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Once upon a time, six young people huddled together on a mattress packed with straw. Moonlight fell through the open window like silver ink onto the rough-hewn floorboards, shifting the room into the realm of legends. The night air smelled of heather, peat, and the familiar sweat of his blood-siblings. Fennar sat up, made a few simple hand gestures, and observed the way the shadows moved over the faded wallpaper. A fish, ripples, a sword. Yes, this would do very well. He kicked Dorion in the ribs.
“Boots off in bed, asshole,” he said. “Or there will be no story.”
They held each other’s gaze for a sharp heartbeat, two, before Dorion moved to comply.
Fennar continued as if nothing had happened. “Listen, sisters, brothers. It was a clear dawn, the grass damp with dew. And that is how Hans and Else found themselves standing in a meadow, blades in hand, over the honor of Else’s goldfish. Never mock a fish.”
Henrike snorted. “And how, exactly, do you slight a goldfish’s honor?”
“Call it a bottom feeder?” Synke suggested, attuned as always to the high art of finding the perfect slur for the occasion. Fennar gave her an approving nod.
“Technically, carp are…,” Thilo began, but was quickly hushed.
“Shhhh! Don’t say it unless you are prepared for blades at dawn.” Kylvar grinned. “See, that’s the problem with science. Maybe our guy Hans wrote a book about fish. Didn’t think too much. Offended the wrong soul. It happens.”
“Book he wrote, trouble he got. Never mock a fish,” Fennar agreed while his hands let the shadow goldfish swim in lazy circles. “Anyway. Else loved her goldfish very much – not that way, you perverts – so she could not let the insult stand. Blades at dawn it was.”
“Never mock a fish,” the group echoed.
“At dawn, in the meadow they stood. The challenge hung heavy in the crisp morning air. The first rays of the sun illuminated the goldfish in its bowl, referee and witness.”
“Wait a minute,” Thilo said. “As the allegedly affronted party, the fish can not also be the referee. That makes the duel…”
“…a rather typical affair of honor, actually,” Fennar said, cutting him off with a smirk. “Besides, a goldfish has exactly the judgment it takes. What more could you want?”
“Never mock a fish,” Kylvar repeated with a knowing smile. “Not if you prefer your fights fair.”
“They raised their swords in salute, and at the goldfish’s silent blubb, they fought. Not a fucking word from you, Dorion,” Fennar warned, already regretting the next part. Rendering swordfights in shadow play – all tangle and blur – was a lot harder than just showing a fish. Dorion’s subsequent hand gesture, however, let a heartbreakingly scenic lighthouse on a rocky cliff appear on the wall. Fennar scowled. He would be stealing that trick.
“And then,” Fennar continued, looking Dorion straight in the eye, “Hans had a cramp in his leg and fell on his ass. Duel ended, goldfish honor restored. It happens to the most graceful of us, right?”
Henrike failed to suppress a giggle. “And the moral is, never mock a fish.”
“Outside,” Dorion said with an anticipatory gleam in his eyes. “Now.”