Chapter Text
Prologue
Twenty years ago
It had been a harsh winter and the goblins had struggled to make it through to Spring. As the primroses bloomed on the border the goblins had no time to spare on admiring the lovely sight of the blossoms fluttering among the dark thorns and briers, occupied with replenishing stores depleted in the cold months, and they ventured further and further across the border in search of food. The fairies, newly returned from migration, having lived in warmth and comfort while the inhabitants of the Dark Forest fought to merely survive, were displeased by these incursions into their kingdom.
Skirmishes broke out on the border as the fairies sought to keep back the hungry, thieving goblins. But their options were to starve or fight, so the goblins fought and continued their trips across the border, raiding at night when they had the advantage over the fairies, who were far more dependent on light than the goblins were. The goblins, weak from the rigors of the harsh winter, began to lose ground and the fairies slowly gained the advantage, pushing the goblins back into the forest, until finally the king sent a force to invade the forest and put an end to the fighting for once and for all.
Weakened by hunger and the unending fighting the goblins were subdued, the remnants of their forces fleeing into the deepest parts of the forests, too dark and tangled for fairies to dare follow. The Light Fields were victorious, but their victory was not complete. In the final days of fighting, when the king of the Dark Forest knew they would lose, he led a small force once more into enemy territory to capture a prize that might one day give them the opportunity for revenge. With their stolen treasure they vanished into the depths of the forest beyond the reach of their enemy. The castle of the Dark Forest stood empty and when the fairy army reached it they found no trace of the goblin king or his people.
“They have gone too far.”
The words echoed in the damp hollow of the cave, over the goblins huddled together in makeshift beds of moss and leaves, the ground too damp to allow the lighting of a fire to chase away the chill of early spring.
The king of the goblins, The Brier King, laid a bundle down on the floor beneath the glow of a blue light. His massive hands handled the bundle with tenderness as he drew back the layers of leaf wrappings to reveal the tiny, scaly body of a goblin child, no more than a handful of years old. A red wound marked its tiny chest, empty eyes stared sightlessly at the ceiling. A claw brushed across the tiny face, drawing down the eyelids so that the tiny creature looked at peace.
“They killed her.” He fought to keep his voice steady, but anger made him growl the words, “My daughter. My heir.”
“I can’t bring back the dead.” The blue light came from a sphere of cobwebs suspended in the crook of a broken branch. Within the cobwebs flitted a tiny shape, very much like a fairy but not quite one. Her voice was regretful, for she could clearly see the pain in the goblin’s eyes.
“No,” The king growled, snatching a second bundle from the hands of another goblin. He tossed it down beside the body of his daughter and the second bundle emitted a frightened wail at this rough handling. “But you can help me fashion a reasonable substitute.”
“I … I don’t understand.”
“The fairies hunted us while we were starving, slaughtered children. I want revenge, I want to destroy them as we have been destroyed and I want the weapon that undoes them to be fashioned of their own blood. Here are the materials.” He nudged forward the wailing form with his foot, then leaned down to touch the body of his daughter, the gesture gentle. He straightened, a towering shadow, “Now make me something I can use.”
Seventeen years ago
Thirteen year old Kenneth Boggart, prince of the Light Fields, slipped away after the funeral service. He went to a balcony that looked out onto the fields, seeking solace in the sight of the vibrant green of his realm, dotted with the bright color of flowers. What he sought was not to be found, for the air was still hazy with gray smoke, the remains of villages still smoldering under the overcast sky.
The plague had devastated the kingdom and the dead were burned in their homes, whole villages put to the torch to contain the spread of disease. The quarantine on the castle had only just been lifted, the stone chambers have been scorched and scoured to eradicate every last trace of the deadly plague that had taken the lives of nearly the entire royal line. Now funerals were being held without caskets, the monarchs and their family reduced to ashes in a pyre, piled in with all the other recently dead. Rank had no bearing, no ceremony was given to any of them at the time, king and pauper all equal in this tragedy.
“Are you alright, Kenneth?” A hand was laid on the prince’s shoulder and he flinched at the unexpected touch, wings flickering in and out. After being in quarantine for the past month, one of the few well enough to get about and look after the sick, he was not used to the presence of other people. He turned and found it was Dagda, now regent of the Light Fields until the prince came of age.
“Bog.” The prince corrected. His father had been Kenneth so the prince had been called Bog by his family. In the dizzying period after the lifting of the quarantine the castle had been filled with strangers who called him “Kenneth” and “Ken”, and he had began to feel unreal. As if he had died with his parents, after all, and was a ghost that still lingered to haunt the empty castle. Now that the world was coming a bit more back into focus he began to insist on what he considered to be his proper name. “Call me Bog.” After a pause he added, because Dagda had been kind enough and he had not been brought up to be rude, “Please.”
“Very well. Bog.” Dagda nodded. He was a round, heavy fairy, his black beard already shot through with gray though he was not yet old. Six months ago Dagda had been an unimportant official, shooting up through the ranks by the virtues of being an efficient organizer in a chaotic time, and because his superiors were either dead, sick, or bereaved by the loss of friend and family. The remnants of the council had been unanimous in the decision to appoint him regent, even though he was no relation to the royal family, nor even of their clan.
Bog’s wings twitched at the thought. He felt even more of a ghost when he was surrounded by the fairies of other clans. He was now the last of a unique bloodline, his wings wings numbering a distinct four in number and of a clear, iridescent membrane instead of the billowing colored canvases that unfurled from the backs of other fairies. There had been few of his clan left even before the plague, and even fewer who had the distinctive dragonfly wings. Now, as far as he was aware, he was the only one. The crowds that surrounded him were a constant reminder that he looked different, sounded different with his faint but distinct accent, and that all others who were like him were no more.
“The council and I have come to a decision about the matter of succession.” Dagda said. The prince shrugged. That was one of those things adults always talked about but Bog could never see how it applied to himself. Dagda carefully explained that there were factions that objected to the regent being an outsider and in order to appease them some political maneuvering had to be done. And that was why Prince Kenneth Boggart was to be engaged to Dagda’s daughter, Dawn.
“She’s a baby!” Bog’s tender thirteen-year-old sensibilities were wounded by this idea. Being attached to a baby, of all things, was just too much.
“That won’t be true forever,” Dagda tried not to laugh at the flash of indignation in the boy’s blue eyes. It was the first time since he had met the prince that the boy had displayed anything more than a sort of weary numbness. As far as Dagda knew the prince had not even cried. “And it’s a temporary measure. For the moment it assures the dissenters that you will eventually inherit the throne and the line of succession not be broken, despite an outsider regent. In a few years, well, things will change and in more stable times … Things change.” He patted Bog’s shoulder. “In the meantime I want you to consider Dawn and myself as your family.”
“Family?” There was a terrible note of raw pain in that word and the boy’s shoulders hunched up, his skinny arms wrapping around himself as he shut out the world. Dagda said more, but Bog did not hear any of it. The hand patted his shoulder again and then Dagda finally left him alone.
Dawn and her nursemaid came by, the little girl only just looking toward her second year of life, toddling along with cheerful determination. She had lost her mother to the plague, but she was young and already the memory of what she had lost was fading. Tiny feet in little white slippers padded to and fro, and a head of yellow-gold curls bobbed along. Bog was sitting on the ground, his back to the ravaged fields he couldn’t bear to look at. His long, narrow wings were spread out on either side of him, brushing over the cold stone tiles of the floor.
“Hi!” Dawn trotted up, chubby fingers playing in front of her face as she looked the prince over, her face lit but a huge smile as she declared, “I Dawn!” She looked at him expectantly.
“I’m Bog.” The prince said, realizing the little girl wasn’t going to leave him alone unless he answered.
“Boggy!” Dawn exclaimed, hopping up and down.
“Bog.” He insisted.
Dawn just giggled and hugged Bog’s arm. He had to twitched his wings aside or she would have trampled all over them. He put one hand on her round little shoulder and pushed her back, carefully, as if she might bite if startled. “Go away. I don’t like you.”
“Like you!” Dawn hugged tighter. “Like your nose!” She made a grab for it but Bog managed to move his head in time. She giggled, delighted with this game, and made another grab. He picked her up, holding her tiny form up off the floor. “Stop it!” He snapped. But she was thrilled to be picked up, kicking her feet and crowing happily at this turn of events.
“You’ve got her charmed.” The nursemaid said, glad of a break from her energetic little charge. She obviously had no intention of retrieving Dawn right away and Bog’s arms were getting tired so he dropped his betrothed onto his lap and endured her curious exploration of his face. Ears, it seemed, were fun to pull on, and Bog’s nose just as good. Biting back impatience he endured it and listened to her prattling and responding as necessary. He was actually well-versed in the dialect of small children, having had several small cousins living in the castle before … before they died.
Gray apathy had formed a shell over Bog, muffling voices and dulling colors, keeping the pain at bay. But the little princess tugging on his ears was so very alive and so very much like the little cousins he had chased through the halls, the little things shrieking with laughter when their big cousin caught them and lifted them high into the air.
And all of them were dead, never to laugh or smile again. And the shell cracked, pain rushing in and washing over him in an overwhelming wave and he hugged Dawn tight, as if to keep her from escaping.
“Oh. Oh!” Dawn patted a little hand on Bog’s face, smacking at the tears that poured down his face. She gave his cheek a clumsy kiss. “Make it better.” She pulled her head back to examine the results of her work. Boggy was still crying, which would not do at all, so she wrapped her arms around his neck and patted vaguely at his shoulder blades like she had seen a lot of people do lately. “There, there.” She said solemnly, “There, there.”