She would never know how unique she was. The child just thought she was like any other child, less so due to not having any stable family, or anyone she was close. But, just a regular child, who happened also to be a fairy. She didn't know that fairy children were difficult to come by, especially one such as herself who had been conceived, grown within the womb of her fairy mother, planted there by her human father. Maeve had been born a fairy, she would grow as a fairy, cease to age as one, and eventually die as a fairy as well. She has never known to be any other creature than as she was.

Of course, her existence has been a relatively human one for the most part, she ate human food, played human games, and she grew almost as a human child would. But look closer, and there were striking differences between Maeve and other children. Those strange violet eyes, not typical for humans that had gleamed much attentions towards the fae. She was also always the shortest child in her class. Whenever they would do fun group games and it would involve lining up tallest to smallest, Maeve knew her place was at the back of the pack. And too, she had always been a bit thinner than her comrades, though by no means lanky. Her feet were nimble, her balance extraordinary. Those ears, those pointed ears, one of her more notable features. Maeve never had noticed the difference between her ears and others, until she had been to a fairy themed birthday party when she had been four. The children had gathered around to watch Tinker Bell and upon seeing the fairy's ears a child had laughed and said how they were just like Maeve's.

She had learned early on that iron pains her. The encounter had been quite accidental, and an unfortunate one at that. The fae girl was put into a children's home. She had pulled up to the large house with her social worker, who was silently praying that the small child would not run away from this home. Already, she has run twice, three times means it is a habit, and the social worker would have to label the girl in her file as a 'runner,' which would make placing Maeve in homes that much more difficult. The house was strewn with an iron fence, and ever the kind Maeve, she had reached for the iron gate to hold it open for her social worker, but the moment she felt the metal within her tiny, baby hand, she had jumped back with a howl of pain. The social worker had run over to the child and inspected her hand, very light burn marks were seen, she reached her own hand to gate, but Maeve stopped her, grabbing her hand as large tears rolled down her face, shaking her head, not wanting the iron to hurt her as well. Her screams of agony had brought out the Children's Home Director and a few of the kids well. "Your gate must have gotten hot in the sun, it burned her hand. You shouldn't have something like that if it can hurt kids this easily," the social worker said, her defenses on for the child she was supposed to help protect. The Director looked at her strangely before placing her own hand on the gate, as did some of the children, suddenly curious of what had happened to their new arrival. "Butâ€"it's not hot," she says with confusion. Neither she nor the children pull away quickly, or have any burns. "Then how did sheâ€"" the social worked looked down at Maeve in speculation, her earthen eyes coming to rest on the shiny, pink burn adorning her palm. Another mystery, along with many, to go along with the oddly violet-eyed child.

It was only later in life that Maeve learned of iron's deadly quality towards fairies. But, needless to say, Maeve had avoided that iron fence since that very day. Of course, she had learned that iron was only one thing for a far creature to fear, there was a much more serious threat that was killing them off one by one: Dark Hunters. Even then, Maeve's knowledge over such people was limited, only told to avoid them, and to keep what she was a secret, least she attract one and they hunt her down as if she were no more than an animal. But Maeve was more than content to keep her heritage a secret because she never felt like talking about her family anyways. And while others may have pointed out her strange eyes or pointed ears, no one ever asked her why.

Maeve absent mindedly runs her fingers over the glass, leaving tiny fingerprints behind along the window. Any attempt to distract herself from the so desperate want for food. She watches as a small child drops his fork, only for his father to pick it up and ask the wait staff if they could bring his son a new one. Such a trifling detail, one that most people would pay little attention to, but Maeve sees, she takes note of the small, yet loving gesture that showed how much that father cared for his son. He didn't want him to eat with a dirty fork, understandably so, but Maeve is sure that with most of her homes, if they actually even went out to eat, that no one would care if she dropped her fork and picked it up just to continue eating with a now dirty fork.

So unaware that she is not the only fairy who came to the beach today. Maeve had met so little faeries in her life, only having known her mother and herself, so she is unaware that Sacrosanct harbors many of her kind, if one only knows where to look. A deep baritone voices rushes into her ears, closer than the other murmured conversations taking place around her. Immediately, Maeve turns her small, thin body around to stare up at a very tall man, and no doubt the one that had just spoken to her. It is only confirmed as he fellows his greeting with a question. Again and again Maeve has been told not to speak to strangers, by her foster parents, older foster siblings, social workers, and teachers. So her wide violet eyes simply stare up at him for a moment, unwavering, unblinking, too steady for only a child of eight. She rocks on her heels for a moment, tucking her pale lips inside her mouth before she gives a little nod of her head adorned with bleach blonde hair that falls so gracefully down her back and over her shoulders incased in a turquoise t shirt. It is obvious her lack of words is an indication of shyness rather than rude manners, her staring of curiosity rather than being impolite. It is only when when he reaches up and touches the sharp point of his ears that Maeve's face begins to sparkle in that childlike way. She reflects his smile with her own then as she too touches her own delicately pointed ears. "You're a faerie," she says in a whispered awe, her mouth never tilting away from the smile that now so elegantly carves her face, as eyes widen in fascination. "My name is Maeve," she says with that gentle yet high soprano voice of hers. And with her name she reaches out to grab a hold of his larger hand with her own fair, soft skinned child sized one as she leads him inside and to a table.

Her willingness to trust a total stranger based on the sole fact that he was like her only shows her own ignorance and lack of worldly experience. Maeve assumes all faeries must be good natured souls for the only faes that the child knows is herself (and Maeve knows she is not evil villain) and her mother, who had been infinitely kind individual despite leaving Maeve to be raised inside the system rather than with her biological parent. So, in her eyes, Maeve has no reason to be fearful or distrustful towards the fae man who had approached her at the beachside bistro. She stares at him this time in adoration and eagerness in having met someone like her, just older, taller, and a man rather than a young, little girl. "I've never met a boy fairy before," she says finally, her use of boy for the gentleman rather than man again betrays her innocence to the world and its people residing within it. "You're like Terrence, from the Tinker Bell movies, he was a boy fairy too," she says, tilting her head to the side and gazing over at the man as if comparing the real life fae man to the blonde cartoon character that she had watched as a child. "Do you know who Tinker Bell is?" She asks then, blinking amethyst eyes underneath those long, innocent lashes of hers. "She's the fairy who helped Peter Pan, and she has a ton of friends in Pixie Hollow, and they are all fairies too, but they aren't real," she says, speaking the final words as if she has been told it too many times to count. She sits deeper into her chair, continuing to stare at the man with curious eyes, and an open demeanor as she twirls her hands in her lap unsure of what to do with them. For so long she has kept secret who she was, every time a child expressed love for fairies, but in the same breath would call Maeve strange she wanted to say 'but I'm a fairy!'

Now, in front of her, rests a real life fae man, someone like her, in more ways than one. Like Maeve, Andras had not been created by faeries, but born naturally, the recessive fairy gene pushing forth. She is mystified by the chance encounter she has had today. Finally, a question that has been plaguing her young mind comes forth: "Can you do any tricks?" She asks, and of course she means power wise, but Maeve has only barely uncovered her own power of persuasion against humans and other creatures, and is still not entirely sure of its affects, nor the fact that it is both powerful and could have potentially bad consequences, and it is certainly not just a 'trick' as she thinks of it as. She debates whether or not she should tell him about what her ability is, but she has never told another of her power and so it comes out before she is able to give it much thought. "I can make people do things, even if it isn't something they would normally do," she admits, she squirms in her seat suddenly, the guilt too heavy and uncomfortable for her to bare alone, especially with another just like her sits so close. "I've done bad things," she admits guiltily as he head hangs a little lower, her violet gaze dropping, her voice turns to an almost quiet mumble, but still understandable. "But I needed food, clothes, and a place to sleep. I never stole anything I didn't need, even if I really wanted it," she says in her defense, as if it would make everything all better. Maeve turns strange purple eyes that stand stark against her pale face back to Andras, a silent apology written across it as if she had stolen from the fae man personally. And despite the small smile that creeps over her face again at the joy of meeting another like her, there is a hollowness, a depth to her steady gaze that speaks of the uncertain, and heart breaking life the fairy child has experienced. Because despite everything, she is just that: a child.