Chapter Text
Autumn was on its way, adding a crisp chill to the air in the mornings and evenings. Yet summer was not entirely usurped and the day could begin with the air so chilled that the breath of any creature foolish enough to be shivering outside was puffed out white, but by noon a muggy heat smothered the forest and everything sweltered miserably.
The sweaty dampness was heaviest in the dungeon and the princess felt like she could barely breath. The raven chick suffered similarly, panting rapidly to try and cool itself.
It was big enough now that it usually hopped and fluttered around the dungeon, pecking at pebbles in the hope they might be food. It cried a lot. Less than when it was newly hatched, desperate with hunger. But it was still always hungry. Three small goblins with little free time were no match for the bird's appetite.
The princess lay in the bottom of one of the hanging cages, spread out like a wet rag left to dry on a rack. The chick peeped underneath the cage. It was too tired to stretch its neck and nibble the princess's dangling foot and beg for food.
“Are you awake, sweetie?” Aura asked after the princess had been still for the better part of an hour. Weather meant nothing to Aura except how it affected her little thorn and so Aura looked as fresh and ethereal as usual.
“I'm dead.”
“Oh, dear. Who will conquer the fairies if you're dead?”
“If this weather hasn't killed them then nothing could. Let me be dead. Drop me in the bog.”
The princess remembered the fallen warrior in the bog and winced at her own words. Not the bog. A stream would be nice, fresh running water. It would still be horrible with the air hanging around in damp misery. A breeze. Running water and a breeze.
“If you were near me I could--” Aura began, sparkles dancing around her wiggling fingers.
“No magic.” The princess interrupted, “I'm not a grub. Don't fuss.”
“If you don't want me to do anything about the heat then stop complaining about it! And are you just going to hang there like a rotting side of frog all day?”
“Yes. Because I'm dead.”
“I raised you better than that.”
“Don't pick at my corpse like this. Leave it for the chick.”
The chick peeped agreement.
“That wretched bony monster has consumed enough of your time and resources without adding your own body to its plate. How are you ever going to keep it up with just the three of you?”
“Six.”
“Six? Six what?”
“Six of you. Of us. Six of us. I've been recruiting.”
“You have?”
“Chick needed more food and a lot of the kids would rip each other's ears off to feed a raven. I found three girls who'll help. They won't tell because they're scared of Stump and even more scared of me.”
“I'm so glad that your intimidation tactics are making you friends.”
“Can't ravage the fairy kingdom alone. It would take too long.”
“Also glad to see your self-confidence is in tip-top shape.”
“Ugh.” The princess turned over and let her arms dangle through the bottom of the cage. The chick watched the swaying of the princess's hands with a greedy eye and squawked sadly. The princess looked into the chick's shiny round eyes for a while before saying, “We're going outside.”
“That's nice, dear. Make sure the chicky has enough water before you go.”
“No, we are going outside.”
“I need to go outside.”
The airy structure of the building let in as much light an air as any fairy could desire, but Bog felt like he was suffocating. Bog would have ripped off his formal cape and the medallion that hung around his neck on a chain if the pixies hadn't whisked the items off his shoulders the moment he entered the room. He did manage to throw his stack of documents on the floor and step on one of his smudged pages of notes. He twisted his foot back and forth until the paper started to tear.
Step down.
They wanted him to step down.
The dukedom declaring independence had set a precedent for the other landowners when they realized that the risk of using such leverage was very little. They were all making alliances and treaties, banding together behind the demand that Prince Kenneth give up his right to the throne in favor of Dagda and Dagda's family line.
The room was tilting and Bog had to grab a shelf to keep himself from falling. So many of them were against him. He had had no idea so many despised him.
“If you truly care for your kingdom and its people,” they had said a dozen times in a dozen different ways, “you would do all you could to keep it safe, sacrifice anything to keep it whole and at peace.” It was scratched out onto paper a hundred times, spoken so often that the words hung in the meeting room like cobwebs, hammered into Bog's ears like nails, where they buzzed and stung and gave him no peace.
A shelf full of books crashed on the floor with such a crash that a guard opened the door to check on the prince. The guard saw the crown prince was standing, unharmed, and ripping up a book. The guard closed the door again.
It was the insidious grain of truth that pained Bog most.
If you care about your people you'll step down.
Step down.
Give up.
Bog flung the book down. The pixies chittered over the mangled pages in horror. Bog tried to breathe, catch his breath, quiet his mind. He couldn't. He felt like a wild animal, driven mad with pain, desperately pointlessly running around to find some sort of relief. Then something would touch the wound and he would be driven into a new frenzy.
Dagda. Dagda had looked so tired. He looked like a man already defeated, only waiting for the formalities to be finished. He met Bog's eyes and Bog could see—almost hear—that Dagda was going to ask him to consider giving up. Dagda did not want the throne, but neither did he want a kingdom fractured.
Give up.
A vicious kick cracked the side of the fallen shelf and probably more than one of Bog's toes. He dropped to his knees, fingers dug into his scalp, mouth open to let out a cry of pain that would not come. Tears were dripping from his eyes, but the only noise he could make was from his choked breathing. The room and the words were all closing in on him and cutting off the air.
They didn't want him. Crown Prince Kenneth was the only thing left of a long line of great monarchs and he was not wanted. He was an end, a leftover. A tarnished scepter when they wanted a shining crown.
“Bog?”
The noise sent him reeling around. The sharp pain in his foot made his leg buckle and he crashed back down on the floor.
“Bog!”
It was Elinor.
“What happened?”
Bog shoved himself off the floor, grabbing the table so he could get the weight off his foot. The two guards were peeking in the door, trying not to look appalled at the state of the crown prince. Elinor was just a little bit in front of them. She probably hadn't dared come any further into the room.
“El—Elinor.”
Bog's customary embarrassment over making a fool of himself in front of an audience was strong enough to overwhelm the angry frustration that had been choking his throat closed. His face, already blotchy from crying, burned hot. He dragged the edge of his sleeve over his face.
“Do you need any help, your highness?” One of the guards asked with an admirable lack of hesitation or sarcasm.
“No. You may go.”
“Thank you, your highness.”
The door was shut behind the guards. No doubt one of them went along to report that his highness's room required tidying and a replacement shelf must be obtained. These reports would be wrapped up in the story of the prince's fit of temper from the guard's point of view and by sunset the entire castle would be discussing it.
“I guess this wasn't an assassination attempt, then,” Elinor remarked, nodding in the direction of the dismissed guards, “What did happen? And do you even own a handkerchief? You're a mess.”
"You're a mess!”
The raven chick warbled a happy tune and rubbed its beak on the princess's head. The princess felt mud oozing under the plates of her armor and she knew, deep in her heart, that it would take days to scrub it all out again. The stream was low in its bed and there was more mud than water. The chick did not mind this detail and had plunged right in, fanning its bony wings and spattering everyone nearby with mud.
“I raised you better than this,” the princess said severely, wiping a blob of mud out of her eye.
“Leave it alone, Thorn,” one of the girls sitting on the bank advised, “it'll get out when it wants to.”
“It's not supposed to get wet!” Stump shouted back, shoving the chick back toward dry ground, “they take dust baths!”
“Well, the dust was a little wet today, I guess.” Said another of the girls.
“Get in here!” Stump and the princess bellowed in unison.
The three girls hopped into the mud without further ado. They had already tested the limits of their liberty beneath the rule of princess and henchman and knew when to stop back-talking and hop to attention.
It took their entire collective strength to free the reluctant chick from the mud and most of the afternoon to scrub the chick back to gray instead of brown. It was lucky that the mugginess had slowed the adults down too and none of them would be noticing the absence of the princess until sunset.
“Ugh,” the princess flapped her wings. They slapped weakly against her back, too soaked with mud to be used. “being a mother is the worst.”
“Wings seem like more trouble than fun,” one of the new girls commented. She skittered over the root of a tree with nimble ease, flicking back her drooping ears with satisfaction.
“Mustard,” the princess twisted her lip to bare a fang, “those ears of yours seem like more trouble than fun. Always flapping in the wind. Want I should trim 'em?”
Mustard backed up and snarled defensively. The princess felt a pang of envy at the sight of Mustard's wide, snaggle-toothed snarl. It was so hard to be really truly fearsome when your face wasn't half as wide as most people's smiles. Still, the princess displayed her toothiest grin and dug her claws into the tree root to climb up after Mustard.
“She didn't mean anything,” Mustard's sister, Cob, said, “Just being stupid. She's sorry. Right, Mustard?”
Mustard dropped her snarl and nodded her head vigorously.
The chick, having waddled over to see what the princess was doing, stretched out its neck and gave Mustard's head an affectionate nibble.
“Please don't let it eat my ears,” Mustard pleaded in a terrified whisper.
“Oh, it's just a big sweet baby,” the third girl, Marilla, playfully smacked the chick's beak away from Mustard's head.
“Time will cure that!” The princess gave Marilla's shoulder a punch.
Marilla returned the blow, “It'll be the fiercest winged thing in the whole forest. Except you, 'course. And I come next.”
“No, that's me!” Stump said, “I was here first!”
“When we're old enough I'll have you two fight to the death over it.” The princess declared, “How's that?”
Stump and Marilla considered it for a bit before nodding agreement.
“Sounds good.”
“Yeah, let's do that.”
“Mustard and me are happy with being whatever,” Cob said, “Just so long as we get to play with your bird.”
The chick rubbed its beak up and down on the inside edges of the princess's shoulder. She lifted a hand to pat its beak and give it a scritch under the chin. She was glad that the chick still liked her best even after getting friendly with the others. The princess and the chick, they were going to be together as the forest was rebuilt and the fairy kingdom torn down. It would all be different. It would all be better.
Things were supposed to get better.
Bog had been prepared to fight for his rightful place, but he had also assumed it would be a straight line he fought his way down, a clear path from point A to point B. He did not expect there to be bends in it, swerving sharply off and out of sight, no way of telling what was waiting for him until he met it face-on. It was supposed to be hard, but it was also supposed to be fair. Bog was the heir of a long line of rulers. The throne was his by right of birth, by right of his parents' official recognition of him as their heir. They were gone, but Bog had thought the their decision had remained in their absence. It was part of their legacy. Bog was part of their legacy. If the nobles took this away from him . . .
“You've scratched yourself!”
Elinor began to dab at Bog's face with a handkerchief. He because aware of a few drops of blood that had trickled past his hairline. The handkerchief was a lacy thing, made from the petal of some flower with a light, sweet scent. Bog knew it would be ruined and pushed it away in a confused motion, trying to scatter the bewildered pixies clustering around his head at the same time.
“Stop!” He snapped when the pixies and handkerchief began to converge on him again. He threw his hands over his face and flew backwards a few feet, tucking his legs up to avoid smacking them into the table. He landed by the window, touching down on his good foot, trying to make up for the earlier loss of air by gasping in the cool breeze that was blowing in from over the river.
“Oh!” Elinor crumpled the handkerchief in her hand and hid it behind her back, “Sorry. That wasn't very polite of me, your highness.”
The use of his title make Bog's heart twist. They'd probably let him keep that, or at least let him be called a prince. Not 'crown' prince. Just a prince of a kingdom that no longer existed. Elinor took a step forward, nudging a torn book with the toe of her shoe. She gave a cry of dismay and swooped to pick up the loose pages. “This is the limit! What did this defenseless book ever do to you?”
Bog kept his face turned to the window, but watched Elinor out of the corner of his swollen eyes. He flinched at the torn book. It had been so silly to destroy it. Childish. Behavior unworthy of a prince. Even a prince with a hollow title.
“Then again,” Elinor said after a quick assessment of Bog's face, “what did you ever do to deserve this kind of treatment from yourself?”
A few more pages slipped loose when Elinor dropped the book back on the floor. The soft thump made Bog start. He was sure that one more sudden noise would jar him enough that his buzzing head would crack open. He was almost prepared to face that. He wasn't prepared for Elinor to walk over the mess and lay a hand on his shoulder.
The shock of a kind touch when he was on his guard against attack sent Bog reeling further into confusion. Elinor sat on the windowsill and tugged on Bog's wing until he sat down next to her. The pixies perched all around, waiting for an opportunity to administer more handkerchiefs. One last pat was given to Bog's shoulder before Elinor linked her arm with his.
“Now, in a novel this would be the sort of scene where I demand who did this to you so I can bludgeon them with something heavy. But that's usually the man's role, and besides I don't have much arm strength when it comes to bludgeoning. Maybe I could speak sternly to someone?”
“Do you feel like addressing the majority of landed nobility in the kingdom?”
“. . . no?”
“Me neither, but I did this afternoon.”
“Went badly?”
“They want . . . they want me to . . .” He couldn't say it. Not in cold blood. He could scream it in outrage. Deny it with the strength of his voice. How he would love to shake the pillars of the castle with a speech strong enough to shake the opposition right out of their chairs. That's what his mother had always said about his father. Bog had never witnessed it himself, he had been too young to attend such meetings.
“Want you to what? Stand on your head? Get up in front of everyone and recite tongue-twisters? Wear shoes and a clean shirt?”
“It isn't funny!”
Bog jerked his arm from Elinor's. A white-hot flash of anger seared through him. Stupid jokes weren't going to make any of this better.
“I . . .” Elinor had scooted back as far as the sill would let her. Her eyes were shiny with tears and her voice squeezed down to a whisper. “I didn't mean to . . .”
“They want me to step down! They want me to give up the throne! Does that sound funny to you?”
“Of course not--”
“Then stop laughing!”
So many people laughed at him. He knew that. He just hadn't known until know that everyone was laughing. Sneering at the pitiful death rattle of his clan. Laughing at his struggles while anticipating his failure. Prince Kenneth, the fool naïve enough to think he would one day sit on the throne as king.
“Stop laughing . . .”
Clumsy prince that could wield neither a fork or sword without tripping over his own feet. Him and his dragonfly wings and sharp face, more suited to a goblin than a fairy. His ridiculous attempts at courtly manners. His wild temperament. It was all laughable. Was Elinor laughing too?
“I'm leaving now.” Elinor stated in a voice that was cold even as it wavered.
She marched swiftly out of the room, her wings brushing over the mess and stirring it up. The door shut behind her, making the scraps of paper flutter even more. The air settled, heavier than ever. The brief breath of wind from over the stream had given way to the still air, so thick that Bog couldn't swallow it.
He had just chased Elinor out, who might have been the only friend he had in the whole world. The beautiful, wonderful Elinor who had given him back a little bit of a time when he had been happy.
He was alone.
The princess was alone.
She curled up tight in the crevice between two rocks. She could feel the throb of her bruises in the close press of the rocks, and every inch of her itched with dried mud. She had been stupid. Stayed at the river too long and by the time she got back her father had been looking for her long enough for him to have cast off the drowsiness of the day and work his temper to a fiery heat. Luckily Stump and the others handled sneaking the chick back in. They hadn't come back when they were done. Which the princess thought very shrewd. She herself didn't want to be anywhere near her father when he was unhappy.
So the princess was alone, too tired to creep down into the dungeon. There were some dead leaves, curled and crispy, just outside her hiding place. When she felt a little better she'd pull some of them in and make a nest for the night. Until then she let the cold stone ease her hot bruises. She tried not to shiver. That hurt. She huddled a little tighter, scratching at a loose slab of dried mud that was rattling around in her shoulder. She wasn't going to get much sleep tonight.
“Somebody is gonna hear us!”
“Not if you keep your trap shut!”
“Why did we bring Twig? All she does is sit on your head!”
Indignant buzzing echoed faintly from outside the princess's hiding place. Several sets of claws were scratching their way around the outside. The sound made the princess feel wary, but she recognized the voices trying—badly—to keep quiet. It made her feel grumpy. She didn't want to have to deal with anybody while she was battered and disgraced.
“Heeeey,” Mustard called softly, “Heeeey, Thooorn!”
The princess held her breath and waited for them to go away. They had to have better things to do than gloat over her disgrace.
Someone kicked a pebble into the crevice. It was about the size of the princess's fist and hurt when it smacked her knee.
“Ow!”
“You are down there!” Stump said triumphantly.
“No, I'm not!”
“You are so, fairy face!”
The princess burst out of the crevice, ignoring her bruises and launching herself at Stump. She overestimated the amount of force she needed and knocked Stump right off the rocks along with herself. They tumbled down in a tangle and had the wind knocked out of them by the ground.
The princess sprawled face-first on the ground and regretted that the fall hadn't killed her. She hurt twice as bad all over and had had a mouthful of dirt.
Stump, being rounder and in one piece to start, was not bothered by the fall once he got his breath back. In fact, he started snorting.
The princess spat out the dirt, “You think this is funny? I'll take another piece of your nose and we'll see what's funny!”
“I knew you'd come out if I called you 'fairy face',” Stump chortled, “You're predictable.”
“Nice word,” the princess growled. She had been outwitted by Stump. It was the finishing touch on the awful night.
Twig dropped down, holding up a small oil lamp. She hummed a few notes of concern when she got a look at the princess's face. Mustard, Cob, and Marilla slid down to join them. Their claws screeched on the rocks and their landing crunched the leaves.
“What do you all want?” the princess staggered to her feet and stood as tall as she could.
“You hide real good,” Marilla said, “we've been looking hours.”
“We only started at sunset. It's barely past that.” Stump corrected.
“It's felt like hours. The chick is okay. I got it all settled down.”
“I got it settled down,” Stump grumbled, “none of you know how to do nothing right.”
Mustard rolled her eyes, “The chick is settled down! Then we came to look for you.”
The princess looked at them warily. “Why?”
“Because your dad just beat--!” Mustard's answer was cut off when Twig smacked the side of her head with the lamp.
“You missed dinner,” Marilla held up a package wrapped in a leaf, “We thought you might be hungry.”
The princess's knees wobbled. “Huh?”
“Aren't you?”
The princess was confused. Nobody checked that she ate. Sometimes Aura nagged. But not often. Aura had a bad sense of time and was never hungry so it didn't really occur to her. If the princess missed a meal then she had to scrounge for herself or wait until the next meal. Nobody ever cared. She couldn't figure why this bunch would care now.
She couldn't understand why she wanted to cry.
“You're in charge,” Cob said, feeling further explanation was needed, “We've got to do stuff for you.”
“I did it because she's sad and pathetic,” Marilla shrugged.
Twig hit her with the lamp.
“Delegation of responsibility,” Twig said, “You're in charge so you don't have time to go running around doing other stuff. We get you dinner and you take care of the chick and do all your lessons.”
“And you're sad and pathetic,” Stump added.
Twig hit him with the lamp.
The princess's knees gave out and she sat down in the leaves with a crunch. Tipping her head back to keep her watery eyes from leaking she said with great dignity, “Finally, you are all learning your place. You've done well.”
They all shoved the leaves into a nest at the base of the rocks and huddled down into it, squashed against each other for warmth. The princess had seen the other goblins sleep in cozy piles with their families and friends. She'd always slept alone.
Her stomach full, cozy and half squashed, the princess thought that having underlings was sort of nice.