Word Count: 948 Average Read Time: 4:45 Time Finished: Third Day Morning Sprints
Describing how it felt to become a cloud of mist was never easy.
A similar task might be describing a sneeze to someone who has never had one. Or an orgasm. It was something the body approached and achieved, not something one simply chose to do and then executed. To the Ängsalvor, it was something that came naturally, with time.
And (in much the same way as a orgasms and sneezes) they were something one could often enduce at will, but not something one could ever fully control.
That would not stop the Solid from asking constantly to see it, as though something so personal or embarrassing should be put on show for the entertainment of the public. But Tylendore would never react with the indignity he felt when being asked to perform, because he knew it was not so much a spectacle to those Solid as it was genuine interest.
At least, that was what he always told himself when asked, in order to be calm.
Today was no exception. Tylendore had come across a family: A mother and two children. The mother was explaining to the young ones exactly what he was, and what about him was different. In hushed tones, he heard her teach them how he was not to be trusted quite as much as any other stranger or Other that they might meet. Though, to her credit, she did not expound on why that was- at least not while she was standing three feet in front of him.
Apparently, whatever version of the story she knew wasn’t horrid enough to preclude asking for a free show for her and her two little angels.
Normally at this point Tylendore would hold up his gloved hands and make some excuse about not being able to do it again today. Being worn out. Willing, but not able. This was more understandable to them than explaining his real situation. Disappointment would rush across their faces, but never anger.
Being too blunt, he had learned over time, would spell disaster for him. Many of the Solid races were not used to being told, ‘No,’ by anyone, especially not one of a race as maligned in the public eye as the Ängsälvor. They would get violent, but first, only in words. Trying to lash out with lexicon to get their way. And sometimes, that was when they would leave.
Other times, they would get physical.
It was always difficult to convince anyone that an Ängsälvor was the victim in a situation. They were not immediately considered Evil by most, but they were usually marked as the troublemaker between any conflict they might be involved in.
“Why didn’t You just show them?”
“Why did You wear Ängsälvor clothes if You didn’t want people asking that?”
“Why did Yoy fight back? It would have been better if You just let it happen, and left.”
Unfair. Unjust. But this mother had just asked him a question.
But as he began to eloquently tell them, ‘No,’ the mother walked up to him and cupped his cheek in her palm as she began to ask ever-so-nicely.
Panic raced through Tylendore’s mind as he felt the warmth of her hand on his cheek. It burned like fire, it froze like ice. He reeled back and started to breathe heavily, eyes wide and face on fire. His entire face and neck was beginning to feel numb. And then, it began.
He felt the tingle of the Mist flow through his skin, and then explode out into a cloud around him, along with his body and mind. His entire being was thrust into the act, and he could not stop it. In other circumstances, it might have been enjoyable.
Here, it made him sick to his stomach.
He had yelled, as the trasformation had begun. This was now a wailing noise, carried on the wind from within himself, out towards the group of sickening Solid people still standing before him. They got what they wanted, even when he did not willingly give it to them. He had been forced into the Mist by their touch, once again.
A sense of doom washed through him, through the cloud that was now his body. Though they could not see the change, his form shifted to reflect it in a way that other Ängsälvor would have been able to see. The Others, well, they could just see a cloud.
And he could see all around him, or rather, he could without moving. He still needed to focus and change his perception. Seeing all around him at once was something only very special Ängsälvor could do, and he was not special. He was not even normal, or worth the dust being kicked up as the two children ran off, being followed by their sickeningly applauding mother.
Good Riddance, he thought, turning his attention to the pond beside him, floating out over it to try to calm this dreadful feeling he had. His heart would still be beating a mile a minute, if it were in one piece.
As it was, his body was spread out evenly amongst the folds of the mist. If he were to breath, the entire cloud would softly create a breath around him. If he were to relieve himself or sweat, the drops of liquid would fall from him slowly, as though the were condensation or rain.
At least there was that, he said to himself, as he settled softly on the bank of the pond, just overtop the water, so no one would notice him cry.