The first time Rody ate a pixie, he was only 10.
It had fluttered into his family’s meager kitchen, chasing the scent of sugar that wafted from a cracked jar on the counter. Rody, tired and hungry from a long day, had watched it with a mixture of awe and curiosity. The tiny creature sparkled with an otherworldly glow, its wings shimmering like glass in the afternoon sun. When it perched on the edge of the sugar jar, its delicate fingers dipping into the sweetness, Rody had moved without thinking, snatching it up in his hands.
The pixie had been small enough to fit in his palm, its eyes wide with fear as it wriggled in his grasp. Rody hadn’t meant to hurt it-he hadn’t even known what he was doing. But the scent of the creature, sweet and floral like a summer breeze, had overwhelmed him. His stomach had growled, and before he could stop himself, he brought the pixie to his lips and bit down.
The taste was like nothing he’d ever known. Sweet, impossibly so, like the ripest fruit or the richest honey, and something more-something wild, electric. He could feel it in his veins, pulsing with each bite, each swallow. Magic. Raw, untamed magic, flooding his body and mind.
When it was over, he sat there, breathless, staring at the bloodied remnants of the pixie in his hand. His fingers crackled with energy, sparks dancing at his fingertips. The magic surged through him, intoxicating and overwhelming, and Rody knew, in that moment, that his life had changed forever.
—
By the time he was in his twenties, Rody had made a name for himself. In a world where magic was coveted, feared, and revered, he was seen as a prodigy. A wizard of unparalleled power, capable of casting spells with a flick of his fingers, bending the elements to his will, and enchanting objects with a mere glance. He was known in every major city, hailed by kings and feared by rival sorcerers.
But no one knew his secret.
He wasn’t a wizard. Not really. He’d never studied the arcane arts, never learned the ancient languages of magic or memorized the complex incantations that true wizards used. His power came from the pixies-the tiny, fragile creatures he trapped and devoured in secret.
Rody had become an expert at trapping them. Pixies were drawn to sweetness, unable to resist the pull of sugar or honey. All it took was a jar coated in syrup, the lid left slightly open, and they would come, fluttering like moths to a flame. Once inside, their wings would grow heavy, sticky with syrup, and they would fall, helpless, to the bottom of the jar. From there, it was easy. Rody would wait until nightfall, when the world was quiet, and consume them, one by one, feeling their magic surge into him with each bite.
It was almost pathetic how easy it had become. The pixies were so naive, so trusting, never suspecting the danger they were flying into. They were nothing but tools to him now-sources of power, easily caught and just as easily discarded.
But recently, something had changed. The magic wasn’t coming as easily as it once had. Each pixie he consumed seemed to grant him less and less power, the surge of magic fading faster than before. He had grown restless, frustrated, his hunger for power driving him to catch more, consume more, yet it was never enough. His spells faltered, his magic waning, and the fear of being discovered gnawed at him.
He needed something stronger. Something more.
—
The night was cold, the wind howling through the cracks in the window as Rody prepared his trap. The jar sat on the sill, gleaming in the moonlight, coated with a thick layer of syrup. He’d made it sweeter than usual tonight, a desperate attempt to lure in something-anything-that might restore his fading power.
He sat in the shadows, watching the window, his eyes narrowed in anticipation. Minutes passed, then hours, the night dragging on in silence.
And then, just before dawn, it came.
The flutter of wings, so faint he almost missed it. A flicker of light in the darkness, shimmering like a distant star. Rody leaned forward, his heart pounding in his chest as the pixie approached the jar. It was small, like the others, its wings delicate and translucent, glowing faintly in the dim light.
But there was something different about this one. Its glow was softer, more ethereal, as though it didn’t belong to this world at all. It moved slowly, cautiously, as if sensing the danger, but the pull of the sugar was too strong. It hovered at the edge of the jar, inspecting the syrup with curious, black eyes before dipping one wing in.
That was all it took.
The pixie tumbled into the jar, its wings immediately weighed down by the syrup, and it thrashed weakly, trying to lift itself out. But it was too late. The sticky substance clung to its wings, dragging it down to the bottom of the jar.
Rody smiled.
He approached the jar slowly, his fingers itching with anticipation as he reached for the lid. He could already feel the magic humming in the air, stronger than any he’d felt in months. This one was different-he could sense it. This one would restore his power.
With a flick of his wrist, he grabbed the jar and peered inside. The pixie lay at the bottom, covered in syrup, its tiny chest rising and falling with labored breaths. Its wings fluttered weakly, sticking to the glass as it tried in vain to escape.
It was beautiful, in a way. Fragile. Helpless.
Rody reached in, his fingers curling around the pixie’s tiny body. It felt warm against his skin, trembling with fear. He could feel the pulse of its magic, faint but steady, and his mouth watered in anticipation.
As he lifted it from the jar, the pixie whimpered, a soft, pitiful sound that sent a thrill down Rody’s spine. He brought it closer, inspecting it in the dim light. Its black eyes were wide, its body slick with syrup, its wings torn and tattered from the struggle.
It was perfect.
Rody’s lips parted, his teeth grazing the pixie’s soft flesh. He could already taste the sweetness, the magic dancing on his tongue. But before he could bite down, something strange happened.
The pixie stopped struggling.
Rody froze, his teeth inches from the creature, as he realized it had gone still in his hand. Its black eyes stared up at him, wide and unblinking, but there was no fear in them now. Just… acceptance.
For the first time in years, Rody hesitated.
The pixie blinked slowly, its chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. And then, in the quietest of voices, it spoke.
“Why?”
Rody’s grip tightened around the pixie, his heart racing in his chest. The others had never spoken to him before-not like this. They had pleaded, screamed, begged for mercy, but this one… this one was different.
“Why… what?” Rody muttered, his voice low, barely a whisper.
The pixie’s gaze never wavered. “Why do you do this?”
Rody swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He didn’t answer. He didn’t have an answer.
The pixie’s wings twitched weakly, syrup dripping from their torn edges. “We… we aren’t meant to be eaten.”
Rody let out a short, bitter laugh. “You exist to be prey. To be consumed.”
The pixie’s black eyes softened, a flicker of sorrow passing through them. “That’s not true.”
Rody’s jaw clenched, his anger flaring. “You don’t know anything.”
The pixie’s tiny lips parted in a soft sigh, and it closed its eyes, its body going limp in Rody’s grasp. “You’re wrong… but it doesn’t matter. You’ll do it anyway.”
Rody stared down at the pixie, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. He could feel its magic slipping away, fading with each second, and yet… something held him back.
For the first time in years, Rody felt a pang of guilt.
His grip loosened slightly, and the pixie’s body slipped from his hand, falling to the floor in a crumpled heap. It lay there, broken and trembling, its wings twitching weakly as it tried to crawl away.
Rody took a step back, his heart pounding in his chest. What was he doing? Why was he hesitating? This was just another pixie-another source of power. He needed this. He needed to consume it, to restore his strength.
But as he watched the tiny creature struggle on the floor, something inside him shifted. The thrill of the hunt, the rush of power-it all felt hollow now. Meaningless.
The pixie’s eyes fluttered open, and it looked up at him one last time, its gaze filled with a quiet, heartbreaking understanding.
And for the first time in years, Rody couldn’t bring himself to finish it.
He turned away, his hands trembling as he backed toward the door. The room felt too small, too suffocating, and the weight of his choices pressed down on him like a suffocating fog.
As he fled the room, the sound of the pixie’s soft, labored breathing echoed in his ears, a haunting reminder of the price he had paid for power.
Rody slammed the door behind him, his chest heaving as he tried to steady his breath. The room, once filled with the thrill of conquest and power, now felt like a prison. His hands still trembled, sticky with syrup and sweat, and the image of the pixie-broken and trembling on the floor-seared into his mind.
He hadn’t even eaten it.
Rody could feel the emptiness inside him, gnawing at his core. The magic had begun to fade weeks ago, and now, with each passing moment, it slipped further from his grasp. But he couldn’t go back in there. He couldn’t look at it-at him-again. Not after what he’d done.
Hours passed. Maybe longer. The cold seeped into the small cottage Rody called home, and the silence was broken only by the occasional gust of wind rattling the windows. He tried to push the thought of the pixie out of his mind, tried to pretend that it didn’t matter. But something was gnawing at him, a heavy weight in his chest that he couldn’t shake.
Finally, he forced himself to move. He grabbed a lantern and crept back to the room, the soft light casting long shadows on the walls. When he opened the door, the air inside felt heavy, suffocating.
The pixie lay where Rody had left him. His wings were torn, sticky and mangled from the syrup. His small body barely moved, just the shallow rise and fall of his chest, a reminder that life still clung to him. But his eyes-those deep, sorrowful black eyes-were wide open, staring blankly at the ceiling.
Rody knelt beside him, the lantern casting a soft glow over the pixie’s small form. His heart twisted with something he hadn’t felt in a long time-guilt.
“You should have eaten me,” the pixie whispered, his voice barely a breath. “That’s what you do.”
Rody flinched. The words cut deeper than any blade.
“I… I don’t know why I didn’t.” Rody’s voice was rough, laced with confusion. “I’ve done it so many times before. Why are you different?”
The pixie’s eyes slowly shifted, focusing on Rody’s face. “I don’t know. Maybe because you realized I’m not just… food.”
Rody swallowed, his throat tight. He didn’t want to admit it, but the pixie was right. There had been something in the pixie’s voice, in his quiet acceptance, that had cracked through the layers of greed and hunger that had consumed Rody for so long.
The pixie winced, his body twitching as he tried to move his mangled wings. He didn’t cry out, but the pain was evident in the way his small hands clenched into fists.
“You’re hurt,” Rody said, his voice softer now, though the words felt inadequate.
“I can’t fly,” The pixie replied flatly, his voice empty. “Without my wings… I’m as good as dead.”
The words hit Rody like a punch to the gut. The wild was no place for a wingless pixie. He would never survive out there-not without his ability to fly, to escape predators, to find food. Rody knew that. And so did the pixie.
The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. Rody stared at the broken wings, guilt and unease gnawing at him. He had never cared what happened to the pixies after he caught them. They were food, a means to an end, and nothing more. But this was different. The pixie wasn’t just another pixie. He was aware, intelligent, and now… vulnerable.
Rody shifted uncomfortably, running a hand through his hair. “You… you could stay here,” he mumbled, hating the way the words felt on his tongue. “I mean, it’s not much, but you’d be safe.”
The pixie blinked slowly, his gaze narrowing as though he was trying to figure out whether Rody was serious.
“You want me to stay here?” The pixie asked, his voice tinged with disbelief. “After everything you’ve done to my kind?”
“I didn’t say I wanted it,” Rody muttered, feeling a spark of irritation rise in his chest. “But I’m not heartless. You’d die out there. Your wings-” He gestured to the torn appendages with a grimace. “They’re ruined. You can’t go back to the wild.”
The pixie’s eyes softened, the anger and suspicion fading. “So, I’m your prisoner then?”
Rody hesitated. “I wouldn’t call it that.”
The pixie stared at him for a long moment before letting out a soft, bitter laugh. “And what would you call it?”
Rody didn’t have an answer. He didn’t know what this was anymore. Everything had gotten so twisted, so complicated. The fame, the power, the magic-it all felt hollow now, tainted by the weight of what he had done to get it.
“I won’t hurt you,” Rody said finally, though the words felt empty. “I just… I don’t know. Stay. Rest. You’re not strong enough to leave anyway.”
The pixie’s lips twitched, and for a moment, Rody thought he might refuse. But then the pixie sighed, his body sinking deeper into the floor as though he had finally accepted his fate.
“Fine,” the pixie whispered, his voice barely audible. “I’ll stay.”
—
Days passed, and the atmosphere in the small cottage grew thick with tension. The pixie was weak, his wings too damaged to heal on their own, and Rody found himself tending to the pixie more than he ever thought he would. At first, he did it out of guilt, leaving small bits of food and water near to pixie’s makeshift bed-a pile of soft fabric in the corner of the room. But as the days went on, something else took hold.
Rody couldn’t deny the pull he felt toward the tiny creature. It was strange, unsettling. He had consumed dozens of pixies before, felt their magic surge through him as he devoured their flesh, but the pixie was different. He wasn’t just a source of power anymore-he was a living, breathing being. And that made everything infinitely more complicated.
Sometimes, late at night, when the cottage was quiet, Rody would watch the pixie sleep. The pixie’s wings would twitch occasionally, a reflex from dreams that he could no longer fulfill. He looked so small, so fragile, and Rody couldn’t shake the gnawing feeling of responsibility.
The pixie never spoke much. He was quiet, resigned, and though his sharp tongue from that first night had dulled, there was still a simmering anger behind his black eyes. Rody understood it. He’d taken Vincent’s life-his freedom. Even if he hadn’t eaten him, he’d destroyed the one thing that made the pixie who he was.
Rody knew he deserved the hate.
—
One evening, as Rody prepared a meager meal over the fire, the pixie spoke up. His voice was soft, almost hesitant, and it cut through the silence like a knife.
“What happens when the magic runs out?”
Rody stilled, his hands hovering over the pot. The question hung in the air, heavy and ominous.
“I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice low.
The pixie’s eyes were dark, unreadable, as he watched Rody from his corner. “You’ll start hunting again.”
Rody’s jaw tightened. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“But you’ll do it, won’t you?” the pixie pressed, his voice cold and bitter. “You’ll find more of my kind, trap them, eat them, and pretend it’s all for the sake of power. Because that’s all you know how to do.”
Rody stood abruptly, the pot forgotten. “I said I don’t want to talk about it.”
The pixie’s gaze never wavered, his small body trembling with barely contained fury. “You can’t escape what you are.”
Rody turned away, his heart pounding in his chest. He didn’t know what he was anymore.
The fire crackled behind Rody as he stood, staring at the wall. The pixie’s words echoed in his mind, each syllable like a knife twisting deeper into his gut.
“You can’t escape what you are.”
He wanted to scream, to throw something, to tell the pixie to shut up, but he didn’t. Instead, he stood in silence, fists clenched at his sides. It was infuriating how this tiny creature, broken and wingless, still had the nerve to speak to him like that. After everything Rody had done-keeping him alive, giving him shelter-the pixie still looked at him with disdain.
“What do you want from me?” Rody muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. He wasn’t sure if the pixie even heard him, but he didn’t care. He wasn’t asking for an answer.
Behind him, the pixie stirred, the soft rustling of fabric signaling his slight movement. “I want to know why,” the pixie said, his voice tired but sharp. “Why keep me alive if you’re just going to go back to the same thing?”
Rody clenched his jaw, his anger simmering just beneath the surface. “I don’t know why,” he snapped. “Maybe because you’re the only one I couldn’t… do it to.”
Silence followed his words. Rody didn’t turn around. He didn’t want to see the pixie’s expression. He didn’t want to see those black eyes staring at him, judging him.
“You think keeping me alive makes you better than the monster you are?” The pixie’s voice was soft but piercing, and Rody flinched at the accusation.
“I’m not a monster,” Rody said through gritted teeth, though the words felt hollow even to him. “I’m just… surviving.”
“Surviving?” the pixie scoffed. “By eating my kind? Trapping us like animals?”
Rody’s fists tightened, his nails digging into his palms. “You don’t understand,” he said, his voice strained. “You don’t know what it’s like… to have nothing, to be nothing. I needed the magic. Without it, I’m nobody.”
The pixie didn’t respond right away. Rody could hear his labored breathing, could imagine his torn wings fluttering uselessly against his back. When the pixie finally spoke, his voice was softer, but no less sharp. “And now that you’ve taken everything from me, what does that make you?”
Rody exhaled sharply, his frustration boiling over. He turned to face the pixie, his face twisted in anger. “I gave you a chance!” he shouted, his voice louder than he intended. “You should be dead right now! If I wanted to, I could have eaten you like all the others, but I didn’t!”
The pixie’s black eyes glinted in the firelight, cold and unyielding. “And for that, I should be grateful?”
Rody’s breath caught in his throat. The pixie’s words hung in the air, the truth in them cutting deeper than anything Rody had expected. He swallowed hard, his anger draining away, leaving behind only a hollow ache in his chest.
“I don’t know what you should be,” Rody muttered, his voice quieter now, almost defeated. “I don’t know what I am anymore.”
The room fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the crackling of the fire. Rody stared down at the floor, unable to meet the pixie’s gaze. He had never felt this lost before. All the fame, the power, the magic-it had filled the void inside him for so long. But now, standing in front of the pixie, it all felt meaningless.
He glanced up at the pixie’s wings, still torn and mangled. The sight of them sent a wave of guilt crashing over him. He had done that. He had trapped this creature, taken away its ability to survive in the wild, and for what? A fleeting taste of power?
Rody took a deep breath, forcing himself to speak. “I’m sorry,” he said, the words foreign on his tongue. He wasn’t used to apologizing-especially not to a creature he had considered prey. “For your wings. For everything.”
The pixie’s expression didn’t change, but Rody saw something flicker in his eyes-something like surprise, or maybe disbelief. “Sorry doesn’t fix anything,” the pixie said quietly.
“I know,” Rody replied, his voice raw. “But I don’t know what else to say. I can’t change what I did.”
The pixie watched him for a long moment, his black eyes searching Rody’s face as if trying to find some trace of sincerity. Finally, he let out a soft, tired sigh. “I can’t go back,” he whispered, his voice almost too quiet to hear. “Not without my wings. I’ll never survive out there.”
The weight of those words hit Rody harder than he expected. He knew the pixie was right. Without his wings, he was defenseless, vulnerable. The wild would tear him apart in an instant. Rody had condemned him to this, to a life of helplessness and isolation.
“I know,” Rody whispered, his voice heavy with regret. “But you can stay here. I… I’ll take care of you.”
The pixie looked up at him, his eyes filled with a mix of anger and sorrow. “You think I want that? To be some prisoner in your home?”
Rody shook his head. “I don’t want you to be a prisoner. I just… I don’t know how to make this right.” He paused, searching for the right words. “You can leave if you want. I won’t stop you. But… you won’t survive out there. And I don’t want that on my conscience.”
The pixie didn’t answer. He just stared at Rody, his face unreadable. For a long moment, the two of them were locked in silence, the tension in the room palpable.
Finally, the pixie spoke, his voice low and bitter. “I don’t have a choice, do I?”
Rody’s heart sank. He hated that the pixie was right. He hated that he had put him in this position, that he had taken away his freedom and left him with nothing.
“No,” Rody admitted quietly. “You don’t.”
The pixie closed his eyes, a tired, resigned expression crossing his face. “Then I guess I’ll stay. For now.”
Rody exhaled slowly, feeling both relief and guilt wash over him in equal measure. He knew this wasn’t a victory. It was just another reminder of what he had done. What he had taken. And no amount of apologies or offers of shelter could ever truly make up for it.
He glanced at the pixie one last time before turning away, his heart heavy with the weight of his own sins.
Rody didn’t say anything more that night. He left the pixie alone, giving him space by retreating to the far side of the room. The crackle of the fire faded into the background, and the air between them felt dense, heavy with unresolved tension.
In the days that followed, Rody kept his distance. He still provided for the pixie-food, water, whatever he could think of that might make his stay more bearable-but he no longer demanded conversation. There were no more questions, no more pointed remarks about survival or morality. Rody simply existed in the same space as the pixie, unsure of how to fix the damage he had caused, but unwilling to abandon him.
The pixie, for his part, said little. He still hadn’t offered his name, and Rody continued to refer to him simply as “the pixie,” though with less coldness than before. The resentment between them remained, thick as smoke, but there were small shifts-moments where the silence wasn’t entirely suffocating.
One night, about a week after their confrontation, Rody was sitting by the fire, sharpening a knife. The faint scrape of metal against stone echoed through the room, and the pixie was curled up in the corner on a makeshift bed of blankets. His torn wings, still mangled, lay limp against his back. He hadn’t complained about them, but Rody noticed how the pixie’s movements were stiffer, as if the pain was a constant companion.
Rody glanced at him, guilt gnawing at his insides. He swallowed, clearing his throat awkwardly. “I could try to mend your wings,” he offered, his voice tentative.
The pixie looked up, his black eyes narrowing. “And why would you do that?” There was no venom in his tone this time, just a quiet curiosity.
“I don’t know,” Rody admitted, lowering the knife and staring into the fire. “I guess I feel… responsible. I mean, I *am* responsible. For this. For you.”
The pixie didn’t respond immediately. He watched Rody with a strange expression, one that Rody couldn’t quite place. After a long pause, he finally spoke. “You don’t have to.”
Rody blinked in surprise. He expected anger, a refusal, anything but this quiet acceptance. “You’d rather I didn’t?”
“It’s not that,” the pixie said, shifting slightly under the blankets. “It’s just… even if you could, what would be the point? I can’t go back to the wild. Not after what happened. I’d be hunted down by creatures worse than you.”
Rody winced at the barb but nodded, understanding. The pixie’s world had been shattered, and no amount of magic or mending would fix it.
“But still,” Rody said softly, “you deserve the chance to fly again. Even if it’s just around here.”
The pixie was silent, his eyes trained on Rody, as if he were trying to decipher his intentions. After a long moment, he spoke again, more quietly this time. “I don’t even remember what it feels like to fly.”
Rody felt a pang in his chest at the pixie’s admission. He hadn’t thought about it like that before-how long it had been since the pixie had lost his wings, how long he had been trapped in Rody’s world. He couldn’t imagine the feeling of losing something so essential, something so defining.
“I’m sorry,” Rody said again, the words feeling more genuine this time. He wasn’t just apologizing for the wings, or for the entrapment. He was apologizing for everything-the arrogance, the cruelty, the way he had taken so much without thinking about what it cost the pixie.
The pixie’s gaze softened slightly, though he still didn’t look entirely convinced. “Sorry doesn’t change anything,” he said, though there was less bitterness in his voice than before.
“I know,” Rody replied. “But I still want to try. I don’t expect you to forgive me. I just… I want to make this less awful for you.”
The pixie didn’t respond immediately. He shifted again under the blankets, his expression unreadable. Then, after a long pause, he nodded-just a small, almost imperceptible nod, but it was something.
Rody took that as a tentative acceptance.
The next day, Rody gathered what little he knew about healing magic. It wasn’t much-he had never been particularly interested in that side of magic, more focused on power and performance than the intricacies of mending-but he tried. He carefully inspected the pixie’s wings, noting the jagged tears, the places where the delicate veins had been completely destroyed. It was worse than he had thought, and a small part of him wondered if it was even possible to fix them.
The pixie was quiet during the process, only wincing occasionally when Rody’s hands accidentally brushed a sensitive spot. His black eyes remained fixed on the floor, his expression blank, though Rody could sense the tension in his small body.
For hours, Rody worked in silence, murmuring incantations under his breath as he tried to fuse the torn membranes back together. It was slow, painstaking work, and by the time the sun had dipped below the horizon, Rody was exhausted, his hands trembling from the strain of the magic.
He finally sat back, wiping sweat from his brow. “That’s all I can do for now,” he said, his voice hoarse. “It’ll take time to see if it worked.”
The pixie flexed his wings experimentally, wincing slightly. “They’re still weak,” he said, his voice flat. “But… better.”
Rody nodded, his chest tight with a strange mixture of relief and guilt. He hadn’t fixed them completely, but he had done something-anything to try and ease the burden he had placed on the pixie.
“Thank you,” the pixie said quietly, surprising Rody. It wasn’t much, and the words were strained, as if the pixie didn’t entirely want to say them, but it was more than Rody had expected.
“You don’t have to thank me,” Rody replied softly. “It’s the least I can do.”
The days passed slowly after that, and gradually, the tension between them began to ease. The pixie was still distant, still wary, but there were small signs of trust-moments where he didn’t flinch away from Rody’s touch, or where he allowed himself to relax in Rody’s presence. The silence between them became less oppressive, and sometimes, when Rody spoke, the pixie would respond with something that wasn’t entirely hostile.
Rody started to notice things about the pixie that he hadn’t before-small, almost imperceptible quirks. The way his eyes would light up when he saw the sunlight through the window, or the way he would hum softly to himself when he thought Rody wasn’t listening. It was strange, seeing this side of him, this fragile and quiet version of the creature he had once trapped.
He didn’t know what it was, but something about the pixie intrigued him now, in a way that had nothing to do with magic or power. It was something more human, something that Rody didn’t quite understand but felt deep in his bones.
And then, one evening, as they sat by the fire, the pixie finally spoke.
“My name,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper, “is Vincent.”
Rody looked up, surprised. He hadn’t asked for the pixie’s name in so long that he had almost given up on ever knowing it. But hearing it now, spoken so quietly and cautiously, felt like the final barrier between them had been lowered.
“Vincent,” Rody repeated, tasting the name on his tongue. It felt right. “I’m Rody.”
Vincent gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. He didn’t say anything more, but the silence between them felt different now-softer, less strained.
It wasn’t forgiveness. It wasn’t an end to the guilt or the darkness that had hung between them for so long. But it was a beginning, and for now, that was enough.
Rody watched Vincent-*the pixie*, as he still called him in his head-his torn wings barely holding their shape. The magical work he had done wasn’t enough for full restoration. As days turned into weeks, the tension between them had settled into something more bearable, but the sight of Vincent’s wings was a constant reminder of what he had taken.
They both knew the wings were only a shadow of what they had once been.
One evening, Rody sat by the fire again, lost in thought. He glanced over at Vincent, who had been unusually quiet. The pixie’s wings twitched as though Vincent was contemplating something.
Without a word, Vincent stood, his small frame shaky from disuse, and slowly flexed his wings. They shimmered faintly in the firelight, the edges ragged and uneven from the damage Rody had tried to heal. Vincent’s black eyes flickered over to Rody, and before Rody could ask what he was doing, Vincent leaped into the air, his wings buzzing like the faint hum of a broken instrument.
He hovered-just barely-for a few seconds, maybe five or six, and then his wings faltered. His body dropped back to the floor, landing awkwardly on his feet. His breathing was slightly labored from the effort.
Rody winced at the sight. *It’s not enough,* he thought. He had tried his best to heal them, but the magic hadn’t restored them entirely. The wounds were too deep, too lasting. Rody had taken something from Vincent that could never be fully given back.
Vincent glanced at him, his expression unreadable. “I can’t stay up for more than a minute,” he muttered, more to himself than to Rody. “Maybe less. Even that felt like it was pulling every ounce of strength from me.”
Rody felt the weight of his guilt like a stone in his chest. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. He had said those words so many times, but they felt hollow now, like they didn’t mean anything anymore.
Vincent didn’t respond. He simply sat back down, his wings limp and weak against his back, and stared into the fire.
For a while, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the crackling of the flames and the occasional rustling of Vincent shifting his position. Rody didn’t know what to say. He had never been good with words, and everything he tried felt like it wasn’t enough.
Then, to Rody’s surprise, Vincent spoke up.
“I can’t go back to the wild,” Vincent said, his voice quiet but steady. “Not like this. Without my wings, I wouldn’t survive for long. I’m already marked.” He gave a bitter smile, his eyes dark with something unreadable. “I’m a broken pixie now. And out there, broken things get eaten.”
Rody’s stomach twisted at the thought. He had never considered what life was like for creatures like Vincent-what it meant to be vulnerable in the wild. He had been so focused on his own ambition, on his hunger for power, that he hadn’t thought about the lives he had destroyed in the process.
“I know you can’t forgive me,” Rody said, his voice low. “I know I took something from you that you’ll never get back. But… I want to help you. If you’ll let me.”
Vincent looked at him, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Help me? And how exactly do you plan to do that?”
Rody shrugged, his shoulders slumping. “I don’t know yet. But I don’t want you to feel trapped here. You deserve more than that. I don’t… I don’t want to keep you here like some prisoner.”
Vincent scoffed softly. “I think it’s a little late for that.”
Rody flinched but didn’t argue. He knew Vincent was right. He had trapped him. He had used him. And now, he was trying to undo some of the damage, but it was impossible to fully fix what had already been broken.
After a long silence, Vincent’s voice softened. “What do you want from me, Rody?”
The question caught Rody off guard. He stared into the fire, unsure of how to answer. What did he want? At first, it had been power. He had wanted the pixie’s magic, the strength that came with consuming their kind. But now… now things were different. He couldn’t deny the guilt that had started to eat away at him, but there was something more. Something he hadn’t fully acknowledged yet.
“I don’t know,” Rody admitted. “I thought I wanted power, but now… I just want you to be okay. I don’t want you to hate me.”
Vincent studied him, his dark eyes unreadable. For a moment, Rody thought he was going to snap at him again, to tell him how ridiculous he was being, but instead, Vincent sighed and looked away.
“Hating you takes too much energy,” he muttered. “And I don’t have the strength for that anymore.”
The fire crackled softly, filling the space between them with a warm, uneasy tension. Rody didn’t know how to respond to that, so he said nothing, just watching the flames dance in the hearth.
Days passed, and the fragile peace between them slowly strengthened. Vincent still didn’t trust Rody completely, but the hostility had lessened. Sometimes, they would sit in silence together, and other times, they would exchange a few brief, hesitant words.
One afternoon, Vincent tried to fly again. He managed to stay in the air for nearly a full minute before his wings gave out, and he collapsed onto the floor. This time, Rody was there to catch him.
“Careful,” Rody said softly, helping Vincent to his feet.
Vincent glared at him but didn’t pull away. “I’m not fragile.”
Rody gave a small, lopsided smile. “I know. But it’s okay to let someone catch you.”
Vincent’s expression softened slightly, though he didn’t say anything. He simply nodded and sat back down, his wings drooping.
As time went on, their interactions grew more frequent, and Rody found himself watching Vincent more closely. The pixie had a sharp wit, a biting sense of humor that Rody had never fully appreciated before. And despite everything, Vincent’s resilience amazed him. He had been through so much, and yet he still had the strength to push forward.
One evening, as they sat by the fire, Vincent spoke up, his voice quieter than usual. “Why did you trap me? Why do you want magic from my kind?”
Rody hesitated, the question striking him like a blow. He had never fully explained his reasoning-had never wanted to admit to the greed and ambition that had driven him to such cruelty.
“I thought… I thought if I could take it, I’d be powerful. Respected. I didn’t think about what it would do to you. I was selfish.” Rody admitted, his voice low.
Vincent didn’t say anything for a long time, just stared into the fire. Finally, he spoke, his voice almost too soft to hear. “You took everything from me.”
Rody felt the weight of those words sink into his chest, crushing him. “I know.”
“I can’t ever forgive you for that,” Vincent continued, his voice steady but filled with quiet pain. “But… I don’t hate you.”
Rody looked at him, surprised. “You don’t?”
Vincent shook his head. “No. I don’t hate you. But that doesn’t mean I can forget what you did.”
Rody nodded, understanding. He didn’t expect forgiveness. He didn’t deserve it. But knowing that Vincent didn’t hate him… it was more than he had hoped for.
They sat in silence for a while longer, the fire casting flickering shadows on the walls. And for the first time in what felt like forever, Rody felt a glimmer of hope. He didn’t know what the future held, but maybe-just maybe-there was a chance for something better. Something that wasn’t defined by pain or guilt.
As the fire crackled softly beside them, Vincent stretched his wings again, the movement slow and deliberate. They were still damaged, still weak, but in the dim light, they shimmered faintly, a reminder of what had been lost-and what could still be found.
The weeks continued to roll by, and with each passing day, the tension between Rody and Vincent lessened. Their fragile truce had transformed into something more subtle-an understanding, a slow rebuilding of trust.
Vincent, though still cautious, began to open up in small ways. He no longer snapped at Rody over every mistake, and Rody, in turn, learned to listen more, speak less, and respect the boundaries Vincent had set. They still had moments of awkward silence, but sometimes they would share idle conversation or sit in companionable quiet by the fire.
—
One evening, as they sat by the fire, Vincent seemed lost in thought, his dark eyes watching the flickering flames. Rody was about to ask if something was on his mind when Vincent spoke first.
“You don’t need to keep hunting, you know,” Vincent said softly, his gaze still fixed on the fire.
Rody blinked, unsure of what Vincent meant. “What do you mean?”
“Hunting other pixies. For magic.” Vincent’s voice was steady, but there was a tension in it that made Rody’s chest tighten. “You don’t have to do it anymore.”
Rody swallowed, guilt flaring up inside him again. “I know. I… I haven’t since I trapped you.”
Vincent finally looked at him, his black eyes searching Rody’s face for something. “But you still want magic, don’t you? It’s why you started all of this.”
Rody shifted uncomfortably, unsure of how to respond. He had wanted magic, yes. He had wanted power, prestige, everything that came with it. But now, sitting across from Vincent, those desires felt tainted, like they weren’t his anymore. Or at least, not in the same way.
“I don’t know,” Rody admitted, running a hand through his auburn hair. “I thought I needed it. But now… I just want to make things right. I want to help you.”
Vincent’s gaze softened, but there was still a sadness in his eyes. “You can’t change what happened. But… maybe there’s another way.”
Rody frowned, confused. “What do you mean?”
Vincent took a deep breath, his wings fluttering weakly behind him. “I can share my magic with you.”
Rody’s eyes widened. “What? How?”
“It’s… complicated,” Vincent said, hesitating. “Pixie magic is tied to the soul. When you consume a pixie, you’re not just taking their power-you’re taking a piece of their soul. That’s why the magic transfers to you.”
Rody’s stomach churned. He had known that pixies were magical creatures, but he hadn’t fully grasped the cost of what he had been doing. The thought that he had been devouring pieces of their souls made him feel sick.
“But there’s another way,” Vincent continued, his voice softer now. “We can form a soul link. It’s a bond between two beings-one where magic can be shared freely, without the need for… violence.”
Rody stared at him, shocked. “Why would you do that? After everything I’ve done to you, why would you share your magic with me?”
Vincent looked away, his wings drooping slightly. “I don’t know,” he said quietly. “Maybe because… despite everything, I don’t hate you. And I don’t want you to keep hurting others. If this can stop that, then maybe it’s worth it.”
Rody felt his throat tighten, a mixture of guilt and gratitude swelling inside him. He didn’t deserve this-Vincent’s kindness, his willingness to help. But he also knew that this was a chance to finally do something right, to atone for what he had done.
“What does a soul link involve?” Rody asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Vincent glanced at him, his expression unreadable. “It’s… intimate. Our souls will be connected, which means we’ll be able to feel each other’s emotions, share each other’s strength. But it’s permanent. Once the bond is made, it can’t be broken.”
Rody took a deep breath, the weight of Vincent’s words sinking in. It was a huge commitment-a connection that would tie them together forever. But the more he thought about it, the more he realized that this was the only way forward. He couldn’t continue living with the guilt of what he had done, and he didn’t want to hurt anyone else.
“I want to do it,” Rody said, his voice firm. “If you’re sure.”
Vincent nodded, though there was a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. “It’s not something to take lightly. But… I’m sure.”
They sat in silence for a moment, the fire crackling softly in the hearth. Then, without another word, Vincent stood and walked over to Rody. He extended his hand, his small, delicate fingers trembling slightly.
Rody hesitated for only a second before taking Vincent’s hand in his own. The moment their skin touched, a surge of warmth shot through Rody, like the spark of magic but deeper-more profound.
Vincent closed his eyes, and Rody felt a pulse of energy pass between them. It wasn’t like the magic he had stolen from other pixies. This was different. It wasn’t violent or forceful. It was soft, gentle, and… intimate, just like Vincent had said.
The bond formed quickly, and Rody felt something shift inside him. He could feel Vincent now, like a faint presence at the edge of his consciousness. He could sense his emotions-his uncertainty, his lingering pain, but also… something else. A quiet fondness. A growing sense of trust.
When Vincent opened his eyes again, they were darker, more intense. “It’s done,” he said softly, his voice barely a whisper.
Rody felt overwhelmed by the connection, by the weight of what they had just done. He could feel Vincent’s magic flowing through him, but it wasn’t like before. It wasn’t stolen or taken by force. It was given freely, and that made all the difference.
“Thank you,” Rody said, his voice thick with emotion. “I… I don’t know how to repay you for this.”
Vincent smiled faintly, though there was still a hint of sadness in his eyes. “Just don’t make me regret it.”
Rody nodded, his chest tightening with a mix of guilt and hope. “I won’t.”
As the night wore on, they sat together by the fire, their souls now linked in a way that neither of them had expected. The bond was new, fragile, but it was also a chance for something more-a chance for healing, for redemption.
And maybe, just maybe, a chance for something even deeper to grow between them.
Their height difference
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