Mirabelle's Boots - Chapter 15 (Patreon)

What is life, really?

Days come and days go, each of them offering a new opportunity to experience such odd sensations that are granted by life. There are good feelings and there are bad feelings, both of which come and go just as fast as the other, fading to leave on back at the baseline of neutrality — painted by the tinges of what has happened. Bad memories, good memories, bad feelings, good feelings — there are so many different things that can be summarized by these terms, despite the incredible variety of the emotions felt in those many moments.

And then, one day, life will come to an end, leaving one at the finality of it all with only the sum total of what has happened along the way.

It is a new day.

Mirabelle, however, hides in her nest on a mound of fabrics so tall and soft that she feels as if she were sinking into water with no end. However, her bedding, despite her true wishes, simply refuses to swallow her whole, and instead she lies atop the colorful scraps of cloth, huddled into a ball that holds its own legs.

Last night is sort of a blur.

She was with the man with the nice hair outside before she then flew back to her tree to be alone. Since then, she’s just kind of been laying here. She’s not able to sleep. She’s never able to sleep, even though she so desperately wishes that she could. Mirabelle isn’t tired, but she just wants to… she just wants to be able to stop existing for a while. That’s what she misses most about sleep.

Existing is so hard.

The fairy, having been staring at the wall, closes her eyes again and presses her head down more tightly towards her knees.

Why did the shoemaker have to go?

She wasn’t ready for him to leave yet. She…

— Why couldn’t he have at least waited until she introduced herself to him?

She isn’t sure how that would have changed anything, but it feels like a milestone of life that she’ll never get to have. The man was good to her, and she never got to engage in the act of reciprocity. The mother-moon frowns on receiving gifts and never repaying them, but how can she repay the man who has gone to the sleeping place?

She can’t.

And so she will earn the mother-moon ire and live a cursed life for the rest of her days, not that she doesn’t feel that this isn’t the case already.

— Something cracks.

Her eyes open wide as she lays there, listening.

Water splashes gently outside in the pond. She knows that sound. The man is there again, the one who breaks sticks and throws them into the water, as is his habit.

Life goes on outside. She’s not sure for how long, honestly. She just lays there, unmoving, for as long as she can. The light outside shifts and changes as the day goes on, fully intending to pass without her presence. Voices move through the park, coming and going. Some are familiar, and she recognizes them from her weeks of people watching. Others are not so, and they fill the air with a strangeness like that of birdsong — a familiar sound but not one that is predictable.

People have all sorts of problems, judging by their conversations, but they also have a lot of… nothing. While there are a lot of talks about troubles and difficulties, many talks are those of life.

The truly wicked fairy listens in to their words, flowing in through the hole of the tree to her, as they talk of things like bread that they bought at one baker, instead of their usual one, or how the weather was better yesterday even if it feels exactly the same today, or how their life would be different if they did some specific thing instead of some specific other thing — despite saying this likely every day. Some people are abuzz about some exciting happening in the city, but she can’t quite understand it.

“I told you! I told you!” says an excited man, whose voice she recognizes, footprints moving through a busy crowd.

Seconds turn into minutes. Minutes turn to hours, and then, despite the total impossibility of the matter, the hours turn to a full day, returning the relieving darkness of night to her, which absolves her of any potential social obligations, since the city is asleep and she can suffer guilt-free by herself until morning.

An ugly duck quacks outside of her tree.

Mirabelle lifts her head, staring in confusion out past the fabric drifting over the tree’s hole.

*Frwieeieik*

Wait. Isn’t that…

She crawls out of her bed, using all of her strength to lift her tiny body up so that she can look out of the tree and into the park below. She looks, staring at the man, who is laying out on the bench across the pond on his jacket, the paper covered comb in his mouth.

“…Blueberries…” mutters the foul mouthed beast as she looks at the annoying man who knows that she exists.

Maybe if she just ignores him, he’ll think last night was some kind of delusion, and he’ll go away?

She ducks back down.

*Frweeiek*

Mirabelle sighs and then looks back out at the bothersome person who apparently has inserted himself into her melancholy that she is so desperately trying to foster. The wind blows through the night, touching her face now that it leaves her home for the first time that day, stroking her skin as if to greet her to the outside world. Looking around for owls, the fairy then quietly darts out of the tree and shoots across the water, using the reeds as cover, until she gets to the side of the pond near the bench and holds the tall grasses to the side as she stares out at the human, who is lying on his back, staring up at the sky, with his arms folded over his forehead and the comb and wax-paper in his mouth.

*Frweek*

There’s no chance he’ll just go away, right? Why is she even out here?

*Ribbit*

Mirabelle freezes, slowly turning her head around to look behind herself at the large frog, sitting there, its body bulging outward as it breathes. This is bad.

Conventional fairy wisdom states that frogs won’t usually try to eat fairies. Fairies are much too big for frogs. But that doesn’t mean a confused frog won’t try its luck, especially the bigger ones.

The two of them look at each other, the wind swaying the tall fronds, as the lily-pad that the frog is on drifts through the water.

*Ribbit* croaks the frog.

*Freieeek* whistles the man with the comb.

Mirabelle slowly takes a step away from the animal, before then quickly shooting into the air as fast as she can, yelping as a long, sticky tongue shoots out, attaching itself to her leg and causing her to crash down. Mirabelle lands in the dirt of the path, holding onto the stones and pebbles around her as she tries to claw at something. “Let go! LET GO!” yells the fairy, trying to kick her leg free from the long, slimy tongue that is pulling her back towards the frog that very clearly wants to at least try to eat her.

The fairy struggles, clawing into the dirt and onto fronds and grass to try and pull against the animal that is much stronger physically than she is.

“Problem?” asks a voice from above.

Mirabelle, one of her arms wrapped in a blade of grass that she has twisted around it and the other dug into the mud looks up at the human, who is kneeling down looking at her.

“No!” she yells at him, as the frog pulls her back, both of her hands sliding. “I’m fine. Go back to your bench and stop making so much noise!” barks the cruel fairy at the stranger.

Grace, the man with the great hair, tilts his head and looks at her, watching as she loses ground to the frog, which has almost pulled her into the water where there is nothing left to hold onto.

“You sure?” he asks.

She purses her lips, holding her words inside, which causes her cheeks to puff out, her face growing red from her exertion and frustration.

— She slides back into the water, only one hand still holding onto the grass; her burlap sack that she has put back on is soaking in the pond muck. “I’m fine!” she snaps at him.

Grace shrugs and gets up, shaking his head while somehow never losing that disgustingly smug smile on his face as his hands rise into the air. “Okay. Have a good night, Mirabelle,” replies the human, turning to walk back to his bench. He makes a loud display of yawning as he lays back down.

“WHY ARE YOU JUST LEAVING?!” she screams at him.

She loses her grip, flying back across the water. The frog snatches her in its mouth, which smells exactly as one would expect it too. She yells, pressing its mouth open with her legs and her back.

“Huuuh?” asks Grace, turning his head, which rests on his arms. “I thought you were fine?”

The frog croaks, its breath moving past her as it tries to crush her in its mouth. She pries her shoulders out of it, kicking at its cheeks with her boots. “I AM!” screams the fairy.

Grace shrugs, looking back and away at the sky as she struggles and fights against the frog, its tongue plastered against her. “FINE!” she yells, looking back at him. “I’M NOT!” admits the fairy. “HELP ME!” she cries, as her legs lose their hold and slip down the frog’s throat.

And then, just like that, a pair of hands grabs hold of the frog and then her, pulling the two of them apart.

“Sorry bud,” says Grace to the frog before tossing it back into the water.

He turns his head, looking at the slimy fairy that he’s holding aloft by her burlap covering. “Oh, hey, I liked your other dress more,” he remarks.

Mirabelle’s wings buzz in agitation, slapping against his fingers, as she turns to look at him.

“What are you doing?” asks the fairy. He shrugs, sitting down on the bench, and then sets her down, before yawning and leaning back against it. “Why are you making such a ruckus out here?”

“Huh?” asks Grace. “You’re the one who was making a ruckus,” replies the man, looking down at her. “I was just settling in for the night,” he explains, his hand patting the bench. He looks down at his own fingers, noticing something, and then examines the slime on them. He makes a disgusted face and wipes them off on a cloth, which he then hands down to her. Mirabelle looks at the large piece of fabric, cut into a perfect square, in confusion, and then takes it, wiping the frog-gunk off of herself as best she can. But her hair is slick with it, like a gel that won’t come out. “I live here,” he explains.

“Please. You call that ‘settling in’?” asks the fairy. “I thought someone was killing the ducks.”

He smiles, shaking his head. “As if you’re one to talk. Here I am, thinking about stuff, when you’re harassing the wildlife in the park.”

She throws the handkerchief back at him, which isn’t really effective as she can barely fling a corner of the large piece of cloth. It vaguely sort of just leans back over, against his thigh. “The wildlife was harassing me!” she argues, causing him to laugh.

“What?!” snaps Mirabelle.

The man leans his head back, running his fingers through his hair from the front to the back, before then looking at her. “You sure have a lot of problems, don’t you, Mirabelle?”

“Please,” she says. “You sleep on a bench outside in the park by yourself,” quips the truly cruel fairy, narrowing her eyes at him, before her words catch up to her and she realizes what she said and what that means in the context of human society and also for her. Just as soon as they leave her mouth, she lowers her head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to be mean,” apologizes Mirabelle. “…Thank you for helping me.”

“Oh?” asks Grace, never having lost his smile for a second, as if her words didn’t even reach him. “You’re welcome, Mirabelle,” replies the man.

“Why do you keep saying my name?” she asks.

Grace blinks, scratching his cheek as he stares at the sky for a moment, before turning back to her. He looks around the park for a moment, as if to see if they’re alone, before covering the side of his mouth and leaning down to whisper her a secret. “The truth is, I read in a book on people skills that people unconsciously like you more if you say their name in conversations,” he explains, winking at her, before straightening himself back upright. “But don’t tell anyone.”

“Huh…” says Mirabelle, looking around at the totally dark park before looking back at him. “Wait. Why are you telling me this? That seems a little manipulative.”

He shrugs and continues to stare into the night. She watches him for a moment longer before turning back to look at the sky too, and the two of them sit there in silence for a while.

“Aren’t you confused about me being a fairy?” she asks, not looking away from the sky.

“No. Thank you for the comb,” he replies. She supposes that her name was on it after all. It might be obvious then to him, if not a little confusing at first when he had received it from her in secret. “Mirabelle.”

“It’s weird now that you told me the name thing,” she replies. “Is that even true? Do people really like you more if you say their name?”

He laughs, moving a strand of hair out of his face. “I don’t know, is it working?” he asks, looking at her and winking, which fills her with a deep seated nausea at the overwhelmingly sickening confidence. “Mirabelle.”

“No,” replies Mirabelle, matter of factly and he just takes this in stride, laughing again, his demeanor as cool and calm as ever.

“You’ve made quite the splash in town, you know?” says Grace.

It’s quiet in time for a while. She blinks, looking back his way. “…What?”

He nods his head to the side. “Want to go for a walk?” asks the man, rising to his feet. He grabs his jacket with one finger and slings it over his shoulder instead of wearing it. She can only assume because he thinks it looks better this way.

“No. I was actually going to bed before you messed up my night,” replies the wicked fairy. She shakes her head, realizing she is being snarky again. She’s sort of emotional right now, but that’s not his fault. “- I mean, sorry. I just… I kind of want some quiet for now, that's all.”

He walks off, shrugging indifferently. “Sure thing,” he replies, waving over his shoulder without looking back at her even once. “Have a good night, Mirabelle,” replies the man with the great hair, which is blown around by the night winds and gives a mysteriousness to his appearance beneath the moonlight, which bothers her very greatly. Everything about his movements, his demeanor, his positioning, steps, and poses is perfectly orchestrated, as if every single motion was planned by him to exemplify his own sense of… smugness?

She can’t find the right word.

He’s like a person who isn’t actually a person but has perfectly mastered the art of being what a person would expect a charismatic, confident person to be.

“Blueberries…” mutters the fairy beneath her breath as he walks away, leaving her by herself, without having explained what he meant and she’s sure that this too is a piece of the game, it’s all, every word and movement is trimmed to get her to follow along.

She knows it, she feels it, her senses tell her as much, and, despite all of that, Mirabelle rises into the air and shoots after him as he walks towards the exit of the park, despite the fact that this is where he sleeps, because he knew she would follow him because he knew he could get her to follow him.

What even are humans?

It’s so confusing.

__________________________________

‘FAIRIES UNDERFOOT!’

The Institute of Regional Magical Affairs (IRMA) has found conclusive evidence of the presence of a wild fairy through trace markings of residue throughout the city, as well as several conclusive pieces of proof delivered through crafted articles of clothing, magically signed by the creature found in the recently deceased shoemaker Gisopi Minari’s business, ‘Minari’s Boots’.

A connection between his passing and the fairy is uncertain, but presumed unlikely, given his advanced age. Minari had no living descendants or family.

Fairies have not been seen in the region for hundreds of years, after extensive development efforts in the past had erased their natural habitats. The presence of a fairy within the city limits is ‘an incredible sign for the region as a whole’, according to the head scholar of the IRMA, Barnacious Bild, who presumes this to be an indication of the healing natural ambient magics of the world. If true, it likely bodes for a promising growth of other natural magical forces, such as dungeons and wild-monsters in the region.

The IRMA requests that any and all information regarding the fairy be passed on to them immediately.

If seen, contact is to be kept to a minimum, and under absolutely no circumstances is the fairy to be bothered or harmed, as it falls under the ‘Rare Monsters and Breeds Classification of Protected Entities for National Welfare Act.’ The punishment for harming any such creatures can range from life imprisonment to execution, given their importance to the wellbeing of the nation.

The IRMA has immediately classified the lone fairy as an SSS-Rank protected entity, putting it in the highest category of critically endangered and important wildlife.

Mirabelle’s eyes go wide as she listens to Grace’s recitation of the paper, stuck onto a wall. Below the large blob of human-letters is a drawing of a fairy. She looks around herself at the city. There are dozens of these sheets put up everywhere, on the walls and the posts, on windows and stalls — closed for the night.

But this strange news comes to her along with many other things. Mirabelle turns to look back at Grace. “…There aren’t any other fairies?” she asks.

“No,” replies Grace, leaning back against a wall, one leg arched and his boot’s sole pressed back against it. “Just you.”

“Oh…” replies Mirabelle, rubbing her arm. She wasn’t sure if this was the case, but she has suspected as much.

“The whole city is talking about you,” explains Grace, shrugging. “It’s wild how fast these things happen.” He points down the road. “A few of the merchants have even already made and started selling little fairy toys for kids.”

What a weird thought. The whole city knows about her? The whole city is…

Mirabelle shifts at the thought.

— Excited about her?

Why? Just because she’s a fairy? This feels very overwhelming. “This is kind of scary,” she admits, looking at Grace. “You’re not going to tell on me, are you?” she asks.

He waves her off. “No, of course not,” he says, shaking his head and then walking away. The man keeps his back turned to her, smiling as he flashes her a thumbs-up over his shoulder. “We’re friends, aren’t we, Mirabelle?”

“No,” replies Mirabelle, shaking her head.

Grace ignores that, laughing as he walks back to the park by himself, leaving her hovering there.

Mirabelle watches him go and then turns to look back at the poster and the drawing of a fairy, which she places her hand against for a time, until a cat meows in a nearby alley.

The fairy, still traumatized from the frog, quickly shoots back into the air and towards her tree, passing over the man, who has already returned to the bench and lies there, asleep, with his jacket over him.

She peeks out of her home one last time at him before drawing the curtains shut and nesting back in until the sun rises, putting an end to a strange, strange night.