The Present Ängsälvor

Word Count: 920 Average Read Time: 4:36 Time Finished: Supper of the Seventh Day.

Tylendore had been floating out over the lake for an hour or so, now.

His tears had long since run dry, unlike the rain which still fell through him. The incident had begun to percolate in his mind as the memories began to overtake his shock and indignation. He was as desperate now as he was 3 years ago to come up with some sort of solution… but they don’t exactly make gloves for Your cheeks.

At least not gloves You could wear every day.

For most Ängsälvor, being touched was something which only bothered them during puberty, as the sensation might send them into a gaseous form every once in a while. It was a minor inconvenience then, as there was no fear involved, and it was well understood that this was simply a thing which happened to young Ängsälvor.

But for Tylendore, being touched had bothered him since he was out of his mother’s arms. It felt like an invasion of privacy, a dirty little reaping of his personal space and security. He had never been comfortable when others had made physical contact with him, whether it was a shoulder pat or a hand shake… Or a touch on the cheek.

And puberty had only made his discomfort worse.

It took his panicked, frenzied reaction to those innocently guilty touches and turned it outward, forcing him to share that feeling with the world in a way that the world could never understand. The Ängsälvor could barely understand it, and when he left puberty they could understand it even less so, with claims that he was perhaps, “Still growing,” or, “Not quite there yet.”

It took two very painful years for Tylendore to decide for himself that they were wrong. And then, in a foolish and youthful haze, he had decided to cut all ties for a while. Perhaps the Solid would be more understanding.

They were not.

But now, he had to get home. He needed to wash himself, to wash away the lingering emotions clinging to him like the fog cloud he now was. Deciding this, he drifted towards the bank of the lake, towards the highway which had been the site of his most recent incident.

And then, he noticed something weird: There was a four-horse carraige on the road. It had not been there a few moments ago: If Tylendore hadn’t noticed himself, he would easily be able to tell by the portal which had opened about three feet off of the ground, and was still swirling slightly in the sunless sky. It had been teleported here by some kind of magic.

And there was a girl in the road, facing the opposite direction.

Making a loud noise in the form of the cloud is not easy. Far more easy was it to create a stiff wind, or a gust which could easily allow birds to drift off. Noises were nearly impossible: With no body to use as a noisemaker, what noise was there for the wind to carry?

Though this did not stop Tylendore from trying. He sent wind after wind after the girl, trying to help her notice what was about to befall her. He continued, as fast as a cloud conceivably could, anyway, to drift towards the shore. Almost there. Just a bit more.

But, then, so was the carriage.

To her credit, the little girl noticed what was going on. She spun around to face the horse which knocked her to the ground. And then, as the carraige passed, it drove over… a small bump in the road.

He was at the shore now, and quickly tried to change back. It took him a few minutes; changing from one form to another (except when propelled by something extremely life threatening or shocking, like his fear of being touched) was a process to be worked up to, not a simple choice. By the time he was solid again, the carriage was long gone, and the girl was crying loudly…

And holding something close to her chest…? Was it crushed in the accident? Perhaps it was special to her, or something she had been given by someone close to her. Wanting to find out if that was the only thing damaged in the accident, Tylendore stepped forward… but stopped short in a moment of pause.

This had been an obviously traumatic experience for the woman, and he did not want to force his way into the situation… Bothering her with his interest when she had already been through so much that day might be seen as offensive. Tylendore had certainly felt that way at times, particularly after being hit or touched. A stranger’s care could easily be almost as bad as the event itself… but he had seen the whole thing.

She was heading away, now. Presumably to her home. He had to make a decision, and quick, or it would be too late to help her at all. He resolved to inquire after her well being, and to do so as politely as he possibly could. She might want the details of the car that hit her, after all. And there was- oddly- no one else around at the time.

And so, Tylendore shortly found himself on the steps of Tale’s house. There was no knocker on the door… and no handle. Well, it’s still polite to request entry, even when not forced to do so.

And he knocked. Bang Bang Bang.

The Untouchable Ängsälvor

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.