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I - “Carry and the Cage of Stars”

Lödöse, 1256

“Please… just a piece of bread. Anything,” murmured Carry, her voice hoarse, almost drowned in the bustling murmur of the marketplace.

People passed her without a glance. In a city brimming with traders and noblemen, where goods from distant lands flowed like honey, a lone beggar woman was just another shadow against the sunlit walls of Lödöse.

She stood near the harbor with sea wind whipping her dark hair, hair left loose, unbraided, unlike the tidy blondes of the Viking women around her. Her skin bore the golden-olive hue of distant, forested hills, Transylvanian blood, perhaps. She didn’t know anymore. She barely remembered the names of her kin.

Her clothes were a mismatched quilt of earth-toned rags, crusted with dirt and old rain. Her tunic, too large, slid off her left shoulder, revealing pale skin smudged with soot. She wore a rope for a belt, tied around her narrow waist. Her boots, both for the left foot, one stolen, one scavenged, clomped awkwardly with every step.

Lödöse, with its richness and opulence, had no place for someone like Carry. She was a ghost in a city of gold.

But she survived.

By dusk, she slipped through alleys, fingers nimble, senses sharp. A coin here, a loaf there. Nothing greedy. Just enough. She avoided crowds. Avoided men with drink on their breath and ugly intentions in their eyes.

Carry was smart. That’s what kept her alive. That, and solitude.

In the forest, there was peace.

Sometimes, when the city turned too cruel, she vanished into the green. She ate wild berries, trapped rabbits with string and patience, and, when the silence became too loud, she played her flute.

It was a crude thing, carved from elderwood, sanded with stone, and chipped at the mouth. But it sang for her. A haunting, breathy melody, half lullaby, half memory.

One afternoon, beneath the canopy of birch and pine, the flute fell silent.

A noise.

A sharp, pitiful squeak. Like a mouse in distress. But high-pitched. Constant.

She turned, cautiously. Her brown eyes, sharp and suspicious, scanned the foliage. A few steps deeper into the underbrush and,

“There you are,” she whispered.

In a cage no bigger than her palm, suspended between two brambles, was a tiny figure. Wings like glass shimmered in the sun, and freckles danced across a tiny upturned nose.

A fairy. A literal, winged, sparking fairy.

“By the spirits…” Carry murmured in her native tongue. “What the hell is that?”

“I’m not a 'that', thank you very much!” the tiny voice snapped. “Rude!”

Carry blinked. “You can talk?”

“No, I’m miming. Of course I can talk. What kind of idiotic question, oh, wait. You’re new. Fine. Let’s try this again.” The creature placed a hand on her hip. “Hi. I’m Noctelya. Fairy of the Night. Soothed dreams and all that.”

Carry crouched, eyes narrowing. “You’re kidding.”

“No. And I’m stuck. So unless you’re here to mock me or write a ballad about my tragic imprisonment, could you maybe get me out of this cage?”

Carry smirked. “Well. Since you asked so nicely…”

With the pick she always kept hidden in her sleeve, the lock was undone in seconds.

Noctelya burst out, wings shimmering, trailing a trail of glitter. She twirled in the air, arms wide. “Ahhh! Sweet freedom! My wings were cramping. You ever had a cramp in your wings? No? Didn’t think so.”

Carry tilted her head. “You’re awfully mouthy for a magical creature.”

“And you’re awfully ragged for a human. What’s with the… everything?” Noctelya twirled her finger at Carry’s general being.

Carry crossed her arms. “I live in the forest and steal food to survive. Sorry if I missed fairy fashion week.”

“Fair enough,” Noctelya shrugged. “At least you don’t smell like dead toadstools. That was the last human who found me.”

“That supposed to be a compliment?”

“Absolutely. I have high standards. I wouldn’t talk to you if you stank.”

Carry rolled her eyes but smirked.

“So… ‘Noctelya’?” she asked. “Sounds fancy.”

“Means ‘Fairy of the Night.’ Apparently, I’m supposed to help people sleep peacefully. You know, ‘sweet dreams’ and all that.”

“That’s… actually lovely.”

“It’s boring,” Noctelya huffed. “Other fairies get to summon moonlight or call the wind. Me? I tuck in crying children and sprinkle dream dust. Yay.”

Carry chuckled. “Dreams are powerful. Sometimes they’re the only thing that keeps you alive.”

The fairy paused in mid-air, hovering just above Carry’s shoulder.

“…That was weirdly poetic,” Noctelya said.

“I’m a weirdly poetic girl.”

“Well then, weirdly poetic girl, what’s your name?”

“Carry.”

“Carry?” Noctelya blinked. “Like… to carry something?”

Carry groaned. “It’s short for something long and unpronounceable. Don’t mock it.”

“I’d never,” Noctelya grinned. “Carry. Huh. Kinda suits you. You carry a lot, don’t you?”

“Did you just make a deep joke about my trauma?”

“Yep.”

They both burst out laughing.

They walked together through the forest. Noctelya mostly flew, occasionally landing on Carry’s shoulder, brushing her hair aside like a curtain.

“I still don’t get how you speak my language,” Carry said after a while.

“I speak all languages,” Noctelya replied, inspecting a snail. “Comes with the wings. It's like… magic, or whatever.”

“Convenient.”

“I know, right? Imagine having to learn languages. Ew.”

Carry snorted. “You’re the laziest fairy I’ve ever met.”

“I’m also the only fairy you’ve ever met.”

“Exactly.”

They stopped near a brook, where Carry knelt to refill her waterskin.

Noctelya floated above the water, glancing at Carry’s reflection.

“You’re beautiful, you know.”

Carry blinked. “That’s… unexpected.”

“Seriously. All wild and mysterious. Very tragic-heroine chic. The forest rags even work for you.”

“Glad I finally meet someone who appreciates peasant couture.”

“Hey, I’d trade you my wings for your cheekbones. Don’t push it.”

The days passed.

They became inseparable.

They argued about which berries were edible (Carry was always right), who could whistle better (Noctelya cheated by using magic), and whether dreams were more important than reality.

But in the quiet moments, something deeper stirred. Carry found herself smiling more. Noctelya would hum along when Carry played her flute, weaving tiny sparkles in rhythm with the notes.

One night, beneath the stars, Carry asked, “Why were you in that cage?”

Noctelya floated down beside her, unusually quiet.

“Some people don’t like what they don’t understand,” she said. “They trap it. Try to own it. Or destroy it.”

Carry looked at her, eyes soft.

“I understand that.”

“I know,” Noctelya whispered.

They sat in silence, two misfits beneath a sky that didn’t care about pasts or pain.

Maybe it was the forest.

Maybe it was the music.

Or maybe it was just what happens when two lonely souls finally find each other.

But that summer, Carry wasn’t alone anymore.

And in her dreams, finally peaceful, she saw wings made of glass, a tiny voice, and laughter that sparkled brighter than any gold Lödöse ever knew.

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Augu sjá í skugga, ljós fæðist úr draumi…

Enginn sér hjarta mitt, nema sá sem týndur er…

“Vakir eldr í dýpstu nætur,”

“Tveir skuggar verða eitt ljós.”