� A Good Man �

a silvanshee’s origin story

He could remember little of what he’d dreamed of, save a little moment, just a blink.
He remembered light through foliage. The slow flapping of wings. The whispers of a faraway song.
Felix could not for the life of him understand why this particular moment remained strong beyond
his subconscious and into his waking moments, in such a way, in such a nagging presence. Maybe it had to
do with the changeling girl they had apprehended yesterday? Was she not in the dream too? He wasn’t sure.

He was a strongly-built fellow, Felix Mason. A gentle giant, his fellow soldiers called him sometimes.
Even though he’d seen much in his life of service, it never seemed to bring him down. He would look at the
latest odd thing their life would slap them with and crack a crude dry joke, be it the mud, the food, the idiocy
of their superiors, and even their chances at a grisly and/or funny death. That’s why they liked him.
He even joked about his perpetual status of candidacy for knighthood, and how the rest of the knights,
mostly nobles, seemed to be content to just dangle it in front of his eyes for ten years.
It was all fun and games ‘round the fireplace, but deep down, this, in particular, was an ever-present
itch at his mind. Those who called themselves ‘knights’ seldom deserved their damned title and their damned
tithe, and yet there they were. “Damn their eyes” he would mutter, alone in his post. “Damn their eyes.”
Too often, after witnessing the horrors of war, he would stand in front of the mirror before he shaved,
and study his reflection; admitting to himself that he was no ‘Sir’ yet, but he was still, despite everything, a
good man.
And so the ten years became fifteen, and fifteen became twenty. In that span of time, he had learned
his family back home had not managed to survive, and he still had not been cleared for knighthood. If he had,
he wondered, would things have been different? Could he have saved them?
His jokes turned sullen and cynical with the passage of time.

It was yet another hot, humid dawn in that damned tropic region. Morning call. Ammo count.
Reviewing the shifts. Checking the repairs. Laundry. As the hours flew relatively idly in the Imtarian camp,
Felix still felt uneasy about the changeling girl.
When his unit had found her in the jungle, she had not given a single word of reply to their inquiries.
Of roughly ten years of age, her silent expression, coupled with the mismatched coloured eyes prevalent in
the hag-children, was at least eerie.
Sir Merren had decreed that she might be one of the children spies the insurgents used, and thus they
should take the girl to camp. It was not safe for her out there anyway, and Felix had found that hard to argue
with as he picked her up like a feather and sat her in his saddle. All the way back to the camp, the girl had
remained silent, though her eyes took in everything with great wonder.
Felix could not help but think about how his own baby daughter might have been her age by now.

What’s on the menu today? “Not that gruel again,” he blurted upon seeing their midday meal, tray in
hand. “We should check if there are any horses missing again. Sure as hell hope they ‘re not gonna feed this
to the new kid, as well...”
His fellow soldiers chuckled, yet he wondered if Sir Merren was giving the girl enough to eat; and
paused, realising he was worrying about the changeling again. Why was he worried so?
What was it that hadn’t sat well with him? Was it the distant aching of his broken fatherhood? Was
it something in the dream? Was it Sir Merren?
 He stopped a while and mulled that last one over in his head.
Now that Felix thought about it, Sir Merren did seem more intrigued about the changeling than the
other children spies they had encountered. But how was that relevant? All those kids had been sent away to
foster communities out of the war zone, as the policy of the Imtarian Army supposedly dictated. Same for
her, Felix supposed?
Still. That nagging feeling. Sir Merren sure had looked at the time like he really wanted to hear the
changeling speak. Was he hoping to learn about the hags? Curious, as the hags had stayed off the fray thus far;
they had not picked sides, nor were they seen, in the highland jungles below which the battles loomed. Why
would he want to know...

Felix slammed his hand on the dining table out of the blue, and took off. Now this, this was unnerving
him way too much for some reason. He had to put his mind at ease.
He marched off to the command buildings, walked through the damp office hallways, and knocked at
Sir Merren’s door. There was no response.
Indisposed, then. There was a lot of things that might require his attention. But could it be that...
Weighing the possibility, he walked out to check on the bunkers near the stables, where Sir Merren
used to interview and debrief people.

As he approached the bunker, in a relatively quiet area of the camp, a mounting feeling of dread
washed over him. He wiped his brow, soaked with sweat born of worry and heat.
His pace slowed not in the least. Why, why was he so unnerved, he thought to himself. What could
possibly be wrong?
The answer came as he heard a child’s whimper echo up from the underground corridor.
Cursing at his intuition for being correct again, he stormed down the steps and loudly slammed open
the door at their end.

Sir Merren, standing beside his desk strewn with maps, turned around to look at him calmly. The
changeling girl was sniffling before him, sitting awkwardly on a chair, elbows grazed and cheeks bloody from
the impact of too many blows.
“Sergeant Mason” said Sir Merren “what kind of manners are these? Are you looking for some days of
potato-peeling duty, perhaps?”
Felix was lost for words.
“Are you... Are you mad, Sir?” he managed. “Are you actually torturing the girl?”
“I fear it is necessary for this expedition. She has been stubborn as you please, and I believe it is vital
information she’s withholding from me.”
“Is... is she working for the insurgents?”
“No, I don’t think she is. But, I do know she’s with the hag coven in the western highlands.”
“The hags!?” Felix blurted incredulously. “What does this outfit care about the hags?”
“They are creatures of evil, sergeant” maintained Sir Merren “and the way the board shifts, they’ll
stand against us before long. Perhaps they already do. Or are you unconcerned about the latest rumours of
witchcraft we hear about around the coven’s turf, from the forward patrols stationed there?”
“Sir Merren, please realise...” pleaded Felix, though the tension in his voice was less than defensive.
“I am talking facts, sergeant!” the knight snapped. “Those witch monsters have it out for us, and this
little brat here knows!”
He turned to the changeling and pushed a finger, accusingly, against her forehead. “And won’t tell.”
“Mama...” bawled the girl helplessly, snot running from her bloody nose.
“You cooperate and tell me what your mama’s at, little whore” he barked in her face “and you get to
see her again!”
 “Sir Merren!” Felix’s grips tightened around themselves. “This behaviour does not become the Imtarian
Army; nor does it become a knight of your stature.”
“And what would you know” Sir Merren spat back at him “of what becomes a knight? War is hell.
There are things that must be done. Things that are deemed necessary for the common good.”
Felix’s chest heaved, in vain trying to contain whatever emotion was swelling there.
“This outfit, this army, beats with one heart, one voice” barked Sir Merren, “the voice of the knight-
officers. The voice of Knighthood! And it’s this voice that will decide what does, and what does not become
the army! What’s left after this voice is silenced, sergeant? Chaos!”
Felix’s arms tightened, his knuckles white with tension.
“And you should know that by now.” Sir Merren’s tone dropped with a sly smile. “But I guess, after
all, that is why you never made knight.”
It’s not that he had not known for a long time what manner of scum populated the ranks of the
knights, Felix realised. He had known all along. He had seen it. He had seen everything. Twenty long years.
And yet, he always wanted to reach their heights. ‘Sir Felix’. How hollow that sounded right now, tinged in
the words of this bastard whose status he aspired to. How vain.
“But I did” continued Sir Merren. “I, am a knight. And you, sergeant, are a commoner; and a commoner
you will remain until the end of your days if you pester me any longer. Fall in.”
Felix lowered his fiery glance to the ground, and shut his eyes. Would he still be a good man the next
time he looked at himself at the mirror?
He said nothing as Sir Merren turned his back on him to look down on the changeling girl.
“Did you get that, little hag?” he spat condenscendingly at her. “I am a knight. A ‘Sir’.”
The girl trembled yet did not look away. Her eyes still found the courage to study Sir Merren as he
raised his hand.
“And you” he said, “you are a bitch!”
He slapped her once.
“You are a witch!”
He slapped her twice.
“You are-”
“You are no ‘Sir’...” came a low voice behind him.
Furious, he turned around, his mouth pursing to launch angry words into the air.
It only launched teeth as it collided with Felix’s fist.

It was yet another hot, humid afternoon in that damned jungle.

“Are we there yet?” said Felix, his eyes scanning the surrounding hills.
The changeling girl said nothing, content to just point at a general direction.
“Damn your eyes, you’re the one who’s supposed to go on with the are-we-there-yet thing here...” he
mumbled, and urged their mount on.
Swiftly they rode through the vegetation on top of the horse Felix had busted out of the camp stables.
They were far from camp, though they were sure to be followed. And as far as alternative courses of action
went, it didn’t get any better than this. There was no way that Felix was getting away with assaulting a
knight. He did not bear high hopes in the prospect of surrender either; what Sir Merren did was not above
reproach, but out here they were far from the heart of Imtaria, and cold pragmatism was stronger than
humane justice. Damned he would be if he allowed Sir Merren’s stock of knight-officers to get a kick out of
court-martialling and hanging him.
He paused and surveyed the landscape. They stood in the jungle highlands now, the places were the
fey held sway. Soon he’d have to let the horse go and continue on foot.
 The changeling suddenly lifted up a finger and pointed somwhere among the trees uphill. Felix
squinted his eyes, and soon made out the silouette of a treehouse. “Mama” said the girl excitedly.
He smiled broadly, relieved. They had made it. The girl would be safe.
And he would not need to let the horse go, after all.
Maybe he could escape the army. Leave this land. Go back home, for all that it was worth...
The changeling looked up at him with big mismatched eyes and furrowed brows.
“...Why?” she asked innocuously.
Felix was almost dumbstruck to hear a second unique word out of her.
“What- what do you mean why? Why what?” he managed.
“Why did you take me away from your kind?” said the changeling.
He fell silent for a moment. Half-taken aback, half-searching for an answer.
“Because” he said meekly, “you are young. You are innocent of the evils of this world. You... you bear
such promise, little doll.”
“You can be so much more...” he sighed, “than me.”
The girl had just graced him with a smile when the sound of parted foliage reached his ears.

He looked behind in alarm for a brief moment before turning forward and lashing their horse with
the reins. They darted through the trees as more riders entered their sight.
“Damn their eyes, they’ve caught up! I thought the river would be enough to throw them off! Damn
my eyes too!” Felix cursed under his breath as the horse sprinted, ducking to avoid rogue branches in his way.
“I hope you did enjoy our heartwarming moment there, because, boy how does time fly!”
Without warning, the horse let out an anguished neigh and collapsed after three arrows lodged
themselves in its back. Felix was sure he’d heard two metallic clanks behind his ears at the same time, and as
their falling mount dropped them onto the ground, he told himself how oh so glad he was for the shield he had
hung on his back.
He got to his feet fast, and yanked the girl up as well. He looked to the riders below, then to the
treehouse above. In an instant, drawing upon years of tactical decisions, he knew what should be done.
Pushing the changeling girl uphill, he took a stand in the middle of the path and unfastened the shield from
his back.
“Go! Run!” he urged her on, his voice decisive and grim.
“Get to your Mama, fast! I’ll keep those bastards off you! Go!”
The girl spared him and the riders fast approaching behind one frightened glance before she sprinted
through the foliage, where arrows could not see.
Felix turned, sword and board in hand, and regarded the men that would kill him, that he would kill.
They were Imtarians, like him. They had served in the same army, in the same company as him, and bound to
their orders. Was he prepared to shed the blood of his fellow countrymen, whom he had no beef with, to buy
that one hag-child some time? Then again, what kind of soldiers did he have beef with at all? If those were
the insurgents galloping towards him with lances drawn, would it be different?
At least the insurgents would have the good sense not to brave the jungle hills with cavalry, he
thought. Wait, was that off the moral topic at hand?
Eh, damn it all.

Two of the riders charged on him, screaming as they did. Parrying the first’s lance aside, with shield
and body Felix ‘the gentle giant’ rammed into the horse, toppling both rider and mount into the dust. As
the second one came in, he ducked to dodge the blow while driving his blade tip down into the ground and
lunged, grabbing him by the leg and pulling him under in one tremendous motion. He turned, pulled his
sword up from its temporary earthen sheath and down on the fallen rider, one stab, two.
The rest of the horsemen bore down on him. Some struggled to ride through the vegetation, some
gave up and dismounted, drew blades, and surrounded the lone warrior in close melee.
“Damn you all to hell!” he bellowed in rage as his blade swung in every direction, drawing blood and
painting the air with it.
Up and down went the blades, to and fro. Struck low in the leg, he dropped to one knee, and
immediately stood up again, cursing and swinging. Another cut, another blow, another strike to the back. A
few strides further, a knight-officer in shining armour atop his steed looked on.
Felix fought his hardest. He fought his last. Left and right, to and fro, the steel, the screams went,
until bloodied and out of breath, he dropped to both knees.
Three swords drove deep into his flesh, and there was a final pause in the mayhem. He murmured
something under his breath, blood dripping at his last words, and keeled over sideways, falling lifeless on the
ground.

“Get the hag-spawn” snarled the knight-officer, and those still on their feet mounted up and spurred
their horses uphill to find the girl among the green, yet the horses would refuse to take one more step
towards the glade ahead. The knight barked ten words’ worth of orders and the men climbed off, then all of
them rushed ahead on foot. Out of breath, step by step, warily, wearily they came within near sight of the
treehouse, and suddenly halted.
The changeling was there. But so were the hags. An entire coven, glowering at them from above,
looking as gnarled and wicked as the wooden staves they held.
There was a slow, verdant hiss spreading around the glade. The voice of creatures of the first world,
fey moving in the shadows unseen.
“...Why?” said the girl again. But her voice was different.
The leaves around the soldiers rose up and swirled in a sudden breeze. The air pulsed. Their faces froze
in horror, and a collective gasp was abruptly silenced.

It was yet another cool, comforting nightfall in that enchanted glade.

A fresh, simple grave was dug there. The denizens of that primal place had gathered to lay upon it a
flower, a cup of mountain tea, a tooth, a coin, a chestnut. A little red cedar tree was planted to mark the final
resting place of one they considered their own.
Did they truly know him though? “Who was he?” words unspoken drifted through the twilight.
A little changeling girl at the front, soft mismatched eyes glistening, gave voice to as simple an answer
as she could give.
“A good man.”

And carried with these words, unseen, unheard, there was something else.
Light coming through foliage. The slow flapping of wings. The whispers of a faraway song.