, but a delightful one. Though, there was a reason she had chosen to cook something so simple. She didn’t think she had a good hand at cooking, so she wasn’t willing to risk making something more spectacular, fearing she would mess it up. She hoped he didn’t mind.

The meal didn’t take long to make, a few minutes at best, and so she set it on the table to be eaten. As she was laying out the silverware and filling a couple of glasses with fresh, cold water, she took a gander at the page laid out before Cecil. Where there used to be a blank sheet of paper, was now an exquisite work of art. The picture was so well drawn; it was obvious the elfin man was gifted with talent. But, despite her being impressed, she also felt a bit of sorrow. Not at the art, but what the picture was.

A loving mother and her child, both presumably faeries, only, the child had tattered wings. It was a beautiful and touching piece, but also tragic. She didn’t understand the picture, and yet she understood it completely. She understand it represented a mother’s love for her child, and how she is there for them when they fall. Or at least, that’s what it meant to her, whether or not that’s what it was meant to mean. But, she didn’t understand what was happening. Why was the child’s wings broken? Had it been a simple mistake of childish clumsiness? Or did it have deeper meaning? One look at the longing look in Cecil’s eyes suggested it was the latter. It wasn’t what the picture meant in itself as a piece of art. No, the picture held some meaning within his heart, a meaning Nelanna thought she may never understand.

For once, just by the look in his eyes, she noticed that this man was wounded. And she could easily see, these were wounds that were not so easily healed, and sometimes, it was impossible. He had wounds in his heart, and she felt a stab of sorrow knowing she couldn’t ease his pain. She reached up with a hand and grasped her clothing above her aching heart, and before she had realized it, she wept. She wept for him. The moment she’d noticed the tears trickling down her cheeks she covered her face with her hands. Silently she cursed herself for allowing her female hormones to push her over the edge. Her thoughts had run wild, and now because of it she was weeping over something that may not even be true. She felt a fool for it, and attempted to force herself to stop crying.

She sniffled and wiped her tears away, but kept her head down, her eyes gazing blankly upon her food as she refused to look up and let him see her tears. She imagined she must look hideous. “I’m sorry,” she said through a trembling voice, the sound almost completely faded by the lump in her throat. Her aching heart pounded painfully in her chest, and her head was throbbing from the overwhelming emotions she was trying so hard not to show. “I…I don’t know what came over me…”

She swallowed, attempting to force down the pain in her throat which stole the beauty in her voice. Ever so deeply she longed to reach out to him, to embrace him and take his pain away. But the pain he felt rendered her useless; there was nothing she could do. It was the hearts’ pain that chooses what can heal it and what can’t, and if it ever will. At times, pain in the heart can be a blessing in disguise. It can open doors to a new life, one which will bring more happiness to its barer than ever before. But sometimes it can completely destroy a person, leaving their mind, soul and heart beaten and broken. Sometimes it was just a curse.

The food was placed before them, yet Cecil was lost to the confines of his mind. Emotions were flooding through him, walls he had so carefully built crumbled. Years of abuse came back, memories long forgotten uncovered. For the complexity of the past, it was a simple sniffle to ground him back to reality, reminding the fairy that he was not alone. His eyes slid over to the elf, finding himself perplexed.

Why was she crying? It couldn’t have been something he done, for he had been sitting quietly, reminiscing terrible events and the yearning for his mother. Glancing between the drawing and the elf, Cecil began to figure it out. Art can describe something, worth about a thousand words. A small, sad smile spread on his face as he reached out to wipe tears away. ’Don’t cry,’ he mouthed. Otherwise, she’d make him want to cry. For as much as he was masculine, Cecil carried very feminine traits due to the lifestyle he has led for so long.

An idea began to form. Taking a bite of the bread, the pencil was picked up and a fresh paper. Starting with basic figures, details began to fill in with each passing minute. The woman from the first page was portrayed in a traditional wedding ceremony with a gorgeous man next to her. Their hands were clasped lovingly. A new page was grabbed as Cecil continued with new found obsession. In the new page, the man stood tall, covering most of the background with outstretched hands. Before him, a group of fairies beat on the child fairy, one having a firm grip of a wing.

The poor child had arms trying to shield its head, a look of terror, fear and pain clear as day. Yet, looking at the others, the group looked malicious, the king, portrayed by the crown upon his head, grinned wickedly. A fourth was retrieved, charcoal lines beginning to form a new picture. Wingless Cecil was in this one, running, surrounded by crows. The shadow of the fairy king outstretched his hand, clawing at the fleeing man.

When he was done, the pictures were lined up in order. First the wedding, then the group attack, the woman holding the child, and finally Cecil running. Pointing to the cruel shadow, he pointed to his own throat, trying to tell her that is why he lost his voice. Expectantly, he watched her face carefully as she took in his attempt of communication.

Nelanna forced a weak smile as he wiped a tear away. With another sniffle, she finished the job by using a rag to wipe away the rest of her tears, taking a deep breath to try regaining her composure. The man started taking up new paper and drawing more pieces of art, and she watched intently as he did so. They way he drew, as if with urgency, and with seemingly deep concentration, Nelanna felt he was up to something. Perhaps he thought the first picture had told her something, and he was attempting to show her more? At that moment she couldn’t make much sense out of it, but as he laid each piece out in orderly fashion, she began to put the pieces in place.

Each one was far different, each seemingly telling a story of some kind. But one thing she was certain of, they were all related. The same child was in each and every one. Looking them over, she started to decipher them. A man and a woman on their wedding day. A child being beaten and abused. Perhaps their child? Then a mother cradling the child within her arms, and then there was Cecil, ruining from something. Her eyes widened once it all fit into place, and she looked up at Cecil.

This wasn’t just any story. This was his story. This is what he had endured, ever since childhood. With one more look at the last picture, then back at him, she realized what else it was he was trying to say. His voice. It was the shadowed man that had taken it. That picture must’ve been the day she found him! The crows, his lost voice, it must be! She placed a hand over her lips with horror. Now she knew what happened to him that day; how he had received those wounds. She looked back down at the third picture, the first one he had drawn and pointed out the mother.

“Was she your mother?” She asked. Perhaps it was a silly question, but just because the woman was motherly, it didn’t make her his mother. An adopted mother perhaps, or another relative, or a dear friend. Just like her and her older sister. If no one knew better they wouldn’t mistaken them for mother and child. And in her mind, she was more of a mother to her than her real one.

The more she looked at the pictures the more she began to understand. He was abused, and apparently hated. She could feel his pain, for she knew what it was like to be abused and hated. And by her own parents. But, she knew she didn’t have it near as bad as him.

Picking up the picture of mother and child, Cecil gazed upon it sadly. Unable to speak, and not because of the curse, but from a hard lump forming in his throat, he nodded. As he took in the loving features he nearly forgot, Cecil had to wonder if Nelanna understood the message in its entirety. Oberon married his mother, one of the most beautiful fairies in the kingdom. He was cruel to the child birthed by her out of petty jealousy as the beloved child consumed much of her attention and thoughts.

There was one image not included, a scene the fae was unsure if he could bring himself to draw. Once she passed away, everything got worse. Idly, the bread was nibbled upon. At least his host knew now that the remedy was not going to be easily found. In fact, it somewhat infuriated him that he could not counter it. Was Oberon that much stronger from age? To make matters worse, he felt quite awkward remaining silent. Oberon was cruel in the perfection of this punishment.

Unsure why he was being punished, Cecil stood and retrieved a glass of water to wash the food down. Sadly, he was full from bread alone. Effects from the countered curse lingered, having already taking its toll upon his body. Realizing he was being self centered, the fae turned his attention to his hostess, sympathy written clear as day in every soft curve. No, it was deeper than that, she empathized. There was a difference between someone who felt sorry for something, and someone who could relate to a similar experience.

Hesitantly, unsure if he should even ask, he sat back down, and pointed to the abused child. With a questioning look, his finger shifted towards her. ’Did someone hurt you too?’ Oh, so many ideas flooded his mind at the thought. Cecil wanted to hold her, kiss each tear off her face, make her feel warm and loved. Yet, he wanted to let her know how beautiful she was. Such beauty should not be made to suffer or feel sorrow.

    Nelanna felt the lump in her throat grow when she saw the nod, her heart feeling as if it had been stabbed. With another look at the pictures, she attempted to figure out why he was abused, and just what happened to his mother. Clearly she had been lost, and his heartache, his grief was visible as day. Had she been abused as well, just like him? And the others just…went too far one day? Or was it something else? She suspected it was the latter, considering his mother had no visible wounds, at least in the pictures, that suggested anyone had ever raised a hand to her. But why him? Why abuse him?

She looked back up at him in time to see him pointing at the picture of him being beaten, whilst pointing at her. And for a moment, she blinked, not understanding what he was trying to say. After a few more glances between him and the picture, something finally came to mind. A child being beaten, and then he points at her. Perhaps, he was asking what her childhood was like. If she had been abused as well.

Taking a shaky breath as she slowly became overwhelmed with emotions again, she nodded. She recalled all the times her father had raised a hand against her and her sister, and all the cruel things her mother said to them. They were nobility, but all her parents cared about was looking like the perfect family to everyone else. Outside of their house they put on doll faces and acted like everything was alright, but when the curtains came down, when no one could see, her parents showed their true selves. If her sister or her so much as spoke their opinions, they received a beating. Once, her sister even said their parents wanted them to be their little puppets, and were trying to hollow them out so they would have no desires or will. They would be nothing but broken dolls.

But she didn’t wish to burden Cecil with the knowledge of her past. It was all just that, the past. There was no need to cling to it. She was free from her parents, free from that hell of a house and the cruel things that happened within. She was free to do as she pleased, and free from a life of shackles. Nothing was holding her back. But Cecil…Cecil was different. His past chased him down and refused to let him move on. It refused to allow him to heal, to be free.

Without thought, she stood with a soft smile, muttering the words, “There’s no need to worry about me.” Then, she reached out her arms and embraced him, pulling his head against her bosom in a comforting hug. Gently stroking his snowy hair, not realizing what her actions might have caused him to think, she started humming him a soft song. One her sister had once sung to her when she was a child. It was a beautiful tune, one that relaxes the mind and body. She hoped it would be of use to him.

Nelanna took a shaky breath as she nodded. Cecil had opened a floodgate of memory and emotion for her many times over. Not only is she relating to him, but she was admitting to it as per request. He could almost swear to see them playing behind her eyes, the haunting events of the past becoming the foundation of lessons for the future. Yet the goddess refused to share a single word on the subject.

What would he give to know what she was thinking? The way she looked at him, the pity, was almost too much to bear. Finally, his goddess of beauty spoke, reassuring him the past was the past for her. His eyes followed her movement as she approached him. Surprise stiffened his body as she pulled him into an embrace, the soft mounds of her chest pressing against his cheek comfortingly. Nelanna stroked his hair, humming an unfamiliar tune. Her voice vibrated through her, as he both felt and heard it, along with every breath inflating the balloons beneath their cage.

Eventually, Cecil relaxed, gently pulling at her hips. Leaving his hands there, the elf closed his eyes. While wondering if she was trying to step in for his mother, even if temporarily, the fae knew there was no replacing her. Silent tears began rolling down his face at this realization, missing her to the fullest now, for the first time in years. Gripping her, he allowed himself to weep shamelessly. It was sad to see a grown man cry, yet Cecil had never paid much attention to such cliches.

She continued to hold him, allowing the reaction to run its course. When finally the tears were spent, he was content to just continue holding her, feeling the same love and compassion his mother washed over him. At some point down the line, Cecil sat up, scrubbed his face dry and sniffled. He owed her a huge debt of gratitude, both for his life and his sanity. Afraid to go outside, fear of Oberon descending upon the sweet Nelanna, he decided it was time for a bath. Perhaps he could regain composure in there. Looking up at his hostess, he gently rubbed a hand over the opposite arm, as if trying to wash himself.

    As she felt him relax against her she smiled softly to herself. And though she was slightly startled by him pulling at her hips, she didn’t mind. Nelanna figured it was because of his current emotional state; it was only natural for one whom is upset to seek comfort, and accept it when it’s given. And so, not even for a second did she stop stroking his white hair, nor did she let go of him. Then, she heard a sniffle.

Glancing down at him, she noticed tears streaming down his face, and felt her heart squeeze for him. As if on instinct, like a mother would when her child is hurt, she pulled him a little closer and placed a light kiss upon his forehead. “It’s alright. There’s no need to hold it in any longer. You can let it all out now,” she whispered ever so softly. Many people would frown when they saw a man cry. It was considered showing weakness, and because of societies’ twisted view on how people should be, men should never show weakness. They were looked down upon, as well as insulted and mistreated.

But she knew better. Tears were not a sign of weakness, but a sign that someone had experienced tremendous pain. Tears only reveal themselves once a persons’ heart could take no more. This, she could see clearly. Just how long had he suffered so? How long had he been hiding his pain from the world, and tried to remain strong? She may never know, and she didn’t need to. Already she had caused him pain by bringing back memories of his; she didn’t wish to cause him any more by asking more questions.

As he pulled away from her and dried his tears, she smiled softly at him, hoping she was able to bring him at least a little comfort. His next action was a curious one -rubbing his hand over his other arm -but she quickly began to realize what he was wanting. “Very well,” said she with a light nod.

With a wave of her hand, a simple motion for him to follow, she left the kitchen and started to the second floor. Nelanna showed him to the bathing room where a tub stood against the wall to the right, with cabinets the their left. The room was a rather small one, but there was plenty of room for one to get around.

“There are wash rags and soaps in the cabinets to wash yourself, as well as towels to dry. If you need anything, just knock on the door. I’ll be in my room.” With a friendly smile, she shut the door, leaving him in the bathing room, and walked over to her bed. She flopped onto the soft mattress and opened one of many books that had been laid out on her bed the night before. There, she waited, passing the time with more research. Only, this time, she was reading about fae curses.