from_the_west | the south wind.

aly and lilimin. first posted here. the song, if you wish to d/l it.

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Alistar woke with a very sore head, a very stiff neck, and a very sour mouth. He was also, apparently, at the bottom of a very long narrow shaft--a dry well, for all he could guess. He supposed he should be thankful for the dry part. Relatively dry, at least. The mud stank, and stuck like glue. It was hellishly dark, and narrow--a wonder, even small as he was, that hadn't gotten stuck at some point during his fall. He immediately braced feet and hands and back against the sides and began to climb; but after a bit it occurred to him that the earth was not cooperating in the least--the walls were crumbling loose dirt and rock and roots, and his wits and will were not quite about him enough to do anything about it. He suspected the air was poor, down here. Alistar swore, as despite his best efforts, gravity continued to have its way with him, and he slid slowly back down.

He tried giving a shout, but as he suspected, his voice was sadly muffled; the mouth of the well was a great long way aways, a tiny slit of sky, like a cat's eye, veined with roots. A moment to rest then, and gather his bruised head and battered body for a more concerted effort. A trying circumstance, but not one that would bring him panic just yet, nil hea. Alistar curled his knees to his chest and sat, staring up at the faint glimmer of freedom above him. Then another thought occurred, and he fished out his penny-whistle and idly began to play. He did not entirely expect this to be heard anymore than his own voice, but it worth a chance, and the whistle was cheering in and of itself.

Third round into "The South Wind," and the slit of sky went dark. Something damp and twisting slid across the back of Alistar's hand. At least this particular sudden chill was a familiar one?

"Is this where we're to be keeping you now?" asked a small, dry, serious voice in his head.

"Nil hea! Not by any will of mine! Give me a hand up, will you?" Alistar called back. He could nearly make out his sister's eyes shining in the dark, above him. He was never really certain how anything as deadly black as Lilimin's eyes could shine, or how anything could shine black, at that.

"Shhh. You're disturbing her."

"...Who could I be disturbing, Lilimin? There's no room for more than one, nil hea!"

"She's of the very same opinion. The Widow's the reason why the well went dry, and you woke her." she answered, a bit of a chiding note sliding in around the edges of her mental tone.

Alistar sighed. Of course, the well he'd fallen into had to be cursed and haunted besides, that was just his sort of thing to do.

"She likes your playing, though. Take this feather, and keep playing, and kindly remind her that you'll be moving on very soon, and she may leave you be."

"...May?" Alistar asked, brows way up, as he reached up to take the owl's feather handed down to him by a convenient downdraft, and put the pennywhistle to his lips again.

"And remember to play The South Wind, sometimes, so I remember you."

Alistar choked on the first note, took the whistle away from his lips, and yelled, "YOU HAD BEST NOT FORGET ME DOWN HERE, WENCH!"

Her own strange laughter and "SHH!" were his only response, and that hushing didn't so much as fade, as become the sound of the wind, blowing over the well.

Alistar played and played, and lost the time. And then the earth began to crumble and stir around him, shifted beneath him, pressed around his shoulders and pattered down on his head. Alistar's eyes grew a bit wide. "Begging your pardon, M'Lady, my own good sister went for help, I'll be out of your well soon, tá?" He whispered. "And I'd play you a new song, but I only know these few. I'll learn more, if y'but let me live, and I'll come back to play them for you, from time t'time, if you like."

Something curled, damp and clammy, around his upper arm, and he gasped, and clutched at it. It was a root. Another sprang from the soil and caught up his other arm, and drew him forcibly to his feet. Alistar found his voice and yelped a bit, as he was handed up to another set of roots and then another, dragged by clutching botanical fingers to the mouth of well, where stood his brother Eoin, the dryad's son.

"Are ye well?" he demanded.

"Other than the fright you gave me, tá. My thanks." Alistar coughed and spat dank and salted clay.

"I'd ask how y'got down there in the bowels of the earth in the first place, but I'm not sure I care, nil hea. Don't do it again." Eoin said, and he stomped off.

Alistar scowled after him. "He's gone a bit sour, hasn't he?"

"He was with his girl, Aly. He has no time for brothers anymore."

He looked around and saw no sign of his sister at all, save her small and scratchy voice in the dark. "And you?"

"I have time for one. But the wind and the dark call louder than your pretty whistle tonight. Don't forget your promise to the Widow in the Well. She won't."

And then he did see her, bare feet, tangled hair and feathered cloak, at the edge of the forest. "I won't forget." he told her. She said nothing else, merely stood there watching him a moment. The wind blew harder, and Alistar's vision blurred, and when he blinked the water away from his eyes, she was gone.

Alistar played "The South Wind" again, once, on the way home. An owl wheeled silently overhead and back into the wild, wind-combed woods, glimpses of it caught here and there and then gone again, in the shadows between the trees.