“Stop hovering,” the immortal elven woman grumbles without looking up.
Her Endermanlike friend froze mid-step, tall frame going stiff, eyes darting anywhere but her face. “S-sorry. I just… I didn’t want to interrupt.”
“You didn't.”
Her voice was flat, clipped, the usual chill in it as sharp as a blade of winter grass.
But she shifted a little on the stone bench, making space beside her.
They took the hint and sat — not too close, not too far — hands twisting nervously as they stared at the aged copper slab between them. Its surface was streaked with blue-green, like something long drowned.
“I messed it up,” they whispered. “It was shiny. And then I looked away for— I don’t know— five days? Ten? Maybe a week and a half. Time is… confusing.”
“Everything is confusing to you.”
They flinched.
She exhaled, long and slow. "But... That's okay."
Then she added, more quietly, "The copper isn’t ruined. It just… remembers the weather too well.”
She placed her hand on the handle of her axe, fingers gripped steady, expression unreadable. A faint green shimmer pulsed beneath her touch, curling through the oxidized surface. The blue-green hue retreated like fog under sunlight, revealing bright, raw copper beneath.
They watched, entranced — though still not looking at her.
“You do it,” she said abruptly.
Their shoulders hitched. “Wha- No! I might break it.”
“You can’t break copper.”
“I can definitely break copper.”
She rolled her eyes and exhaled softly. “Just try.”
Their long fingers trembled as they hold the axe that was passed to them, a brief pause. Before tapping lightly on the sheen. Nothing happened.
“You’re thinking too loudly,” she said. “Be quiet about it.”
“I–I don’t know how to be quiet inside.”
She huffed, looking over them.
“...”
Then she reached out — her touch brief, almost annoyed— but gentle, guiding their hand a fraction to the left.
“There. Now stop panicking and breathe.”
They did. Awkwardly. Unevenly.
Swoosh.
And the copper brightened. Only a small patch, but unmistakably new.
Their breath caught. “I did it?”
“Barely,” she said.
But her tone softened — only a little, like frost melting at the edges.
“You learn slowly,” she added. “But you do learn.”
They dared a glance at her chin — close to eye contact, but not quite. “Thank you.”
She looked away sharply, as though the words startled her.
“Don’t… make it a habit.”
---
Wind shifted through the clearing, carrying the scent of metal after rain.
The Endermanlike figure stood alone before a copper grave made by their hands.
Most of it had aged into rich turquoise — intentional, left that way. But the center panel was bright, freshly polished, glowing warm against the green. Their hand hovered over it, shaking faintly. Finally they let their fingertips rest on the smooth copper surface.
“Be quiet about it,” they murmured to themself. “Just… breathe.”
The words hurt. But they steadied.
She was gone. Vanished like she always warned she would be someday.
But this time she hadn’t come back.
They swallowed hard, eyes fixed firmly on the copper instead of the empty clearing.
“I’m still learning,” they whispered. “Slowly. But I am.”
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The first time Rainy saw the copper prism on the windowsill, she didn’t mean to pocket it.
Well.
They mostly didn’t mean to.
It had been sitting there all innocent, glinting in the low light like it wanted to be admired. Like it needed to be held. Rainy told herself she’d just borrow it. For study. For science.
That’s why it ended up in their bag.
That’s definitely why she was halfway out the garden when—
“...Are you stealing my copper?”
The voice stopped her cold.
Flat. Monotone.
Not angry, not accusing.
Just tired. Like it had already decided who she was and didn’t care enough to stop her.
Rainy turned slowly.
The Elf stood in the doorway, arms crossed, green eyes glowing faintly, copper-stained fingers tapping against her elbow like a metronome.
Rainy did the only logical thing.
They yelled, dropped the prism, and bolted into the trees.
The Elf didn’t chase her.
She just watched. Like she was noting the trajectory of a very stupid comet.
•-•-•
Rainy didn’t go back the next day.
Or the next.
But they watched from the trees.
Perched in the branches.
Hiding behind vines.
Eyes glowing faintly as she watched the Elf adjust old copper gears, plant a glowing mushroom bed, sketch runes into the side of a smelter.
Rainy’s god said nothing.
But the silence felt judgmental.
So Rainy left a gift.
A piece of quartz she found shaped like a teardrop.
She left it on the porch.
Then ran.
The next day, the quartz was gone.
So she left more.
A spool of fine red dust.
A brass gear from a ruined ship.
A dragon scale. (Tiny. Ethically sourced. Probably.)
No words. No thanks.
But one morning, Rainy found something new:
A scrap of parchment tacked to the porch post.
Written in small, clean script:
Two redstone repeaters
Three fern spores
Lantern oil (non-flammable, non-humming)
Orange dye (optional)
Rainy stared.
Then grinned.
“Oh my god,” she whispered. “She knows.”
The list changed every week.
They delivered.
Always quietly. Always fast.
She never got caught again.
Except once.
When she crept up at sunrise and found the Elf already on the porch, sipping from a brass mug, as if she’d always been there.
“Morning, Copper Thief,” she said.
Rainy yelped.
Tripped.
Spilled a box of orange dye all over the steps.
The Elf didn’t flinch.
Just took another sip and said, deadpan, “At least it was optional.”
Rainy scrambled upright, raven hair full of leaves, wings flared in alarm.
“I—I wasn’t—!”
“Leaving a gift?”
“I mean—maybe!”
“Hm.”
A pause.
“…I used your quartz to stabilize a portal ring. It worked.”
Rainy blinked.
“…That’s cool.”
“It was.”
They stared at each other.
The Elf sipped again.
Rainy slowly backed up, tripped once more, and flew off into the trees like a panicked bat.
The Elf didn’t smile.
But she refilled her mug and left the next list out just the same.
•-•-•
Are they friends?
Rainy isn’t sure.
She thinks the Elf is cool. And terrifying. Like a statue that judges you and also probably knows how to kill you using only wire and a spoon.
