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Arthur Fitzwilliam Kirkland was born with an unsightly mop of white-wine hair.
The color was indeed an oddity. Every product of the Kirkland line since the Middle Ages was notorious for plainness of features. In the dusty portraits of Kirklands past, they all bore the same mean proportions and the same unclear expression that oscillated between proud, annoyed, and indifferent. If not for the ludicrous eyebrows, they would have been the plainest-looking gentlefolk in Gavinshire.
Despite this, plainness of features was not a stringent pattern; sometimes a Kirkland would be born with a mess of curls or a hooked nose or a horridly cheery disposition. Somewhere along the line, fiery red hair had been introduced to the family blood, and it popped up every few generations as a cunning fluke of the genes. Arthur had two elder brothers, and it was Allistor, the eldest child, who came into this strange oddity.
But white-wine was as natural to a Kirkland as white is to a crow. And while Arthur was destined to be just as plain-looking as his forefathers, his own oddity could only work against him.
When dark magic was banned on the Isle of Rain, the Kirklands were not amused. Arthur's mother, Guinevere, was a magician, and she would turn the Queen into a newt if a new law meant she couldn't do what her line had done since fairies quit the forest. Still, as any progressive would, she stowed away her potions, packed up her grimoires, assumed a humble, modern, ladylike disposition, and then quickly adopted the life of an underground magician who didn't give a damn how many changelings had used the dark arts to steal children.
"I won't have my boys one-sided," she told her three sons the evening after they had watched the Queen herself taboo tradition. "There is light in fairies, and there is darkness. If one side isn't good enough for society, then society can sleep with the hens. You will be allowed to practice dark magic in this household as long as you are clever about it. Allistor, Gareth, that means you two are to teach Arthur—"
"So you do mean to let him be Lord Kirkland!" Allistor growled. "Look at his hair! I bet you he was pinched on the nose by a boggart—"
"You do not bet your mother! I don't like it either, but unless you can also transmute a goose feather into chocolate, you'll respect Arthur as the heir apparent."
Between Allistor and Gareth, the five-year-old Arthur grinned so brightly, he wouldn't have needed to smile ever again to express his delight. This was fortunate, as Arthur wouldn't smile much later on. He was doomed by fate to become the worst sort of person — a brooding sort with crooked teeth and opinions.
Despite their protests, Arthur's older brothers educated him, secretly, about the darker side of the coin. They instructed him in potions, taught him the natures of curses, and explained to him how to stretch his own magic into highly energetic forms. Arthur became so fascinated with nurturing his gifts that he eventually began to study on his own terms. He fetched the old tomes and combined notes from these with his school notes on the agreeable light.
By age twelve, he had formed his own curriculum, and he kept to it. He aspired more than any young boy on the Isle to become a magician. A real magician. Not the "appropriate" ones universities were now churning out thanks to the ban and its dogma.
However, not even the most powerful magician could bear the curse Arthur was about to face.
"Artie, Artie, Artie," Allistor cooed.
Arthur turned in his seat at the bureau to face his brother. So young, and already he'd mastered masking his features under a plain façade. Only the darkness in his emerald eyes betrayed his annoyance.
Allistor continued. "Are you going to blow out the candles, or shall I shove them right up your arse?"
"That's a very undignified thing to say," Arthur retorted.
"Oh, to hell with being dignified. I'll be eighteen soon, and when that day comes, I'm moving to the north where I can be as undignified as I like."
"He's going to farm sheep for knitting wool," Gareth offered from his bed in the corner.
"Shut up, Gareth. Now, like I was saying, Artie, my sweet little brother, either you can blow out the candles and get to bed like I've been telling you night after night, or you'll find yourself dealing with a nasty curse courtesy of me."
"You'll curse me for my devotion to my studies?"
"Why do you need to stay up late studying anyway? What spell in your schoolbooks haven't you mastered by now?"
"I'm not studying for school. Nighttime is the only time when I can read about the dark arts without having to conceal anything. It's potionery. I'm reading how to brew the Essence of Frivolity and Cowardice."
"What kind of wicked potion is that?" Gareth asked.
"It transforms one into a fool and a coward."
At this, Allistor reached out and forcefully tousled the white-wine hair. "Well, we have ourselves a precocious potioneer. It's the day before Mum hosts the biggest ball of the year, the day we all have to be on our best behavior as young, fair gentlemen, and here we have little Artie studying a useless potion and depriving us of sleep with his pen-scritching and candlelight!"
"This potion is not useless!"
"Would you ever drink it yourself?"
"Perhaps."
"That's not definite!"
More than miffed, Arthur thrust his hand to his brother's chest and expertly weaved his power into the shape of a simple hex. A jolt of green static burst from his palm and sent Allistor tumbling to the floor. He sputtered and swore from the pain.
"Fine, then," Arthur pompously put. "I'll retire if it makes you so pleased. I suppose I should sleep. You fiends have probably forgotten, but tomorrow is also my birthday. How lovely that I get a ball. I wonder if I'll receive any gifts."
Gareth seemed to perk up at this. He glanced to Allistor, and the two of them shared a moment of snide knowingness that Arthur was too miffed to notice. Then Allistor, ignoring the spreading aches in his chest, clambered up and patted his sweet little brother on the back.
"Oh yes, Artie, you'll receive a very special gift tomorrow. Thirteen is a very special age for us Kirklands. I apologize again for slighting you. I promise I'll behave tomorrow."
"Don't keep us up with your blathering," Arthur groaned from beneath the sheets. Internally, he cursed his brothers for keeping him from his studies. Becoming a fool and a coward could be very useful! What if one needed to retreat quickly or negotiate a surrender?
He suddenly blushed, realizing his folly. Only a bloody fool would make a show of surrendering, and gentlemen were not bloody fools. They stood up tall, masked any semblance of an opinion, and walked on the clouds of life gazing down to scrutinize everyone on the ground. There was no room for foolishness within a gentleman!
Arthur had only been reading up on the potion to occupy his mind. The truth was, retaining civility was an exhausting affair, and devoting himself to something deviant, however foolish, somehow made him feel much less tense inside.
Modern society might have scorned the idea, but all fairies hid mischief in their bones.
Tomorrow would be splendid, Arthur thought as he lay on his back with the silver plate of the moon sifting through the curtains. On either side of him, an indecent amount of snoring rattled the beds. It wasn't the soothing rhythm of rain on the roof, but it was still a familiar, comforting sound. Arthur fell asleep with only the grievance of a strange itch burgeoning right between his temples.
"Mum! Allistor was pulling my ears! Now they're all sore and red! I must know where the salve is! The healing salve! Is it up in the cupboard? I could levitate myself to reach it. Oh, he had a dreadful smirk on his face— "
A disgruntled Guinevere opened the door in her nightgown to stop the incessant whinging. Arthur stood lightly pinching the tips of his ears and straining not to fret any more than was necessary. He was already dressed in his formal coat for the occasion. He'd even remembered to pull his socks up to his knees.
"Arthur, the ball isn't until the evening. Take off that coat and occupy yourself with breakfast."
"But my ears hurt!"
"That was revenge for hexing me, you dolt! I've got knots all over my chest!" Allistor shrieked as he stomped down the stairs and right up behind the fretful one.
"You started it!"
"Because you're a pompous twit! And a shallow one! Look at you now! One minute, you're a patronizing little master, and the next, you're a whinging mess! You'll never be a real gentleman, Arthur. You just have to push boundaries—"
"Mum, Allistor's a tosser, and he snores too!"
"Both of you, shut it!" Guinevere snapped, a hot grimace contorting her features. "Good Titania, it's but half past six, and you're acting like children. Allistor, get yourself dressed and combed, and Arthur, the salve is in the same place it always is."
"I demand he apologize!" Arthur whined.
Allistor had already left the corridor, smirking and carrying himself with light, mischievous footsteps. Guinevere knelt down before her son and looked at him with an adamant hardness in her features. She placed her hands on his shoulders and, one by one, kissed the tips of his ears.
"Gentility is a balance. You must not let yourself be insulted enough to lash out, but you must also retain an air that dissuades those who insult you. I know this is all going to go over your head, but it's a teachable moment."
"I know I'm not supposed to call Allistor a tosser, but he's tossing and turning and snoring every single night," Arthur whimpered.
His mother didn't smile. "Language is the clearest mark of grace, and common speech coming from your mouth is highly improper. You're a very bright boy, and you will be the one to set the example for our family when you grow up… Oh, you're looking so grown up already."
"Why do you give me that smirk?" Arthur inquired.
He was feverishly resisting the urge to scratch at a writhing itch above his eyes. What once was a tickling was now a burning, prickling agony. All through the night, he'd awoken to the incessant itch, only for it to recede back into his head.
"Happy birthday, Arthur," was all she said before retreating into her bedroom to dress.
Why had she looked so smug? Arthur was learned in navigating euphemisms. There were many things a lady could never mention directly, but what could this one be? Was it something with him? Was it wrong to look grown-up?
He could put it aside for now. He desperately needed salve for his ears and a spell to relieve the infernal itching. With no one in sight, he reached up and scratched furiously at the offended spots.
And then something moved beneath his fingertips.
Startled for a moment, he gingerly touched the prickling skin. Something was twitching and contracting. The skin felt swollen and tender, and it tightened as if some coil of sinew beneath were pulling it in on itself.
"The red-headed bastard cursed me!" He thought aloud, (but not loud enough for his mother to hear.)
Furious, (but not letting it show on his plain, genteel face,) he marched up the stairs and burst into the bedroom he was never happy to share. (Society already called him Lord Kirkland! The least respect would be to give him his own room!) There, with his waistcoat on the floor and his socks on his head, was Allistor. Next to him stood Gareth, who was tightening his tie and taming his bedhead.
How to refer to the curse without sounding angry and without mentioning the nastiness he felt? Arthur was clever, but not enough to beautify his grievances quickly. He had only just opened his mouth to protest when Allistor burst into a fit of laughter.
"Oh, it's worse than I imagined! Look at 'im, Gary! He's got black ones! I told you that hair would make him ugly!"
Gareth merely sniggered.
"What is so amusing?" Arthur asked, straining his politeness. The itching built up again without his constant scratching. His eyes started to water, and he shifted on his toes.
"Better to let him see it, then," Gareth said.
"Let me see what? Don't be silly, Allistor. I'm perfectly aware of your… 'gift.'"
"Gift? What? The curse? Have you seen yourself? Oh, we caught you at the perfect time! Look, Gary! They're thickening!"
A burning interest in this "thickening" tore Arthur from his exhausting attempts at indifference. He huffed and brought himself to the mirror, where he promptly shrieked in terror.
Where once had been two slight, plain, unassuming white-wine eyebrows were now a pair of wiggling black caterpillars that continued to bristle and fatten above his eyes. Only now that he was aware of them did he scrunch them and feel how heavy and hot they were. The skin was still swollen beneath where they grew, and it twitched as if the things were alive.
"Bedivere's curse has claimed little Artie! At least now we know he's not a fucking changeling stealing our cream!" Allistor howled.
"I don't know how he's going to bear dancing tonight," Gareth chirped.
"You explain this!" Arthur demanded.
Allistor wiped his tears. "Well, well, you know the very first portrait in the long corridor? The knight in armor? He was called Bedivere Kyrkeland, and on a certain day in a certain year a long, long time ago, he kissed a caterpillar. He snogged it 'til it was all soggy and miserable."
"Wasn't it something about impressing a girl he fancied?" Gareth asked.
"Yeah, some shite like that. So he kissed a caterpillar, the girl cursed him out of spite, and now all Kirklands are cursed to grow caterpillars of their own when they turn thirteen."
"That's not true," Arthur retorted. He had abandoned all grace and was now scratching at the bushy things with all his might. "Kirklands just have thick eyebrows. They're not a curse, and they certainly do not grow in all at once!"
"It happened to both of us. And Mum's got them. You must not have noticed with your nose in your books," Gareth chided. "No matter the reason why Bedivere did it, every little Kirkland is cursed when he turns thirteen. And it's a potent curse. There's a reason why all our ancestors are pictured with their fuzzy friends. Not even the most powerful enchantments can scratch the damn things."
"How do you know all this?" Arthur asked as he dug his nails into the furry mess.
"Don't be mean to them. They're just happy little buggers," Allistor cooed.
"Are they alive?"
Gareth pulled Arthur's hands away from his face. "Don't scratch. The swelling will go down on its own. Your fellows may wiggle every so often, but they're not real caterpillars. Now, you must treat them kindly today. They've only just manifested, and they'll want to get to know you."
"This is the nastiest, naughtiest joke you've ever played on me!"
"It's not a joke! Go ask Mum!"
"I've got to pluck them before the ball, or I'll look ridiculous!"
Allistor smirked. "It won't work. You're just going to have to look ridiculous. Your appearance will balance out your attitude."
"They must be reduced, at the very least!"
"Nothing will work, Artie. We're just letting you know that now before you end up upsetting them."
"Oh, pooh, what happens then? They'll start spewing profanities?"
"There's no telling what they'll do if you hurt their feelings," Gareth warned. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to practice my scales, and I believe Allistor has to perfect his magical spectacle for the evening."
Another consultation with his mother proved the transformation was no jest. An ancestor called Bedivere Kyrkeland had indeed snogged a furry little caterpillar, and his line was cursed thereafter. Guinevere then gave Arthur the same pithy advice to accept his own pair and treat them with kindness.
As a rising gentleman, Arthur did not take the advice to heart. His mother and brothers' eyebrows adorned their faces almost handsomely, (albeit crudely,) but these inky invaders inching in on his white-wine hair? They weren't aesthetic. They weren't complementary. They weren't handsome nor elegant nor tasteful. They were a pair of revolting larvae that would distract any onlookers from his glittering green eyes in an instant!
"I've gone from plain to ugly," Arthur put morosely as he sulked to his reflection. His elbows were propped on the green-tinted sink, which was littered with hundreds of little black bristly hairs. In all the ways he could procure, he'd plucked, trimmed, shaved, and waxed, but it always seemed as soon as the fuzzy buggers were gone, they would spring up again even thicker and bushier than before.
A pressure built in Arthur's throat, and he suppressed a childish whine of distress. What was he to do? With a ball in the evening and everyone who was anyone in Gavinshire invited? The heir to the Kirkland fortune couldn't present himself as an unkempt fool! Perhaps the furry abominations were here to stay, but they certainly could've waited another day to show up! Oh, this was going to be awful!
A sharp rapping came from the bathroom door. "Arthur, we'll be riding with the O'Conors in half an hour. You stop that moping and find your boots."
"Yes, Mum," he replied weakly. His expression was loose and distraught. The caterpillars leered at him before cuddling into his skin. It was clear they had decided to make themselves at home.
"You won't show yourselves at this ball, mark my words," Arthur growled.
He summoned a ball of emerald fire to his palm. It shrank and drifted upward to condense into a dancing flame on his fingertip. Very gently, Arthur pressed his nose to the glass of the mirror, brought the flame toward his face, and let a few flickering tongues jump to the blackness of his eyebrows. Could cursed caterpillars be cauterized?
He was answered quickly. The tongues of flame touched the hairs and sputtered out as if sickened by the kindling.
Good Titania, the things were even fireproof.
"It's perfectly workable," Arthur told himself to keep from screaming. "Normal means won't affect them. That just means I have to fight magic with magic. A cosmetic illusion could work, though I'm no good with illusions."
Still, he tried. Arthur upturned his hands and pictured his old, plain-looking face, then wove these visions into a spell of will until his fingertips glowed a dull emerald. He touched his eyebrows and wished for them to vanish under an illusion of decency.
With the grandeur of illusion, his eyebrows appeared to grow three times their sheen and thickness. They now reached halfway up his forehead. He waggled them, and they belched out a stream of rainbow-colored sparks as a token of appreciation.
"Don't be funny, you furry bastards!" He screeched, relinquishing his focus on the illusion. The caterpillars shrank to normal size and curled innocently upward as if ashamed.
"That's right. You're very naughty, and before the trumpet sounds and the musicians start, you'll be gone. If an illusion won't do it, a spell will. Or a hex. Or even a curse. I'll curse you off if it's a matter of saving my dignity!"
Not one of the Kirkland boys could stand Joseph O'Conor. The man was stubbly, obstreperous, and reeking of malt. He was the heir to a carpentry firm on the Isle of Mirth, and Guinevere was absolutely smitten with him.
It was arranged that he come early in the day to ride with the hostess. He checked into an inn in town and rode a handsome bay stallion all the way to the flowery spring grounds of Kirkland Manor. Beside him rode his son, Cearul, who was equally stubbly and equally obstreperous.
"Just remember to let Artie amuse Cearul. He'll sacrifice himself for the sake of his insufferable pride. We'll ride in the back and pretend we're speculating on the shapes of the clouds," Allistor whispered to Gareth as they quit the manor and walked down the breezy path to the edge of the front gardens. The younger nodded in agreement.
"But where is Arthur?" Gareth then asked.
If they were inside, they would've heard a scream as Arthur tried to zap his eyebrows with a hex and accidentally shot himself straight in the forehead. But they only remained confused as to his whereabouts.
"Milady! Guin! I have arrived, and I brought you a gift!"
The buffoon himself parked his horse right in front of the boys and looked around for his "lady." Next to him, Cearul flashed a mischievous yet innocent grin. He was two years Allistor's senior, and the young Kirklands only saw these doting smiles as patronizing.
"How are ye, Alistair, Gareth?" Cearul greeted.
"Quite well," Allistor replied, not letting his ire at the mistake show.
"Where's yer mum, boys?" Joseph asked.
"Inside," said Gareth.
There was a fair bit of silence after these remarks, but neither of the desired persons stepped outside. This was because each was still concerned with appearances. Arthur now had, perched on the sink, a blue, leather-bound tome that was ripping and fraying around the covers. On the current page, underneath a layer of dust and grime, was the mandala for a black curse. He rubbed his offended forehead and leered at his reflection.
"This curse removes hair forever. If they want to grow back, this should at least slow them down. Plus, it's at a level twice the difficulty of my schoolbooks. Let's just see how skilled I really am."
He unbuttoned his waistcoat and pushed up his sleeves past the elbows to have more mobility. Then he placed his feet shoulder-width apart and spread his hands out to the sides.
Arthur focused on his heartbeat, then reached deeper until he could hear the peculiar rhythm of magic sparking and pooling in his chest. It flowed pleasurably through his bones and seeped through his muscles. It was his very essence and the source of his vitality as a being of power.
As he had done hundreds of times, Arthur harnessed the energy as it pulsed. He commanded it to concentrate in his hands, and then he began to weave and shape it to his whims. It spread into a large, round disk around him, then spun into several little circles with intricate sigils sketched out of pure power to match the mandala.
With untainted concentration, Arthur acted as an artist. He pulled and stretched and laced and twisted the energy until his chest throbbed and his hands trembled. The dark nature of the curse was showing itself. It became so dense and heavy that its magical gravity caused magic to spill liberally from its caster. Arthur sucked in his breath. Weaving spells into shapes was difficult, yes, but a skilled magician faced enduring the exhaustion of so much energy.
His body began to strain. His stomach twisted, and his muscles tightened, and his eyebrows wiggled in fear.
And then, all at once, Arthur finished weaving the curse, and it encircled him like a ring. He brought his shaking hands inward and placed them over his heart.
"Remove my eyebrows," he told the curse.
The curse collapsed in upon him. It swirled into his body and knocked the air from his lungs. Arthur was tossed to the floor from the force. Dreadful aches crept into his body. Slowly and with difficulty, he pulled himself back into a sitting position. Then, not really knowing what to expect, he brought his fingers to his eyebrows.
Oh, what horror!
They were still as thick as ever, and with the same burning itch as before, patches of black fur were beginning to sprout on his hands and arms. His ears tickled and painfully pinched. He clutched them and whined.
"Arthur Fitzwilliam! Just what in the name of Oberon are you still doing in there!? If you've tried anything malicious to your eyebrows, you'll be walloped and hexed up to the points of your ears!"
Arthur hauled himself to his feet. He squealed when he saw his reflection. His white-wine hair had turned pitch-black, and his ears had sprung up with fur and pulled into the likeness of a squirrel's.
The caterpillars remained unchanged.
A blue arc of energy blew the door down. Arthur's mother howled when she saw her son. She scooped him up and carried him off to his bedroom, whapping him in any place she could find all the while. He whimpered in heated embarrassment.
"The O'Conors are here, the ball is this evening, and you pull out a grimoire and start weaving curses on yourself!? What curse was that!? Tell me!"
"J-just one to remove hair."
"And you used it on what?"
"My eyebrows, Mum." His voice was nothing more than a squeak.
"And you couldn't remember that to weave a curse over another curse mangles it into a snarled mess of effects!? You've grown fur everywhere! Your ears have morphed into an animal's!"
"Then, perchance, I don't have to go to the ball?"
Guinevere plopped Arthur down on his bed and pinched his changed ears. "And what would be your excuse? You tried using illegal magicks as a cosmetic solution? It would ruin our reputation and stain our name. You're going to the ball after I get back from riding with the O'Conors and can design a countercurse. Don't you dare touch any spell books while I'm gone, and don't you even think about doing harm to your eyebrows!"
She left Arthur whimpering on his bed. His eyebrows waggled in apology. He tried to rip them off his face, and they erupted into a show of purple fireworks that singed his fingertips.
For an hour, Arthur lay morosely on his bed feeling very undignified. A quick look in the mirror revealed his nose had grown puffy and pinkish, adding to his squirrelish appearance. Luckily, his teeth still looked normal, and he hadn't any claws or whiskers, but he could feel a good deal of fur brushing against the back of his shirt like a blanket.
Unable to bear his reflection, he dragged himself downstairs and put on the kettle. A fair twenty minutes later and he was indulging in a sullen, early low tea. At least he could feel like a gentleman without his mother critiquing his posture or Allistor slurping directly from the creamer. One day, he thought, he could enjoy teatime entirely by himself. There would be no courtesies, no civilities, and no fires to put out.
"It's as if I don't even like being a gentleman," he mused, "which is a very odd way to think, considering how nice it is to be addressed as 'Your Lordship' and coax the wallflowers to the floor. Mum is right about language. Why, what would fairies be if we didn't have courtesy and custom? A bunch of wild, mischief-making imps wearing nothing but spider silk, that's what. The fools from the folktales. It's hard to believe history proves we were that way once.
"Still, why must magicians give up their darker powers to prohibition? It's not like it's the magicians' fault all those children were taken. There is no viable evidence to warrant that conclusion, that fantasy, but the incessant preaching of hysteria. The country calls the magicians no-good conspirers with changeling kind, but where's the proof? It's an amusing game of spite, it is.
"In this sensible age, we're expected to sit all proper with tea and manners pretending magic is only defined as spectacles of light and wonders of healing. Curses are for the wicked creatures that still dwell in the forest, and the offensive history is forgotten and replaced with only agreeable sentiments. The modern fairy denies his own talents and forfeits his own nature. But therein lies the fault. Do they want me to show myself with these ridiculous caterpillars without even having attempted to reduce them?"
He felt his eyebrows bristle in anger.
"Oh, bugger off. I'm still going to try and get rid of you. Mum's so hellbent on wooing O'Conor she won't be back for a couple of hours, and then she'll have him for tea, and then it will be time to prepare for the ball. She'll have no time at all to turn me back to normal."
Another smug burst of rainbow sparks spilled from the wiggly buggers.
"Could you have sprung up at any worse a time? One could say your appearance is a work of the illegal magicks. You could get me into real trouble."
One eyebrow raised suspiciously.
"Well, yes, you know by now I call myself a dark magician from the get-go. But ho! No one needs to know that sort of thing about a gentleman! A reputation is a delicate piece of a person, the most delicate bit. If it's torn, then it's useless, you see. Granted, a child's is more supple, but I certainly wouldn't call myself a child any longer."
They thickened proudly.
"No, no, no, it's not because of you!"
They narrowed.
"Don't you start accusing me of an incivility for shouting at teatime. You're the ones who started this whole mess with your very existence, you sodding worms!"
At this insult, they changed from black to a fiery shade of ginger, which looked even more ridiculous with his black hair and squirrelish ears. Arthur didn't notice this until he had long finished his tasteless teatime and caught his reflection in the silver kettle.
This meant war.
Arthur flew to the library and began plucking profane texts off the shelves with the swiftness of one who had memorized their locations. He spread them about and whirled through their ancient pages and broken bindings. Here was a curse to combat a curse! Here was a spell to freeze magic in motion! Here was a hex to tame wild beasts! (Arthur considered this one seriously.)
He went down through the library's hidden door into his mother's casting lair. Allistor still hadn't cleaned up his mess from brewing that awful green power-drug he insisted he needed to drink every night. Scoffing, Arthur organized the flasks and put away the ingredients. Then he set to work.
He sketched a magical mandala in chalk on the floor. This spell he was fairly certain would have a positive effect. Its tome was so ratty and yellowed, Arthur was convinced it had survived the first terrible war between fairies and humans all those centuries ago.
Arthur took a few candles and placed them around the room. With a pestle and mortar, he ground up a few aromatic herbs and mixed them together with a bit of milk and vinegar. He poured the whole affair into a globular flask and set it on a stand at the very center of the mandala. Everything was prepared. If all went well, the magic of the caterpillars would be frozen, and he could dye them and trim them up nicely.
Of course, the spell could also fail due to the caterpillars' belligerence. Arthur was more than ready to face this grave alternative. He would simply have to wear a mask to the ball and hope the patches of fur would remain comfortable beneath his sleeves and gloves.
He faced the long mirror on one wall of the casting lair. The walls were all stone and clung with cobwebs and mildew. This was what magicians were reduced to! If one wanted to be an underground dark enchanter, he worked in a basement with spiders!
"Now, I don't expect you to cooperate with me. You're aware of how much I despise your presence, but then again, you despise my intolerance. We've a mutual hatred for each other, and therefore, I think a truce could be put in order before I do anything I'll regret. You'll allow me to trim and dye you just for tonight, and tomorrow you can grow as wild and furry as you wish."
His eyebrows responded by turning bright green and fattening to the thickness of his thumbs.
"Right then. You've made your decision, and I've made mine."
Arthur went to his setup. He summoned his power and formed a green flame between his palms. This he placed over the top of the flask. The contents ignited. A steady stream of turquoise mist bubbled up over the lip and fell like gossamer fire to the mandala below. From the inside to the edges, each line and sigil began to glitter and glow. The circumference of the circle glistened.
He stepped over the circumference and held his hands near the flask, collecting the mist on his fingertips. It was cool to the touch and sent icy feelings through his skin. His hair (and fur) stood on end. His ears perked at such loveliness.
For one glorious moment, his heart lifted. The spell was more than what he'd hoped for. In addition to the freezing feelings, it also felt as if the tangled dark enchantments already within him were beginning to bubble away and dissolve. He could feel them condensing on his insides and dribbling from his head down his back to his feet. Arthur looked down. Would he see something nasty come scuttling out from his toes? The ghost of a curse bested by cleverness?
He saw nothing, but he felt something. His feet were stinging and bubbling just a fair bit more than the rest of him. Maybe the curses couldn't spill through his shoes. He stooped down to remove them and nearly fainted.
His perfectly dainty fairy feet had grown twice their size. And what was worse, little gray claws stuck out where his toenails had been.
"B-but that's impossible! This spell is meant to freeze and dissolve black magic! Why is it exacerbating the curse from earlier!? It can't be because I've drawn it wrong, can it?"
But he had drawn the spell wrong. Only ten minutes earlier, he'd stopped to scratch at his eyebrows, and one line of the mandala had been drawn too squiggly.
Panicking, he threw himself from the circle, but not before a tremendous pressure began to mount in his spine. With a tight, aching feeling, he felt the bones begin to stretch and misshape themselves. He yelped and clutched at his backside just as his spine gave way and the beginnings of a tail tore through the back of his trousers. The extension wiggled and twitched painfully as it lengthened, and when it was nearly as long as his body, it fluffed up with luxurious ebony fur.
"Fuck!"
"Did we or did we not warn you, Artie? You must treat those caterpillars with courtesy! Caterpillar courtesy!" Gareth preached.
"Caterpillar curse," Arthur moaned beneath the covers. At this point, his brothers only knew he had muddled his appearance. He was glad they hadn't discovered the ears, or worse, his tail. It wiggled anxiously next to him. He curled it up and grabbed it, then sneezed at the fur tickling his nose.
"The musicians have already arrived, and the caterers and the organizers," Allistor listed off. "Lord Kirkland will show his face at the ball, won't he? The guests will just be dying to see him. They'll all want to see his magical spectacle as well. What was it he was planning? A Language of Flowers piece?"
"Lilies for springtime happiness and cowslips for grace," Gareth recalled.
"Right, right. Always knew Arts was a bit flowery. His spectacle will certainly be the best received. Mine is only a dog chasing its… tail?"
Arthur seized his tail and tried to stuff it behind him. It instantly cramped and kinked. The claws on his feet tore little holes in the sheets. Together, Arthur's brothers tore the covers from the bed. They gasped. Allistor was too astonished to laugh, and Gareth's eyebrows furrowed in concern.
"Bloody hell, Arthur, what have you done to yourself? You like your eyebrows so much you need a bushy tail to match? Please tell me that's an illusion!" Gareth pleaded.
"You know I'm no good with illusions," Arthur whimpered. He swished his tail and buried his rosy face into his pillow.
"Can I touch it?" Allistor's eyes glittered, and he reached forward to stroke the appendage.
"No, you can't!"
Gareth sighed. "You can't go to the ball tonight. You'll just have to, erm…"
Now, in the case Arthur now found himself in, pleading illness was not an option. Illness was not a realm commonly known to fairies. Weakness of the body could only be caused by weakness of magic, and the prodigious Arthur Kirkland grieving of this would no doubt bring suspicion upon him.
"I'm going to the ball. My absence would only breed distaste and suspicion," Arthur declared. He rose from bed and stood on his broad, clawed feet. "I'm going to need a mask, a concealment spell, and a pair of Mum's shoes."
"What about your hair?" Gareth asked.
"As long as I focus on my hair and not my eyebrows…" Arthur stared deeply into his reflection. Then, with a will turned passionate from the day's events, he snapped his fingers and watched as the blackness lightened and brightened to the familiar awful hue of white-wine.
Allistor grinned. "Whatever you're doing, you'd better make it quick. Mum's already in the garden with the O'Conors, and more guests will be arriving promptly."
Guinivere's behavior was true to Arthur's speculations. She was so focused on entertaining the O'Conors that Arthur's plight sunk a few rungs on her priority list. She knew she had to help him regain his respectable appearance, but all the same, she knew the boy's obstinate nature would drive him to disobey her orders and make himself even more of a show.
The guests were arriving in droves, and she was glad she'd hired the organizers when she did. It was more or less expected that wealthy families hold a spring ball in the garden when the flowers were in full bloom. It would occupy the youth for a night with sensible gaiety and none of the foolishness spawning beneath the skin of the modern era. There were still those who practiced dark magic out in the open. Guinevere cursed this sort. Protests of the prohibition were rarely chronicled, but their existence would surely provide at least a loose justification for the restrictions.
This "sensible" society was going to kill not just the darker magicks, but all the wonders of the fair man, she thought cynically. It had already become suspicious of her as a widowed magician, and it had driven her to court such an obstreperous man as Joseph O'Conor for her own security.
She feared for Arthur the most. The boy was so gifted and so intelligent and so passionate for the practice. Would another year of this prohibition stifle his ambition? Or would his ruthless tenacity and thirst for power only endanger him? All it would take was one person to see him casting a spell of darkness, and future generations would only mention his name in tired platitudes.
He would have no legacy.
"Guinny? You're quite pale."
Joseph had inched closer to her. He reached a gloved hand out and touched her shoulder. Her gown was too gaudy, she thought, and her crinoline too large for such a night as this. She wasn't young nor frivolous. The only partner she'd end up dancing with was Joseph, the man who had divorced over a hat.
"It is the excitement of the evening," she replied sweetly.
"Then dance with me. The sun is setting, and the fairy lights flicker over the garden."
"They do look feminine, but it's the charm on them I need. It'll make my feet look smaller!"
Arthur was talking to himself again. He did it far more often than any sane gentleman should've, but he would argue with anyone that eloquence was the clearest mark of sanity. With a smirk, he stepped into his mother's pointy-toed boots. Instantly, the illusion took effect, and his feet were perfectly tiny again. He laced them up and pulled his trouser legs down to conceal the laces. The heels looked peculiar, but then again, so did the rest of his getup.
He wore his white waistcoat and black overcoat. He'd trimmed up the fur on his hands and stuffed them into his silk gloves. Over his eyes was a ludicrous jeweled carnival mask. His eyebrows were threatening to creep up over the top of it, but he managed to dissuade them with the fact that they'd done enough damage.
He'd combed his hair and tied his cravat and straightened his cufflinks. The crowning achievement of it all was concealing his tail with a part-invisibility spell that hid the bushy thing in a glossy bubble of sorts. It distorted the air behind him, but it was better than letting the squirrel tail sprout between his coattails.
Arthur sighed, frowning. "I'm already the fool of the ball. If none of this works, I'll just remember to impress everyone with my spectacle. Lillies and cowslips. I was going to do roses, but then I learned O'Conor was coming."
He pulled the frown into the patina of graceful confidence and proudly strode out into the magical scene of the garden ball fashionably late. The musicians were deep into the passages of a romantic siciliano. Gowns fluttered as the guests whirled and swayed. Above, thousands of little golden lights glittered, lending their soft light to the youthful faces. The hedges had been trimmed, and the flowers had been enhanced in size and sprinkled with evening dew.
He saw Allistor and Gareth dancing with a few young ladies in yellow. The former was stepping on his partner's toes. How typical, Arthur thought as he stiffened his posture and lifted his chin. This was beginning to feel natural. The night was his element. Now, if he could find a partner himself for the next dance…
He yelped when a lady stepped on his invisible tail. Natural and courteous. Sensible and gracious. Civil and decorous. He repeated the mantra while stiffening every muscle and continuing into the fray. His tail became the victim of far too many heels. He tried to lift it, but risked it curling above the bubble and revealing itself as a floating tuft of black fur.
He was about to approach a delicate girl a bit older than him when his mother whisked him aside.
"It seems the air is stuffy here tonight," she told him, eying the bubble suspiciously.
"The thickness of the night conceals ill thoughts," he replied. Ah, yes, a jest of euphemisms in meter!
"What sort of thoughts?"
"They're hairy ones, I'm sure."
"Of course," she sighed. "And what about your mask?"
"It's to enhance my spectacle. The king of spring I'll be."
"How splendid," Joseph remarked. "I'm looking forward to it."
"Yes, I wish you'd have thought of such an addition earlier," his mother laughed, though her laughter was quite strained.
The dance continued through the siciliano into a concerto, then into another adagio, and then it was time for the spectacles. Arthur wanted to shriek from the abuse his tail suffered and the itching of his bristly fur under the gloves, but he retained his genteel semblance. He smiled when he led a few dewy young ladies on the floor. He had received enough odd looks to make him shaky, but he remembered his mother's words and kept his dignified air.
Allistor was first. He stood at the center of the garden and began to dance alone in a callow, jerking manner. Blue-green sparks danced on his fingertips and flared into tongues of flame that excited the guests. Then his hands burst into glittering fire, and the smoke shaped itself into the form of a puffy, short-legged dog that sniffed the ladies' hair. Jovial pinpricks of light floated where its eyes should've been, and orange sparks of slobber flew from its maw when it barked.
At the climax of this act, it whirled and whirled, chasing its own tail until a wave of merriment washed over the audience. Then Allistor snapped his fingers, and the dog burst into a shower of blue sparks that rained down into miniature pearls and bounced on the cobblestone paths. He took a bow and drank in the attention as if he were drowning in pleasure.
Next was Gareth. He smiled amiably, straightened his tie, and then sang with the accompaniment of a lone violin. His voice rang like a sugary silver bell that made the ladies sigh from the beauty.
Enchanted by the music, every flower in the garden bloomed and stretched. The roses spread, and the lilies curled, and the irises curtsied. The air itself sweetened and bloomed into a thick honey that buzzed with the magic of the music. A few guests found themselves lulled to sleep, while others were so entranced, they stood still and had to be shaken.
By the time Gareth had finished, Arthur was already anxiously waiting his turn. His tail had just taken a nasty beating from a pair of pointy heels, and hot tears were pricking at his eyes under the mask. With his heart racing, he rushed to the center of the garden and shoved his brother away. The enchantment faded. A few gloomy sighs could be heard throughout the garden.
"His Lordship, Arthur," he heard whispered among the more fashionable guests. Arthur smiled. He could do this. Lilies and cowslips. Grace and happiness — the feelings he wished he could have spent his birthday experiencing.
He drew in breath and focused. The warmth of magic spread from his heart up to his shoulders, then down his arms to his fingertips. He reached out in front of him and began to form the shape of his spell.
Color burst from his palms. It swirled and swelled into three rings that encircled his frame. From the top ring spilled lilies made of soft emerald light. The second ring burst into a bloom of yellow cowslips. The bottom ring sparkled and shimmered and sprung up with both flowers. They blew in an illusory wind that whipped through the garden.
Arthur smirked. This was but the prelude. He thrust his hands skyward, and the flower rings exploded outward. The flowers grew to whimsical sizes. Lilies resembled the ladies' skirts, and cowslips blossomed into the curly likeness of their hair. They pulsed yellow, then red, then pink, then blue, and then burgeoned into brilliant green. Streams of light poured from Arthur's fingers. They danced like ribbons that snaked down his body and bathed him in a sparkling emerald aura. His mask was ablaze. His tail was all aglow.
His tail!?
"Bloody hell," he whispered under his breath. The blast from the flowers had blown away the invisibility bubble, and now his tail was in full view of the audience. People were pointing and gawking at its fluffiness. He swished it behind him and tried to direct the audience's attention to his mask.
Except his mask was gone. Arthur hadn't noticed, but Allistor, in fervent jealousy, had snapped his fingers behind his coat, and the covering had burned to ashes. It didn't help that Arthur's eyebrows were now a bright shade of primrose and adorned with buds.
"Workable, workable," he muttered, the tears beginning to slip from his eyes. His furry ears sprang up from under his white-wine hair. In a shameful sort of art, he danced and pranced around the guests, shaking his tail and rejoicing as a happy, graceful squirrel in the felicity of springtime. His cheeks grew very hot, but he hid himself in the light of the flowers and tried to conceal his wide-eyed despair behind glitter and blooms.
Then, with no clear ending to the spectacle, he vanished back into the back of the manor, and the flowers vanished with him.
Arthur sobbed as he dragged his tail through the hallway. How awful! This night would haunt him for the rest of his life. He would be known as Lord Kirkland, the Squirrel of Springtime. Caterpillars and All.
He was about to storm past the portrait of Bedivere Kyrkeland when he stopped and looked the ancient fairy right under the eyebrows.
"Why did you kiss a caterpillar!?" He demanded. "You've humiliated your descendants! What if they suspect I used dark magic!? I'll be ruined! Oh, what am I talking about? Dark magicians aren't appropriate in the world anymore. Why do I bother studying the darkness if I'll never use it? I just like it so much! It makes me feel alive inside! And Mum said—"
"Marry, my dear boy, why do the spirits taint thy voice with madness?"
Arthur froze. The painted man had removed his sallet and was now scrutinizing him with hard green eyes under a pair of furry black caterpillars.
"You… you're a living painting?"
"Aye, I am a vestige of the soul of Bedivere. 'Tis a shame he has moved on to another world."
"I'm hallucinating."
"I see a boy with a crease in his lip just below his nose. Thou hast yet to lose thy youthful glimmer. Thou imagines what is useful."
"Then be useful and tell me why the hell you snogged a caterpillar and made all your descendants grow horrible, ugly caterpillars for eyebrows when all they wanted was to be happy and agreeable and courtly—"
"Oh, prithee cease, dear mad and spiteful boy. Your era's made a mockery of man."
"And you have made a mockery of me! You tell me how to rid my face of these!"
"Such black enchantments are not simply brake."
"Damn and blast the meter! I'm going to 'brake' your frame if you don't—"
"Arthur! You've done a discourtesy to our guests by vanishing! That was not a part of your spectacle, and everyone could see it!"
Arthur turned to see his mother storming toward him. She scooped him up, but thankfully didn't slap him this time. She only softly carried him to his room and lay him in bed, then took his tail in her hands for inspection.
"Aren't you being discourteous as well?" Arthur asked.
"Joseph and I are now engaged. I left the rest of the ball up to him. I may return later. My excuse was needing to re-powder my nose from the heat of the evening."
"Engaged!? Mum, you know Allistor and Gareth and I can't stand—"
"You do not have to consider him your father. Our marriage is only a formality. It's because of the ban, my sweet boy. You know that in a year or a two, my underground ways are bound to be found out. Perhaps they suspect me already with what you've done. I claimed part responsibility for your tail."
"No, you didn't have to! I was going to pass it off as an illusion!"
"It was just to protect you. Neither of us will be arrested on the night of a ball, but I hope you can be more clever from now on."
"I'm sorry!"
Biting her lip, Guinevere bent down and hugged her son so tightly, it was as if he would crumble to dust if she let go.
"Arthur, don't become a magician."
"What? But, but you always said—"
"I know. I love you, and I'm so proud of how much your power has grown. But you must understand it won't do you any good to pursue magic as a profession. Magicians started losing their reputations even before the ban. No, it's not our fault that changelings have stolen so many children, but public opinion quickly evolves into hysteria. And… by the time you grow up, I fear magicians will be regarded as the worst sort of people. Gareth will be fine as a chorister, but I fear so much for Allistor, and I fear for you."
"Allistor does love his potions."
She was crying now. She kissed him on the forehead and put her hands on his shoulders. "My sweet, clever boy. You must be so careful. Never speak ill of anyone or anything, and don't become a magician. For Puck's sake, become a writer instead. At least then you can disguise your opinions as jests."
"But it's my destiny! You know my powers are growing! I want to master them! The light and the dark ones!"
"I know, Arthur. It pains me like a knife in the heart to deprive you and this country of your destiny, but please. Think about your future. I know you love the darkness, but if you're caught with it… "
Arthur furrowed his massive caterpillars and grimaced. "W-well, it's like you said. I've learned it all from you. My thoughts are yours. It's just the world that's stupid, telling us to forget about the wonders of darkness. But I'll be doubly clever. I'll be lovable light during the day and devious darkness at night. I'll become a true magician, and one day, I'll be the one magician in a world of frivolous fools. I'll even have a potion to turn me into a fool if it all goes to rubbish. I love magic, and no society is going to tear me from it."
His mother gave a long, wet sigh, muttering something about "insufferable audacity." Then she left the room to fetch the materials for removing Arthur's lesser afflictions.
Allistor came into the room hours later swigging from his potion flask. The garden was mostly empty now. Arthur was almost lulled to sleep by the dying twang of the violins just outside his bedroom window.
"Good evening, Artie."
He rolled over to look at his stubbly elder brother. "How was the ball? Am I a joke or just disagreeable?"
"You're not in any trouble, but you got a few birthday gifts, and those girls you danced with were anxious to see you again."
"After seeing pink caterpillars wiggling around on my face?"
"Everyone thought they were a part of your spectacle. I heard no bad opinions about it." For some reason, Allistor sounded terribly bitter about this.
"No one holds opinions at a ball. They'll all just laugh at me in their own homes. I was a bloody cursed squirrel. What could possibly embarrass me more?"
"Only time will tell. Frankly, I think the amount of trouble you went through trying to get rid of those things shows how devoted you are to your craft."
"Mum doesn't like it.
"Mum doesn't like a lot of things. The prohibition has made her bitter. But we're still young. We have yet to decide what we think of the world. Don't forget to act your age every once in a while."
"She told me she doesn't want me to become a magician."
"Why wouldn't you become a magician? You're too powerful for your own good, and you've got a good heart, even if it's hidden under all that pride."
Arthur genuinely smiled for once. "You can be very nice sometimes, even if you're a tosser."
"You don't even know what that word means."
Arthur grumbled a few profanities and rubbed his eyes. His eyebrows prickled his fingers amiably. They hadn't twitched in a while, and Arthur was convinced they'd finally settled into their new home on his face.
"So, Arts, going to try cursing them off again soon?"
"No, no, not at all. They're such a bother, it must be written that I accept them. I'll admit they do make my face a little less plain. I suppose I overreacted a bit. They're not ugly. In fact, and forgive me for this, I think they've grown on me."
Originally posted by scrivenernoodz (as Syntax-N) on FFN April 23, 2019. Crossposted to AO3 June 21, 2026. Thanks for reading! Don't repost.