Chrysalis Ch6: Fairy Lore and Folktales (pt2) (Patreon)

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"Are you certain that you want to go too, Ian?” Mrs Morgan asks, “you've already done so much. I’m sure Daniel can make one little run to the store on his own if you’d rather get some rest.”

She is standing in the doorway to the house, watching her husband and Ian departing for the car.  Above them, the faint pinkish light of the slowly-rising sun paints the sky, overpowering the fading starlight.

"No offence mum, but it’s better none of us go it alone,” Ian calls back. "We’ve got the iron, you’ve got the salt. We'll be back before sun up."

Mrs Morgan nods, but she keeps the door open until the car pulls away, engine muttering into the distance.

A few paces behind her, staying out of sight of the open door, Lloyd is resting on the steps up to the second story.  Even as he can’t see the car depart he can feel the vibrations, trembling down the ends of his antennae, moving to track it before it fades into the distance.

His mother steps away, her hand falling from the door handle with a sigh.

"He's a good boy." She shakes her head, closes the door and turns the bolt.
“They’re going to be fine," she says to herself as if saying it will make it true.

Lloyd coughs, nodding.
"Yeah. I… doubt Neith or Astraea would try anything during the day."
If either one of them is in any shape for it.  He thinks to himself.

His mother turns back and gives Lloyd a hesitant smile.

"Well love, shall we? At least we can enjoy some creature comforts while we wait."

She escorts Lloyd into the kitchen before pouring a generous line of salt across the threshold, sealing them in.  Lloyd can almost feel the static snap in the air as she completes the line.

Satisfied, Mrs Morgan sets the salt on the kitchen counter and switches on the electric kettle.

Lloyd yawns as he watches, slumping in his chair. It’s hard to get his thoughts in order. Even harder to ignore how bone-weary he is, or the half dozen aches and bruises making themselves known. His antennae quiver at the hint of humidity rising from the kettle.

"You don't think anyone's going to ask questions about the shopping list, do you?" He asks.

Lloyd's mom thinks for a moment.  "People use salt for...for preserves, don’t they? Perhaps we’re simply starting a new hobby.” Lloyd’s mom offers without turning around. Lloyd looks up, his eyebrow lifting.

"What exactly would we be preserving?”  Lloyd asks. His mother shifts her stance, shrugging.

“Whatever people preserve with a boot full of salt, I suppose.”

Lloyd folds his arms on the table and settles down, resting his chin on his wrists. His antennae stand up again, quivering and waving around. Now that there’s nothing to distract him, he can’t tune them out anymore.

The air tastes of crumpled paper and dried herbs and traces of char of the stove burners. He can smell faint ghosts of bacon from what must have been his parents’ breakfast. He can feel tiny changes in the air prickling down to his head, drafts and eddies whirling over him.

He shudders, pulling the hood over his antennae. Dozens of overwhelming sensations and signals collapse into the bland, heavy taste and pressure of the old cloth.

Mrs Morgan sits down, hesitating, then reaching out to touch the edge of the hood.
"You...Lloyd, you don't have to keep concealing those." She says softly.

Lloyd shifts away, but she follows, frowning.
"... why don't you... let them out for a bit? Just like we used to do with wing hours. Do you remember wing hours? You’d get so excited, you’d run around helping me close all the curtains...."

Lloyd shakes his head, giving her a sickly smile as he huddles back in the hood.

"...no thanks, Mum. I'll just leave this on a bit longer.
I’d... prefer to."

An awkward silence descends over the table. Lloyd’s mother fiddles with the end of her cardigan then withdraws something from the pocket. It’s a boxy, clumsy object, and she sets it on the table with a soft clunk.

A compact first-aid kit, the sort to keep in a drawer or glove compartment.

"... actually..."

Mrs Morgan draws in a slow breath, resting her hands on the kit.

"... I was hoping that I would be able to...
we, would be able to...
take stock of all that’s happened. While the boys are out."

"I - wha - Mum, I am a boy.  Just because I’m different now doesn’t mean I’m-" Lloyd sputters, rocking back in his chair.

His mother stumbles over his words as she hastens to reply.
"O-of course you are. I didn't mean to - ”

"I'm f-fine.” Lloyd replies curtly. “I’ve already wrapped my wings."
Lloyd hunches down as much as he can, all but disappearing into the hoodie. He crosses his arms in front of his chest, shifting uncomfortably. The ticking of the kitchen clock thunders in his ears.

Lloyd’s mother goes quiet, then pushes the first aid box closer.
“I know you can wrap your wings. I just... want to have a look over you. Your... neck. Your face. They need looking after."

“Ian and I already - “ Lloyd starts indignantly, but his mother keeps going, her face set and determined.

"... and... we may need to get you..." She breathes out and looks aside, down at the first aid kit.
"... well, some proper support. You know, for your chest.  Now that it’s different."

Lloyd stares at the table, going silent. Each tick of the clock seems louder. Like it's reverberating in his skull. Mrs. Morgan shifts.

“Lloyd, it’s all right. I’m your mother, aren’t I?
It isn’t as if I’ve never seen you... shirtless... before.”

"Not like - “ Lloyd starts, then subsides, looking away.
"...c-can we just think about the bruises right now?"

"Whatever you need, little bird." Mrs. Morgan says, a bit too quickly. Without looking at her, Lloyd pulls his hoodie up and over his head, hesitantly removing it. He’s extremely conscious of the bandage wrapped around his chest, for once binding something other than his wings.

His mother opens the kit and rips open an alcohol swab, her hand shaking lightly as she dabs around the bandage on Lloyd’s neck. He winces, and she makes a shushing noise, shaking her head.

“Oh, your poor neck...your friend did his best. Let me just change this.”

She peels the bandage away, drawing in a hiss of breath, and delicately wipes it clean. Lloyd flinches at the sting, but holds steady while she replaces the covering. Mrs. Morgan breathes in again, taking one of Lloyd’s hands and looking at his wrist.

“There’s not much to do about those bruises, I’m afraid. And you mustn’t keep your wings bandaged up. I think we have your old binder in the - what is that?”

Lloyd looks down quickly, stung by the note of alarm in his mother’s voice. There’s a long, discolored bruise running down his right arm, struck through with gashes and dried blood.

"It must be from when I hit the boxes. I thought it was just a bruise..." Lloyd mutters, looking nervously at his mother. He leans away, turning his eyes down on his now-bare arms.

It’s odd to look at them. They’re softer now. Not completely different, but...not the way he expects to look. Lloyd frowns, running his hand over his own skin.

"I guess this is more like...
what she looked like."

He mutters, half to himself. Lloyd’s mother busies herself with the first-aid kit, looking intently at the bandages she’s sorting through.

“Who knows what was in those crates. We’re going to have to make sure it doesn’t get infected.” She states, turning her attention to the scrape on Lloyd’s side. He shifts, the bandage bulging as his wings tug restlessly.

“Lloyd...whenever you’re ready, we do need to talk about what’s happened.
To your body.”

Lloyd shifts again, looking away uncomfortably.
“Why? Don’t we have enough to think about?”

Mrs. Morgan frowns, standing up.
"... it's exactly because there's so much we don't know.  I'm just... I’m trying to take stock. To plan. To know the variables that we CAN know. Lloyd, if you're female bodied now... there are some things I'm going to need to prepare you for, and..."

"Well, I worked out having wings without any preparation, didn't I?" Lloyd snaps, sitting forward.

His mother takes a deep breath through her nose. "I'm just... trying to manage this. I’m just trying to keep you safe."

“I KNOW.”  Lloyd snaps, causing Mrs Morgan to withdraw.

Lloyd looks guiltily to the side, grabbing up the discarded hoodie.
"...sorry, Mum.  I just…
I need some space right now."

Lloyd shifts, tugging the hoodie back on. As it falls into place, his eyes drop to his wrist. It isn't really any more slender than it had been.

But it feels like it is.

"I didn't mean for...you know. All of this.
For something like this to happen.
To cause so much trouble.”

Mrs. Morgan turns away, placing a hand on the counter. She shakes her head, not looking back at the table.

"Little bird, you... aren’t to blame. You were...
things they... happened...
you..."

She goes completely silent, and a weight fills the air.



“... when they told us.”  She starts.   Every word she speaks taking effort.
"When they gave us the news.   All I could think…
All I could think was…

"...how did this happen?"

"How could this have happened.
To us
To you
After everything we’ve done and prepared for."

“... I … I couldn’t stop thinking that  if you’d just stayed in college, or if you hadn’t moved out, or…”  Mrs Morgan continues, the words bubbling out of her.

"... I thought I'd taught you to be careful but-"

“Somehow… That night
You were there.
You walked home
alone,
from that job,

at that place… “

The words fill the air with acid.  The implications burning in an open wound.

After a moment Lloyd sputters out a laugh, his antennae twitching.
“Careful.   You wanted me to be more careful.”

Lloyd sniffs dismissively.
“Mum, all I ever think about is how to be careful.   Safety first.  That’s all I ever think about.
For chrissake The only reason I was alone that night was because-”

Lloyd’s voice cuts out, overwhelmed with exasperation, before biting out the words
“Fucks sake.  I shoulda jes’ gone with Ian that night."

His stomach hurt.
"...sorry. I'm sorry." He repeats, rubbing at his face, unconsciously mirroring her gesture. "I'm just tired."

Mrs. Morgan’s eyes light up in alarm. "Ian asked to take you home?”
“Why didn’t you go with him?  Why did you choose to GO ALONE?”

"Because he was asking me out on a date and I HAD TO SAY NO." Lloyd’s voice rises and cracks, sounding less and less like his own. His words crystal chimes rattling in a windstorm. "Because I had to stay SAFE!"

Mrs. Morgan’s eyes flash, and she draws back, her own voice rising.
"Safe? Lloyd you were walking home alone at night! IN CENTRAL LONDON. And you decided to approach a COMPLETE STRANGER -"

"WELL WHAT WAS I SUPPOSED TO DO?” He interjects, “Quit my job?  Lock the door?! Never do anything or see anyone for the rest of my life?!"

His eyes sting, and he swipes his wrist across his face.
"Do you know how hard this is? I - I can't get close to anyone, I can't go anywhere, I just have to keep this BIG. STUPID.  SECRET.  And guess what, none of it helped! They came looking anyway!

How was I supposed to know fairies were gonna come looking for me? What was I supposed to DO? How was I supposed to PREPARE FOR - "

"You know I don't KNOW, Lloyd. I never knew what to do about ANY this!  Not now, not then, not from the start!”

“That… creature, she just shows up.  She just shows up and you’re...

And she has you and I just...
I need you to be safe...
I needed you to be safe Lloyd… I just needed you stay safe and alive and I can’t-
I couldn’t-"

Lloyd’s eyes widen as something clicks into place. The thought that’s been prickling at the back of his mind ever since his mother first woke up and attacked him.

"...wait.
You saw her?  You saw Lyra?”

Lloyd’s mother goes pale as she realizes what she’s said.
Lloyd continues, anger picking up in his voice.

“And before, when you thought...you said I was one of them.
Before I told you it was me
You said I was one of them!”

“You said I was one of ‘them’!”

“You KNEW!”

Mrs. Morgan draws back.
Pale lights flare in Lloyd’s eyes.

“I asked you. I asked you when I was seven and you said fairies weren’t real. You KNEW and you - you told me I had ALLERGIES!"

"But you do have allergies!" Mrs Morgan flails.

"I DON’T HAVE ALLERGIES MOM, I have WINGS." Lloyd shouts back. The chimes in his voice shatter, each syllable a shard of jagged glass. “You said I just had them, born with them like some unsightly birthmark! I asked and you LIED - “

"WE WEREN'T TRYING TO LIE!
WE WERE JUST TRYING TO PROTECT YOU!”

The kettle screams, barely audible over the outbursts.  Lloyd falls quiet, breathing hard, his throat aching and his eyes burning.

“We just wanted you to know in a way you could understand." His mother gasps, hot tears running down her cheeks.  Lloyd stands stock still, overwhelmed by feelings he never thought he’d express.

"I - I - need a moment,"  Lloyd stammers.
Abruptly, he spins, heading for the stairs. His old room's been cleaned out for years, but he can still go there, still close the door, still get himself under control and think.

Without realizing it, he tries to step over the salt.

The air slams into him like a brick wall. Lloyd goes down hard, gasping in surprise, his wings straining painfully against the bandage. He grabs for a chair as he falls and pulls it down on top of himself.

"HEAVENS, LLOYD!!" Mrs. Morgan cries out. She throws the chair off and helps him to a seated position. "Are you alright?”

"...ow." Lloyd mumbles weakly, rubbing at his head. He huddles up, looking balefully at the circle of white crystals around the kitchen.

Closing him in.

"At least we know it still works."  He mutters bitterly.

There's an awkward silence.  The screaming kettle clicks over, shutting off.
After a moment, Mrs Morgan awkwardly gets to her feet, and goes to tend to it.

Lloyd sighs, blinking back a few lingering tears. He can’t remember ever feeling that angry, but it’s evaporated almost as swiftly as it swept over him. Not completely, but now he just feels… tired.

"What are we going to do...?" He asks the air in front of him.

Mrs. Morgan picks up the kettle, hesitating before pouring the boiling water.

"... I don't know." She begins, simply. "Mothers are supposed to know everything, aren’t we? But… I don’t.”

“Should we have told you from the start?
What would we say? What COULD we say?
How could we best help you to understand.”

She closes her eyes. In that moment, she seems… older. Just as tired as Lloyd. Exhausted and wrung out.

“I... have only ever wanted you to be safe, but... maybe that wasn't enough.
Maybe that wasn't what mattered most."

With a sigh, she sits down, opening her eyes to give Lloyd a glassy look.
"What would you have wanted, little bird?"

Lloyd shakes his head, his antennae quivering.
“I... don't know. I don't know what I would have wanted.”

He stands up, circling around to the counter. The line of salt is ever-present in his vision, as firm a barrier as any door.

A shield of his own?
Or a lock?

His hand comes down on the counter. Lloyd leafs through the piles of paper, looking at each one in turn.

“I… don’t know.   Even if you had told me, It’s not like knowing would have let me run around with my wings out.  Wouldn’t have kept me safe."

He flips through the scene of his own abduction. The discarded bicycle. His shirt and binder, torn to shreds and left scattered on the road.

"Something like this was always going to happen."

Something brushes against his hand - not paper. It’s too stiff and strangely smooth, like it’s been laminated. The sensation skin-crawlingly familiar.

Lloyd frowns, brushing aside a printout and spots the object. It’s a flat, grey-brown oblong, with thin parallel ridges running across it. Lloyd reaches for it, then hesitates. Something about the way the light falls on the ridges seems...unsettling. Like they aren’t quite still.

"Mum?
What's this?"

Mrs. Morgan looks over at the counter, then flinches, turning back to the table.
“It’s nothing. Please don’t - “

Lloyd’s antennae lift straight up, pointing accusingly. His mother looks down.

"That was given to us by the… person who made you the way you are… now.
It’s from her… well…
Your
wing."

Lloyd’s eyes widen, and he takes a closer look at the object. Now that she’s mentioned it, does look shockingly like a parchment made up of scales.

His scales.

Mrs. Morgan watches as his hand hovers over it, her grip on the kettle tightening.
"Would you…”  She forces the question out, like it’s difficult for her to actually say.  “Would you like to know about the night that it happened?"

Lloyd nods carefully, his eyes red-rimmed but curious.

"I would."

Mrs Morgan delivers two small mugs of tea to the table, the sharp tang of peppermint creeping in through his nose and down through his scalp. Neither him nor his mother say a word, a delicate balance of silence hanging in the air between them.

She looks up, watching him carefully.
“You...do still like a bit of honey in yours, don’t you?”

Lloyd nods, a small smile flickering to life on his face.
“Just a bit. Yeah. Thanks, Mum."

Mrs. Morgan smiles back, a fragile, fleeting expression.  She adds a small spoonful of honey to one of the mugs and hands it to Lloyd, who takes it and steps back. The two of them stand at opposite ends of the counter. The oversized scale between them. Mrs. Morgan takes a deep breath and begins, looking down into her drink.

"It was a summer night, not unlike this one. You were only a few months old at the time.” She smiles again, a little wry and wistful. “You’d just had your first word. ‘Papa’, of course. I was a little sore about that, but he was the one looking after you during those early days.”

The mug trembles, threatening to spill a drop over the side. Mrs. Morgan sips a little off the top to settle it, then sets it back on the table.

"We heard something strange on the baby monitor. Almost a sort of...rustling, or whispering. Your father was so brave then, taking up the cricket bat and leading the charge upstairs. But when we entered the room..."

"That monster, was holding you.”
“Cradling you in her... in one of her arms. Another... poised over you... so... her hands, her nails, they were like.... "
Mrs. Morgan’s eyes go glassy again, her voice growing hoarse.
"... like knives."

Lloyd sets the mug down on the counter, listening wordlessly. The ceramic clicks softly as it touches the granite surface. He blinks.

The counter is red.

Lloyd blinks again. The red hue gone as quickly as it had appeared. He's looking at his own upturned hand, his fingers half-curled.

Shivering Lloyd picks up the mug, clutching it tight, letting the warmth seep in through his hands. "I remembered that. I saw something like that.   In my vision.”
Myself.

"You saw her?”

“... I saw… myself.   I was holding a child, then looking in the mirror and-”

He stops and looks at his mother. She’s tightening like a coil being pulled into a knot, and there’s something in her eye as she looks at him.

Like she’s looking at a stranger.

Lloyd’s stomach drops, his voice trembling.
"M-mum it was only a vision.   I saw her in the mirror and then the door opened.  Probably just before you and dad entered.   That was all I saw.  Then the vision ended."

“I think it was triggered when I bit Neith and tasted some of her blood.”

Just as quickly as it had arrived, the flash of fear in his mother’s face is gone. She edges closer again, resting against the counter.

"... well... after we entered, it got a little...frantic. She threatened to kill you if we tried to make her go. We had to talk her down. She sounded...I don't think disturbed."

Mrs. Morgan looks away from Lloyd, back to the scale.
"Desperate. She seemed desperate to me"

"Can't imagine why." Lloyd murmurs, breathing in the steam from his tea. It's stabilizing. Soothing, even without drinking it. Something familiar for him to hold on to.  "What did she say?"

Mrs. Morgan shakes her head.

"I'll be honest, I don't remember. All I could think was that I wanted... I needed... you to live. I needed you to be alright, Lloyd."

She goes quiet, looking away, taking a moment to continue her story.  "We calmed her down enough to reason with her, eventually. She said she needed to disappear, and that she could be you. She kept saying that over and over. That she could be you."

Her expression hardens, even as her voice trembles.

"She promised you would be safe, and that she would give us something to pass to you if you were ever in danger. She scraped one of her wings with a claw. Very lightly. I could see a smear of dust on the edge.

She blew it into the air in front of her and began to sing. Not words. Nothing I could understand… more like chimes than words.

As she did that, the cloud of dust started to come together until it formed...”

Mrs. Morgan points at the scale.

“It was so small at first. We could hardly believe what we were seeing. By the time it was done, that’s what it looked like. She said we could take it, and when your father reached out, she... did something. There was a bright light...and then she was gone.

Just our little boy, safe, and bright eyed, and alive, sitting in his crib. And when I picked you up to hold, I could feel the wings."

Mrs. Morgan sniffs, wiping at her eyes under her glasses.
"That’s everything. I'm... I’m just so sorry Lloyd."

Lloyd looks up at her, dry-eyed.
"You and Dad did the best you could, mum. Please don’t blame yourself… It's not your fault."

He looks back at the scale, his eyes aching as they rest on the ridges.
"So this is what she left?
She just said to give it to me?”

Mrs. Morgan grimaces.
"Yes. She didn’t explain what it was supposed to do"

Lloyd lets go of the mug with one hand, holding his breath as he hovers his fingers over the oblong. His skin prickles, pulled towards the scaly surface.

His hand lowers. Touches the scale. It’s smooth and cold as a river-worn pebble, with a faint grittiness that wipes off on his skin.

And as the cold travels up his hand, the ridges begin to shift, crawling and turning in on themselves. Mrs. Morgan gasps, liquid splashing over the side of her mug as she jerks away.

“Lloyd! What - “

Lloyd stares, watching as the lines contort into twisting, spiraled words. It’s in no language he can recognize, but he can read them all the same. Like he’s known them his whole life.   Like he’s always spoken in these words.

“Lloyd!” Mrs. Morgan whispers sharply, shaking hot droplets of tea off her hand. “What is it?”

“It’s a letter.” He says quietly, picking up the scale and holding it to the light.
“A letter from her to… me.”

Lyra’s last message.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

To the me who reads this,

You're in danger, which means I've failed. We won't have allies and you won't have my skills to help you survive.

We'll need to find work in the market. There's a market... you won't understand, but you will when you get there. I've been there so you'll be able to find it, just go to the seventh street past the copper bridge and you'll find it. It'll call to you.

The market is dangerous, but useful. Find work in that place and you'll have its protection. Don't wear white. Don't harm the merchants. Don't cross the king, and do not trust the bookkeeper.

That's all I can give us.

I hope you never have to know me, but now that we’ve met...I can only wish you luck.

- Lyra

+++

Lloyd looks up, his mouth dry. Dawn is just spilling through the garden outside, but the light creeping through the kitchen window just makes the shadows at the corners of the room that much darker.

He can see his mother looking at him, fearful but questioning. Beyond her, the line of salt, glittering in the first few rays of the sun. Lloyd sets the scale down, letting it fall from nerveless fingers.

"... I...
I... have to go back."

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