Archive of Our Own

The apple pie sat on a clean, plain plate, surrounded by several other dishes. The dessert was steaming, fresh from the oven. Its smell curled in the air, promising that it was made from the sweetest, most ripe apples from the orchard and the whitest, fluffiest flour.

It even looked incredible.

The crust had a positively golden colour to it, and the village chief, the woman who baked it, added a gorgeous layer of lace like edges to it. Everything about it screamed about the experience and skill that were put into creation of the dessert. One could assume it would be delicious then. No one goes that far to enhance the aesthetic of a meal without nailing the taste first.

And yet Wilbur had absolutely no desire to eat it.

But he picked up the fork and took the smallest known to man bite.

The apple pie tasted like ash on his tongue.

He chewed it slowly, mentally separating himself from his body. He needed to eat but it was not a pleasant process.

The texture was so gritty, it fought every step of the way as Wilbur tried to swallow it. But he forced it down nonetheless. He feared that if he refused to eat anymore, the poor chief would worry herself to an early grave.

He reached for the cup of the herbal tea and took a huge gulp. The taste wasn’t anymore pleasant than the pie itself but it helped wash it down.

Wilbur stared at the spread of the food in front of himself and he felt his insides curl with dread. He tried eating about anything the chief has set down and he didn’t know how to break her heart and say it wasn’t working. Everything was just more or less the same kind of awful that everything else always was.

He forced another forkful of the pie into his mouth and tried thinking of anything else. The sky was empty yesterday but an hour ago he spotted some clouds on the horizon. He hoped it would rain now, so the road wouldn’t turn muddy before he had to go. It needed to dry well enough before that, it had to. Oh, or maybe it’d rain as he was setting out.

He secured a ride with the blacksmith but the man had only a cart- Wilbur would get soaked before they arrived in the next village.

He couldn’t swallow it down. His body revolted against it violently and even thinking about the future travel couldn’t distract him anymore.

Wilbur was so fucking hungry. He was losing his mind with every twist of his stomach, craving what it couldn’t have, forever.

And all because of his own stupidity.

Oh how he missed the sourness of berries picked straight from the bush. The juice that would stain his fingers and teeth was worth it, even as his face twisted with betrayal at the not-so-sweet treat. What wouldn’t he give to taste the bitter gruel his aunt made when he was naughty as a child. He yearned for all of these tastes and memories he just couldn’t have.

These days, everything made him sick.

His mind traitorously never stopped its whispering about the sweetness and pure heft of the tiny cake he took because of the foolishness of youth. About the pure, childish love he felt and let it blindside him, and the ambrosia that filled his mouth.

The very beginning of his end.

Wilbur never forgot his Fae.

And wasn’t it such a presumptuous thing? To ever dare lay a claim of the Fae. What happened to him must have been fated to happen. Boys like him were made to be into warning tales.

Wilbur met Pinkie when he was but a whelp, barely let out of the shadow of his late mother’s skirt. Maybe five autumns or so? That sounded about right.

When they met for the first time, the Fae assumed the same look. Wilbur was so stoked to find a new child to play with. His village at the time was filled with children either way older than him or babies he was not allowed to bother yet. When he saw someone as small as him, just as curious and excited to play as him- well. He was a child.

It was a miracle he remembered the rules of politeness at all. But his auntie hammered them into his head anytime she babysat him, which was quite often, as his momma’s health was not best.

So he did remember. Mostly.

Pinkie seemingly didn’t mind anyway. The two of them ‘just’ wanted to play after all.

When the Fae pretended to be human and assumed human form, he still kept an air of otherness about him. It was the sharp ears, that he couldn’t hide and the pink hair that fascinated Wilbur. Oh, and it was the fact that the Fae decided to copy Wilbur’s face.

Wilbur didn’t remember how it came that he kept going back to the fae ring. He didn’t remember how he entered the precarious deal between them, that allowed Wilbur to come and go as he did. It happened.

They didn’t see each other often. Not by a human standard- though, Wilbur saw the Fae far more often than an average human ever encountered them. Twice a year, Wilbur went into the forest to meet his Fae. The visits started of short, an hour of playtime before the sleepy baby him wandered back out. Then it lengthened into a whole afternoon, then a day. Each one just took longer and longer, the hunger and lack of sleep twisting his young mind into even bigger foolishness.

He disappeared into the forest for weeks on end, carrying some bread and fruit with him, trying not to offend the Fae.

Because Pinkie was a Fae. He could play and pretend all he wanted but even Wilbur, as blind as he was, noticed when something was blatantly wrong.

Pinkie got… scary, when Wilbur tried to leave. He clung to Wilbur’s arms and made the plants block his path, just as often as he did whine and pout and said concerning things. Pinkie was possessive to a fault. From leaves, to flower crowns, dolls made from sticks and mud cakes, and yes, Wilbur too.

Wil was just too young to comprehend the gravity of the situation.

It was fine. It was fun. And what matters to a child more that fun?

Wilbur was so convinced then that he loved his Fae. And he truly believed that his Fae liked him as well.

What else was there to think after all? Pinkie didn’t try to steal Wilbur’s name even once, never pulled the brunet into the circle, didn’t even make him take off the plethora of charms and golden flowers sewn into Wilbur’s clothes. He made it seem like it was fine for Wilbur to protect himself.

And Wilbur, oh Wilbur was just a stupid child. One that was always meant to end up as a warning tale. He was the tragic tale in the writing: stupid boy, whose mouth never shut, always talked, chatted and chittered but never ever listened. Never listened to his aunty, never listened to his elders, never listened to all the adults who tried so hard. No one scolded him for his childish affections. No one rebutted him for wanting a playmate. They knew that after that first meeting that he survived, somehow unscathed, his fate was sealed anyhow. Fae did not let people go after all. There was always a trick, a play, something to amuse those long lived fucks.

The elders didn’t scold Wilbur. They kept trying to warn him and they nursed a sorrow yet to be born, close to their chest, waiting for what would inevitably happen to him.

It wasn’t a matter of ‘if’ it would happen. It was always a ‘when’.

They’ve waited eight seasons before the blasted day came.

Wilbur was barely thirteen autumns then.

The two of them, Wilbur and Pinkie, were playing on the clearing surrounding the fairy circle. The space was wide, flat and perfect in every sense. It had just the right amount of flowers growing on the edges, that Wilbur could fall asleep when he needed to, just the rightly tall grass, that the boys could run around on and not trip, just the right amount of sun and moon at any point of the day or night.

Pinkie wasn’t supposed to come outside of the fairy circle. The magical ring of mushrooms and flowers, and rocks, was supposed to protect the Fae from the outside world, just as much as it spelled danger to a human like Wilbur. But Pinkie came outside anyway, just for Wilbur.

It made Wil feel so special.

Pinkie said that his dad forbid him from going outside the circle. Said that, despite Fae being feared creatures North to South and West to East, some humans still were really stupid and tried harming the Fae. And someone as young as Pinkie, with pretty hair and iridescent, not matured wings, would become a wanted prize for such idiots. Pinkie’s wings were really pretty, Wilbur admitted easily. He could see why Pinkie’s dad was so worried.

But Wilbur wasn’t a bad human! So Pinkie could come out of the ring to play and not worry about anyone stealing him away. They still did in secret, of course. No one liked being scolded, no matter if they were human or Fae. And keeping a secret was yet another thing that was fun- so they quietly kept breaking the rules and kept secrets about it, with giggles past their lips and sparkles in their eyes.

Wilbur tackled Pinkie to the ground and laughed loudly. They hit the grass with a slight oomph and Wil enjoyed the brief satisfaction of victory. As it were, he was not much surprised when the Fae quickly had them flipped and it was Wilbur having his head in the flowers. Pinkie grabbed Wilbur’s arms and pinned them next to Wil’s head, effectively immobilising him. The Fae sat at Wilbur’s stomach and hunkered down, clearly preparing for a siege.

Wilbur laughed and began to struggle against the hold. He buckled, kicked and wiggled but Pinkie was twice as strong as Wil and had him easily pinned down. The Fae grinned down at him.

“Give it up Singer!” Pinkie crowed out, already assured of his victory.

“I shall not!” Wilbur yelled out with a breathless giggle.

Pinkie let Wilbur crawl out from underneath him, the iridescent wings trembling with anticipation. Wil scrambled against the ground, because he knew the Fae would soon pounce like an oversized cat. Wilbur didn’t mind playing the part of the mouse, Pinkie was always gentle enough.

The boy wheezed quietly and tapped at the ground, and the Fae rolled away quickly. They both grinned at each other, twin faces shining with joy.

And then Wilbur’s stomach growled.

Pinkie’s face glummed at once and a slight shiver ran across Wilbur’s back. The boy pushed himself up and wandered to the edge of the clearing, where he left his bag. When they met up over two weeks ago, it was filled to the brim with food- now it laid limply against the grass.

Wilbur’s stomach churned with guilt. And the impossible to ignore now hunger, of course. Wilbur knew that the Fae hated breaks in their playtime. He grew mad anytime Wilbur had to sit down to eat or take a nap, lest his body gave up on him. But Pinkie hated Wilbur leaving even more than he hated the breaks, so he allowed for it to happen.

Except the bag was truly empty. Wilbur dug in it for a second more, his fingers hitting the inner seams, searching for even a crumb left behind. No more bread, no more nuts- and when he fished it out, he found no more water in his flask as well.

Worry started nibbling at Wilbur’s guts. He swallowed thickly and squared his shoulders.

He pasted a small, guilty smile on his face and showed the overturned bag to Pinkie. “I think it’s time I go back.”

The Fae appeared at his side in a flash, his fingers painfully digging into Wilbur’s arm. The brunet winced and tried to dislodge the grip and tug the arm back but Pinkie took it as an attempt of an escape. And he hated Wilbur leaving. So now Wil had a very upset Fae glued to his side.

Pinkie glared. “We barely played together!” The wings fluttered, buzzing like an angry wasp. “You should stay!”

Wilbur took a deep breath and relaxed his arm, hoping Pinkie would take a hint. Wil wasn’t trying to escape- he was trying to leave politely. Thankfully, the Fae got that. Or at the very least understood to weaken the hold, so it didn’t hurt so badly. Not gone but way gentler, while keeping the steely sureness of it.

“I stayed longer than I did last time, though,” Wilbur sighed.

Now that he knew he had no food, he began noticing the tiredness in his body. He was ready to go back and sleep in his own bed, eat a warm meal and maybe even wash up- he was covered in mud, which, while usually awesome, started itching his skin.

Pinkie flashed him an annoyed look and pushed himself closer into Wilbur’s space. “Last time was also way too short,” he declared.

“I can’t help it!” Wilbur snapped, his own irritation swelling like a tidal wave. “I need to eat! You’d be mean if you stopped me from eating, you know it!”

The Fae growled. Wilbur flinched, the sound was just the same as that old mean dog his aunty told Wilbur to avoid. Anytime Pinkie growled like that, or hissed like snakes or buzzed like beehives when whacked by a stick, Wilbur was starkly reminded about all the rules the elders and aunty drilled into him. And their warnings that Pinkie wasn’t a friend, that he was dangerous.

But Pinkie was a Fae. He may not have liked Wilbur reminding him that he also needed to abide by the rules of politeness, but he would have to abide nevertheless. Even if the rules weren’t bending to his advantage, not how they would in Fae Realm.

“I,” Pinkie sniffed with all indignation a small Fae child could project, “don’t stop our apparently limited time, just to lay down and make the other person bored to death!”

“I need to sleep!” He exclaimed, throwing his hands up.

Pinkie grumbled unhappily.

The Fae pulled the human into a hug, as inescapable as an iron cage. Wil sighed and reciprocated the hold, even if only to avoid ruffling anymore feathers. He knocked their heads gently.

“I know it’s fun, Pinkie,” he began gingerly, “but I’m hungry.” His stomach growled in agreement. “If you want me to come back and play again, I really should go and, you know, not die.” He chuckled.

Pinkie snorted. “You don’t have to die from not eating, silly.”

“But you usually do when you’re a human. In uh, human realm.” Wilbur frowned. “I don’t actually know what happens in yours.”

Teachers and aunty never really covered that subject.

Pinkie shrugged, apparently unconcerned about such details as starvation.

Wilbur’s stomach growled again and the boy winced. He could feel the glare coming from Pinkie, even without detangling from the restrictive hug.

“You just have to eat, yes?” Pinkie’s voice turned pensive.

“I mean…” Wilbur blinked and thought for a second. “Yeah? That’s the thing?” He wasn’t sure why Pinkie was suddenly asking that, after the whole conversation they just had. And all the other times they also had it.

Pinkie nodded sharply. He let Wilbur go and turned away, his wings fluttering wildly. He pointed at Wil sternly. “Stay here,” he commanded and then ran to his circle.

Wilbur frowned to himself. That was… very weird. He kind of wanted to go home already but he couldn’t leave the clearing without saying goodbye properly. It would be beyond rude to do so, and he didn’t particularly want to get cursed. Even if it was just Pinkie, the rules were in place for a reason after all.

So he sighed and hid the empty flask back into the empty bag. He set it at the ground and then sat down himself. He picked at the flowers and grass growing around him, slowly weaving a flower crown. It was lumpy and uneven but he didn’t care to fix it. His stomach sunk in more, the emptiness of it demanding his full attention. He was so ready to go home and devour whatever aunt would place in front of him. Even the gross onion soup sounded good about now.

“Singer!”

Wilbur looked up with a smile that froze when he saw Pinkie. The Fae came back, with… plates?

“What are those?” Wilbur asked, confusion lacing his one.

He tied the ends of the flower crown quickly and placed it to the side. He got up and came closer to the Fae, looking curiously towards the plates.

“You said you need to eat,” Pinkie said, his cheeks flushed with pride, “so I brought you food.”

Ah. Wilbur looked over the spread of food. Pinkie brought cakes, little buns and pieces of fruits, cut up into fun little shapes. Everything looked straight up delicious and Wil’s stomach twisted with a painful tug of want. Wilbur smiled sadly.

“That’s very kind of you,” said Wilbur carefully, “but I cannot accept such… generous offering.”

Pinkie frowned and pulled his ears back. Wilbur could only shrug apologetically. The elders and his aunt taught him to never ever accept Fae’s gift if he didn’t know the full cost of said gift. Especially if the being could claim any kind of playback later. Nothing was free with the Fae, if you didn’t pay upfront, it only meant you would end up in tenfold the hardship later.

Pinkie sighed, like he was terribly inconvenienced. His wings buzzed and he had a terrible pout on his face.

“Fine,” Pinkie bit out. “You can have all this,” he gestured at the food, “in exchange for… two more days.” Pinkie smiled devilishly. “And this is real food! It will fill you up enough, don’t even think to argue!”

Wilbur bit his lips. That sounded kind of reasonable. Well… two days weren’t that bad, surely? Pinkie bringing him food resolved the problem quite easily!

And if he didn’t accept, he’d have to walk home hungry, and Pinkie would be mad.

Wilbur carefully considered his words. He was good with words, everyone always praised him for them! He was called a Singer and Wordsmith for a reason.

“For the… following two days…” He began haltingly. “I will stay on this clearing… and play with Pinkie…” He frowned and licked his lips. “Just as I did till today… and I will go back after that to my village… in exchange for the food you brought here now,” he finished finally with a huff.

Pinkie gave him two sarcastic claps for all his effort. Wilbur stuck his tongue at the Fae. It was important to exhaust all possibilities of unintended deal! Aunt said so!

Pinkie snorted and offered the plates to Wilbur.

And that was it. The exact moment that spelled his doom.

That was when the young, foolish Wilbur tasted the Fae food.

It was the most delicious thing in the universe, he thought at the time. It was the softest, the tastiest, the best and nothing could ever compare to it! It filled him with insane amount of energy and satisfied his hunger completely. Wilbur loved every bite- loved sharing a meal with his Fae.

He had no idea how much regret and sorrow would follow him for that one mistake.

When they parted ways, Wilbur thankfully didn’t promise to go back. He never did before that, and that lack of one habit may have saved his life, just a smidgen. Because he never returned to the clearing. He never even stepped a foot into the forest.

He was way too distraught when he learned that his Fae cursed him.

A betrayal of which he never experienced before and likely would never experience again.

He remembered sitting at the table, his whole body numb with horror. A singular bowl of soup before him, hot tears streaming down his cheek and a circle of terrified adults surrounding him.

Wilbur was taught the last rule way too late. It wasn’t anyone’s fault but the Fae. It was always going to end up like this. Wilbur was told not to accept Fae’s gifts- but wasn’t taught not to eat anything coming from their hands.

One should never taste Fae food, for if one did, they would never again be satisfied with real world food. They would be left forever yearning, their bodies rejecting everything else but that sweetest betrayal.

Wilbur nearly died when he was but thirteen.

The whole village came together trying to save him. The elders poured over the tales of fools just like him, looking for some solution that wouldn’t end with a sad, small grave. The adults tried so many things, scrambling for a solution that would make Wilbur be able to eat but the boy kept starving. No matter what was put to his lips, nothing could compare to the taste of the soft bread and berries Pinkie has fed him. His body rejected any sensation of food and hunger began consuming his own body.

Wilbur first lost his strength, then his will. He kept crying over what he thought was love but showed itself as cruelty.

Then, when all hope seemed to be lost, and Wilbur was confined to bed— When some of the elders put away the old texts and began preparing burial rites—

One woman decided to risk it. She sent her children to the forest, to the Fae circle. Over whispered, fervent instructions and warnings, the children got one mission. They had to be polite. They had to be quick. They had to be smart.

When they entered the forest and came upon the circle, Pinkie was apparently already waiting.

The Fae stood proudly, safely guarded by the ring of mushrooms and flowers. He flicked his wings when he saw that the children weren’t his usual playmate. He demanded of them answers- he wanted to know where Wilbur was. Demanded they go and tell the brunet to come back to the forest.

“Singer, as you call him, is dying,” the younger child spoke bluntly.

“He’s starving,” the older added, “because of the curse in the food he consumed here.”

They were careful, as careful as children could be. It would be unwise to accuse the Fae of cursing Wilbur, even if they all knew what transpired. Fae did not enjoy being called out.

“There was no curse!” Pinkie snarled.

The older child butted their chin higher. “It is a curse to humans. He cannot eat earthly food no more.”

The Fae growled, a deep, inhumane sound. The children clasped each other’s hands, holding one another from bolting far from the monster. They had to succeed in their mission.

“Then make him come to me!” The Fae’s face sharpened and their fangs elongated. “I’ll feed him more, he will never go hungry!”

The children shared a look between themselves. The younger of them stepped half a step closer.

“Were you aware what would happen to Wi-“ they stopped themselves from speaking the name. “To Singer? Did you know he’d not be able to eat anything anymore?”

Pinkie scoffed and crossed his arms. He looked at the children haughtily. “I fed him.”

The children knew that Fae couldn’t lie. But they sure could omit a lot of information. And the Fae didn’t deny. The children looked at themselves and each swore to never deal with the Fae.

“Well?” Pinkie called arrogantly. “Go and bring Singer to me. He has to eat, does he not?”

The older child shook their head. “I’ll relay your message but I do not promise he will come back.”

“We came to collect flowers and herbs for our mother,” the younger bowed their head. “We bid you goodbye, as we need to be hasty.”

They picked the yellow flowers and medicinal herbs growing close to the fairy ring. They filled their pockets and baskets and then hurried home, with no new curse over their heads. The mother praised them long and well, before she took all the plants to Wilbur’s aunt’s house.

She took his aunt’s hands and together, they cooked a soup. The plainest, easiest on the stomach broth they could. And the woman sprinkled in the flowers and herbs and prayed that those grew close enough to a fairy circle to count for Fae realm food.

They fed the broth to Wilbur. He didn’t have strength to lift a spoon by himself, his aunt had to support his back and part his lips. They forced the broth in, the spoon clattering against his teeth and he barely moaned in discomfort.

The broth was slimy and tasted of dirt. But he swallowed. He forced it down all the same, desperation making him even worse a fool than before.

But he didn’t vomit.

He remembered the relieved sobs that ripped themselves from his aunt’s chest. The way she curled around Wilbur and babbled prayers and nonsensical, half torn sentences. He remembered the heartfelt gratitude that was showered upon the woman who risked her children’s lives to save Wilbur’s. He remembered how the children were thanked and praised as well.

Wilbur himself took months to recover from the brink of death that the curse had him on. But eventually, he clawed back to the land of the living. And once he was strong enough, he thanked the mother and children himself. And he apologised. He apologised to the village, to the elders, to his aunt, for his stupidity. If he knew better, if he wasn’t so blinded, if only he listened… He swore to everyone, that he would never enter the forest again, he’d never seek out a fairy circle.

The children of the village offered to collect the herbs for Wilbur. Each of them had his deepest gratitude, as well as personal tips how to speak to Fae- or rather how to cut any and all talks short and quick, without getting called impolite.

Each kid returned unharmed but always with some sort of message from Pinkie. The tones of the messages, and later, the demands, grew more ridiculous, day from day. Eventually, children began relaying the threats the Fae spouted at them.

It was Wilbur’s mess to clean.

He sent a response only once.

“Your actions have brought me and my people suffering and pain, and me to near death. I do not wish to see you ever again.”

After that, he closed his ears and heart to his Fae. He focused himself fully on working for the village. Since he swore off entering the forest, he needed to learn a craft of his own, that would make saving him worth anything.

He went to the elders and adults and diligently learnt to read and write. He studied the rules of politeness, as well as the multiple unspoken rules that could screw humans over. He wrote all of them down and revised every word till the point of obsession.

His efforts paid off in the form of near perfect guide for humans to follow. He crafted recipes of interactions between the fair folk and villages that promised safety, he devised roundabouts to known curses that saved lives and archived all known, notable Fae, which were willing to trade.

He grew up to be a frail adult, always too thin, too tired and too hungry. But his mind, dulled as it was with the licks of starvation, remained sharp enough to form golden treaties and silver trades. It let him talk and teach— he became an expert on the subject of Fae. It was him who distraught families called when someone fell prey to Fae’s tricks. He travelled all around the country, checked all the treaties, prepared words for bargains and whatnot. Common folk sung his praises as the Wordsmith, with only rippled whispers tutting about his poor past as the Singer.

It was better this way.

Wilbur forced himself to swallow two more bites of the disgusting pie. The chief baked in some golden flowers into the crust and he tried, he really tried! But he was so hungry and tired of chewing dirt. His stomach barely calmed from its ravenous wailing and that felt like enough to him. He teetered on the edge of too little and not enough for most his life anyhow.

Maybe, if he didn’t finish this meal, he’d be lucky enough to not wake up tomorrow.

He smiled tiredly at the chief. She was his host at the village, as he poured over their texts and taught their children. She tried her best to accommodate him but he knew it was a hard task. He could not fathom eating even a crumb more and he silently prayed that she’d not force him anymore.

“Oh darling,” the woman fretted, “try a little more. You’re sticks and bones!”

Wilbur forced a laugh through his bruised throat. “I really hope not,” he cajoled carefully, “that would make me a changeling after all. A bit late for such realisations, I’m afraid.”

The woman swatted at him playfully and took away the plates with food he didn’t manage to swallow. Wilbur sighed with a relief and silently returned to the guest room.

It was his last night in the village. All the lessons were taught to the new eager faces, all the old problems probed and checked for better solutions, all wards reset and maps of the forest retraced. It would be his last night to sleep in a bed, before he’d go traveling once more. Such was his fate nowadays, to constantly move from village to village, sharing the knowledge he gained, sparing more fools from dying or suffering.

Wilbur was still so hungry. The herbal tea, that was so helpful at the beginning of his curse, slowly lost its effectiveness. He didn’t tell his aunt or his home village about it. They worried enough as it was. He took to more frequent travel, hoping they wouldn’t notice him starving again. He kept drinking the tea, the wine, ate the herbs, chewed on the roots and counted the days.

One day, it wouldn’t be enough. Wilbur would take all his things then and go to the city and go die in a slums house, around people at the very least. No one would search for him there- and maybe everyone would assume he kept traveling, his words outliving him.

Wilbur closed his eyes and willed the sleep to consume him. But it once more refused. He slept fitfully, barely resting at all. He gave up when morning sun breached the horizon.

Maybe he’d sleep on the cart, he consoled himself quietly.

He gathered his bags and his books and shared well wishes with the chief. He didn’t promise to come back- the lack of such promise saved him once. When Wilbur left, everyone should always assume he would never return.

He rubbed at his eyes as he walked to the blacksmith. A dull headache thundered behind his eyelids and he didn’t know how to rid himself of it. Sleep would be best but hell, he didn’t count on it. The mild paralytic plant he had wouldn’t work on this ache, besides, it barely worked on him anymore. Worse comes to worst, he could just get drunk and ride it out like that.

“Ah, Wordsmith!” A ruff, loud voice broke Wilbur out of his thoughts.

Wilbur pasted a small, tired smile onto his face. “Hello, Smith. It’s good to see you again.”

“Well as I can,” the man nodded to himself. He pointed to the cart, sitting outside of the smithy. “Hope ya don’t mind but there will be one more fellow taking himself with me. You’ll have enough space still, don’t worry!”

Wilbur casted a look towards the cart. The back of it was filled with boxes and piles of loose metal bars. But the smith had also some benches, with blankets covering the wood installed, probably for the sake of a traveler or two. At least Wil wouldn’t have to sit on the floor and worry if one of the boxes would slide against his foot.

“It’s alright, I appreciate your help anyhow.”

The smith stopped for a second. He sighed, deeply and then turned to Wilbur and clapped him on the back- with the strength that nearly sent Wilbur to the floor.

“Don’t mention anythin,” the man said, his tone weirdly serious. “If not for ya, my cousin would be still screwed with that silent spell. Now he can yap once in a while at the very least.”

Wilbur smiled again, before he brushed the man’s arms from his shoulders and went to climb the cart. He set down his books on one side of the bench and then tucked the bag underneath.

Not long after, a stranger also approached the cart and climbed in. He sat opposite of Wilbur and made himself comfortable with a bag of his own.

Wilbur observed him with some dull curiosity. The man was a fair bit shorter than Wil though that wasn’t a shocking thing. Most people were shorter than Wil. The man was just, generally short. And he had pale, blond hair, falling past his jaw. Most importantly, he wore soft looking, green robes, that sent a pang of jealousy through Wilbur’s chest. The coat must have been so warm. It looked expensive too- so maybe this was some sort of merchant?

Wilbur had not taken many clothes on his journey. It was easier that way. And… well, he was a weak person. Constant state of near starvation didn’t help with lugging around a bunch of things. And he maybe, just maybe, thought he’d be dead soonish. What would he need clothes for then?

But alas! He was not dead and the morning was chilly, and he was jealous of a fellow traveler.

“Good morning,” Wilbur greeted first.

The stranger grinned. “Good morning indeed. Say…” He tilted his head in a bird like manner. “Did I hear correctly? You’re the elusive Wordsmith? Such a curious moniker.”

Wilbur chuckled. Right, joys of small talk. Thankfully, he did enjoy such things usually. So even if his head ached, his stomach cramped and his body was cold, he could hold on of his own.

He waved a hand, as if he could wave the curiosity away. “That’s how people call me. I do a fair share of talking, to be fair to them.”

“Of course.” The man hummed. “I did hear you’ve been called Singer, once upon a time.”

The small smile of Wilbur’s face froze. So, this was one of the people who knew of his curse. Or just, generally of him.

He let the tiniest of grimaces grace his face. “Ah, that’s a childish nickname of mine.” He shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t sing a lot nowadays.”

The stranger seemed disappointed to hear that. He leaned back on his seat and crossed his legs.

“What a shame.”

Wilbur suddenly realised that the cart was moving. He looked up and blinked in surprise at the view of the houses being left far in the distances. How had he not felt…? He should be more careful. The headache and exhaustion must have been worse than he first assumed.

He let his eyes return to the stranger and found him watching Wilbur with no shame.

Wilbur wasn’t sure what to think of it.

“May I ask with whom I am traveling?” Wil asked.

The stranger hummed and drummed his fingers against the bench. “You may call me Angel, Singer.”

Wilbur frowned. He didn’t allow that man to use his childish not-name. And…

“An interesting moniker as well. Is there a story behind it?”

“Plenty of stories,” the man chuckled. “But most importantly, my love calls me that from time to time.”

Ah, so it was like that. Wilbur hummed as well. He wasn’t sure if he would ever go by a sweet nothing nickname like that. He had no love to call him by a pet name, that’s first, but also… It seemed silly, to be called ‘Honey’ or ‘Sugar’ by complete strangers. But, to each their own.

And even if he was curious about the tales and stories, he didn’t push. Yes, it was his job to gather those but it were a dangerous endeavour when done on the road. He never knew what sort of person he’d met after all.

The blond man turned and looked at the road. The cart was slightly bouncing on the uneven stones but the horses at the front didn’t rush. It made the journey that bit better.

“This isn’t the best path to Logsted,” the man pointed out. “Isn’t there a road leading through the forest?”

Wilbur laughed awkwardly and rubbed at the back of his neck. “Ah, yes… That would be because of me. I vowed to never come back to the Forests.” He sighed. “The blacksmith is doing me a favour by driving around it.”

“Aren’t there contracts in place? Shouldn’t the roads be safe for humans?” The man inquired.

Wilbur nodded. “They ought to be. I helped co-write many of those contracts and so far, all of them held. But even with a contract, one should never underestimate Fae. Remember the rules and all of that,” he waved again.

“And all that,” agreed the stranger. He tilted his head in that birdlike manner. “It’s fascinating to see someone so in touch with all the right customs.”

Wilbur sighed heavily and put his elbows against his knees. “I have my reasons to do so.”

Angel smiled patiently, as if he perfectly understood Wilbur’s plight. “You sound like you have lots to do. A long journey awaits you?”

He did. There was so much to do in a year. He had to travel so far, learn so much, teach even more and then, maybe return home. He could spend a month there and let his weary body unravel a bit.

Ever since he stopped visiting his Fae, the year seemed to be too long, too dragging. Time, just like food, lost all of its flavour and Wilbur was stuck, with it cloying his tongue and teeth.

“In that case,” the stranger spoke again, “since you have a long way to go, why don’t you share a meal with me? One should never skip food, mate,” Angel proposed.

The blond man took out some sandwiches and little cakes out of his bag. They looked decently well- even if it was weird that the man had two sandwiches, freshly made and tied with clean, white napkins. Maybe he was a weirdo who shared his food so often?

Wilbur was hungry, he was always hungry, obviously, but he had no appetite. He had no herbal tea on hand as well, so eating anything was bound to end in disaster.

Unless he popped the cork on the golden flower wine.

Wilbur sighed and pulled the bottle from the bag under the bench. He planned to get drunk anyhow, may get a head start on it.

“Then let me provide a drink- a fair share, would you agree?”

The Angel laughed, a peerless, pretty sound. He had crows feet around his eyes when he smiled, and his eyes… There was something—

“A fair deal between two travelers on the road,” Angel agreed. “Very well. Dig in, mate.”

Wilbur blinked a couple times and shook his head. The exhaustion was playing tricks on his mind now. He should try to get some sleep, as soon as possible. He accepted the sandwich from the Angel’s hands and, before he bit into it, poured some wine into the small, uneven cups he had.

His teeth ripped into the soft bread. It fell apart like dirt in his tongue, gritted him like a smear of soot on a dirty shoe. He took a swig of the wine, the burn of the alcohol helping to choke down the food. He bit into the sandwich again.

He missed the bread Pinkie fed him. He missed Pinkie.

How many years has it been? Did Wilbur survive that awful curse or was it just the slowest possible death of them all?

The Angel took a careful drink from the wine and Wilbur forced himself to eat more of the sandwich. It sat in his stomach, heavy and uncomfortable. The wine helped, barely as it did but it did. The man kept observing him with kind eyes and Wilbur felt even worse for it. The cart continued to bump around and roll on the uneven road.

Wilbur wanted to cry. He was so hungry. He took yet another swig of the wine, trying to calm his angry stomach. Each bite seemed worse than the last. This sandwich in particular brought him such trouble—

He lifted it again but a hand stopped him.

Angel looked at him with open pity. Wilbur felt a scarlet of a blush burn onto his cheeks.

“There is no need for you to force yourself anymore, mate.” The man took the sandwich from Wilbur’s numb hands and instead pressed a tiny cake into his fingers. “Why don’t you you try this one?”

Wilbur’s stomach roiled with shame and guilt. He wasted that man’s food. He insulted him.

“I’m… It’s not you fault Angel,” Wilbur rushed to reassure. “My relationship with food…” the words failed him.

How does one explain stupidity of youth and a curse spanning years?

“I understand,” said the man calmly.

Wilbur smiled sadly. Angel couldn’t have really understood but it was nice to pretend otherwise. Made it easier to bat the guilt away and accept the tiny cake.

He brought it to his lips and took smallest possible bite.

It exploded in sweetness on his tongue. Sweet and fluffy and a little sour, and…!

He dropped the cake and looked at the man in sheer terror.

The Angel smiled wider, revealing a hint of fangs in his mouth. “Is there a problem, Singer?” He asked sweetly.

“You… you…!” Wilbur felt his breath shorten.

“Really though,” the Fae clicked his tongue. “Even if you are already under a curse, you should have been more careful about accepting food from strangers. Who knows who you might encounter,” he mused.

Wilbur sucked in a panicked breath. He tried to straighten out and begin bargaining, see what the blond may have want— But he couldn’t?

His strength, puny as it was, got siphoned quickly and he suddenly noticed the black spots dancing around the edges of his vision. He blinked, but they did not leave. Fuck.

The Fae cooed.

“I probably should have let you finish eating it on your own but it was so pitiful.” The Fae turned towards the front of the cart- towards the blacksmith, driving them. Wilbur’s breath caught in his throat. “Markus,” the name reverberated in the air and Wilbur saw the blacksmith stiffen. “Be a dear, and turn right. You know how to find a ring- do it.”

Wilbur felt himself slump in his seat, his thought muddled. The Fae had the blacksmith’s true name. When did that happen? Did the smith- Did Markus even knew that he was betraying Wilbur? Did he know he was under Fae’s control?

“Wha…” Wilbur’s lips were stiff, it seemed impossible to speak. But he had questions he had to ask before whatever bad end comes for him. “Wha you… wan… me? I t… t… didn’…”

The Fae shushed him.

The blond shook and like a ripple, the human disguise fell away. Huge wings sprouted from his back, iridescent in some places, and black like deepest night in others. Antlers shimmered into the sight, tall and heavy against the Fae’s forehead.

Wilbur stopped breathing altogether. The Fae was too beautiful, too magnificent to be just any run of the mill Fae. The only one it could be, had to be…!

“Wha… does Kin…g of co…urt… Wan’ wi’ me?” Wilbur mumbled.

The Angel laughed again, the sound no longer restrained by the falseness of human disguise. It hurt Wilbur’s brain to comprehend it fully. The Fae’s hands disappeared in his robes for a second, and oh, those were full, regal robes. Not any traveling merchant clothes. Wilbur wasn’t sure how he managed to overlook such an obvious charm.

The Fae pulled a shining bottle out and uncorked it languidly. Then, he came closer to Wilbur, keeping perfect balance on the rocky cart.

“It’s nothing scary,” the Fae said in what he probably thought was soothing voice, that in actuality sent shivers down Wilbur’s spine. “This should have happened ages ago, dear Singer,” the King said and then he grabbed Wilbur’s jaw.

The cart started shaking more as they firmly drove into the forest. Wilbur’s thoughts scattered. Some of him kept track of the cool fingers cupping his jaw, some other got distracted with the shapes of leaves over their head and the smell he has nearly forgotten. How long has it been since he abandoned the Forest? How did he manage to escape from the clutches of what had to happen?

“Did…” Speaking was so hard. His tongue weighed a ton and the words jumbled in his brain. “Did… Pinkie…?”

“Pinkie,” the King repeated with a delighted voice. “Oh that’s adorable, I appreciate this. It will be a lovely nickname to tease him with.” The King grinned and gently rubbed his finger against Wil’s cheek. “Speaking of names, don’t you want to give me yours?”

Wilbur glared at the Fae, best he could. That was such a cheap attempt at getting his true name. He really thought a King of a Court would be above something that easy.

The Angel merely laughed at the glare and gently tapped at Wilbur’s cheeks.

“I suppose we will have more time later.” The King smiled in a way that promised nothing good. “Drink this, Singer, and go to sleep,” he ordered. “There is someone who really wishes to see you.”

The bottle came back into view and Wilbur immediately closed his lips shut. He didn’t know what the King was attempting to feed him but it could be nothing good. He made the mistake of eating Fae food once- he wasn’t going to screw himself and drink Fae drinks as well. Unfortunately for Wil, the King didn’t even notice the brief defiance. He easily nudged Wilbur’s jaw open and poured the liquid between his lips. The potion slipped smoothly through the brunet’s throat and at once, Wilbur felt the rest of his meager strength slitter away.

He whined weakly. His eyes were suddenly so heavy and the exhaustion dragged its claws through his body.

“Oh you’re so sleepy, aren’t you sweetheart? That’s very good,” the Fae said kindly as he massaged Wil’s jaw briefly. “I won’t have you make a ruckus and spoil the surprise.”

The cool fingers smoothed over his face and forced his eyelids to shut close. Wilbur didn’t have strength to open them again. Most he managed, was a single puff of a breath in protest. He was fully slumped in his seat, the only thing holding him upwards was the hand still cradling his face.

The Fae chuckled, apparently in great mood. Kidnapping people was like candy to the fair folk, of course the King would be having an amazing time.

The cart stopped.

Wilbur felt his body slipping out of the seat but before he could hit the floor, something caught him. Someone.

Wilbur couldn’t even whine.

“You did well, Markus,” the Fae said, the power of the true name ringing like badly struck iron. “You can scurry off and go back on your way. You know nothing of what became of Singer, understand?”

“Yes.”

The sound of the cart and horse hooves strangled the little bit of silence the forest offered. Wilbur wasn’t sure if he should be cursing the smith or no. He didn’t know when the hell the man lost his name to the Fae but it must have happened a while ago. It stung, to be so blatantly sold off, especially since Wilbur helped someone in that family but… Eh. He knew how scary Fae could be. Once on their beck and call, it was hard to hold to any loyalties, no matter how grand or small.

The forest breathed in its own rhythm. Wilbur missed the forest. To go from going in every day and practically living in it some days, to suddenly never even coming close was a jarring change. He missed the smell, the breeze, the sounds. But even with all the nostalgia hitting Wilbur square in the chest, he hated every second spent in this particular forest.

He was supposed to never go back. Even with his eyes closed, he knew he found himself way too close to a fairy circle. The feeling of its magic crawled down his skin. A familiar sensation, that he has learned from the years when Wilbur and Pinkie fooled around on their clearing.

Another small puff of breath was all of his complaint.

“You’ll be a fine present, Singer,” the King murmured. “After a bit of preparation, of course.”

Something touched the bottom of his feet. It was cool, thin and smooth. It crawled against his skin, wrapping itself around his ankles, his wrist and eventually, his throat. It constricted, once, and then relaxed into a snug hold. Wilbur couldn’t see what it was but he had some guesses. His best one was poison ivy, though he couldn’t feel any itchiness. Maybe it was some sort of a cousin to the ivy, coming straight from the Fae realm. It’d make sense.

“Here,” something warm, powerful and delicate was pressed against Wil’s forehead. A kiss. “There you go. It is not a punishment Singer, I’ll have you know.” The King sounded… amused. “I’ve seen the extent of your work and know of the contracts you and my son have struck and completed.” The King sighed. “You should’ve come back years ago… But, I’m probably the last person who should admonish you for yearning for a slice of freedom.”

The air around them grew icy and the smell of flowers became overwhelming. Wilbur’s lungs stuttered for less than a second but then they just languidly filled and emptied again. That’s all he could have done. Breath in and out and cling to the scraps of consciousness he still had. He wished he could see what was happening. He knew he was no match for the King of the Court but he selfishly wanted to at least see where they were going. For all his teachings and close calls, Wilbur never thought he’d actually go and get kidnapped into the fae realm. He was curious- but who wouldn’t be? It’s the sort of morbid curiosity one gets when they realise they’re at the end of the rope.

He wondered which Court Ruler came to claim him. He doubted it would be summer, the chill nipping at his skin was too prominent in the air. It felt closer to Autumn. Maybe even Winter if he was particularly unlucky.

He sighed and puffed another breath out. Wilbur was the epitome of unlucky just then. The Angel fit the Winter landscape well, so he probably landed himself into the cruelest Court.

Or maybe the King didn’t rule a Court at all. Maybe this was the ruler of rulers, the one Fae that was said to have done the impossible and sat upon the throne of thrones. Above them all… No, that would be beyond unlucky. Wilbur was a stupid child but even he couldn’t accidentally spite the prince of all faeries, surely not.

“Like a sparrow, you just had to be brought to where you belong.” The King hummed, a deep, pleased note. “I wish to hear your singing voice someday soon,” he announced. “Techno was very grumpy when he told me about it. He did not like being denied access to you,” the King chuckled.

Techno. Wilbur rolled the word around his mind. It must have been a nickname- at most a part of his Fae’s true name. That was worrying, why would the King be so nonchalant about saying it near Wilbur? Shit.

But oh, his Pinkie, his Fae. Of course that asshole was still as possessive as he acted as a child. Wilbur was sure, if it were possible, Pinkie would strip each part of Wilbur’s individually and put it in gilded frames eventually. He wondered, how much that would hurt…

The cold grew harsher and whatever plant wrapped around him slithered further upon his skin. He felt edges of it sneak between his hair, reach around his eyes, tips of it slipping below his eyelids… He groaned as some of it entered his mouth. It was uncomfortable, the press of the plant made his heart lunge wildly.

But he couldn’t move.

He knew he was being carried, of course he knew. The King didn’t stop touching him since he took Wilbur off the cart. Wilbur knew that the Fae was the source and reason for the cold around him, and he knew that, with just a bit of luck, hypothermia could set in and finish Wilbur off before the Fae could have its fun.

And yet still, Wilbur couldn’t have what he wanted. Suddenly, he was wrapped in something soft and warm, and alive. It rustled like feathers- how many pairs of wings did the King have?!

Ough, this was a high ruler. Wilbur was so screwed.

A puff of breath.

“It’s a bit chilly for a human, hm?” The King mused, as if to himself. “You should give me your name quickly Singer. We can work out some solution then. In the meantime…” another kiss was pressed to Wilbur’s forehead.

Wil desperately wanted to see.

“We will prepare you nicely, I promise.”

Wilbur feared that like nothing else in existence.

~*~

Wilbur sat with his hands curled in his lap.

He was sat at a dainty, pretty chair, with a dainty, pretty table before him. It was tea time- or at least that seemed like tea time, with the amount of snacks and tea covering every available surface. Everything glistened and shined with otherworldly charm. He knew it’d be delicious, if he only were to try it.

He felt too nauseous to do so.

He got placed at that table- a while ago. The King took him to a small solar house, with precious garden sprawling underneath the glass. A tree growing in the centre of the solar house provided shade for the little table, for which Wilbur was thankful for.

His eyes struggled to adjust to the fae realm. Everything was— too much. Too cold at first, if not for the Fae King little forehead kisses spells, Wilbur would have frozen to death in the first hour. Winter was way more colourful than Wilbur always assumed. Or maybe it was just Fae Winter. His brain swirled and ached as he tried to comprehend all of the foliage growing under the dome, and the sun above seared him like angry whip whenever he dared to move away from the table.

So he was sitting, staring at a mountain of food and feeling so ill, he wasn’t even hungry. What a novel experience.

He lifted his tired eyes to the Fae King, who occupied the chair on the opposite end of the table. The blond ruler was enjoying a fresh cup of tea and was seemingly happy to ignore the human for the time being.

But Wilbur knew it was a matter of seconds before the King would refocus and Wil would get scolded.

“Why aren’t you eating?” The Angel asked, just like Wil knew he would.

The brunet swallowed and lowered his eyes back to the table. He looked through his options hopelessly. Cookies, cakes, little buns, jellies, fruits, whatever his soul could wish for and a lot more. And all of it only made sour spit fill his mouth, the sort that always warned about losing control of one’s stomach.

“I’m not hungry, your majesty,” he eventually said.

“Nonsense,” the King immediately dismissed Wilbur’s words. “You’re barely sticks and hollow words. You need something to ground you- maybe you just don’t know how to feel hungry anymore?” The King’s voice lilted in consideration. “Eat up, for my sake at least.”

Wilbur dutifully reached for the food, his gold speckled hands shining in the strange light of the realm. The gold… showed up. The human wasn’t sure how long he spent under the King’s influence. The change was gradual and slow, enough that Wilbur couldn’t remember when it started.

But he felt like he was led to the table only a couple hours prior.

What he knew for sure was the fact that the King was both very dangerous and relentless in his pursuit.

After all, he already managed to steal a part of Wilbur’s true name.

Wilbur sighed as the first taste of cake melted in his mouth. The King must have been right, he must have been so hungry- he was never able to stop eating, once he started. Tasting things again was addicting. He missed every second he couldn’t recall a treat on his tongue, to feel the heaviness of meal in his belly. And yet Wilbur felt like he wasn’t truly hungry, merely eating for the sake of eating.

“Good job Wil,” the King purred.

Wilbur frowned, the upset swirling under his skin. Even that scrap of his name was more than enough to chain him to the fae realm. And the King used that chain to begin changing him. Wilbur flexed his hands. There were the golden flecks on his skin and his body slowly filled up from the unhealthy weight that the near constant starvation forced him into. His humanity was slipping through his fingers, like sand escaping from a child.

He didn’t know what he was meant to be. Would he be turned into a servant, pleasing to the eye, once his strength returns? Would he be changed into a changeling, a mockery to the fae and humans? Or maybe he’d get made into a new, fancy wooden statue. He heard that fae were fans of art. Maybe he’d made something easy on the eye.

Whatever was being done, it wasn’t finished. The King made sure Wilbur couldn’t leave the solar house by placing restraints of Killer Ivy all across his body. If he stepped even an inch further than what the King wanted, the plant dragged him back, choking and cutting into him. It stretched over him, the worst kind of leash and guard dog.

He was a prisoner, that much was clear to him.

“Wil, why don’t you sing for me?” The King asked sweetly, a cup of tea still in his hands.

Wilbur dropped the cookie he just grabbed and he frowned again.

“I’m sorry, your majesty, but I told you already. I don’t sing much nowadays.”

He wasn’t Singer anymore- he was the Wordsmith.

But it didn’t matter to the King.

The King cocked his head to the side and smiled his terrifying smile. Wilbur tried not to shiver in the face of power he could never wish to best.

“Drink your tea, Wil,” the King ordered.

Wilbur sighed and reached for the cup. He swirled the shimmering liquid around. He knew what to expect and knew better than to fight it. He downed the tea quickly and instantly, he felt the familiar pull of the sleep and weakness against his limbs. He huffed and shoved the plates and teacups from the table, uncaring of how they shattered against the ground.

He slumped on the cleared part of the table and closed his eyes.

Soon enough, there were cool fingers playing with his hair. He puffed a small breath out.

“So tired, mm?” The King murmured gently. “I will bring you back to your full potential- I will make you grow past it too,” the King promised. “Don’t you worry. We still have a few more days.”

Wilbur knew that fae cannot lie but he still suspected that this particular Fae somehow managed to evade the truth. Maybe the King was just so important that the world itself was forced to listen and bend to his words? It’d make the few days into eternity, never changing and never passing, till the King got exactly what he wanted.

“My love is starting to grow curious about you as well,” the King continued, as if they were having a regular conversation. “I promised her a singing bird and yet, I am playing with a fussy toddler,” the King chuckled and pulled on Wilbur’s curls.

It wasn’t the first time that the King mentioned his love. Wilbur slowly puzzled out who the elusive Fae could be and he sincerely hoped to avoid meeting her.

The King himself was a powerful Fae- he ruled over the Winter Court, he held noblesse majority in Spring Court and had at least a couple enslaved villages under his belt. But he wasn’t the strongest Fae around, there was someone outranking even him.

Trixtin.

Even the nickname managed to hold enough power to send Wilbur’s mind into panic. It grated on his thoughts and he became convinced he had to hide before she noticed him… But it was too late, if the King already spoke about him.

Fake as it may be, the nickname carried magic and power unlike any Fae Wilbur knew about. She must have been the one who united all the Courts under her rule. Just speaking about her flowed Wilbur’s being with ancient magic deeper than any playful tease from the King ever elicited.

The fae King leaned over Wilbur, he felt it in the way that the air shifted and chill scrambled against his back.

“But we’re closer, aren’t we Wil?” The King whispered, dark satisfaction laying over the human’s weak body like a blanket. “I killed your hunger, I will kill your resentment and the loneliness as well. You may be stubborn, but you will never outlast me.”

A new kiss was pressed to Wilbur’s hair. He would’ve shuddered at the feeling of magic twisting him further but he barely breathed out and in.

Wilbur didn’t know if fighting was worth the effort.

~*~

The Killer Ivy tugged at his wrists harshly, biting into his skin and wrapping around his fingers, threatening to break them if he tried to escape the table again. It twisted and grew, and chained him to the seat, like he were an unruly dog.

Wilbur’s breath picked up with the fear scratching his insides. He tried to twist himself away, to look the other way— even at the fucking sun, let it blind him for all he cared! But the Ivy dug into his neck and puppeteered him easily and kept him looking at the gift.

“I don’t want it,” Wilbur choked out.

“I don’t expect a repayment,” said Phil, he wanted Wil to call him Phil, it was a trap, he didn’t know how to escape-

“Liar,” Wilbur hissed, like a fool that he was.

The temperature dropped instantly. The frost spread across the table’s surface, across the gift and then reached Wilbur’s feet. It hurt. It bit at his flesh and froze him mercilessly. The King’s grew icy and the whole landscape of the solar house twitched into a full on ice storm.

“Now, now,” the King murmured softly, his voice falling like fresh snow upon frozen lake. “That wasn’t very smart, Wil.”

Wilbur whimpered. He couldn’t move anymore. The Ivy kept his arms, hands and neck in a tight check, and the cold froze his feet to the ground. It raked through his skin, golden droplets of his blood sliding down and watering the purple grass underneath. His chest fluttered quicker. He was getting no air, nothing at all! And what little he got, was harsh against his throat, throwing him into a spiral again.

“Don’t make me take it,” he pleaded, begged.

Phil studied him closely. The icy eyes didn’t warm again, and looking at them hurt nearly the same as the ice-burn on his skin did. The King wasn’t moving, as if he turned into some statue. Or as if he didn’t care for Wilbur’s begging at all.

Wilbur looked at him, truly looked and begged with his entire being. But the King just smiled cruelly again and he pushed the violin closer to him.

“Take it,” the Fae warned, “lest I take offense.”

The tears rolled down the golden cheeks. They splattered and shattered into crystals on top of the table and the rich wood of the instrument. Wilbur shivered and reached for the it. His fingers, suddenly freed from the Ivy’s hold, wrapped around the elegant neck of the instrument. It felt expensive.

“I don’t know how to play,” he whispered.

“It’s fine, I’ll teach you. We have a few more days,” promised the King.

~*~

A soft thrumming of guitar swayed over the amethyst grass. It was a sombre tune, weighing the air down and demanding to be heard and felt. Wilbur strummed the instrument intently, trying to bring out its most haunting notes. It wasn’t a human melody, not anymore.

His claws kept catching on the strings, disrupting the melody. He snapped a dozen strings already, and putting new ones was tedious. But Phil said Wilbur was getting better.

Wil preferred the guitar over the flute anyway.

The King watched him play from across the tea table. Wil was pretty sure the Fae was pleased with the effort Wilbur was putting in. Or maybe he was pleased because of the progress he claimed they had done? Who even knew.

The table, as usual, was filled to the brim with desserts and snacks. And soup. Wilbur loved soup, the reason why muddled somewhat in his brain. He knew it had something to do with the before but… Thinking of before usually made the King send him to sleep. And he was so tired of sleeping. It was better to have the soup and miss it for unknown reasons.

He plucked at the strings more.

“Will you give me your name?”

“Will you give me yours in return?” Wilbur answered, bored of the same conversation they kept on having. He changed the grip and hummed contentedly when the sound became clearer.

The King chuckled. “Well, I’ll surely think about it.”

“Then I’ll think about it as well.”

“Naughty,” Phil playfully scolded.

Wilbur smiled. He knew he was naughty. It was the only small rebellion he still had.

The King was changing Wilbur rapidly. Small changes became big changes, became unrecognizable. He was teetering on the line between a human and something new. Sometimes, he thought he needed one strong push, other times he felt solid in what he was.

It very well could be that his name was a last obstacle for the King to win. Or maybe not.

A fae can do a lot with a name. Names were tied to the essence of what one was and what one was to become. If the King himself got his name…

But, on the other hand, Wilbur was fairly sure the King wouldn’t need the name soon enough. The name felt… ill fitting most of the time. Soon enough Wilbur would grow beyond it, change so irrevocably he’d become a new being- a nameless being. And the King was just around the corner most the time. He’d have prime pickings as to what to name Wil.

And then all of Wilbur’s naughtiness and stubbornness would mean jack shit. So why not be naughty? It wouldn’t last forever.

And he wanted to be himself.

“Sing for me?” The King asked.

Wilbur stilled his hand. The haunting melody halted and all of the solar house held its collective breath. Wilbur could feel the Killer Ivy biting at his neck but it was a familiar pain, easy to ignore. It wouldn’t kill him, not without the King’s permission. He let the guitar fall to the grass.

“I don’t tend to sing a lot nowadays, Phil.”

The King smiled gently and got up from the table. Wilbur watched him round the table and come closer to him. And then there was a new kiss pressed to his forehead.

He sighed and slid back into the unconsciousness easily.

“It’s okay. We still have a few more days,” said the King and the world listened.

~*~

The tea was delicious. Wilbur closed his eyes and he delighted himself with the taste.

He knew that there was a time, someday when he wasn’t in the solar house, when he was constantly hungry. When fear and the betrayal ruled over his life. But it was a fuzzy scrap of his memory now. Everything about it was layered over the gentle forehead kisses, music lessons and delicious food.

Nonetheless, he knew that hunger was once a part of him. He liked to show his appreciation for the food and drinks every time he reached for one, now.

He was having tea time with Phil again. All of the instruments he was gifted laid neatly under the tree, magic and the Ivy eager to bring them over. The plant got properly grafted onto his skin a while ago. He didn’t mind it as much as he did at first. Ivy acted as some messed up extra limb most of the time. At least now he had control over it.

“How are you feeling, Wil?”

“Great, your majesty.”

The Angel hummed. “No pains, no aches, no being tired behind my back?”

Wilbur laughed. “Between the naps you keep enforcing and all the magic you keep smuggling through the tarts?” He tapped meaningfully at the plate before him. “I would have to be a particularly stubborn goat to not be perfectly rested and fed by now.”

“Who knows mate,” Philza laughed as well, “you were plenty stubborn just hours ago.”

Wilbur shrugged and focused on his tea.

“I’m glad you’re doing fine. It was a lot of work, not gonna lie.”

Wil casted a quick glance at the King and found him still observing. The brunet sighed and closed his eyes. He didn’t lie when he told him he wasn’t tired. He wasn’t. Not… in physical sense.

But his brain was another matter altogether.

“I’m thankful, Phil.” Wilbur traced the edge of the cup with his finger. “But… that’s not the end, is it?”

“Whatever you mean?”

“You want more from me, beside the name I keep holding, am I right?”

Phil chuckled. Wilbur must’ve been right.

“Would you sing for me?”

“Of course,” Wilbur smiled.

He put his teacup down and coaxed the instruments to rise in the air with merely a flick of his fingers. The Ivy wrapped around the necks and bodies and then flung them into the air, where they hovered just how Wilbur liked.

And then, he sang. It was a low tune, a wordless cry.

Wilbur was losing in a game with a powerful opponent. He still didn’t know what the goal of the game spelled for him, if he would even recognise himself after it was done. He desperately prolonged the dance they kept having. A fool and a father, with the fool stumbling more than he could admit, and the father slowly cutting parts of the fool away. The finish line still hasn’t shown itself and Wilbur feared he may just miss it.

Phil smiled softly. “A few more days and you’ll be ready,” he assured.

Wilbur sang.

~*~

“Have you missed my son, Wil?”

Wilbur’s appetite vanished in a second. He dropped the apple slice he nibbled on and withdrew a little. His memory got better once most of the physical changes were done. Phil was very particular on everything he’s done- and now that there was no possibility of Wilbur ever returning home, not as he was, the King began the work on the mental side of him.

Wilbur knew he was a human once. He remembered Pinkie, and how their friendship looked like and ended. He remembered his aunt, the grief, the villages- everything he’s done as a human. His work.

“I haven’t seen him in years, Phil. It’s… I don’t think it’s as easy as missing him or not,” he admitted quietly.

Philza scoffed. “What is complicated about it?”

“I-“ his voice got stuck. He swallowed and tried again. “I suffered for years because of him. He broke my trust, he knew he would and thought that… that it would be okay once I got pulled here.” He bit at his lips. Pinkie probably planned to do something similar to what the King has done. Outlast him, break him till he forgot why Wil was ever mad. “He wanted to keep me so much, he forgot to not suffocate me.”

“But he cared for you enough to promise you a remedy.”

“Or a shackle,” Wilbur pointed out. “He was my friend, I trusted him but then he did something that nearly pushed me into an early grave. Even if before I would think that he’d be kind…” He breathed in deeply. “How was I supposed to know if he wouldn’t just shackle me and keep as a pet till he forgotten about me?”

Phil blinked slowly.

“Are shackles that bad, when they are held by a loving hand?”

Wilbur snorted quietly. “Not everyone is as smitten as you are with Trixtin. I loved Pinkie as a brother but…” he hesitated.

“But?” Phil gently prodded.

“I never had any confirmation, any insurance of what would become of me if I followed him.” He frowned, upset again. “For all I knew, I was a fool that barely balanced between amusing and annoying. I didn’t want to become a pet, or a statue. I wanted to be me.”

Phil hummed. He pushed a plate with creme puffs closer and Wilbur took one.

“I don’t believe you were a fool to him, Wil.”

Wilbur turned his head to the side. It was… nice, hearing it. But he didn’t know if he could believe it.

Even though fae cannot lie.

“Wil, look at me.”

Wilbur did. Phil’s eyes shone with Winter’s might and the familiar freeze settled in the brunet’s bones. He sighed and relaxed at the silent reassurance. He had no idea how could the cold ever bother him before he got changed. It was such an encompassing hold over him- he loved it.

“Do you remember what I told you about magic?” Phil asked.

“It’s everywhere. Its taste is what binds the realms together.” Wilbur remembered. It was an interesting conversation, that spanned through multiple hours.

“You have no idea how magical you are, Wilbur.”

Wilbur shivered. The use of his true name still had some sway over him but not as much as it did at the beginning. It was waning in power. How terrifying.

Wil looked at Philza doubtfully. The King laughed.

“Yes you are, my little songbird. Your voice and words coil around the rules and bend them out of shapes, bringing you closer to us than anyone could wish for.” Phil reached for Wilbur’s face and held it firmly. “Your laughter is so pure it helped bring lives from nothingness, the peal of it is the source of a few of my subjects.” He smiled. “Your loneliness was so cold and your love burns so deeply…”

Wilbur pushed his cheek against the cold fingers.

“You are a precious treasure anyone would want to keep,” Philza continued, his fingers petting the gilded cheeks of the former human. “I saw Techno waiting for you, for years now. You are no fool for your feelings, Wilbur.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?” Philza chuckled.

Wilbur smiled and nodded. “Okay. I missed him a lot.”

Philza cupped his cheeks and he beamed at Wilbur, all proud like. Wil’s heart fluttered and he melted in the icy hold. It gained him another kiss to the forehead, familiar power washing through him.

“Just in time,” Phil sighed in satisfaction. “Tomorrow is Techno’s birthday… And we will make it yours as well.”

Wilbur blinked up at the King. “Yeah?”

“Yes. You will be the perfect present, my son,” Philza purred.

The nearly Fae boy smiled prettily. He liked when his King was happy.

“Are you excited for your new name, Wilbur?”

The boy nodded. No longer just a few more days, tomorrow. Tomorrow was so close. He would finally meet Pinkie after all the years! No longer a childhood companion but a brother.

~*~

The day started off cold. The plants littering the palace’s grounds were all eager to shrivel and die at the feet of the fae royalty.

Technoblade scowled at them all, keeping the brisk pace as he walked towards the throne room. Mother and Father waited for him, as they kindly informed him through the summons. The place would surely be full of their fluttering subjects, all of them simpering fools he did not care for at all. He wasn’t in the mood for that.

Technoblade didn’t like his birthdays and it so happened to be that dreaded day. The world bent backwards attempting to curry his favour but it didn’t help. What would he care for a perfect weather? The frost growing under his steps could recreate the star sky itself, and he would look at it like a disgusting puddle. Ice would shine like diamonds and it would still be so dull. Even blood spilled across fresh snow wouldn’t cheer him up and that was saying something.

There was a time when he welcomed his birthdays with proper excitement. He had deeply rooted satisfaction that grew altogether whenever another subject would come to layer attention and generous offerings upon him. He accepted them with the lazy grace of someone who knew he deserved them all.

But such a time passed a many human years ago.

His birthday was supposed to be special.

Years ago, in the human realm, he found an interesting human. He played with him, he befriended him, he invested his own time and thoughts, and feelings… Technoblade wanted Singer for himself. He was always a touch possessive, a bit unhinged- all the best traits that he’s gotten from Mother and Father. He could get lost in a project for multiple days and nights without ever coming home, to the displeasment of his family.

But when he was entertaining Singer, he was coming home regularly. He needed to come to and from, trying to keep up the good balance between his magic when he came outside the fae circle.

So when he went to Mumza and asked for permission to bring Singer home, She accepted. She said it would be a good present for his hundredth birthday. The only thing he had to do, was to grab him. He had a whole year. If he only acted a bit more patiently, if he hadn’t rushed and hurried, eager to have Singer at his disposal at all times…

Technoblade growled deeply. The plants covering the walls shivered and shied away from him, as if that would save them from the frostbite that followed the Winter Prince.

Techno didn’t want a birthday. He told everyone the he would not celebrate till his fucking human came to him, or he finally died out there.

The vines guarding the throne room scattered away from his path.

“Blade!” A shrill, scratchy voice split the air.

Technoblade sighed and looked up.

Tommy’s face split in a bright, happy smile, unfitting to see in Winter. Technoblade’s little brother was sitting on Mumza’s lap, his downy wings fluffed up and still useless at actual flight.

The kid scrambled in place. “I have a gift for you!” He yelled out.

Technoblade scowled. “I don’t want gifts, Theseus.”

“Well toooo baaad!” The brat stuck his nose in the air. “You’re getting gifts anyway!”

Father chuckled, coming from behind Mother. He must have been sitting on one of the many sitting areas installed there for the sole purpose of him and mum getting some private conversations done, without Mumza straining Her neck looking down all the time.

Philza helped Tommy get down from the throne safely and deposited him on the frosty flooring. The kid vibrated, shook himself and then zoomed away in a shimmer of glitter and magic.

Techno huffed and decided to focus on who earned his ire properly- his parents. He glared at them meaningfully.

Philza rolled his eyes. Father went full out with his glamour for Technoblade’s birthday. The King rocked the full span of antlers, with all possible shinies hanged on them. His wings must have gotten preened by Mother, because they were extra large, void and sleek.

“Oh, don’t be so pissy.” Philza clicked his golden painted claws a few times. “I promise, you’ll love this year's party,” Philza assured him.

Techno scowled even more. Some random servant scurried to the side, before Techno could righteously trample on them in his fury. What an idiot.

“Techno, stop frowning,” Trixtin scolded gently.

Technoblade continued frowning, he even frowned right at Her. Mother was sitting on Her own throne, all of Her giant glory. Her wings rustled with a newfound void and night sky- She must have had good hunt recently. Her hair fell to the floor, gently swaying and waiting for someone to be foolish enough to get lost in it.

She smiled at him. “Phil really tried, you know?”

“I don’t want a party. I don’t want to celebrate my birthday,” Technoblade growled.

Philza flew down to Techno’s level and he pulled on his tusk a little. The prince grimaced but he allowed his head to be shaken. Phil scoffed with laughter at the sudden ‘obedience’.

“Just entertain me and my silly ideas, why won’t you?”

“I do it every year, ” Techno rolled his eyes and pulled his face away from Philza’s hands.

“Well, yes.” The King patted at Techno’s shoulder. “But this year is extra special.”

The Prince sighed, with his whole body, so his parents could see exactly how inconvenienced he really was. But, Technoblade was still a Fae, so he couldn’t lie. He would suffer through the whole party, just for his family, as he always did. He would not abstain from groans and sighs, and pointed coughs but he’d stay around. And then after the party concluded, with his mood soured as it were, he’d slunk back to his corner of the Court…

And then slip to the human realm and check on the abandoned circle there. He’d wait for hours and stand around like a fool. Technoblade didn’t like being made into a fool but he compromised, to keep the stupid hope going. A miracle would happen and Singer would come back.

One day, surely.

“Thank you! This year I got you the best music available, it’ll move even a grump like you,” Philza laughed.

~*~

The hall glittered in the pale Winter sun. Frozen plants competed with plentiful gold- Technoblade’s favourite metal. Everything was prepared to the point of perfection, maybe obsession. He didn’t know who was actually responsible for the decorations. Maybe they had someone on a deal who was dedicated to that stuff, Technoblade was never all that concerned over the internal contracts. He much more preferred focusing on the battles in the Fae realms or trying to seek where his human has disappeared to.

Their subjects, all servants of Winter, danced between the air and the floor and the servants flitting and trying to attend to everyone’s needs. The party was burning and bustling, the magic buzzing between everyone’s breath.

The music… was nice, Techno had to admit. He didn’t know these melodies and didn’t recognise the player. They were hidden somewhere out of sight, for reasons that evaded Techno’s understanding.

He thumbed at his newest crown, a gift from Tommy. The kid got some orichalcum and a smith who had not so bad understanding of the material. It was nice, especially with the extra blood diamonds set in. He half wondered switching his current crown for the new one but he didn’t want to give anyone the wrong impression- he still didn’t want gifts, birthdays or the party.

He watched the dance below with tired, bored gaze. There was no soul in the hall that weren’t happy for him and yet he was still discontent. He looked at his Father and hoped that the pain of having to socialise was very well visible in his eyes. Awful Father. Rotten parents.

Philza chuckled and shook his head, very well aware that Techno was reaching the proverbial end of the rope. The King rose from his throne, below his beloved Queen, and spread his wings wide, immediately casting the hall into dark, wispy night. All festivities stopped and everyone silenced themselves, all their eyes transfixed onto their ruler.

“It’s dear to us that so many have come to celebrate my son’s birthday.”

The subjects bowed at once, dresses, wings and all other accessories glinting in the low light.

“This year,” The king continued, “I am particularly pleased with your attendance. It’s doubly special after all!” Philza turned to Technoblade with a satisfied smirk.

Technoblade rose from his own throne. He didn’t know what Father was playing at but it wouldn’t hurt to play along. For a time.

Philza folded his wings and straightened even more.

“I promised you the best gift and my word is not to be broken. Come closer, Technoblade.”

The use of his true name took Techno slightly by surprise but he didn’t have a problem with following that order. He knew that Philza wouldn’t let anyone else hear, and he trusted his Father. So he dutifully trotted closer to Phil, his wings beating into the air for a second as he rose to meet the King before his throne.

“A best gift, you say,” Techno couldn’t hide the doubt from his voice.

“The best,” Philza confirmed, his smirk taking a particular blood hungry edge.

The King turned around and opened his arms. Mumza, who was silent to that moment, giggled and flicked Her fingers. Golden dust fell from Her skin and swirled in the air. It twisted in mesmerising patterns before it flattened and formed into a staircase, leading from behind Mumza, all the way around Her shoulders. Technoblade stared at the show, slightly irritated at being left in the dark. The gift better be worth it—

His eyes widened.

Philza laughed, loudly and with no restraint. “Kneel before your Prince, as it is his first birthday,” he announced.

A wave of fae and other creatures falling to their knees resounded through the hall.

The King didn’t look. His eyes stayed on the descending Fae. “Come here, Wilbur. Say hello to your brother.”

Singer looked towards them and smiled, his boyish, happy smile. It was undoubtedly Techno’s Singer, his human! But no longer human.

His skin shined with golden hue and his hair curled by itself in a wind that was nowhere near them. Techno saw the claws, the ears, the fangs and glorious butterfly wings lazily beating behind Singer’s back.

His Singer, his human, was in the Fae realm.

And then he was there, standing right across Technoblade, as if it was totally normal.

Big black wings closed around them.

“I promised you the best,” Philza mused quietly.

Singer, Wilbur, chuckled. “Well… yeah.” His eyes crinkled in another boyish smile. “Hello Pinkie. I missed you.”

Technoblade didn’t wait for an explanation. He grabbed the Fae in front of him and crushed him in a hug. It was years overdue, finally, finally! Oh, and it was even better when the other reciprocated. Technoblade felt a small, content sigh ripple through the brunet, before he sunk into the embrace fully.

Technoblade felt claws carding through his hair and he made sure to purr loudly, to show his appreciation.

“What will you name him, Techno?”

Technoblade looked up at his Father. “I can name him?” He asked with excitement.

Philza smiled kindly. “It’s his first birthday but he is still your birthday present.” He huffed and poked the baby Fae’s cheek. “Wilbur doesn’t fully suit him anymore, don’t you think?”

Technoblade looked at his newest brother, snugly held in his arms. An excitement like no other surged through his heart. He felt his claws closing around the Fae’s arms in a way that must have surely hurt- but it didn’t matter anymore. Wilbur was a Fae. He could take it.

And now Technoblade could name him. For a brief moment, Singer would be only his.

Not for a long moment of course. He would have to share with his family fairly quickly. They were the sort that would pry and needle till he caved in and shared… But oh, he would be the first. And that, that Technoblade liked very much.

Wilbur looked at him with a smile, not even trying to free himself from the hug. Absolutely perfect.

Technoblade leaned closer, pressed his lips right next to Wilbur’s ear and thought. A name. Something fitting.

“I will give you the name Orpheus,” he whispered reverently.

Philza heard of course. Father smiled and stepped away from them, finally letting Technoblade enjoy his birthday present fully.

Orpheus chuckled and tapped at Techno’s arms, that were still restricting his movement.

“It’s good to finally see you again,” he said and oh, how Techno was happy to hear that. “Do you want me to play or sing something? Father taught me some tunes in the last few days.”

“You’re not moving away from me for the whole night,” Technoblade purred and made sure to hold the baby Fae closer.

Orpheus huffed with some good natured laughter. “That won’t stop me from playing, you know.”

The brunet lifted his fingers and, as on cue, a bunch of instruments flew down from behind Mumza. They crowded around them and then a golden thread of magic sneaked towards them. The music that began was undeniably Orpheus’ doing but it was also the same one Technoblade thought it sounded nice before.

Orpheus grinned, and Technoblade couldn’t help but do the same.

The hall burst into life again, the sounds of dancing now spiced with the excited chatter of rumours. The two Princes returned to the throne to the right of the King, the seat expanding to accommodate them both.

His Singer started humming a song from their childhood and Technoblade purred to the tune. It was perfect. Exactly what he wanted for his birthday!

“I will never let you go,” Technoblade murmured his promise. “You will be mine forever, safe forever. And never, ever, will you go hungry again.”

Orpheus laughed and put his head on Technoblade’s shoulder. He blinked, his eyes swirling between the colour of the sun and molten rock.

“Sounds good,” he agreed easily.

Wilbur wasn’t hungry anymore.