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Years down the road, Icarus wakes without his patron curled up to his side, and he panics.
They have spent centuries by one another’s sides and had every intention of spending centuries more— but Cod is gone, and in their wake (tangled in the thick blankets) is a note in someone else’s hand that reads “Hallo’een night, come to Annwfyn unarmed and unarmored . Ride, for what you seek will be masked by the thickest shade of trees .”
He blinks away fearful tears and throws himself out of bed to pack a bag. He wakes Wisp with a light shake, explaining himself in soft tones and a forehead kiss for good luck.
The road to the forest is long, but by nightfall, he winds his way through the creaking oaks and tangled firs. He shivers, tugging his fur cloak around himself, and keeps a sharp eye on the road ahead and a pointed ear to the woods about him. His horse stumbles on a root— he curses, then falls deathly silent.
Something shimmers in the clearing ahead. Like a spiderweb, stretched thin between the trees and almost transparent where the light hits it.
Icarus slides off the mare and pets her nose, hitching her to a tree at the edge of the clearing and rifling through his pocket to give her a biscuit. He takes a shaky breath, turns, and walks out into the clearing with a hand on his satchel and a worried spark in his eye.
The momentary black of the space between worlds is familiar to him by now. It has been familiar for centuries.
He makes his way through kudzu-choked trunks, the hanging green brushing his face and swaying slightly in the perfect summer breeze. The air is heavy here, warm but not hot, but he feels the malaise of a summer sunday afternoon seeping in.
He follows a stream, cool burbling water the same blue as the bits of sky visible through the green, and eventually comes to a clearing, stopping with a half-step and widened eyes.
In the center sits a throne erupting from the roots themselves, behind it a loose court of onlookers, a pool beside it that the stream seems to feed without overflowing. The owner herself is a tall woman, thin-faced and pale-skinned with a stern brow and smiling lips. Her ears are long and pointed, her eyes a faded gold, her hair long down to her knees and near-white.
To her side is a wicker cage, and within that, the unconscious body of his patron. The sight makes it hard to breathe.
“So you did come! How we have been expecting you, little hero. You may have your friend– if you can keep hold of him through seven forms. You must prove to me you truly want him. Am I understood?”
Icarus nods firmly, fully aware his voice might have cracked if he’d spoken.
The queen— no one calls her such to Icarus, but he knows a queen when he sees one— reaches down and plucks the chubby cat from the cage like they weigh nothing, holding her out like a dirty dish rag. Icarus pulls Cod close to his chest, a hand on the back of their head scritching lightly.
The queen snaps.
Icarus feels bones break, shrink, as the shedding form in his arms lets out a weak hiss and he grips the adder tight, wincing as thought and memory seem to melt away with the fur and sharp teeth try to dig into his wrists.
Snap.
Icarus stumbles back, his grip tightening as the form grows and bulges and a great black bear is snarling in his face, squirming but unable to pull out of the strong arms around its waist.
Snap.
A swan, hissing again, but Icarus pins its wings under his armpit, the other arm about its chest. Hot tears sliding down his cheeks as the frightened thing wails.
Snap.
Icarus has never seen his patron in anything approaching a human body save for a severely outdated portrait, and he doesn’t see their face now- he holds, however, a statue of ice, the bare skin on his arms protesting the cold. He feels a heart beat frantic against his own chest.
Snap.
A wolf. It snarls, bites at his shirt, digs its claws hard into his ribs and tries to scrabble over his shoulders. Icarus stays fast.
Snap.
A lion, heavy enough to topple Icarus. He rolls the two of them over so he’s on top, the beast unable to run. Its teeth come within inches of his neck, then—
Snap.
Icarus screams. He wraps his body fully around the fist-sized lump of glowing iron, no longer fighting, and rolls into the pool.
All is quiet for a while.
“My congratulations, hero.”
Icarus looks to the queen, vision blurry from pain. He can feel the warm breeze of the woods through the burnt hole in his shirt, the fresh sting of his skin. He’s drenched, and clinging to—
Cod nuzzles into the crook of his neck with a whimper. Their pale body is blotchy with burns, the water having boiled around them and under his chest in the time between this form and the last. Icarus runs a hand through the side of their hair, kissing the top of their head. He stands shakily and pulls them up into his arms like a koala. They are very good to hold, a spoiled cat making a plump faerie.
“Are you done with them?” Icarus’ voice is steadier than he expected.
“Yes. You have your prize. Go.” The queen doesn’t quite smile when she waves her hand dismissively.
Icarus stumbles back through the wood with Cod slowly waking in his arms (bundled in his fur cloak), hushing them softly when they can’t keep the little noises of pain at bay. He finds himself muttering “We’ll be home soon” every few breaths. He sets her on the horse before he climbs on behind her, arms around his waist, chin on her shoulder, Cod leaning their full weight into his chest.
Icarus pulls him into bed, gesturing for Wisp to join them. Neither sleeps until Cod does. They all sleep well, though.