Chapter Text
1
She knew she was being dramatic, but there really was no other way to put it, Gaia was dying. At least the males were, and they were all powerless to stop it. Something was happening to her planet, a toxin of some kind, and it was killing their men by the hundreds. Her husband and king, Thero, amongst the victims. She hadn't had the time to mourn his passing…
At his death, Queen Sylvania, of the faerie kingdom, was thrust into power. Her magical and spiritual powers for naught as she stood by and watched helplessly her people be devastated by a virus that killed all the males, regardless of their age. The women had all turned their panic and grief-stricken eyes towards their leader, her, in the hope she could save them.
She could not. She had no recourse of action, no plan, and no idea. This had to be caused by the Orcs to the North, they had been the ones pushing against their borders for decades, but the faeries had been able thus far to repel them. The war (to the faeries it was war, to the Orcs raids) had been bloody and savage with both sides suffering casualties. The Orcs had never used magic before or poisons, preferring to rely on their brute strength and advanced weaponry. They were all about melee, sword swinging, shield bashing, halberd wielding, club waving, axe throwing… Sylvania shuddered at the spectacle she was visualizing.
A pale green hand touched at her jeweled, curled horns anxiously. The action soothed her frayed nerves. Most faeries were a green in colour (from pale to dark), matching the foliage of the forests they lived in and protected. There were variants, yellows, reds, browns, purples, blues and whites that matched colours of spring, winter and fall. They all had wings that differed in shape and colour, from a butterfly's beautiful, colourful patterns to a dragonfly's crisp, clear wings (hers were like that). Not all faeries were horned, but those that were varied in shape and size. Some had deer antlers, others had unicorn horns, the nubs of young fauns was common, but rare were the curled horns of the ram (like hers).
Faeries were very different from the Orcs, despite them having the same skin colour mostly (Orcs were green too), and some animalistic features (Orcs had tusks) there were no other similarities. Her people varied in size, from the minuscule (flower faeries were no bigger than her pinkie finger) to the giant tree faeries (as their name implied, tree size). Most of the fae folk were between four feet to six feet in height. Their males just a tad bigger.
Orcs were much bigger at well over six and a half feet (and that was a small one), three hundred pounds of muscle average and a resistance to magic that made the faeries nervous. They were the complete opposite of each other. It was next to impossible to visualize that once, eons ago, they were part of the same species.
No one knows what caused the rift, the catalyst lost to time, but it had happened. One faction leaving the sanctity of the forest for the cold northern shores. The land had made them hard. The Orcs lost their magical abilities, lost their wings and the ability to commune with nature. They turned into veritable barbarians. Warriors that did not hesitate to kill anything.
They had kept to their side of the planet for ages, warmongering amongst themselves. The faerie folk had eventually forgotten they even existed. They were not violent by nature, and faeries were immortal in the sense that they could not die of old age, but that was it. They could be killed. Disease, a sword through the heart, crushed by a tree, drowned in a flooded river, even lightning striking could end their lives.
About eighty seasons ago, the Orcs had returned. Again no one knew why, but what they wanted became painfully obvious. The raids had started at night, they had entered under cover of darkness and had grabbed women and children. They had only killed a couple of their men in the process.
It turned out that Orc females had become less and less frequent, most dying on the battlefield. Myria, one of her attendants with beautiful monarch wings, had been taken in the first raid, and she had escaped, but not before seeing the horrors that would haunt Sylvania to this day.
Thero, her husband, had turned ashen and looked as grim as Sylvania had ever seen him. The Orcs were using the faerie women as broodmares, to replenish their dwindling numbers. Those that had been taken had their wings cut off and the area had been cauterized to prevent re-growth, all forms of clothing had been removed and the faeries had been placed into public stocks for use.
Myria had managed to escape because she had the capability to become invisible if she stayed still. Disintegrating into the air as though nothing was there. She had followed the Orcs to their camp and had watched the horrors perpetuated on her sisters. The boy children that they had grabbed were executed, the girls were thrown into a large pit in the ground with 10 feet walls (after their wings were removed). The women were put in these wooden stocks that forced them to be on their knees at hip level to the average Orc.
It had taken only the knowledge of what was to become of her sisters for Myria to leave the Orcish camp. She had not wanted to see her people, friends and family, violated.
Thero had ordered the tree faeries to the borders of the forests. They were the first line of defense, and they were numerous. The fae folks were not without their defenses, and they used them. It never stopped the raids fully, but most times the Orcs left empty-handed. It became the mundane, to wake to the sounds of alarm and panic as the Orcs came.
Seasons passed, with no signs of their new enemies vacating. Thero hardened, from a sun loving monarch into a magic weapon, training many of his soldiers in powerful destructive magics. He brought the fury of nature, with the wrath of the heavens to the palms of his hands. He had trained her as well, for he could never imagine life without her.
Her breath caught suddenly. She had never imagined life without him either, yet here she was. It had taken her so many seasons to overcome the crippling grief Thero's death had caused, and by the time she had marshaled her forces, it had been for naught.
The remaining faerie folk had long abandoned their great cities of stones and crystal, living amongst the forests, staying in pockets of relative safety, avoiding Orcs that still searched for them. Sylvania knew they searched for her.
She alone had the power to bring the rest of her people into bondage, to stop the war. They had hope so long as she was never captured. With the death of her husband seasons passed, the law of the forests had fallen to her. She was not afraid.
Sylvania was a faerie of chaos. Her husband had been the opposite a faerie of order, controlling nature and its physical aspects. Sylvania controlled the internal aspects, what was not seen. Air, diseases and illusions. Sylvania knew with a reasonable amount of certainty that if she were captured, she could manipulate her way out of it.
Maybe . A hard maybe.
She was not as confident as she portrayed herself to be. Without men with which to replenish their numbers, the faeries were facing not just the Orcs, but extinction. Not for the first time, Queen Sylvania whispered a prayer to Gaia, begging for a miracle, for help, for anything. Anything that could stop what the Orcs were doing to them.
"He was killed! My Lady!" Sarana, a scout came rushing into her personal cavern, her voice panicked, and something else that Sylvana had not heard in a long time, seasons actually… hope, "My Lady!"
"Yes, Sarana?" Sylvania lowered her hands, her wings flicked.
" He was killed!" She practically shrieked as she finally reached her mistress, in the darkness.
Black eyes widened. "Who…? How…?" She does not pretend to not understand what her scout is telling her. She knew immediately who she meant. Balthazar, eight feet of Orc Berzerker that had been thrashing the tree faeries. Immune to almost all their magics (Hers had not been tested for he was beyond dangerous). He had been stalking their territories for the last five seasons, forcing them single-handedly to continuously be on the move.
"We captured him!" The faerie was screaming, pulling on the Queen's arm, "He had no defense against our magic, come see!"
Sylvania followed after her at a more staid pace. She wanted to rush, but her dignity had to be preserved at all times, not to mention she was afraid. Someone had killed Balthazar… and they had captured him. That did not sound right to her. Was this an Orcish trick? Her fingers flexed with her power.
Her eyes narrowed as she stepped out into the sun, and there, lying on the ground on his back, his long, black dreads around his head, was a sleeping man (Sarana assured her he was unconscious). As large as Balthazar had been, and as wide. His skin was a forest green, almost black on the outside of his shoulders, arms, legs, and a paler green, almost yellow on his chest, inner thighs and arms. Dark green speckles blended the two tones of his skin, and were splattered across his body almost like freckles. Spines went down his chest in a line, not unlike the body hair Orcs had. He sported black talons, and he was outfitted in armour very different from anything the Orcs would ever wear. There was a necklace of small skulls across his chest and around his neck. It was the large, bloody head of their nemesis at his hip that glared out at her.
Her eyes travelled his hulking muscled frame from toe claws to head. An evil, plain, terrifying mask with slanted eyes, large sloping forehead and a wide jaw was staring back at her. Her mouth dropped open. He was covered in the green blood of an Orc, but also another glowing, green substance. Was that his blood? Was he wounded?
Had Gaia answered her prayers? Was this 'Orc-slayer' to be their champion?