Work Text:
Oberon hated himself.
Hated himself because this didn’t have to happen. Hated himself because there had been countless times he could’ve prevented this with a snap of his fingers. Hated himself because he was cowardly enough to convince himself he’d been right not to.
—
The fairy king was never one to leave his forest. It’d always been easier to send someone, to ignore the requests entirely. But the group of dryads had made it clear that they weren’t planning to stop their relentless protesting until Oberon himself walked to the edge of the woods and saw what the mortals who had recently moved there were doing to the trees.
Invisible to the human eye, the fairy king walked around their houses, ones made of the wood that had once belonged to Oberon’s forests. He saw the mortals themselves, listened to a few uninteresting conversations.
Their group was not big. Maybe seven older ones, cutting trees, hunting animals, and living their calm lives. Nothing new about that, mortals, whether the dryads liked it or not, had always been this way and would certainly continue.
Already planning to leave, Oberon heard a loud voice:
“Don’t be smart!” One of the men snapped, and the king turned around to see him slap a young human across the face.
The child was a boy of maybe eleven years old, with jet-black hair and a huge grin even after the strike.
“Is there a reason I am not allowed to, or is it simply because you cannot?”
Oberon let out an involuntary chuckle at the child’s sneer, but the man clearly didn’t find it as amusing. Grabbing the boy harshly by the shoulders, he called the name of another of the mortals.
“What’d the little shit do this time?” the second man asked, rolling up his sleeves.
“Don’t even want to explain,” the first replied, clutching the boy tighter.
“Don’t want to? Or too hard?” The child grinned again, looking up at him.
The mortal holding him kicked the boy in the leg, and he landed on the ground from the unexpected blow.
“Hold him,” he told the other one, who pinned the child to the ground and handed the first man a stick.
Oberon took a step back, putting a hand over his mouth despite knowing none of them could see or hear him. The child squirmed, kicking and twisting, but he didn’t cry out once. When the men finally let him up, the boy dusted himself off and ran away, the two men going in the opposite direction as if nothing had happened.
Oberon, however, returned the next day. And the next. And every day for quite some time, telling the fairy court he had urgent business to attend to. Over time, he learned more about the mortals.
The boy’s name was Robert Goodfellow, and he was the smartest human Oberon had ever encountered. Maybe not only human. It wasn’t that the boy was not like other children the king had met. No, just like any one of them, he climbed trees, rolled in dirt and was obnoxious to an impossible extent. The brilliance came in small bits and pieces, the little jokes he made to the adults’ faces, the bigger ones he made behind their backs.
The reaction Oberon had witnessed the day before was, unfortunately, common, and it wasn’t just those two men. All of the mortals seemed to only have one response to the boy’s humour, and it was violence. The boy, on the other hand, seemed to only have one response to violence.
And it was more humour.
The longer the king watched the child, the more it surprised him that Robert never cried and never asked for forgiveness to avoid punishment. It seemed like the boy’s jokes were the only thing keeping him happy.
And the boy being happy was the only thing keeping Oberon coming back.
Every time Robert bled, he told himself this was life. Every time the boy earned a bruise for something that made Oberon quietly laugh to himself, he remembered that he was a king, and a king had bigger problems. Every time he saw the child be beaten, he forced himself to leave, to come back to the fae, to fall asleep.
Every time he fell asleep, he heard the boy’s laughter.
It happened the winter after Oberon first discovered the mortals. It was especially cold, and the mortals were clearly struggling. To warm up, they often drank alcohol, sometimes in excessive amounts.
That should’ve warned Oberon. It did not.
Oberon hated himself.
Hated himself because this didn’t have to happen. Hated himself because there had been countless times he could’ve prevented this with a snap of his fingers. Hated himself because he was cowardly enough to convince himself he’d been right not to.
But it didn’t matter whom he hated, for a child lay dying in the snow.
His cheeks grew paler by the second, swapping colours with the rapidly reddening snow beneath. They’d had no control earlier. One comment from Robert, and the brutes’ alcohol-filled brains defended their honour from a child simply enjoying his now-short life.
It took Oberon seconds to get old roots to drag every last one of them underground, but none of it mattered. None of it mattered, because he did it now and not the day before. Now and not a week ago. Now and not immediately after he watched that man pick up a stick.
None of it mattered because Robert was still dying.
No spell the fairy king knew could fix it. Not one could heal a mortal in this state, even if Oberon put all of his energy into this.
But there was… one thing.
The first time Oberon had found the spell, he’d been barely older than Robert in fairy years. Obie had just learned to walk through walls, and ended up accidentally coming into King Clovis II’s private office.
A big, leather book had been resting on the desk, and Obie, quickly making himself invisible, had taken it. He’d meant nothing bad, simply to read it, and had stumbled upon the coolest spell he’d ever seen.
The next day, Obie, having learned the spell, had found three baby robins in the woods, and had wanted nothing but to see their spirits turn fae. Luckily for both Obie and the birds, Clovis had interrupted him before he could perform the spell, telling his son the truth about the darkness of the spell and the stolen book, making him promise never to put a mortal creature through it.
And now he stood before a dying boy, realising painfully he remembered every word of the spell.
Kneeling beside Robert, he placed a hand on one cold cheek, watching the child’s eyes gently flutter open.
“If you’re death… the fables don’t do your looks justice…” the boy chuckled slightly. That was what got to Oberon. He was laughing… now.
“I’m not death, darling,” he whispered, trying not to tear up at the sight.
“But is it coming?” Robert asked, his voice tiny, barely audible, his pale lips almost motionless.
“Yes, my child,” Oberon replied, no longer stopping the tears from dripping down his face. “I can make it quick. But…”
“But what?” It seemed like a small burst of energy suddenly went through the boy’s still body, hopeful gaze meeting Oberon’s.
He promised not to do it. But this child deserved the choice.
“I know a spell. A dangerous spell. A painful spell. It can save you, if it accepts you. But if it does not, which is most likely… there will be no way to help you, my child. It would be long and torturous, and it cannot be stopped once I begin.”
“I… I’m used to pain,” the boy told Oberon as if he hadn’t watched him get used to him all this time.
“It would be nothing like what you’ve experienced, darling. All of it combined would not compare,” the king had to force those words out, looking down to avoid the child’s expression.
“If you do it… would I be like you?” Robert’s eyes met Oberon's, and even in his condition, the king could see a childish twinkle of joy in them at the thought.
“Yes, my child,” Oberon whispered, smoothing his hand over the boy’s hair.
“Do it, then,” Robert nodded, his voice quiet, but confident. “I’m not done yet.”
An involuntary laugh escaped the fairy king, and, cursing himself, he steadied his hand on the child’s head, placing the other on his shoulder, beginning to chant softly.
A few minutes in, Robert started to twist, trying to get away. Then he kicked, small legs but sending the snow flying in all directions. The boy’s nails were sharp, soon digging into Oberon’s arms hard enough to draw blood.
And then he cried.
Small, innocent sobs of a child in incredible pain filled the air for nobody but Oberon to hear, and he never hated himself more than in that moment. Because after all of that, after beating, after yelling, the one thing that finally brought this beautiful child to tears was the king himself.
He, however, had to continue. Continue or the boy will die. The spirits will reject him because of Oberon’s own inability. It lasted hours. How many hours, the king could not tell. By the end, both his arms were covered entirely in bloody marks left by the child’s hands and teeth, drained of energy to the extent where he couldn’t lift a pebble. Still, he picked the boy up and began walking.
Robert’s body in his arms was motionless, the boy’s skin even paler than before, his ears pointed delicately, his black hair carrying gentle streaks of dark purple.
The way itself was a blur of trees and grass until the king finally reached the lake he was searching for. Laying the child carefully on soft moss, Oberon dove in, feeling his wounds close and his energy return. He then bathed the boy, letting the water wash away grime and blood left on the small body by the events of the last several hours.
Once the child was clean and peaceful, Oberon carried him to his palace, laying him gently onto his own bed.
In a few hours, the king heard a beautiful, soft noise. The boy was breathing.
His sweet Robin was breathing.