Fog and Sleet were wandering around under the old maple trees, crouching down time and time again to grab up fistfuls of wet leaves. Some of the leaves were as tall as Mother’s fine glasses, others were more face-sized. Each and every one — or rather, a good third of them, if you were being picky about where they fell — was tossed into a slowly growing pile. Sleet brushed her clammy hands off. This pile was decidedly not under construction to please their mother. Eventually, the children agreed it was time for a break, and plopped down on the vaguely damp grass. Right as Fog had gotten into a comfortable position with her skirts and Sleet had sighed good-naturedly at her, an owl with large, watery eyes began to approach the two of them about seven yards away with purposeful waddles. Sleet saw it, stared at it, blinked. It was still there. She lightly nudged her sister. “Ow! What?” Fog crossed her arms with a sniffy-aired huff, then looked exaggeratedly in the direction Sleet had nodded at. “I don’t see anything, Sleet…” She looked all around at the general area, before looking up. “Oh, did you mean the laundry’s gotten rumpled on the line? That’s your chore this week, you know.” Sleet nodded along, reaching over to offer her hand to the odd little owl with a confused frown. The owl couldn’t have gotten from were it was to way over here so quickly unless it’d flown, but both she and her sister would’ve heard it… Right? Owls weren’t silent killers. What was this creature? Fog seemed to notice her sister’s inattention, because she started some spiel that sounded, at best, offended. The owl stared back at its sole observer, looking at once pathetic and too human to be just an owl. It seemed to know this routine too well. This was a trap. There was a tension behind its eyes, like it was waiting patiently to do Something Dangerous. This was not an owl. “Aren't you listening to me? Ugh, Sleet, look at me when I’m speaking to you!” Fog balled her hands in the ample ruffles of her two-sizes-too-big dress. “Sleet.” The owl’s voice was creaky and smooth, like an old wooden rocking chair. Its features looked more and more unreal; it’s eyes gaining an uncanny pink light. The fae had gotten what it’d wanted, and now was not the time for her to panic. “Your name was Sleet.” “Shall I give myself another, sir, or is that out of the question?” “You may, once I have left. You are named Pet, for now.” The fae settled down against Pet’s side, on top of her cloak. “I am tired. Please allow me to rest.” His glamour receded, and Pet was left to think of names and examine this spindly new creature as he slept. He did not have wings, but the oddest spider-like legs, thin as string, and there were at least ten of them, all many-jointed and some bent at very odd angles. These legs of his would perhaps be as long as little Fog’s, if they were to be ironed flat and measured. Oh, iron? She did have an iron locket, she could feasibly restrain the creature. Hmm, that'd surely be unnecessary, he was sleepy, but it was a comforting thought. Aamu, ‘morning’ in Finnish, that might suffice for her new name. What a concept, to be free, to be Aamu. When her fae had rested — Oh. Fog was shaking her. Hard. “What on earth!” she was screaming at her. This would wake him up, and that wouldn’t do anyone any good. Pet gathered her fae up in her arms and stood, walking away as calmly as she could. “What!? Where are you going? We have to go inside soon, and you’re headed right in the opposite direction?” Eventually, Fog would give up. Perhaps she would try to follow her, or go and shout about her to Mother. Once deep in the forest, nobody would try to get Pet back. Soon enough, Pet would be Aamu, and Aamu would be free

Wrote by anonymous .