#tatienne

Human abbeys were vanishing quickly across Europe, but the Fairy Abbey, Saint Tatiana’s continued to thrive under their veil of secrecy.  Very few outside of the fairy community knew of its existence, as traffic towards it was altered away as much as possible; the nearby town (its name forgotten in time) and the Inquisition were the main factors that tried as hard as they could to shield its existence.  That was the environment Tatienne grew up in, one of ever stout mystery and devotion.

Tatienne herself was a mysterious and strange girl.  She kept her fuzzy antenna and white moth wings covered under her habit and long clothing, her big pink eyes being the only visible sign that anything was abnormal about her.  There was always a smile plastered on her face to accompany her ever growing need to help others.  She was always first to give up food is someone else was going hungry (which was frequent in those times), first to come scurrying over with a needle and thread if someone tore clothing, first to treat any injury she came across, and first to the chapel for service to make sure everything was perfect.  Even the nuns that raised her could not understand how something so sweet and pure could exist.  Tatienne was as saintly as the actual Saint she had been named after.

Then the war came.  Tatienne was a young woman by this point, keeping up with the events abroad through the abbey’s radio, but honestly did not expect the invasion to come at all and as quickly as it did.  Bombs were falling, people were dying, buildings laid to waste, and the abbey was not spared.  Poor Tatienne died what she loved doing: Helping people.  While she lay on the cold stone rubble, shrapnel jutting out of her corpse, the little girl she had shielded was able to run away to live another day.  Now, if only she could have died with the peace of knowing she’d helped someone and stayed dead with that sentiment.

It was hours later, and the surviving nuns had all left the rubble of the abbey to hide or offer their services to the wounded.  German soldiers camped nearby, but Tatienne’s corpse was out of view.  She twitched and jerked awake, suddenly alive.  It was not too difficult for her to go into the Second Death, as she laid paralyzed, the memory of screeching planes and imploding bombs enough to send her into a panic-induced heart attack.  She revived quite quickly after that, a surprising feat for her species.  Her Second Death had lasted mere minutes, and nothing had changed in that time.

Tatienne sniffled softly, and gripped her stomach, shaking.  Her wounds were all healed.  The only evidence of her ever being injured were the blood stains and her disheveled appearance.  But the gashes on her skin were gone, and the singed areas of her hair repaired.  She looked around at the ruined abbey, her heart sinking as she took in the broken walls and bloodied corpses of her friends and mentors.  The laughter and voices of the German soldiers nearby drifted into her ear and she froze like a wary doe.  She did not understand any German, French being the only language she actively spoke.  Tears began to form, and as hard as she tried, she could not muffle her sobbing at the confusion and fear she felt for the first time in her life.

The soldiers heard her, and quickly moved over to investigate.  They surrounded her, whispering to each other in rapid German.  One of them got down on his knees in front of her, something Tatienne was sure that the others were annoyed about due to the whining tone of their voices.

“What is your name?” he asked in heavily accented, but well done French.

Tatienne said nothing, wrapping her arms around her legs and curling up into a ball to try and hide as much exposed skin as possible.  The soldier looked back at his companions and barked something in German.  The others grumbled in response, but wandered back to their campsite, leaving the two alone.  The German turned back to her and rubbed his hands together.

“Have you been here the whole time,” he asked, a shaky smile starting to form on his face.

Tatienne nodded.

“Do you speak German?”

She shook her head.

“Are you injured?”

She paused, but then shook her head.

“My name is Lanzo Ritter,” the soldier continued, shrugging off his jacket.  Tatienne buried her face in her knees, trembling.  She looked up suddenly though, as the jacket was placed on her shoulders.  She clutched at the fabric, confused by this act of kindness.

“Why are you helping me?” she croaked, her throat still full of ash.

“This is a war,” Lanzo muttered, helping adjust the jacket over her.  “There is a time for death, but we must also take time for life.  This is hallowed ground, and I do not feel comfortable with this situation at all.  The least I can do, is make sure one of the Lord’s servants is cared for.”

“I am not what you think,” Tatienne said, her limp antenna popping up from under her dirty blond curls and her molted wings fluttering softly.  “Je suis un monster.”

Lanzo’s eye widened, but he made no move to push her away.  “Anything but, Sister,” he said softly.  “Fee.  Engel.  Have at it.”  He scooped her up, and she clung to his neck.  “A perfect mix of both worlds.”