31st March, trans day of visibility, 2026

Have you heard the legend of the wyrdechildren, my dear? Well, the fae’ aren’t like you or I; their finger bones are stitched with wet clay, their eyes are astragali, which rattle in their skulls and tell the fates of mortals, and their voices are like sirens, singing sensible men to slaughter. Once, maybe, a truce between us and the fae existed, but they aren’t to be trusted anymore, little one. How can you trust something that knows you better than you know yourself?

Whatever the hurt was, the fae’ trade in vengeance like merchants trade with coin. If a family commits some wrong – maybe taking berries without leaving behind a share, or they bury bones at a crossroad whilst whistling, or disturb the bounds of a stumble’s circle at full moon, the fae take their child. The newborn is plucked away in the dead of night, and the wyrdechild is left in it’s place. It doesn’t matter how many fae we kill, how many snares we lay in the thicket, or how much of their forests we burn away – the wyrdechildren always return.

They wear human skin to hide their forms, until they are grown up enough to shed their disguises and fly away. But you can always tell a wyrdechild, little one, because to them, the body is a prison. They prefer to build their own, slowly patchworking an existence together over time, and they claw at the bars of a mortal life. They have trouble with our language, but more than that, they have trouble with our ideas. The expectations of a normal life elude them: it’s like trying to teach a mountain to sing. You can always tell a wyrdechild, little one, because they are not like us.

When a wyrdechild is known to us, we feed them to the wolves, little one. It’s kinder that way. Or we let them fend for themselves in the midwinter frost. Better death than a bartered existence, and better death than the destruction of our way of life. Think of the parents, little one. Oh sure, the fae might not be pleased, but they simply don’t understand how generous we are being.

And one day, little one, we will win. I am sure it’s just a coincidence that the wyrdechildren keep returning, that the harvest keeps failing, that the milk keeps spoiling, that the brambles keep blooming, that the moon keeps falling, as if someone is tearing out threads from the fabric of the world. We have to win, little one, because if were to realise that we’re actually wrong, what would that say about us?

Now this won’t hurt at all, little one. Just look into my eyes and don’t blink – I need to make sure fate isn’t staring back at me.