Evie: A doll from the rivershore.

Her name was Evelyn St. Rose. 

And although her surname had a saint suffix and a nature theme, she was not quite a sprite. Yes, she was a healer, and adept with all the natural sprite skills and glamour charms, but she was lost. A sprite without her ring of siblings.

Thirty five odd decades without living in her realm changed her. She was tougher than most of her kind but isolated in her chosen home, a fae mound of two decades, she had an only very soft grip upon her sanity.

"A doll," she uttered with mild interest. "A doll from the rivershore."

Evie St. Rose inspected her supposed doll, fashioned much larger than her small build. The doll's irises were an oddly enchanting snow-white hue, as though the colour had run away and left their personalities. The doll's white hair ran long and glinted a faded silver in the sunlight.

"But not silver," she mused. "Not silver at all."

The doll gasped and convulsed upon the shore and blood seeped out of her wounds. And Evie, in a moment of magical reflex began to sing. Soft dulcet notes petered down the high chimes that spiked within the tender melody. A tune of such benign well intention was not sung better that night.

When the doll's structure melded together, fixed once more, Evie rested. Evie was never a fast healer, only a thorough, wise and persistent sprite. Had she forced herself to sand out the doll's surface wounds or seam together the rips in her body, the doll would have been torn up again in the night while Evie would be utterly helpless.

Evie shook her head at the state of her doll's clothes. Tattered and faded, she thought. Evie would have to fashion a garment made of colour lest it become muted and dirty again. 

Little dirt smears peppered the doll as though it had been badly mistreated. Again, Evie shook her head. Things must always be kept clean and tidy, lest they become lost and lonely and never the same again.


Evie took a deep, well rested breath and began her glorious, soothing melody, her harmony threading itself into the healing process.

"There, all pretty again," she said, satisfied with herself.

Evie St. Rose petted the doll's white hair, teasing some tangles and twigs that had been caught. Evie admired the paleness of her doll's hair, untangled, it was soft and silky, beautiful like an elf's but the doll was much too large to be an elf.

Evie, smoothed the white hair out of the doll's pretty face, and perhaps by trick of the light, the doll opened her eyes. 

"Not the trick of the light," Evie pondered curiously.

The doll sat up straight and gasped "Alastor! - Who, what..." in a diminuendo.

"Not a doll, is it?" 

"Excuse me?"


The End

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