Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The ritual was scheduled for dusk, a time of humility. The King’s magician climbed to the roof of the tallest tower in the castle. Where he’d be closest to his ascendent element, he told them. From that height, the entirety of Prospicere was laid bare. The maze of tan stone was dotted here and there by colorful murals and greenery, though John was fooled neither by name or appearance of the capital city. The Prospitians were close friends with drought and war, and prosperous they were not. The magician wished to see their hope, their inspiration once more. That night, his job was to cast a great spell over the city and return their fortune to them.

A dozen barrels and a round brazier sat on the roof, already prepared for John. From his pouch, the magician retrieved a pinch of coarse sand and silver salt. He had several names for the mixture depending on the occasion; banishing salts, druid fire, fairy dust. His personal favorite moniker was the timekeeper’s heat. He reached into the brazier and snapped his fingers. A fire sprang to life.

John fed the bowl more wood and oils until the intense heat was unbearable. Satisfied, he then pried open a barrel and emptied its contents over the fire. The phosphor powder was caught by a strong updraft and flung far and wide. He repeated the process eightfold. Wind willing, the fine dust would reach the whole city.

He waited and he watched. The sun dipped below the mountains, casting a brilliant mix of pink and orange over the City-State. At the same time, the powder settled on the sandstone buildings. The reaction was quick. The city was set alight, walls turning a brilliant gold. A grin split the magician’s face. The people cheered, some falling to their knees in thanks, others laughing and spinning and hugging.

Sunlight was lost to the horizon, and the glow faded from the city. The spell was complete.

~~~

John was nearly back to his quarters, ready to wind down after the show, when he was intercepted.

“John!”

He turned and waved at the woman advancing on him. “He-hi Lady Harley. Hi!”

“I recognized the trick you did! Zephyr.”

He almost acted on habit, ready to deny any attempts to debunk his shows. Then the realization poured over him like ice water. That was his old stage name. No one had called him Zephyr since he moved into the castle ten seasons prior. Worse, the speaker was none other than the Grand Archivist. The woman commanded more respect for her knowledge and prowess than most royalty.

Before John could properly gather his panic, Jade was upon him, taking his hand between hers and shaking it rapidly. “You were amazing out there today. I cannot thank you enough for everything you’ve done for us. Summoning him to bless our city. Really, thank you, John.”

He scrambled for understanding- why Jade didn’t have him lynched on the spot if she knew about his old life and his lies. “I summoned- sorry, what?”

The Archivist squeezed his arm, a gesture of familiarity she offered exclusively to John and her father. “I recognized your spell from one of the recent additions to my collection. I was so excited when His Majesty fetched this from Danse for me.” She pulled a book from her satchel and showed it to John. He struggled for a moment reading the title. Winter Memorandum.

Jade flipped it to a passage at the end of the book. “It’s described right here! You summoned the wayward wind spirit, Zephyr, correct? Everything is just like this passage.”

John had no idea whether to go along with the Archivist’s story. “...What’s this book exactly?”

“This one is just a copy. Some cheesy playwright recorded his life, most of which was spent penning super stupid plays. The really interesting part comes at the end.” The magician curled in on himself, unsure how this tied back to his own stage life but afraid nonetheless. Jade said, “That old fraud Strider met an oracle!”

“-hck, old fraud? Super stupid plays? Mr. Strider wrote some of my favorites, thank you kindly. His characters are dynamic and are super fun to. Watch, yeah.” Cringing at his own outburst, John took a breath. “How do you mean oracle?”

He received an eyeroll, a reaction suggesting no anger at his deception. Perhaps he wasn’t found out yet. The Lady said, “Of course you’d like those loony stories. For who knows what reason, so did, of all things, a pair of faeries!”

“Fairies, Lady Harley? Don’t you prefer more… booky things?”

“Shhh, this is what’s recorded in the book, John. The faeries offered him a reward for his- heehee- skill at writing: ask for whatever you want. You know what that silly writer asked?”

“No?”

“ ‘What’s happening, dog?’ He was wise enough to ask the faerie for knowledge!”

Utterly confused, John looked for signs of inebriation in the Archivist. The woman lived by truth and knowledge, not silly tales. “Alright, Lady Harley, I give. What does all this have to do with the ritual?”

“The faerie was an oracle, John! Do try to keep up. She was amused by this question, so she told him ‘what’s happening’. Everything important around Danse for the next hundred years, she told him. The playwright’s autobiography seems far-fetched, but we can verify that most of the events he predicted have already come to pass.” Excited, Jade again held up the book for John. The letters were small, and he only got through a few words before she continued. “You see? The oracle described the ritual you performed today. A city of golden light to mark the arrival of Prospicere’s guardian spirit, Zephyr!”

John made eye contact with her shoes. Perhaps the Archivist made up the whole thing and was attempting to prompt a confession from him. Silently, he scrambled for words that wouldn’t give away his hand. “Well, the ritual was more like a metaphor for good fortune, not like a real spirit.” The woman was quiet for a long time. Finally, John looked up. Jade’s expression confused him. She seemed grateful yet sad and not even slightly angry. “Milady?”

Again, the woman made that gesture, a gentle squeeze of the arm. “Oh, John. How could I ever repay you for this?”

“Oh no, Lady Harley, it was nothing-”

“Hush, you! I read the prediction. For everything Zephyr gives to Prospicere, thricefold more is lost to those who summoned him.”

The magician didn’t believe the Archivist, knowing his own ritual was a sham. Nonetheless, another chill crept down his spine. More strongly, John reiterated, “Please think nothing of it. You, Lady Harley, and our people deserve at least this much. Really, I don’t want any praise.”

“At least let His Majesty reward you. We have something special in mind after dinner, m’kay?” The woman didn’t take no for an answer. She ruffled his hair a bit and dusted him off to make the magician presentable then tugged him along to the King’s conference hall.

~~~

There was little fanfare to the King’s company and abode. Banners flying the kingdom’s crescent emblem were embroidered with fine gold thread, and a few extravagant gifts were scattered about, but the castle was otherwise home to cheap decor and random prizes from the King’s childhood. John enjoyed it; both the humility and clutter made him feel more at home.

All that clutter was cleared from the conference hall, the room embodying the formality and luxury the King offered his visitors. John was reasonably certain the chairs to the King’s left, reserved for guests of honor, were made of higher quality than both his own and the chair to his right; seat of the Heir Apparent and his beloved daughter. Mercilessly scraping the expensive woodwork against the tile, Jade claimed the Heir’s seat.

Where are my manners? Allow me to properly introduce Miss Harley, royal of Prospicere. Her position of chosen Heir to the throne went entirely uncontested; her status and good judgement as Grand Archivist long since earned her reverence farther and greater than the King himself, and her tutelage is sought more often than her hand. Hence, it was a great honor for the lowly magician at the far end of the table to receive her attention and her conspiratorial wink.

None was more certain than John of the Archivist’s future success as Queen.

Supper was conducted with more fanfare than usual, held in the main conference hall rather than the rathskeller. The King extended a formal introduction to his guests. The two officials from Danse were to discuss a new trade agreement as soon as the lot of them were properly stuffed and watered.

Not wanting to soil the King’s image before such an important event, John was careful to eat as a gentleman would, neither daintily nor sloppily. Or, that’s how he presumed a gentleman was to eat from his time observing the Prospicere royals. Was King Harley himself less dainty than expected? John spent the entire meal with similarly directionless thoughts bouncing around his skull, never licking his lips or snapping his teeth. He snapped to attention when the King and the Archivist stood.

“A fine evening to you, gentlefolks.” Though not lenient, the King was a soft soul; it showed in his every word. “A truly fine evening it is. As we all witnessed, a great magic was spun to set our most catawampus fortune on the narrow. We are grateful as truth, but- here in Prospicere- we’re hardly ones for belly scraping or boot licking, and I’d like to keep this short. John, if you would?”

The magician shrunk back into his hood. He was never certain if visitors would recognize him. “His Majesty, the King requires something of me?”

“Do come here, son.”

“Of course.” John kept his back straight but his head bent as he walked. As he’d done a hundred times, he stopped a respectful distance from the man and nodded his head, never removing his eyes from the King. Just act regal, and hope the audience doesn’t notice if he messes up.

“Raise your head.” Without hesitating, John did as he was asked. The King laid a hand on his shoulder. “From here forth, you are to be addressed as The Right Honorable Wizard of the West Wind.”

John blinked at the mouthy name then realized he was supposed to answer. “His Majesty flatters me.” Jade gestured for him to continue. “I’ll try to live up to such a title. For the benefit of Prospicere’s people! That.”

The Archivist grinned at him and nodded slightly. “My Right Honorable friend, I’d like you to have my seat.”

John’s eyebrows nearly shot off his head. Even a commoner would recognize the gesture as an offer of real status. He nodded mutely and, at Jade’s insistence, took the chair of the Heir Apparent. On either side of him sat the King and the Archivist. For a long moment, John lost the flow of conversation as he wondered not for the first time what fantastic turn in his life placed him at the side of royals.

The rest of the evening, people clamored to congratulate and thank John, using a lot of words that equated to much of nothing at all. The hairs on his neck prickled with all the eyes on him. How in blazing heavens did Jade put up with this nonsense! John was still rolling his new title around in his head when he was addressed. “My Right Honorable friend, if you wouldn’t mind?”

His response was delayed. He never previously had enough of a standing to speak at the conference table. “Beg pardon?”

The Archivist handed him a sheaf of paper. “These terms are not favorable for our people; we ought to have these tossed out! Don’t you agree?”

John made as though to shuffle through the papers and snuck a pinch of banishing salts from his pouch. He made a face, feigning offense at the papers, then snapped the salts against them. They went up in flames. “Lady Harley is correct. Who would call these favorable but a total scoundrel?”

Jade squeezed his hand under the table in silent thanks. “It is not his Majesty but our neighbors taxing us so heavily.”

Praying he had a correct grasp of the situation, John narrowed his eyes at the Dansite representatives. “With everything we have to offer you- a share of our good fortune- you’d think we’d at least get a frien’ly wave. But nooo, us Prospitians are silly as cute, lil’ ducklin’s. Why treat us right an’ proper?” Even while he said it, John berated himself for letting his accent slip.

The reps were too intimidated by the magic to take advantage of the slip. “Terribly sorry, Right Honorable Wizard. Please forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive.” He meant it as a reassurance, but they took it as a maxim.

“We can work out better terms!”

The bartering went on, long and tense. By the end of it, John felt like he took a blow to the skull from a hammer; his head was pounding. Unlike before, he was required to wait around for formal dismissals and evening prayers. Jade offered hers to Zephyr.

Past twilight, it was finally down to the two of them. The Archivist offered the magician an unsteady smile. “So. Pretty neat, huh?”

“Of course, Lady Harley. Look at this fancy pants chair!” John patted the Heir’s seat. “Just to be clear, you gave me this title thingy so all these folks would find me more scary, yeah?”

“So they’d take you more seriously!”

“Exactly!”

“Oh, stuff it, you.” In a display of impropriety, Jade shoved him. “With your new status- that people totally take seriously! - we ought to post guards outside your quarters. Any preferences among the staff?”

John blushed at her tone. “That’s incredibly not necessary, milady.”

“I realize having guards can be overwhelming. Castle life is already stupidly boring without men keeping an eye on you all day.” John privately disagreed. “Still, I want to keep you safe!”

Before the night was out, a rotation was arranged for the magician. John suspected the change in status was more for the King’s benefit than his own, but who was he to complain? He didn’t deserve any kind of reward in the first place.

The whole spell was a gamble, really. If the trade deal with Danse brought enough wealth, the kingdom would prosper, and his little show would have an illusion of authenticity. No guardian spirit was summoned by the magician’s spell or even good fortune. The most he did for the City-State was provide a little hope.

Chapter Text

“It’s cold. Make us a fire, Mister Wizard.”

The trade deal was a wild success, and three seasons passed before the high spirits showed any sign of breaking. John was in the courtyard entertaining a few of the nobles’ children when it happened.

“If I summoned a wildfyre, the whole castle would be eaten! I have something better.” John waved a kerchief around. Seemingly from thin air, a magnolia popped into his hand. It’s petals were whiter than the snow underfoot, perfectly preserved despite the season. He handed it to one of the shyer little girls in a knit cap. “Give this to Her Royal Highness next you see her, yeah? She’ll love it!”

“That- thank you, sir!” “Aw, I want to give her a flower too.” “How did you do that?”

Sleight of hand was a skill that would never fade in usefulness. “Trade secret.”

Then, John noticed the runner watching them. “Excuse me for a moment, ladies and gents.” The magician nodded in greeting to the runner. He was bowed to; he’d never get used to that.

The runner said, “Her Royal Highness called for you.”

“Thanks! I’ll be along when the Leijons’ kids come in for afternoon tea. Let her know for me?”

“I beg your pardon, Right Honorable Wizard, but I must insist. It’s urgent.”

Turning so the runner couldn’t see, John stuck his tongue out. The kids laughed. He told them, “We can have another snow fight on the morrow. I’ve only lost round one, you hear!”

The girl with the magnolia shook a fist at him. “You wish!”

~~~

The Grand Archivist was pacing in front of her desk. As soon as John was through the doors to her study, the woman was upon him. Tossing all properness to the wind, she wrapped her arms around his thin frame and buried her face in his hair. She was shaking.

“...Lady Harley?”

“Oh, John! I’m so grateful for you, I really am. Thank you.”

“Of course, Lady. You seem all out of sorts. Something on your mind?”

Her breath hitched slightly against his scalp. “Father collapsed.”

“That’s awful. I’m so sorry.” Tentatively, John patted her back. Were she crueler, he could be strung up for laying a hand on her. “His Majesty is…”

“Resting in his sitting room. The fisicien is with him.” Her composure collapsed to wretched tears.

“Ah, I see.” John said. What else could he possibly say to comfort her? Instead, he opted to rub gentle circles into the sobbing woman’s back.

The last thing John wanted to do was to upset her further. He respected the Grand Archivist far too much to whisper false assurances in her ear.

In truth, His Majesty's health had been steadily declining for about nine months now. Were John the superstitious type, he might have thought the “ritual” he performed had something to do with it. However, the tale of Zephyr the Grand Archivist spoke of was nothing more than the ravings of a broken soul.

Yet...

No. Now was not the time to think such silly things; John had an important friend to comfort. His fears of being caught were entirely unfounded; things had been going so well that no one would even entertain the thought of their magician being a two-bit charlatan. No one doubted God’s presence when there was food on the table and the cows were ripe with milk.

Jade’s sobs quieted to the barest of hiccups and she squeezed him with all the strength of a veteran knight. Her hair tickled his nose and, from this close, John could smell what he could only describe as distinctly Jade: old leather mixed with wet earth. It reminded that the Grand Archivist was as human as him. She’d soon have the entire kingdom in the palm of her hands, but she still had to scrub dirt from her fingernails at the end of the day.

“Jade...er, Lady Harley-”

“John,” she cut him off, voice still raw with tears.

“Yes?”

The woman let out a heavy sigh. “If he… doesn’t recover, I’ll have to ask you use my proper title. It wouldn’t be appropriate for a Queen. No more of this ‘Lady Harley’ business. Heavens, where did you even learn that?”

“Of course, anything to make this easier for you.” The magician gave her another squeeze. “For now though, I’ll bet against it. You just tell me what I can do for you, alright Lady Harley?”

“Thank you, John.”

The magician accompanied the Archivist to see her father. At the woman’s insistence, the fisicien explained all of their ruler’s symptoms to John. Difficulty breathing progressed to dizziness then coughing fits and muscle weakness in a gradual downward spiral over the next week. With no signs of improvement, the clock was unwinding to the King’s final moment on this earth.

To ease the pain, John suggested honey with esrar. Jade trusted his word over the fisicien’s prescription of turmeric mead with molasses.

One little girl started a tradition of offering magnolias in condolences.

---

Important duties and personal readings were set aside by the Grand Archivist. All her time was spent pouring over tomes about curing afflictions, both ones carrying scholarly weight and wives tales. Desperate, the Archivist turned her nose up at nothing.

When the inky night bled into day, John would oft find his friend collapsed over her most recent query. Were she asleep, he’d cover her with a quilt; else, he’d try and usher the protesting royal off to her bedchambers.

It was the morning after the winter solstice; the magician was invited into the Archivist's study. John had come to expect her raw emotion when they were in private. She’d grow frustrated, sad, and occasionally wildly hopeful. This was different. The woman before him was stone cold, nearly unrecognizable. This was nothing like her public face with her feelings neatly tucked away. She was drained of them.

The ice in her voice curled his gut. “Right Honorable Wizard, take a seat.”

Worried, John did as he was told. “Lady Harley, if there’s anything I-”

“Cure him.”

The magician was caught entirely off guard. “Pardon, what?”

Her eyes were utterly lifeless as she said, “Do it. I care not for the consequences any longer. Cure him.”

“Lady, I’ve never studied the healing arts. You know that.”

“Whatever name it goes by, do it.”

John scrambled for the right words to appease her. “I’m not sure what you desire of me. Would you mind terribly if I asked for more-”

Jade slammed a book on the table. Winter Memorandum. “The necessary concoction to save him, fuckface. Why have you withheld this from me for so long?”

He jumped right out of his chair at the sudden change of tone. Last time he heard her this angry was… never, actually. He scrambled to his feet, then folded himself in half, bowing with his nose to her desk.

The Archivist screamed at him. “Are you mocking me? Get up.”

“I’d never, Lady Harley. This’s ‘n apology back home. Can’ have ya thinking ‘m some pompous bullhead that cares more for tha city ‘an your Dad. Honest, I wanna help, jus’ tell me how!”

Just as he himself was startled, his response gave her pause.

She questioned him, “You truly have no clue as to the cure I speak of? Even for an esteemed magician such as yourself?”

John shook his head profusely. “My Lady, I’d never claim to be more well read than yourself, regardless of the depths of my magical insights.”

The Archivist levelled John with a hard stare. The passage of time in the room slowed to a deadly crawl. Somehow, he found the will to stand his ground

Both arms spread wide, he pleaded, “Look at me, Jade. Look me dead in the eye and tell me that I’m lying.” For perhaps the first time since his stay in the palace, John need not throw himself into the role he played. In this issue, he was entirely clueless.

Finally, with a sigh of frustration, Jade sat back down, head in her hands. Sensing the lowered hostility, John took this as his own cue to return to his seat.

He waited for his heart to cease its racing before asking, “So, this cure… You found it in that book His Majesty gave you, I presume? Are you certain that it holds the answers we need?”

The woman lifted her head out of her hands, giving a resolute nod. “It has to be. Everything else that Strider wrote has come to pass! It’s only a matter of to whom and when.”

John chewed his lip. This was becoming very dangerous for him; Lady Harley had always been the most rational person he’d ever met. It was easy to convince her something wasn’t possible with magic. He wasn’t prepared for a near hysterical royal demanding he perform a miracle; it was nothing short of a nightmare.

He didn’t want the King to die either. The old man took him in and treated him well, and not just him! King Harley was fair to his people and well liked. How could Jade believe John would withhold a cure if he had one?

“Lady Harley, if you don’t mind, what does the book say?”

The woman flipped the memorandum open to a bookmarked page. “Best I can gather, it describes a concoction that will return a fallen royal of Prospicere to health at the cost of his humanity.”

Fuck. Why did all the magical bullshit John learned about always have a catch? It’s magic! What was the point of lies about fantastic solutions if there were great consequences?

“And you still wish me to create this cure? Yes?”

The Archivist’s clasped hands tensed a fraction. “We’ve completely run out of options, John. You’ve seen the fisiciens’ work; it hasn’t improved his condition. The only thing they’ve done is cause my father more discomfort!”

John opened his mouth to protest, but the woman continued her rant.

“Its an absolute mockery of the royal family to have our King poked and prodded at by these quacks until death! What’s next? More leeches? Blood letting? Or perhaps he simply needs to absorb more lead into his system! None of these things were ever proven to work!”

The magician took this as an opportunity to jump in. “Exactly, Lady Harley! You said yourself Strider was a madman; why would you believe him over the loons downstairs? What if this kills His Majesty?”

Jade didn’t take well to having her final hope questioned. Her face distorted into a bloodhound’s scowl, ready to hunt down her adversary. “Forty five of fifty events described in the memorandum have already happened. Chance is in our favor, John. You will concoct this potion for me, and it will succeed. It’s only a matter of the cost.”

John let himself wince only slightly at the woman’s tone. There was no room for argument. All possible routes he could meander down were blocked by a wall of briar.

With no other option, the magician clung to the hope that this draught was of the sort that used the natural properties of herbs to heal rather than gimmicks and facade. He steeled himself for his next question. “And...what does this potion requires for success?”

The smile Jade gave could only be described as wolfish. “That’s the beauty of it, John! As long as nothing was omitted from the passage, the ingredients are all right here within our walls! Hair from a woman that shares his face, a gleaming gemstone stained tyrian, and a slice of an apple free of impurities. It’s only a matter of how to bind them. For that, your service is much appreciated.”

The sweat began to form from behind John’s neck. Gimmicks, then. “Wow! Heh. You don’t say?”

Another nod. “Well, there is the final ingredient, but worry not, John. I am willing to send my best men with you to fetch it. You’ll be back in no time.”

Rooted in place now, the magicians entire body felt numb, thus he did not realize it until the words fell past his lips, “And what exactly, Lady Harley, is this final ingredient?”

That Grand Archivists eyes twinkled madly behind her rounded spectacles.

“The Heart of a Faerie Prince.”

Chapter Text

As he picked through his things, the regret prickling in the back of the magician’s mind that refused to be abated was thus- he’d never have another snow fight with the nobles’ children. Their laughter and smiles were so carefree. They were well dressed, well fed, and well learned- the model of a life John was taught to work hard for instead of envying. Given the combination of luck and shortcuts that finally got him there, he didn’t doubt he deserved his current fate.

Shaking off the thought, he grabbed a sturdy pack in his room and shoved a few of his more vital “magic” tools in the bottom. He was careful to separate the banishing salts from the rest, lest he suddenly find himself with his back on fire. Glancing out the door to make sure no one was approaching, John then crawled under his table to retrieve Zazzerpan’s vanishing pellets. They went in a pocket where they’d be easy to access in an emergency.

A few pouches for liquid ingredients were emptied and filled with water. John tucked them in his coat where they’d stay unfrozen. He leafed through his supplies one final time to check he didn’t forget anything, then left.

Thoughts battered at him as he snuck down to the kitchens. How the darn-blasted fuck was he to cut the heart from a faerie when such creatures only existed in tales? It was silly! Or it would be if the stakes weren’t so high.

Three maids were still cleaning, but most of the staff was absent at that late hour. It was simple enough for John to walk past them. Folks stopped questioning him after he received his title. From the pantry, he stole a modest selection of foods; dried beef, fruit preserves, and a few loaves of bread. He was tempted to lift a cup or two of salt- the stuff could be sold at a high price to line his wallets- but he preferred to stick with what little coin he had. No need to further spit at the Harleys’ generosity.

John sighed. The expensive dishes at the King’s table were delightful. He’d miss the luxury, but what choice did he have? He hadn’t the slightest idea how to bind Jade’s hocus pocus potion ingredients together. John would be revealed as even more of a fraud than whoever wrote the damn recipe.

Drawing out the properties of plants and rocks, sure, then the magician might have an answer. There was hardly anything mysterious about that, and John doubted he was as knowledgeable as the Archivist in the area.

She was asking for the world when he had not even a penny to give her.

John couldn't do it.

So he was leaving.

The magician wrapped himself in a thick cloak to shut out the cold, and the details of his face were lost to a scarf. Quietly, he slipped out the castle with his supplies and picked his way through the snow to the brewery on the edge of the city.

Fortunately, John didn’t have to break his way in; a window in their barn was left unlocked. The whole place was steeped in shadow, and he was too nervous to light a lantern, so he navigated by touch. The great beasts he sought seemed even greater when all he could hear was their heavy breathing nearby.

Reliable old Merry, a gift from the King, would have sufficed for the magician’s flight, but the pretty creature was too recognizable. Instead, he chose an unremarkable horse from the brewery. It was a common buckskin used for lighter deliveries than than the larger breeds; it would do well enough for John’s purposes- sturdy and well rounded enough for a getaway.

He lifted tackle and feed from the storehouse, then approached the horse, tapping on the wall the entire way. Didn’t want to startle the creature and get stamped into the dirt. After a soft pat to its muzzle and a bribery of grain, it let itself be tacked up. Another bribe was required before it let John tie rags to its feet, lest its hoofbeats wake up the brewery. When the magician slipped out the barn and past the guards at the city’s limits, none was the wiser to his thievery and his absence.

~~~

For days on end, John listened to the sound of snow crunching under the horse’s hooves. He strongly desired familiar company, whether the Archivist’s friendly servants or his own spotted mare. Dwelling on such things wouldn’t do him any good though. Who knew if or when he’d ever return to the castle?

Starting fresh was not a new concept to John. Both with the acting company and the turbulent period after he quit, he rotated through new roles. It was always exciting at first; as the situation called for it, John molded a new face and history.  He put everything he had into his performance, practiced aspects of his persona in his day to day life.

It was always a relief to shed an old face once an act ran its course; the shortcomings of his character were whipped off with the mask, and a new one with less flaws, less shame could be crafted.

Given that, it should’ve been easy to walk away. Yet, instead of farmland and meadows steeped in winter, all he saw as he rode was Jade’s face, hopeful as new spring.

He just needed to get to Danse, make his new persona, and start his new life. Then he’d move on. Yeah.

The surrounding woods were two weeks travel from Prospicere and a month from his destination. Traders frequented the route during gentler seasons but preferred to stay in this time of year. Wonder why. John dusted a fresh layer of frost from his hood.

Though the ease of daylight tempted him, the magician took the pink veins in the sky as a sign to set up shop for the morn. Better safe than sorry, especially if Jade sent someone after him.

He passed a ravine. At the base was a swift moving, shallow river. How lucky! His horse was no doubt thirsty as all hell after riding for so long, not to mention tired, and his pouches were running low. John dismounted and guided the eager creature safely down the steep slope. He smiled wryly behind his scarf. “Sorry I got you caught up in this mess.” He patted the animal’s strong neck. Curses, his butt was sore.

Before letting himself rest, he dug into the saddle bag for the grains. What remained of own food was in there as well- man, he was hungry, especially with all the rationing- but he’d care for the beast first. “It’s the least I can do after stealing you from your owner,” he said, half to himself.

The magician slipped off his mittens and offered the horse a handful of grains, careful to keep his thumbs clear of its teeth. He was starting think he should name it. Taylor, that’s what he’d go with.

When nothing was left but slobber, his companion nosed his side for more.

“Yeck. That’s all for now buddy, sorry. I promise we’ll stop at the next stable we pass.”

Still, John figured they had more than enough food. At their current rate, they could afford to camp through the full moon instead of travelling. The increased visibility would only hurt them, and Taylor needed a break anyways. Working the poor thing to death would not only be cruel but foolish, leaving John stranded in the dead of winter.

The chill from lying still was setting in. The magician went to work building a fire, gathering snow, rocks, and underbrush that had tumbled down the ravine. Everything was damp- especially the snow, heh- but it’d have to do.

John’s thoughts grew murky as he struggled with the sticks. How could anyone expect him to cut open the chest of a royal, even if the royal did exist! Let alone the ruler of stupid story creatures. John was a liar not a murderer.

Wouldn’t it be great if all one had to do was pray for illness to magically disappear? John clenched his teeth. Telling people lies like that only brought misery; he learned that at a young age. “The Heart of a faerie Prince,” what in hell was Jade thinking?

Curse her for giving out such a stupid quest, and curse her for hiring him in the first place! Bluh! How could he have known that the Archivist would see his magic show and have him dragged back to the castle? Probably from all flyers you gave out, you made them explode from a potted plant--

Ugh, the whole thing was stupid and nothing but.

If you were following your dad’s advice, you would’ve been honest once you got there.

In a fit of anger, the man kicked over his own campfire ring. He stamped around and yelled, spooking poor Taylor. Hardly satisfied, he picked up one of the stones and chucked it. It knocked ice from the branches of an evergreen, marring the undisturbed snow all around it.

That was when it really started to sink in.

The only footprints for miles were his own and Taylor’s. He was more utterly alone than he had ever been in his entire life. Even after he quit acting, he made his own connections and found support for himself. Here, there was none. The thought filled him with a dizzying cross of exhilaration and terror. It was probably something akin to the vertigo that tightrope walkers trained years to fight past.

John was no acrobat, and his safety net had been thoroughly cut by his own hands.

He hurried to rebuild the pile of sticks, hoping the sound of a crackling fire would drown out the oppressive silence of the winter landscape. There weren’t even any of those cursed, little brown birds about to chirp incessantly. The sticks were too wet to start with a match, so he struck them with the Timekeeper’s Heat.

The fire crackled to life. John grabbed an old piece of bread and sat on a sturdy log for an uncertain amount of time. He huddled close to the fire, soaking in the warmth as he filled his stomach. The chill was kept at bay for the time being. The man found himself nodding off, the smoke and steam from the fire flickering in and out of sight as his eyes drooped.

Thoughts and images made strange tapestries behind John’s eyelids when, suddenly, he was yanked back to reality by a hoarse cry. Sweet, gentle Taylor was in a heap in the snow, arrow making a home in the beast’s breast. It was dead.

Chapter Text

The large man traced the smoke with his eyes, estimating the distance to the campsite. He told his travelling companion, “Presuming the anomaly marks the object of our search, we are roughly a twenty minute ride south of the target; thrice that if I circle around and route him back toward you.”

The woman waved him off. “Nah, don’t bother! With my luck, he’ll do our job for us and trip on a pebble.”

“Are you certain? The target seems slippery.”

The One-Eyed woman gave him a condescending look. “Have I ever not been sure of anything, Arq?”

The strong man refrained from rolling his eyes behind his sharp spectacles, his patience worn thin since the start of their little hunt. It was mutually beneficial for him not to argue with his hot-headed partner about every little syntactic discrepancy. It was healthy for their partnership as well as the man’s blood pressure. Honestly, the woman would argue that the sun did not rise in the east for the sake of sending weaker willed fools to an early grave.

Sadly, this was his profession of choice, and this woman was the best bounty hunter on the continent- right next to himself, of course. Her presence was a benefit as often as a boon. When most mercenaries were useless to him nine days out of ten, that was more than enough to argue the value of their teamwork.

“As you insist, Vriska.”

Having abandoned any sort of tactical approach, the pair rode straight toward the presumed campsite.

For once, Arquius could not blame the woman for wanting to end this chase as soon as possible. The payout was nothing like either bounty hunter had ever seen. He was hoping to finally quit his days of head hunting and live out the rest of his years in peaceful solitude, solitude being a small farm to breed ponies and tinker. Oh, he could see it now: their proud prancing and elegantly braided manes would be the envy of all the land.

Arquius was certain that Vriska’s first order of business would be to mount the fraudulent fool’s head on a spike for all Prospicere to see. A warning to other scoundrels as much as an act of bragging.

This issue seemed oddly personal to Vriska, not that she herself was wronged per se. More, it seemed that her ideology was threatened. She wore a look of manic glee when the Royal announcement was made to the public that week and had all but charged through the front door of the quaint inn Arquius was staying at to shove a ‘wanted’ poster in his face. He couldn’t help but raise his eyebrows at the rather unassuming caricature stamped with the heftiest reward he’d ever seen. Seems someone was daring enough to cheat the Grand Archivist of Prospicere.

Luckily- rather, Vriska would describe it as ‘the kiss of the curse’- Arquius would have been on his way back towards his home city regardless. He’d already collected the bounty on a high-profile thief and was enjoying a quiet night to himself before riding the next morning.

Now, Arquius was not what one might call a gambling man. He planned his hunts weeks in advance. Hours were spent researching his targets with careful consideration into their possible moves and counters, then counters to their counters, until Arq was satisfied that he would complete his task as neatly as possible. Loose ends were not an option in his line of work. However, when one is presented with such...favorable numbers, it would, ahem, be an act of a fool to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Thus, the two bounty hunters found themselves riding hastily towards the fading plumes of smoke in the distance. This was an easily avoidable mistake that only the most amateur of fugitives would make. Arq suspected a trap was waiting for them; they’d do best to approach with caution.

They rode in tandem, urging their horses into a canter. Before long, the camp came into sight. Arq couldn’t see any obvious identifiers to verify their target, but Vriska seemed more confident.

"Theeeeeeeere's that no-good conman. Wanna take bets on whether he tries to run?"

"I'm tempted to further feed your predilection for gambling, but we both know he'll run."

She scoffed, "Fine, fine. Want to chase him back to the city?"

"Too unpredictable. I'd feel more confident if we subdue him here and now. Further, I still intend to return to Danse."

Vriska laughed most cruelly. “Of course. If you don’t make it home, who will cut up little, wooden ponies for the kiddies?”

“It’s referred to as whittling, and it’s a fine craft.”

"Whaaaaaaaatever. No wimpy chases then. Shoot his horse for me."

Arq barely held his tongue. "That is the obvious course of action."

"Chances you'll miss?"

"While I am escorting you: 50% chance of hitting my target; 50% chance of fuckall going right."

"Perfect. All or nothing!"

Arq prepared his bow, the movement practiced and smooth. He took aim, directing the point two units to the left of the horse to account for the strong wind.

~~~

Taylor was dead, shot; someone killed it. John didn’t need to look hard to find the offending bow. At the top of the ravine were two riders. The second had an arrow trained on his chest. Shit.

Making no sudden movements, John took stock of the campsite and surrounding ground. His pack was a foot to his left, and the rest of the rations were crushed under the horse’s corpse. That would take at least fifteen minutes to free, not time John had.

The woman was playing with a pair of dice. A wicked scimitar was strapped to her waist. “Well, well, well. Who knew a man with such an insane bounty on his head would be this lame?”

“Bounty?” Oh man, he knew Jade would send someone after him, but he was expecting palace guards. This pair was a total wildcard.

“We receive greater compensation for collecting you alive. Just take it easy, and I’ll spare you the wonders of a fixed broadhead embedded in your gut.”

The woman started talking again, making a snide comment John didn’t hear. As soon as she had a small amount of the archer’s attention, John dropped one of the vanishing pellets from his sleeve and stepped on it. In the same motion, he dived for his pack.

Smoke enveloped him, rendering him blind. He heard the twang of a bowstring and the whoosh of a projectile flying just past his head. He didn’t spare a moment to panic.

Slinging the pack over his shoulder, the magician made a break for it, running parallel to the river. John stumbled through the smoke, holding his scarf close to his mouth. Shit, those pellets really do their job. He couldn’t see the ice or rocks underfoot, forcing him to slow down or break an ankle.

Another arrow clattered at his feet, fuck, fuck, fuck. The archer was shooting blind and still almost got a non lethal hit; who the hell was this guy?

The magician set off another vanishing pellet and veered left, hugging the side of the ravine while he moved. When the smoke cleared, the rocks were blocking him from the bounty hunters’ view.

He heard the woman tell her partner, “Keep him pinned to the river. I’ll climb down, get in niiiice and close, keep him company.”

John ran. He kept close to the rock shelf so the archer wouldn’t have a shot at him. The sound of hoofbeats indicated the man was matching his every move. The magician wracked his brain for options. Backwards toward the guileful woman, forwards and he’d eventually be shot by the hulking brute of a man. To either side, sheer rock and the freezing river.

Well, what the hell.

John stopped and dug in his pack. First, he plucked out a pill and swallowed it. Pray to the spirits he didn’t put too many foxglove leaves in the thing. Next, was a leather pouch filled with vitriol of Cyprus, freshly cooked. The magician took several pinches of the white powder and stuffed it between his stockings and shoes. Finally, he rolled up the legs of his trousers. Steeling himself, he broke open his second to last pellet and took a step into the water.

“Arq, he’s crossing the river! Damn fool.”

“Can’t shoot, then. I’m not in the mood to wade out and get his body.”

“Fine, fine. He’ll be dead within the hour anyways.”

The tops of John’s feet burned even as his toes went numb. The pain was enough to make him wail like a banshee into the smoke. The river was roughly thirty paces wide but he lost count at four. Dammit, he just had to- to make it to the other bank, keep walking. One step at a time.

Abruptly, the conman ran face first into the rock wall on the other side of the ravine.

He scrambled to find purchase in the rocky surface. It was nearly impossible when he couldn’t feel his toes, but with enough desperation, he found himself at the top of the precipice dividing forest and river. Too bad the view was obscured.

The vague shapes of the trees became more defined the further into the woods he went. Once out of the thick smoke, he could breathe properly. John dropped the hand on his scarf. He leaned into the trees he shuffled by, their solid forms offering a little comfort.

John heard another bark of an order from across the river. He clenched his teeth and continued marching forward, like hell he was gonna let these jerks catch him without a struggle.

He didn’t think about what he was doing, couldn’t. Not with panic burning hot as the sun and his feet begging him to stop. Only animalistic fear kept his wobbling legs under him.

Truthfully, John hadn’t needed to dodge this quickly since his days spent in Skain. Due to the  political climate at the time, the show his team put on was rather...ill received. Looking back, it was a surprisingly bold choice for their company holder to make. Of course John and the others were booed off the stage.

He even had to dodge a live chicken that was thrown at him. A chicken, for goodness sake! John made sure to repay the culprit later that evening with a nice slice into the man’s purse. Hey, buying a chicken was expensive in that town. Dinner tasted particular good that ni---

“Ahh!”

John’s recollection was cut short when his foot met the air. Failing to notice the shallow hill, he tumbled forward and smacked his side against a tree stump.

“Uhgh..”

John laid there, still somewhat in shock from his sudden fall. Too tired to get up, he chose to roll himself over, facing the forest’s bare tops. His erratic breathing slowly began to even itself out, his heart slowing to a crawl.

“Ha..haha.. I’m so fucked.”

He hadn’t a damn clue as to where he was going, his horse was dead, most of his rations were left behind in the saddlebag, and now he’s got bounty hunters on his tail? When was the last time John had even been out in the wilderness? His playing company rarely strayed from the main roads during their travels. Sure, he’d occasionally played the role of great adventurers, but its not like he learned anything from them.

Funny how calm his heart was given the conditions, almost too slow...

Shit, right. That was the foxglove, emergency treatment for frostbite. Which he probably had now. He needed more heat if he didn’t want his toes to fall off.

With a groan, John pushed himself up to his knees. He started digging in the snow at the base of a tree. A fire would attract the hunters straight to him. The magician didn’t have a choice but to be meticulous, digging two holes, each a foot wide, then connecting them.

He gathered what fuel he could and sparked them alight. The airflow let the fire burn with little smoke; the rest was dispersed by the tree above him. Letting out a long sigh, John finally stripped off what remained of his soaked shoes and tended to his injuries. The tops of his feet had vicious burns from the vitriol, and his toes and ankles had a sort of waxy look. Experimentally, he prodded the skin. He didn’t feel a thing. Shit.

He unrolled his bundles of lavender and sage and used the wraps to cover his feet. His soles were unhurt and there weren’t any arrows in his hide, that was a victory. He could still walk, just barely. Yeesh.

...Alright, maybe not his best move ever. Being taken prisoner back to Prospicere was favorable to freezing and starving in the woods.

Way to go John, best escape artist, it is you. Meenah had always said that his “bitch ass”   would trip on a thorn if he didn’t watch himself. Ugh. He fiddled with the lavender and listened to the winter starlings. Briefly, he wondered how silly he must look to them. Lucky bastards, getting to flit around without a care in the world.

The magician warmed his feet until his firepit collapsed. With a sigh, he pulled himself up and continued deeper into the woods.

Chapter Text

The winter breeze was harsh in the man’s ears, not unlike the voice of his old company’s master. Same as then, his first priority was to seek shelter, hide away. None of the trees he passed had anything resembling a hollow in which he could rest.

John trudged on. At this rate, he may have to keep a fire through the night. The hunters would be drawn in like moths. Maybe that was for the best; surely they had food and resources. No, no, bad idea. They’ll shoot him on sight after the stunt he pulled.

The trees seemed to thin out up ahead. John kept his fingers crossed for literally anything but more forestry and picked up the pace. If he had followed the road, he’d run into a few farms eventually. In the woods? Not the darndest clue.

The trees gave way to a clearing bathed in snow. Mounds of ice and stone were scattered about. On the far end of the field, what was likely once a wrought iron gate stood tall. John grinned under his scarf. This was a graveyard.

Surely the ghost of good luck was with him. A burial ground ought to be accompanied by a church or temple of some kind. Shelter, thank fuck. He tried not to tread on any graves as he crossed the clearing, but the snow made it a little difficult to tell where they were. Sorry, buddies.

Something crunched under foot. A beetle shell?

John really needed to get inside… Where there were bugs, there ought to be warmth. He spent a moment looking around. And over there! Another beetle, lying dead on top of the snow. There were more: locusts, moths, spiders, wasps, all scattered about. Still no sign of a temple. Did they crawl out of a grave? At least there weren’t any- oh, god roaches. The bugs formed a trail to the middle of the clearing, right to a rather demure looking headstone.

What a total jerk! Some particularly foul vandal stuck a wooden sign right into the grave. With enough squinting, the old writing was legible. DO NOT READ. NO JOKE. THIS HEADSTONE IS CURSED. Underneath was a scribbly caricature of a grinning man falling over.

Man, someone really defiled a grave just for a shitty prank? Not even John would stoop that low. Bracing himself, he tugged and heaved on the sign until it was free. The signpost would make great fuel for a fire. “There, little buddy! Now you can rest nice and proper… er, whatever your name is.”

John dusted snow off the headstone with his sleeve, revealing the front.

The man stumbled back from the stone. He pulled his hood and scarf closer in a feeble attempt to ward off the shivers clawing at his spine. This was… quite a bit of effort for a prank. Despite the obvious age of the gravestone, the year carved into the marble was the current one, and the name horribly familiar.

Ptolemaeus Johnsson

496 - 522 VA

The wind dies down at dusk

“Ha, very funny guys. See, I’m laughing, this is clearly totally hilarious and not scaring the shit out of me! Tell Jade it worked though, I bet she wanted to get back at me.” John said, presumably to his unseen tormentor.

Without warning, the snow beneath his feet gave out, and he fell onto a soft cushion. Holy fucking shit, why was there an open coffin here? John screamed and scrambled at the the walls of the hole. The loose Earth collapsed under his touch, tumbling into the coffin. When enough of a slope had formed, John was able to crawl out.

Clutching his chest, the man collapsed into the grass. Even with his heart slowed by poison, it was pounding at a furious pace. He laid there. Fear left him paralyzed, still as the corpse that should’ve been in the coffin. What a stupid, blasted situation to get himself in, falling into a grave while running from bounty hunters with no food in the dead of winter. Stupid, dumb, idiotic.

With a sigh of resignation, he sat up. As tempting as another round of self deprecation was, it wouldn’t help him in the slightest. He couldn’t give up that quickly, not yet anyway.

Wait. Grass?

~~~

Dealings with mortal men were always distasteful at best. They had too many preconceived notions about Dirk’s Folk; that those of his ilk would abandon all sense of responsibility for the throes of merrimaking, prancing about in the moonlight ‘til all fell to waste.

The fact of the matter was that Dirk did not bust a proverbial nut at the mere sight of Nature’s splendor. True facts. Her uncensored bosom dangling before him earned Madame Nature only a disappointed sigh and minute shake of the head. Really, it was embarrassing how hard she tried; a picturesque glade with a single boulder in which to sit upon? Adorable woodland creatures and awe inspiring insects fluttering about? Nice try, honey; he was done with that noise. His mind was still firmly planted in “get shit done” mode.

Dirk wondered if his Mother devised this entire thing in order to get him out of his workshop. He had to admit searching for a suitable gift for the Seelie Queen was an important task, but not one a servant couldn’t handle. It wasn’t the first time his Liege gave him some kind of ironic and morally dubious errand.

“Take your time travelling” indeed. He’d been gone for only a day and a half and he was already sick of the sun shining in his face. The Unseelie Liege hadn’t seen the light of day since it rose in the west, the hypocrite.

Above him, a finch twittered on happily. Dirk sighed. He was not even allowed to complete the enchantments on his most recent project before leaving.

Ha. “Leaving”; more like “abruptly shoved through the horrors of limbo and deposited at one of the Gates outside the palace.” Only his mother.

Dirk’s travelling cloak had come fluttering out of the black portal after him, landing gently on his skyward rump. At least she had the decency to send him off with the thing. Without his Mantle Modus, travelling would not be impossible per se, just extremely, ridiculously inconvenient. Fae rarely withered or died from things such as hunger and thirst, but Dirk was never keen on starving, nor did he want to find himself in one of the numerous and oddly specific circumstances that could bring about his mortal death.

Dirk toed the boulder and looked around. Neither wood nymphs nor the stray White Beast broke the solitude of this place. He’d been walking for the entirety of the afternoon... Perhaps a short break to play his violin would qualify under the directive “taking his time”. Gently, he shooed some shiny beetles from the rock before perching on it.

He still hadn’t devised any real plan pertaining to his gift for the Queen: a worthwhile suitor. He probably should stop to think for a bit before wandering aimlessly into Danse. He had already glamoured his antennae and wings away, but the mortals would undoubtedly pester him anyways.

Why a human city? Perhaps there was another fae of royal blood waiting in Danse for some fine as hell prince to swoop in with a marriage proposal. Or would it be a mortal? Who knew at this point? The whole thing was a muddled myriad of mystifying miscellany, and it frustrated Dirk to no end. Vagueness meant he couldn’t devise a proper strategy in which to counteract the trial before him. While he appreciated the freedom that the conditions laid out by the Queen allowed, it left him with no real objectives beyond his own creative liberties. The thought made him more anxious than anything.

Dirk’s head grew heavy in his hands.

Spirits, what the fuck was he even doing out here? He had no idea what to do once he reached the next Gate proper. Was he just to wander around until he stumbled upon someone worthy enough for his best friend? The odds of that happening were a fraction of a percent, even with his Mother’s guidance.

While Dirk sat, the beetles he’d displaced crawled onto his knees. Before long, they were followed by a two tailed mink. The critter twittered and picked the bugs from his trousers. Good weasel, best friend.

Ugh. The whole thing was stupid and nothing but. Stupid hags and their shitty goddamn prophecies. Why not just demand the hand of another fae noble? Why a mortal of all things? Why not his bro--

“AHH!”

Dirks thoughts came to a screeching halt, and the mink fled.

“The fuck?” The scream sounded close yet oddly muffled; was there another Gate nearby?

Dirk tried and failed to resist the urge to get up from his place on the boulder. He fished a hunk of obsidian from his mantle and held it up to his eye. The rock was carved into a triangle with a hole through the center, the ideal device for enhancing his natural sight.

The flow of water between the land and the life it supported left a vague impression visible to the river fae. The seeing stone sharpened that impression into a detailed network, the soulstream. It was simple enough for Dirk to follow the heaviest trail with his eyes through twisted shrubbery and...

Where...?

“AHHH!”

Pipe down, child. Ah, there it is.

The stream suddenly cut off a hundred paces to the left, where the space itself ended. A Gate.

Dirk followed the trail in an arc rather than cutting straight to the Gate, lest he lose his way. A sharp turn at the end revealed a much smaller clearing; in the middle was a humanoid figure in dire need of a wash. Or rather a mortal in need of a wash.

The creature had wraps over their feet and face and trousers covered in dirt, likely from the way they were crawling on the ground, lowering themselves as only a mortal would. Filthy.

Dirk skirted around a few jellyflies lest he be shocked and approached the figure. The mortal had yet to see him, too occupied rubbing the grass as if it were an exotic carpet. Was he walking in on some sort of erotic or drug induced display? Oh well; at least the screaming has subsided, replaced by quiet muttering from the hooded figure.

The fae intended to observe the mortal creature a little longer, but the jellies had other things in mind. As per their mode of reproduction, they shone with a brilliant light each time they bumped into one another. Dirk’s shadow stretched over the mortal’s outstretched hands.

If Dirk wasn’t watching closely, he’d have missed the brief moment in which the mortal froze up. Those nimble fingers paused in their ministrations only to resume sifting through the grass more frantically. Their mutterings became more legible. “Oh my, I’m such a fool.”

Dirk coughed once to get the figures attention.

“Oh goodness, how could I have made such an obvious blunder?”

Twice.

“Curse it all, where is it-”

Thri- Fuck it, he marched right up to the frantic mortal.

“Wait, wait, wait!”

Dirk froze midstep. He asked, “Pardon?”

“Please watch where you’re stepping. Oh dear goodness, what a pickle this is.”

This sudden bout of panic was not what Dirk was expecting. Although, one would be a fool to have a lot of expectations of their kind. He offered, “If you’re intent on pickling yourself, I recommend white vinegar as a base. It will do the least damage to that frail body of yours. Anything else you might need?”

The figure finally looked up from their quarry, blinking at him in confusion from behind dark rimmed glasses.

“Pickling? Oh, right, yes, thank you for the offer. I do not wish to pester your generous self with such trivial matters, but would you mind stepping carefully for the time being?” Their choice of Westron dialect was that of a noble, yet their accent and attire told otherwise. How curious.

“Right. As per the fool’s path, you lost something important. Or were you impersonating a banshee on a whim?”

The mortal curled inward sheepishly. “Oh, please do forgive the disturbance. Since you asked, I’ve misplaced something quite precious to me,” they sighed, “I simply cannot leave until I’ve found it. Might you be able to lend a pair of eyes?”

Dirk arched an eyebrow. Hopefully, it wasn’t the mortal’s marbles they’ve mislocated. Hmmm, on second thought, Dirk possibly had some to spare in his Mantle Modus. He really should sort that thing out later.

The mortal went on. “Beg pardon if you’re in a hurry. Where might you be headed?”

Dodging the question, Dirk answered, “I assure you, I am quite competent; it won’t be more than a hot, buttery minute if you point me in the right direction.”

The bespectacled creature looked around the small clearing. “Hmm,” they pondered. “I was right over here when I tripped like a total buffoon and dropped my family ring. The blasted thing couldn’t have gone too far. Thank you kindly, friend.”

It’s not like the Prince had anything better to do other than lament his situation at the moment. He’d take this distraction over nature’s striptease anyday. “My pleasure,” he said.

Dirk walked precisely two circles around the glade, once looking with his bare eyes, and once with his seeing stone. Nothing. The mortal threw several frightful glances to the jellies, quite distracted from their task despite the supposed urgency. The ring wasn’t in this clearing; it probably didn’t exist at all.

This dirty creature certainly wasn’t looking for anything before Dirk showed up, though he still hadn’t the slightest idea what they were trying to do. Make love with nature’s skirts?

They said, “What a vision I must be, underdressed and scrounging around in the dirt like some half-witted dolt. My father is rolling in his grave no doubt.” They shook their head. “I gander this is what commonfolk refer to as having an ‘off day’.”

Dirk grunted noncommittally. Such petty creatures, though it didn’t hurt to humor them. He said, “By the look of it, losing the heirloom was the topping on a lousy-day cake. You’re a right mess.”

The cloaked mortal scoffed, “Oh you have no idea! I’ve become a sham to the entirety of the Strider bloodline in one fell swoop. Or trip rather.”

The name gave Dirk pause. He asked for clarification, “Pardon, Strider? As in the renowned playwright?”

The mortal seemed to grow a few inches from where they knelt on the ground. “Why, yes indeed! What I lost was sadly the Strider family ring.”

Alarm bells were going off in the Prince’s mind, ringing alongside his Mother’s advice. “Ah. I was unaware that the playwright ever had any children.”

The mortal had the audacity to laugh in such a convincing and lighthearted manner. “Heheh! My great-great grandfather was quite the casanova! It’s rather tough to say how many children he had, since my Nanna was the only legitimized bastard of Strider.”

“I… see.” Dirk forced himself not frown.

“There are days I can hardly believe it! Grandpop is my favorite playwright of all time. Never have I enjoyed a piece as much as one of his. Oh! Forgive me. I tend to get rather excited about the topic of his plays. I could recite each and every line by heart, you know! Even the ill received Mock Hare.”

The mortal babbled on excitedly while Dirk knelt and plucked a blade of grass. Yes, that will do nicely. Turning his body away from the smaller creature, he drew his seal from his Mantle and pressed it into the blade, leaving an imprint. With care, he folded the piece of grass in on itself. That should be about the right size. With a muttered spell, the Prince tugged on the form and color of the grass. It stiffened and turned gold. Unless the mortal was among the last magi, they’d never know it wasn’t real.

Hiding his arms under his cloak, Dirk asked, “Sorry to interrupt, but I’ve forgotten to ask how much time has passed since you lost the ring. If it’s been too long, I wouldn’t be surprised if a niffler snatched it out from under your nose.”

“Oh! Of course.” The human paused, “Well, I haven’t a pocket watch on me, but it can’t have been more than an hour.”

The Prince nodded his head and took a few precise steps closer to the mortal.

Dirk feigned friendliness and said, “Goodness, but listen to me go on! I completely forgot to ask why you’re here in the woods yourself, kind sir.”

The mortal did not see Dirk approach and moved back slightly. He muttered, “Ah, err. Hello there.”

Smirking, the Unseelie prince produced the golden ring and slipped it onto the liar’s third finger. “I am seeking a suitor.”