#fae utmv

Cross had always been careful. He knew the rules when it came to Fae; not to step into circles of mushrooms, nor to eat the fruit they offered, and never to stray from the path. 

And above all, never to cross them. That was just common sense. 

The fae were not to be trusted. Everyone knew that. They were tricksters, cruel masters and inhuman things. Tales of their cruelty lined the pages of old tomes, and watered down stories passed down from mother to child still yet made for sleepless nights. 

It was not difficult for Cross to follow the rules. He always did, be it the ones carved from legends or the unspoken ones of his father. It was safer, that way. Though he did not spend much of this time deliberating over the Fae.

It wasn’t as if he didn’t fear them. He simply had his priorities. He wasn’t the kind to command attention like his father. Nor was he blessed with the charismatic optimism of his brother. He was taken out of the orphanage to be housed as a candidate in the Palace solely because his skill with the sword caught the King’s attention. 

And though he had been prohibited from leaving the halls, though he missed the sun he had once been able to bathe in so freely as long as he did his chores, though he missed being able to act without having ten sets of eyes watching him, here he was fed thrice a day, given clean clothes and shelter. That was enough.

The King had adopted children one by one in the years prior. None of them were tied to him by blood. Cross knew very well his place in this Court as one of them; his crown was based off merit. 

He’d learned early on that the King valued utility above all else. If he outlived his usefulness, he would be discarded. The only thing his father wanted from him was his strength, and his obedience. They had fierce fighters by the hundreds. So the only thing he really had was the latter. 

Cross wasn’t among the more popular Princes. That was by design. He knew when to lower his gaze, when to hold his tongue. He knew when to step back, step away.

If he disobeyed instruction, he would lose his worth. And with time, he learned to whittle away the hesitation that was sometimes as good as refusal in his father’s eyes. 

He did not look kindly upon softness when it didn’t serve him.

Cross had made the mistake, once. In the first few years as a mere candidate, long before he’d been crowned, he had rarely been summoned on his own to the throne room. But one day, he was inexplicably sent for.

There had been no explanation, no reason, just an order. But Cross had dressed quickly. A summons from the King, in any form, meant something that demanded attention. Quickly, he made for the throne room. 

The large doors to the throne room opened just as he approached. And he stepped in. Cross felt his breath hitch as he crossed the threshold. 

The king sat at his throne, hands at his side, expression unreadable as ever. Cross didn’t dare approach until he was motioned forward. His boots echoed across the cold, marble floors as he crossed the distance.

His heart pounded in his chest as he knelt before the King. The King’s gaze, cold and distant as always, swept over him. There was no warmth in it, no affection. Just an inscrutable judgment.

He was given his command: A servant had been caught stealing. He was to deal with the matter. An arm, or a leg. Your choice. There was no room for argument at all. But that was as per usual. The servant was already waiting for him in the dungeons. When Cross arrived, the boy was already chained up in a darkened cell. His sweaty hands gripped the bars. He could not be older than ten.

Cross could hear his shallow breaths as he lifted his head. There, he saw the fear in the servant’s eyes, heard him whimper as he saw him. He didn’t know him. But the boy was not so stupid as to misunderstand the role of an armed man approaching his cell. 

He almost lost his composure. 

He heard himself ask for the crime. His voice, clipped and hard, seemed so far away. The boy did not deny it. Foolish boy. There was no chance he could avoid punishment if he confessed. But a lie would likely lose him his tongue, too. 

His hands were at his sides. He did not know what to do.

No, he knew perfectly well what. He just couldn’t do it. Which would be more merciful? The boy would need his arms to carry cargo. But if he lost a leg, it would be much more difficult for him to carry out the everyday menial asks. And in a place like this where everyone had to pull their weight and more, it could mean losing his place and keep entirely.

The world was closing in around him, and he hated this— hated this. 

He knew these things happened. He’d learned to close an eye. There had been braver souls than him, and he’d seen at least two dismissed for the audacity.

He unlocked the cell, unsheathed the blade and gently held the boy’s arm in place. The boy began wailing. 

Cross took an arm. It was just closer. Easier to slice off. Easier for a clean cut. 

The poor boy; shaking and sobbing, staring at the floor. Cross called for a healer. The King had heard, and later when he returned to the throne room he regarded him for a long moment in silence. Not unlike the way one might inspect a blade fresh from the forge.

He could still feel the ghost of the boy’s trembling arm beneath his grip. The wet slickness of blood splatter. 

“You will do,” The King said at last.

And that was it. He was crowned a proper Prince, among the chosen from the list of candidates. He’d passed the test, even if he hadn’t realised what it had been at the time. 

It would be nice to say he could never forget about the blood staining his hands. But there was more he was expected to do. The devil had idle hands, or something along those lines. And so Cross was sent out, again and again, to carry out his orders. He learned to keep his shoulders squared, words measured, face blank. 

He was given more and more freedoms, here and there. Larger quarters. More alone time. 

Some evenings he spent with his brother. They were closer than the rest, having come from the same orphanage. Contact between candidates was discouraged, but as Princes they were free to mingle as they so pleased. They’d drink, or they wouldn’t. They’d speak, or they wouldn’t. There was something so comforting about existing in the same space without needing to fill it. For once, he didn’t have to measure his words or think too much about his next move. 

He could just breathe.

It was intoxicating.

There was something about those evenings that made the rest of the court feel further away. The walls of the palace, with all their expectations and rigid rules, seemed to fade away. It was just him: Sans, and Papyrus. He would forget, just for a little while, about the things he had done

But they had new names, now. Cross, or X. 

He was, after all, the tenth candidate to be accepted. *** He received several pieces of information in a short span of time. 

One, there was a border dispute. He was to resolve it. In his opinion it sounded petty, but he had heard of men who rose and fell for less. He had seen men who had thought they were invincible, who believed their place in the court was secure, only to disappear when they were no longer needed. 

The King was methodical and precise. He didn’t keep people around who didn’t serve his interest, whatever that was.

The thought made his hands twitch with the faintest of tremors.

Two, it was with the Fae.

What the fuck.

Cross nodded his assent, keeping his face blank. There were iron and protective wards in their walls, but a border dispute would take him to the farthest reaches of the kingdom, past the walls and into the wild where the power of the Fae was strongest. He had countless questions, but knew he wouldn’t get any answers. The King would never show any sign of fear, or even acknowledge the risk. 

But there was a risk. He had heard whispers about them. Beings that lived outside the rigid rules of his world, unpredictable as they were dangerous. 

He knew just enough to avoid trouble by avoiding contact. But this would make it impossible to avoid contact.

Cross packed his things, and when the time came, left the palace with a small party of soldiers and advisors heading for the borderlands. The journey would take weeks, and the further he traveled from the comforts of the palace, the more and more keenly he felt his own fear.

The iron on his person did nothing to squash it.

He thought, and thought all day and night, until even his dreams were full of thinking.

Surely, he thought to himself one night, this is not a new way to dispose of the heirs he no longer deems worth the time?

He talked endlessly with the advisors sent with him. They had brought dozens of precious treasures of gold and silver as cargo, so there was talk if they should send ‘gifts’ (though not in name lest they offend the Fae for the insinuation).

It was a stupid idea. He didn’t say that, he held his tongue, but barely so.

He saw how they looked at him, uncertain and afraid. He was never among the popular heirs. Even his brother’s charm garnered more supporters than his silent assent. Cross was never good with his words.

If the King sent Cross here, then the King already believed peaceful resolution infeasible. 

Contrary to what the advisors thought of him, he did read up on the old Fairytales. Since he was given the order, he spent many nights pouring over ancient tomes that spoke of the Fae’s capriciousness, their cruelty, and their near-untouchable power. Fae were not beings to be reasoned with, at least, not easily. 

And definitely not emotionally. 

There had been a story of some woman centuries ago. She must have been a romantic. The creature, beautiful and otherworldly, had appeared one night under the pale moonlight. It had spoken to her with promises of love and eternity; to her, it was everything. It must have been Fae.

And so, she had fallen, utterly and irrevocably. They had quickly married thereafter, what feeble dowry her family could muster sent with her to the Fae lands, though surely no gold could shine as brightly as the lovestruck maiden’s eyes. 

She smiled so brilliantly on her wedding day, that it was said that in her joy, she was just as beautiful as the otherworldly thing sent to collect. 

Then she disappeared. That was to be expected. Surely a human who’d been granted the wonders of the other world would never deign to come back. Surely her family grieved, but they tried to swallow their sadness and be happy for their dear besotted girl. 

One autumn evening, a traveler stumbled upon her. There tangled among the roots was a figure draped in what remained of a wedding gown. Her skin was smooth as porcelain, without the flush of blood or pulse, because she had been turned to stone. Her fingers were curled out as though reaching for something. Someone. But they grasped only air. Her eyes, once bright, once full of love, had been hollowed out. Instead now they were filled with clear quartz. Beautiful, shimmering stone.

Logic was a no-go. But neither was emotion like love. To try and press the shape of a Fae’s love into the fragile shape of a mortal heart would only lead to collapse. In many ways love was more dangerous. You would never leave their care, never return home. 

To them, you would never be a person at all. Just another pretty thing to keep. To them, mortals were but fleeting creatures. Playthings, distractions, bugs. 

There was only one way to get them to spare you for long enough to be listened to.

He had to catch their attention. 

The Fae spoke archaically, fantastically, but they were also known to settle disputes by force. If Cross could not bring them to listen, he could not get them to reason. If he couldn’t broker some form of peace, then he was nothing more than a temporary distraction. 

He wasn’t so foolish as to think he had the whole picture. But he didn’t think he was useful enough to the King for him to come rescue him if he failed here. 

If he was reticent about his upcoming demise, his party was remarkably obstinate. 

Cross could feel it in the heavy air. The soldiers at his back, the advisors by his side, all of them unwilling to engage with the Fae. There was no enthusiasm, no hope of a peaceful resolution. Only the bitter, resigned acceptance that they would likely all die upon first contact. 

They were all unwilling. 

He hadn’t had any choice either. So he couldn’t entirely fault them for the reluctance.

But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t try. 

The first hurdle he had to cross was to catch their attention. The easiest way to do that was through a Fairy circle. 

Fairy circles were nonexistent back home. Any mushrooms that grew too close would be unrooted with the right precautions, but maybe it was much too costly for the people living near the borders. Maybe too dangerous, too. 

It was unfortunate they had to be one of the Kingdoms neighboring the land the Fae had claimed as their own. Luckily for him, his talents had nothing to do with politics, so he was free to know nothing about the shifting borders and ever-changing allegiances of the Fae. 

But even he knew the delicate peace between the Fae and the human kingdoms was never truly stable. It was rare for the Fae to press the peace, but only because they lived such long lifetimes their whims were spread out across decades and centuries. Now they were pressing the borders again, claiming more and more of the countryside.

(The land, it was said, had once been a desiccated wasteland. Barren and lifeless, its cracked earth stretching endlessly beneath merciless sun. No rain had fallen for generations, and the wind, dry and harsh, carried with it only dust and sorrow.

But that was before the Fae had come. They arrived, and brought with them beauty, life, and will.)

So greedy, though they already had a Realm of their own.

If worse came to worst, crossing the border would definitely get him noticed. But then he might as well step into the Fairy circle, because he’d be stolen right then and there. So it would be easier (and safer) to contact the Fae near the circle. 

Cross knew what he had to do, loathe as he was to enter alone. He had been ready to try and cajole the guards into leaving him to his own devices for but an hour, had been prepared to argue the wisdom of going to the Fae himself, but no one fought him on the matter. 

He hadn’t even been given any resistance as a courtesy. They were all only too willing to leave him be, it seemed.

It took a mere day to locate a Fairy circle. 

Well, that was less work for him.

He brought with him a couple gifts, and kept some iron on his person. But he put away the sword made of iron; something made for offense would definitely offend. The iron anklets and wristlets were less of a risk, albeit still risky, being made of iron.

But if he met with the Fae unprotected, he’d quite be dead. So he had to compromise. 

Cross walked along the clearing carefully, mindful of where he stepped. If he crushed some pixie underfoot he’d probably mar his chances of success even further. It was a lax rule to never step off the path, but a rule nonetheless, so it was fortunate the Fairy circle was already along the road. The moonlight filtered through the canopy above, casting pale patterns across the moss-covered earth. The veil between the mortal world and the Fae realm was thinnest at night. 

If he didn’t return by daybreak, they were on strict orders to retreat. To think of him as lost. If they could read between the lines, they would probably happen to disappear. If not, if they decided to return with a failed mission, that was their prerogative. 

His boots sank slightly into the soft moss as he continued onwards. He could feel the air change, the hum of something thrumming. The forest flanking him on both sides was getting denser and denser.

Surely it was not just the moonlight following him. Surely, if he dared to hope, there were already Fae watching him. Every rustle of leaves, every crunch in the underbrush. Waiting for him to make a mistake.

He acted as if he’d seen nothing. It would not do to show his hand too soon.

It was much too late in the night for it to be evening mist, so it was just mist.

He soon found the Fairy circle. The ring of mushrooms was untouched, shining brilliantly in red and white. Cross exhaled slowly.

This close to one, he certainly wouldn’t go unwatched. 

He knelt just at the threshold, careful not to break the circle. Never step into a Fairy circle, or you will be lost from this world. 

“By my King’s word, and by the old customs, I seek an audience with you Fair Folk.” He called out to the woods. The practiced phrasing was so awkward in his mouth, but he did not think it wise to deviate from the script he’d been taught so soon. Not until he crossed the first hurdle. Everything had to be perfectly neutral, devoid of him.

Silence. That was to be expected. He ignored the prickling of being watched and continued, “I come with no ill will.”

More silence. Wind curled around him, lifting his hair, tugging at his clothes. 

Suddenly bells began to toll in his head. Distant, ringing, piercing through his careful thoughts. The first whisper in his head was dripping in tones. 

No ill will? My, then what it is I sense on your bodice?

He kept his head bowed. “Only as a precaution. I wish to live for long enough to deliver my King’s wishes.”

Yes, and the clang of bells made him exhale. I know of your King. He is an ambitious man, no? If only he would learn to keep his will to himself. 

The winds died down.

He did not move. He did not speak, because the noise in his head pierced through any coherent thought he could muster and he did not want to make the mistake of haste. 

Ambition, the voice echoed. It burns, doesn’t it? Like fire, but with no warmth.

The wind picked up again, brushing past his face, tugging at his clothes.

“What do you want?” He asked, the words slipping from his lips despite himself.

Leave.

“I came for a reason,” He said, his voice already hoarse. “I cannot leave until I fulfill it.”

Your King’s will has already been felt. 

A distant chime rang out, discordant and hollow.

You are but a shadow passing through. Leave.

He wouldn’t.

The ground beneath him shifted. No, not the ground— the air, thickening, twisting. The trees blurred at the edges of his vision, their gnarled forms stretching impossibly tall, their branches scraping at a sky that no longer looked like the one he had entered under.

Are you a fool? The voice pressed against his skull like a vice. Your loss will serve no one, merely hurt yourself. 

“I ask for an audience,” He said simply, “And it appears you’ve granted me one.”

The bells tolled again, closer now, a low, warbling chime that made his vision blur at the edges.

I truly wonder what he has done to earn such loyalty.

He almost laughed, but he didn’t. 

The mist parted. Shimmers, in the air, flashes of light. Heat rising from stone, then a figure stepped out of the light. Tall, inhumanly graceful, with eyes that glinted like stars.

The Fae was beautiful. Too beautiful. If he had not been forewarned, perhaps his resolve may have faltered, if only because of how unsettling it was. It was as if a blind man’s idea of beauty had been carved into existence and left to breathe. 

Their form was shifting at the edges, gold dripping from the flowing fabric at their wrists. 

The slight glow cast over the grass was not quite gold, not quite silver, shifting with the light like water catching the moon.

Like the shape of a dream half-remembered. 

Then, in a soft sigh, the light swept back to reveal another skeleton like himself. 

“Will you listen if it comes from a face like yours?”

The Fae’s voice had lost none of its amusement, but now it was quieter. Almost tender. He had crossed the first hurdle.

There were no bells ringing in his head, and yet somewhere in that lilting voice, he could still hear toiling bells. The Fae tilted their head, hollow sockets catching the dim light. 

He could not help but notice that, though he was still on his knees, the Fae was resting cross-legged.

“Well? Speak.”

He reached for the small bundle tucked beneath his cloak. With deliberate movements, he unwrapped it, the soft rustling of fabric filling the quiet air.

First, an exquisite golden brooch with a pale amber stone set in the centre. Next tumbled out a silver hairpin, long and slender, curved gently at the end like a slender branch where a small ornament of delicate filigree of tiny silver flowers bloomed. A gold chain linked to a single sapphire as deep and blue as a midnight sky. Beside it a comb crafted from pale ivory, lined with pearls.

He let the Fae survey the inventory for a few moments. He sat back on his hackles. He met the Fae’s curious gaze. 

“My father is a clever man. He chose these jewels for I, so I could show my sincerity.”

Cross sighed. 

“I will not give them to you.” 

The Fae's golden pupils flickered in a sort of surprise blink. He didn’t know them, but he knew his own face. If you did not show the Fae what you expected of them, if you were careful with your first contact, they would mimic your face rather than craft one out of your fears. 

It was an advantage he could not afford to circumvent.

“As is your right,” The Fae said softly. “I know how much you mortals love to lust for riches.”

He shook his head.

The shifting light of their form filled in where the shadows should have been.

The Fae mused, “Is that so? Then what is it that you seek? If you truly wish to fulfill your King’s will, you would know it would be easier for you to try to bargain with your trinkets.”

“I want something else.” 

“You could try,” They continued offhandedly. “It is a pretty set.” 

“I’m sure it’s nothing to you.” His voice stopped. He could not lose his resolve. “I’ll trade with you.” The bells tolled again, closer now, a low, warbling chime that made his vision blur at the edges. It was the Fae’s version of a laugh.

“First you say you’re here to deliver a message. Now you’re here to make a deal? Not quite a liar, but close.” 

A ghost of a smile settled over his. “My father is the King of Ilyria. He claims a dispute that you Fae have claimed land of ours.”

The Fae’s grin quickly widened. “Oh?” They laughed; a clear sound. “I am also a Prince. How fitting. Are you here to bargain for your people?”

He opened his mouth. But he could not lie.

“I’m here to bargain.”

“I should warn you,” They said amicably, “I am beginning to bore of you.”

He straightened. It was useless to try and hide his fear now.

“My father claims this is our land. That you Fae expanded your territory without reason or provocation.” He kept his voice steady. “He wants your withdrawal.”

The Fae Prince scoffed. “Without reason? What reason do we need? We lived before you ever were, this world is more ours than yours. What greater provocation could there be but your countless greedy nations? Do we need a reason to claim something already ours?”

He was caught between the golden pupils, pulsating and dilating. He forced the words out, “I agree.”

His father’s voice echoed in his head— duty, legacy, power. But the Fae’s golden eyes burned through him, and he knew he could not lie.

A pause. The bells had stopped ringing.

“Which is why I know I lack information. So I want to make a deal.”

That caught the Fae’s attention. 

The Fae tilted their head, a slow, deliberate movement. 

A deal. The word itself was a delicate thing, a thread spun from mortal desperation and Fae amusement. It was not an offer lightly made nor lightly accepted.

“And what,” They said consideringly, “Will you give in return?”

He could hear the advisors, speaking headlessly as they always did in his head. Some suggested coin, but gold meant nothing to those who could spin straw into gold. His first instinct had been blood, to offer his services but that too felt much too crude and presuming. 

He could give up his name, but that would be much too obvious. If he had come here to let himself be snatched away in an instant he would’ve never come at all.

“What would you take?” It was dangerous to ask a Fae that. Often times the price they named was far greater than the one one could pay. 

They laughed. “Oh, Prince. I want so much more than you would ever be willing to give.”

Oh, you don’t know me. “What else?” He asked.

The Fae’s laugh dipped into a smile. He surveyed him.

“You’ve been decent company. I’ll be kind.” A Fae’s kindness wasn’t kind at all. But he didn’t dare interrupt, he needed something from the Fae, and he was going to play their game. “I’ll tell you what you want to know, and in return you tell me what I want to know.”

They were being much too obvious. 

But that was what he wanted, no?

“Deal.”

The Fae’s eyes gleamed.

He thought he would’ve felt something. Something wash over him, maybe, any sign of the contract made. But the gold flash dimmed back to the cool glow and there was no change at all. 

“We’ll take turns asking each other a question. Shall we begin?”“ As if he could, or would want to, say no. He nodded his assent and snatched the first question. “Who is my King to you?”

“Very prideful.” Their voice ran smoothly. “Too proud to beg, too proud to kneel. But not too proud to send you in his place.”

That told him absolutely nothing. 

“That wasn’t an answer,” He said flatly.

The Fae's grin widened. “But it was. My turn. Why did he send you?” 

“He won’t miss me if I fail.”

The sharp edges of light seemed to blur into each other for a split second. Like frost melting at the edges of glass. Their lips parted as if to say something, then closed again.

They studied him for a long moment.

“That sounds terribly sad,” They murmured. “A terrible sort of existence.”

“There are others.” 

"There are always others.” From their face, they were either concerned or annoyed. Whatever it was, it was cooling into something more subtle. Something almost unreadable.

"And do you think," They asked, voice as lilting as the wind, "That any of them would have come in your place?"

It was the sort of question that should’ve stung. Would they have done the same for you? After all his mission was to secure peace for them all. His victory was theirs, but his failure would be his own. 

The thought settled over him. 

He thought of the court. The advisors. The soldiers who stood behind the King like shadows, silent and waiting. He’d given out plenty a command before, and been the one to fulfill it too.

"No.”

The Fae smiled, and this time it was unedged.

“Then I suppose it was always meant to be you.”

“That’s two questions. Will I survive this conflict?””

“That depends,” They said. The slow drawl was teasing. “On what you’ll do next. If you’ll try to resolve it, or win.”

The distinction made him pause. There was a right answer for him, but if he mentioned it, it would reveal too much. This wasn’t nearly over yet. He hadn’t gotten his guarantee. “What’s the difference?” 

The Fae’s lips quirked up, a manner so unlike himself despite them wearing his face. “The yield.”

“Am I enough to end this war?”

For the first time, the Fae did not answer immediately. 

“You are not as alone as you think.” Their voice softened, just a little, like the night thinning into dawn. “I know what we have planned for your King. His head will roll by the next storm. But you seem smart enough to know that. Tell me, do you truly wish to help him?”

“There are people I care about,” He said finally. Carefully. "Your war will kill them."

The Fae hummed. A soft, melodic sound. "That is not an answer to my question. What do you want for him?"

He paused. “What he deserves.”

The soft tinkling of bells. 

The Fae’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second. Their gaze fell to the mushrooms. It was a boundary that they could not cross. With a sort of rapt fascination, Cross watched as they pressed a hand against some sort of invisible barrier, their touch bringing a shimmer that exposed the light rippling right under their fingertips.

When he looked back, the Fae was staring right at him.

"Then I will give you what you need,” They murmured, "If you give me what I want."

The words slotted into place. The shape of the bargain, clear.

“I have one question left.” He exhaled, steadying himself. “If I were to bargain for peace, in any way, would you accept?”

The Fae chuckled. “Your King doesn’t want peace. If he did, he wouldn’t have threatened my brother. Perhaps I would consider it for a price.”

Cross swallowed. “And what is it you want?”

The Fae smiled, and it was sharp and soft all at once.

“I think you know.”

And he did. 

“Is this a second deal?”

“Would you like it to be one?” They laughed. “That can be arranged.”

“There are nine other Princes. Their lives, souls and minds are not to be touched. Whatever massacre your kind’s planning, they must be spared.”

“So it shall be.” The Fae tittered. “But what about you, Noble Prince? You speak as though you have already been lost. I wonder if you even know what you’re offering.”

Cross shrugged off his coat. The garment, weathered and worn, took a torn second to fall to the floor. That left his undershirt on.

The Fae let out a soft sigh. 

The sound of rustling filled the air. He glanced behind, and not surprisingly, the trees had curled in to block the clearing. 

“Your name?”

“You may call me Cross.” The Fae didn’t even seem disappointed that it wasn’t his true name. Their mouth opened slightly, and light shone through it. 

“Say it, Cross. I don’t take things that aren’t mine. I don’t take things that aren’t offered to me.”

“I’ll give you what you want, and you’ll give me what I need.” It wasn’t a question. The laughter was bubbling in Cross’ throat, so absurd and so happy at the success. 

“You may call me Dream.” His voice was dripping honey, sweet and gentle. “And it’s a deal.”

He glanced at the Ilyrian emblem sewn into the forgotten coat, and stepped over it. 

Dream pressed an open palm against the invisible wall. “Come to me,” He said gently. “You already know how.”

And Cross did. He lifted his foot, stepping deliberately over the threshold. 

The light shattered like glass. 

Dream caught his wrist before he could think twice, fingers impossibly warm against his skin. The heat curled upwards, travelling up his arm, and he gasped as the heat tickled his throat. 

He watched distantly as the iron cuffs rusted and fell off him

Because, from the beginning, he had never had any plans of leaving this forest. 

The heat grew. He looked to see Dream gently kissing his throat. He exhaled, eyes falling away; the world outside the circle blurred at the edges, distant, unimportant. The air shifted, thickened. 

Dream tilted his head, golden eyes glinting beautifully. “You understand, don’t you?” His voice was low, coaxing, as if there was any need for that at this point.

He let himself be pushed closer, what had to be a hand grasping the back of his skull. Dream hadn’t forgone his skeletal form, but his pupils sparked into stars. His fingers traced the curve of Cross' jaw, touch feverish, and his own face burning up.

He turned his head to brush his lips against his palm. 

That peeling laughter like bells. 

He felt his clothes drip away in a soft rustle, as if they were liquid. The dissolving cloth pooling at his feet. Then he was pressed into the ground, and the world tilted with him. Dream followed him down in a slow, weightless descent, like a star slipping from the sky. 

His warmth bled into Cross’ bones, golden light curling around the edges of his vision. Fingers traced down his ribs.

“Stay.” As if he had anywhere else to go. His hands found purchase against Dream’s back, gripping tight enough to feel the tension in bone.

Cross exhaled, felt his chest cave in. “I’m here.”

Dream leaned in and kissed Cross.

That lit a fire in his stomach. He felt it seep into his marrow, curling under his ribs, something bright and aching spilling into him. Something that tasted like devotion, spilling through all the cracks in his moral code and filling in something he was starved of. 

The purple glow cascaded across the ground. The magic was in his gut, ready to gather, though its glow was easily swallowed up by the golden light.

Dream’s laughter hummed against Cross’ teeth. His hands traced upward, curling around the back of his skull, holding Cross there. He didn’t realise his breathlessness until Dream pulled back, just enough for their foreheads to press together.

“May I?”

Cross’s pulse was racing. The question hung between them. As if they had not just made a deal for this.

Dream's longing gaze searched his face.

“Obviously.” Dream’s lips curved into a soft smile. The purple light coalesced into ecto-flesh. 

Dream held him, skull settled into the crook of his shoulder. His warm hands moved from his shoulder to his stomach. Circles, traced into his ribs. Cross closed his eyes as his hands moved down to where his ecto had formed. 

Part of him thought it would hurt. This was a payment of sorts. He’d already gotten what he wanted, this wasn’t for him. It wouldn’t be the first time someone took another’s pain for their own pleasure. Oh, what sordid tales there were in the Court.

Fingers brushed against his inner thigh. He made a small noise as they parted them. He could feel touch against his—

“Ah.” 

He forced himself to breathe. Dream had risen, knees around his torso. He hadn’t even realised he had formed it, but Dream had his other hand around his cock. The touch was gentle, but— he couldn’t flinch away, but he must’ve, because the touch was so tender and he couldn’t help himself. He recovered quickly; the touch was barely there, loose enough that he could pull away if he wanted to. “I—” 

His throat tightened. Dream’s fingers curled just slightly, and he didn’t know if he wanted him to move closer or move away. 

“Too much?”

No, he could take more. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to; he knew he would have to surrender, but that didn’t mean it was easy. 

“Faster.” He didn’t say more. 

It might’ve been worse if Dream spoke as he worked him open, he thought. He had been so gentle that he’d almost forgotten it wasn’t some faceless power drawing the sensation out of him, but rather another bearing down on him.

It was easier to accept the surrender, like this.

Cross shuddered, breath hitching. It wasn’t painful. It was tender, aching, foreign. 

He was hard. His cock throbbed as the touch coaxed him into letting down his walls, he felt like prey, he was being worked open and he knew how this looked but his throat was dry and all his efforts were going to not making a noise.

Dream shifted. The touch came quicker, quicker. He made a sound, then bit his lips shut. 

He thought of sugar. Crumbling sugar. Molasses.

The touch receded. The breath tumbled out of him. He was burning; sweat dripped down his temple. 

His eyes flew open. 

Mouth pressed against the skin of his cock; wet and so warm. He cried out, it was so sensitive already and Dream had an inch of his cock in his mouth, back arched. Cross slid up. He blinked and blinked and he couldn’t blink the tears out of his eyes. He barely registered the soft sweet moans from the Fae through the growing haze. 

He hit a spot that made him gasp and grind down. For an instant he felt bad as the head of his cock surely hit the back of Dream’s throat. He certainly made a surprised mph, but then there were light bells ringing away in his head. 

Good boy. You’re doing so well.

He thought of prey. He thought of predator. He thought of—

He releases. He choked so hard on the pleasure he almost started gasping. The rush of humiliation soaked up to his collarbone, he was flushing; Dream let him go. 

He stopped leaking, but the moment stretched. The purplish stickiness stained the ground beneath them, whatever fabricated reality Dream’s created for them to fuck in without him losing his mind. 

As he wearily looked up Dream wiped away a drop of purple from his mouth. 

Cross was truly going insane. 

Dream rocked back from his knees to his heels. He was tired. He was far too shaky to say anything. 

“Going quiet again?” Dream reached for him, and suddenly he was in his face again. He cupped Cross’s chin, tilting his face up to meet his eyes. “What are you thinking, love?”

“You have strange taste.”

Dream blinked, caught off guard for the second briefest moment. “Strange taste?” he echoed. “Oh, dear, you wound me.”

Honestly, he hadn’t expected to get away with running his tongue but the achingly pleasant afterglow had killed any voice of reason in his head. Ah well, at least he was having fun.

“You liked the jewels. Maybe I should’ve tried that.”

“Wishful thinking,” Dream replied/

“Years of life. A cherished memory.”

He sighed wistfully. “I’d much rather have you.”

He wanted to close his eyes. Shut them in his face, but then he thought of something else.

“There was a woman who’d married your kind. I remember the story. The Fae promised her she would be loved, and less than a decade later she was found left in a grove with her eyes turned to stone.”

Dream smiled. “I promised you no love. If I were to do the same—” His hand lifted up, gestured at his eye, “It would be less of a betrayal.”

“And there I’ll be, ten years later, a fossilized discovery in the trunk of a tree.”

Dream frowned. His lips parted, but the words never quite came because Cross closed the distance with a kiss. When he finally broke away, Dream said with wonder, “I don’t understand your kind at all.” 

Cross laughed a little. It was a quiet sound, strained at the edges. He couldn’t help it, it had been so long since he’d been free to. 

“You’re trembling.”

Cross scoffed, but his breath had caught. “It’s cold.”

Dream’s head tilted, considering. “Liar.” His hands brushed against his jaw, but didn’t hold it in place. “So afraid,” He murmured. “Even now.”

“Sometimes fear is good. I’m sure you would agree.”

Dream’s lips parted in the shape of a laugh, but no sound came. “If only that King of yours was as wise.” This time he smiled tenderly, the ghost of the touch against his jaw growing warmer. “I could still do it, you know.” His fingers trailed down Cross’s throat. “Pluck you from your body like a pearl from an oyster. Hollow you out.”

“There’s another story I remember,” He said with the same smile. “There was once a boy that sought something forbidden. He went where he was not meant to, and was taken away.”

Dream’s expression was unreadable. “What happened to him?”

“I don’t know. That’s where it ends.”

Dream laughed, low and quiet. His fingers pressed just a little deeper; like this, he could probably feel his pulse. “You test me, love.”

Cross’s smile was thin. “Then kill me.”

Dream’s grip tightened, just for a second. And then, with a sharp exhale, he let go.

“Ah, love.” A shake of the head, a low chuckle, but his eyes were still burning. “That would be such a waste.”

“Yes,” He agreed. “Especially since you’re not quite done.”

“Yes,” And it was a hiss-sigh-cry as he lunged forward. Cross was suddenly yanked away, free falling as his breath caught in his throat. Down, down, down he went, head-first and feet-up.

He’d kept his composure. He hadn’t made a single noise, though maybe he’d stopped breathing.

“There we are,” Dream said happily. He blinked. and there he was. Standing before him, soft, delicate, terrifying Dream. He made a soft titter. “Did I scare you? I wanted to be here, for this.”

The ground beneath him was no longer solid. He was on his haunches. Cross glanced to his left. To his right. 

Before, the air had felt crisp, harsh almost, carrying weight and direction. Now, it was thick, like swimming through mist, like breathing in water that didn’t drown. The light, too, had been clear, sharp even; colors defined, shadows sharp and purposeful. Now, everything blended. Colors blurred together, mingled like liquid paints on a canvas.

Before, everything had been a soft haze, but now he watched transfixed as he touched the surface beneath him. It felt liquid, but it didn’t ripple. It stretched on like the surface of a lake, and in the smooth surface he saw reflected a sky filled with stars. 

“Well, properly here. I don’t mind wearing your face, but allow me to indulge.”

He looked up. He blinked. Dream was dripping gold from his eyesockets. He was still skeletal, but he swore the angular bones had smoothened to be softer. He wasn’t entirely sure. 

Then again, it was his face. He glanced around. The world was stretched, warped around him.

Well. You certainly look more Fae.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Dream said softly. “I work very hard on my dreams.”

Cross was about to say something when he got distracted. The clear liquid beneath him had looped up, around his wrist, and was yanking it upwards. His heart skipped a beat as the loop tightened, and he instinctively tried to pull back.

“The dreams I make,” Dream continued, his voice softer now, “Are my art, my love. I shape them, mold them until they are perfect. Until they bend and stretch to fit what I want. What I need.”

As Dream took a step forward, the air thickened, curling around him like the mist. The space between them seemed to compress, becoming smaller and smaller. 

Cross tried to steady himself. He was always good at keeping his cool, but just as he felt like he could breathe again, his other wrist was caught. The liquid had snaked up his arm without him noticing, its slippery, clear tendrils winding around his wrist and yanking his other arm away. 

Dream wasn’t touching him, but the liquid beneath his thighs was sliding down. 

“Sweet boy. Let’s make sure it won’t hurt, alright?”

As if a little sweetness could distract him from being pried open. His hands curled into fists. “Let go.”

It grazed his rim, thin but inscrutably there. He might’ve shuddered, he’d might’ve flinched when it gently pressed in. Cross tried to push away, but a swift yank later found that his bound arms made it impossible to move that far. He could struggle slightly, though. There was just enough give for him to yank back.

Dream made a soft noise. He was closer. “I haven’t even started.”

Bastard. He’d gone through worse. The intrusion didn’t quite hurt, but it felt strange. He was holding himself together far better than earlier. 

(His cock was much more sensitive, maybe he ought to dissolve the magic there so Dream wouldn’t have the same leverage.)

“Do you want to be a Prince, Cross?”

It took a second, but he snapped onto the thought quick enough. “I am a Prince.” 

He could still hold a conversation, so that was nice. 

“Oh? And what kind of Prince gives up on the King so easily?”

The tendril inside him curled up. Cross exhaled sharply. “Very funny.”

“I thought so,” Dream said lightly. “I’m not so familiar with your mortal laws, but I’m quite sure openly disdaining His Majesty is quite the offence.”

“I hadn’t.” His breath stuttered for just a second.

“That’s not what I heard,” Dream corrected smoothly. “You must know he isn’t willing to take risks. If he hears a whisper of treason, well.” His fingers traced idle patterns in the air, and the length around Cross’ wrists tightened. “What I’m trying to say,” he continued, voice warm, almost indulgent, “is that you’ll have nowhere else to go. So you don’t need to put up a front. Not with me.”

Cross bit the inside of his cheek. The tendril— he could feel it thickening, scraping against his walls. He wouldn’t make a noise, but he could feel himself being filled up, and the edges of his vision were growing blurry. 

“Why?” His voice was already hoarse. “What do you want?”

His golden eyes gleamed, the liquid dripping from them tracing the curve of his cheekbones like tears. “Dear Prince, you need to start asking the right questions.”

They drew out the title for long enough that any sweetness on their tongue turned sour. 

“You could force it out of me. Why—” He gasped. “Why not just carve it out of me, your pleasure? Why take the time to coax me out?”

To them, you would never be a person at all.’ 

He was long ready to lose himself. Long ready to forget everything, forget his name, forget his will. He wanted to close his eyes, lower his head so he didn’t need to see the beautiful pity on the Fae’s face. But something was holding his head up, and he couldn’t blink away the sight of golden tears slipping down his face like molten light.

“I don’t make choices lightly. And I don’t take things I don’t want.”

He touched his cheek, and the tendril inside him pulsed against a very sweet spot. He cried out, and Dream bent down to kiss him. 

“The man you served was trying to find a way to cheat death.” 

It took Cross a moment to realise that he was talking about his father. 

“What?” It was what he wanted, a distraction, but the whiplash still made him dizzy.

“Oh, yes,” He said listlessly. “He was so irritating. Truly the worst of mortal scum. He would not leave us alone. Imitation truly is no proper version of flattery.”

Cross sucked in a breath as liquid pooled in the hollows of his joints. The grip on his throat tightened, and a strangled sound slipped from his lips.

“I want to hear you, Cross.” Dream’s voice was velvet. “You’re perfect like this. You’re perfect for me. Look at you, sweet boy, hands above your head and writhing for me.” 

His cheeks burned with shame. He wanted to retort something, but the words caught in his throat. Anything he could’ve said was crushed by the pulsing, insistent need Dream was drawing out of him.

He couldn’t look at him— couldn’t bear it. He could feel himself crumbling under each touch. 

“Let go, Cross.” As gentle as it was, it was still a command. “You’ve been holding on for so long. Let go for me.”

Cross could feel the pressure building, the tension winding tighter inside of him. Something took hold of his cock, so tight and god, he knew he should’ve dismissed it. And still, he fought it. He fought Dream, even as every part of him screamed to release, to surrender.

"Let go," he repeated, each word dripping with an insidious calm. The heat swelled again, almost unbearable now.

Cross couldn't hold on much longer.

“I know what happened to that boy.”

The words didn’t quite pierce through him. It took him time, to latch onto the meaning. He tried to, tried to push past the raw searing tension tearing through him.

“What... what do you mean?” He forced out, voice barely a whisper.

“The boy that sought the forbidden. My mother made him into my brother, and then she created me for him.”

He laughed sourly.

“Ah, well. At least I have someone of my own, now. Do you know how pretty you look? Coming undone?”

He didn’t know what made him shake his head, because he could already feel himself teetering. That cursed pressure was right up against the spot that made him see stars. 

“Guess we’ll find out.”

The world lit up. The liquid heated up rapidly. Every nerve in his body felt like it was alight and ignited. His vision blurred, flickering with lights and colors, each one more intense than the last, until all he could focus on was the aching, rocking into him.

He moaned despite his best efforts. 

The warmth spread, radiating from the center of him outward, until it felt like his entire body was burning from the inside out. 

He let go. He came, spilling warmth, wet everywhere and still leaking below. He was so, so tired. 

He wanted to scream when Dream dragged him closer, into his lap. At some point his wrists had been released, and he noted with mute disbelief that there were no bruises at all. 

“I’m tired, Dream,” He said. “It’s been twice, I can’t come again, please—”

“I’m doing you a favour, Cross.” His eyes sparkled dangerously. “Isn’t that what you came here for? To entice a Fae enough that they’d accept your offer, even when you yourself think you’re nothing? 

He closed his mouth. He looked away (oh, at least he could do that now).

“Clever, clever boy.”

Because, from the beginning, he had never had any plans of leaving. 

He wanted to retort, but he saw it in his eyes. Dream knew.

“Isn’t this what you want? A Fae to be so infatuated with you, wanting to carve out every inch of pleasure from your fragile form before leaving you to dust? Oh, wait, no.” Dream ran a thumb over his cheek, thoughtful. “Only after turning you to stone.”

He silently rocked back. 

Falling in love with a Fae was dangerous. But using it against them to get what he wanted—

“If it had been a lesser Fae,” He said gently, “It might’ve worked.”

He’d wanted to burn the whole Palace down when he’d been ordered to handle the Fae. But he’d thought better of it. He then thought of running away, but no. His brother was still there. The only way to avoid retaliation from the King was to pretend he had lost. As if he had done his utmost.

“Oh, love. I’m willing to play the role if it makes you happy.”

He couldn't help it. He laughed. 

Let the war take them all. He might’ve worn a crown but he’d never been the type of person to care for the people. His father deserved all the ruin in the world, and if it meant letting his nation crumble, so be it. 

Only the others didn’t. He’d spent too much time with them, gotten to know them too well. His mistake.

He just hadn’t expected Dream to keep him for so long. Weren’t the Fae supposed to bore of mortals in the blink of an eye? He’d been ready to die, or go insane just as the others trapped in each fairytale had. It was a long time coming for him.

“I could ask my brother to spare your father, dear Prince. Just say the word.”

It was hell, living under him.

“Let me pretend.” He closed his eyes, and rocked into Dream. He felt Dream’s magic snap around him, and let out a breathless sigh as the cock wedged into him. It might’ve hurt if he wasn’t already so slick there, and besides, he was sure any discomfort would’ve been torn away from his fractured sense of reality the moment he showed any signs.

He was sorry that he would not return to his family, some of them were decent. But not sorry enough. He had done what he could for them.

There was once an immortal. An immortal who had once been known as a god but had long let go of such a title. He had tired of it, and with time chose to step away from the elaborate altars and ornate temples. Quite literally in his case: his steps had been soundless against the temple’s front steps.

How his acolytes had cried out in his absence; how the flowers rotted quickly in the gardens; how quickly the stories of him turned desperate. Devotees cried out with hands raised and ready offerings but he was already gone from their grasp.

These were all memories of a past life now.

So Ink slipped through the cracks of memory. Stories turned from desperate to angry, from angry to pitiful, then to nothing at all. He stopped listening to stories. His temples faded into ruin, into dust, and still he never returned.

He found his own way in the world. It was its own type of indulgence, really. For decades he did nothing but wander. But with time, there were no more beauties left for him, for he had seen them all: he tired of them once again.

There was a void in him that nothing could fill. Not worship, not life; it was the nature of his existence. Immortality was a lonely existence. If not for the nature of his Godhood, he would’ve departed from this world a long, long time ago.

But he was born a God, and the world could not continue on without the presence of its Gods. So, he had to make do.

He began to learn. Learned to mimic others. Learned to mimic warmth and frostiness, grief and sweetness. He found himself in the town squares and open fields, finding himself among the mortals again. For a while the pretense satiated him. 

But there were times when his mask slipped. Times when he faltered, unsure of how to react. 

They sensed it, he knew. They felt it; he wasn’t like them. He was good at pretending, but he was not perfect. It was unfair, wasn’t it? To fake warmth and attract folk to him like bees to honey when he wasn’t warm or sweet at all.

It was unfair. It really was, wasn’t it? He felt guilty at the thought. And if nothing else, Ink acted on feeling and nothing else.

So with time, he distanced himself from the others and dropped the pretense of warmth.

But as time passed, he only grew lonelier.

But the world was still there for him, with all its ugliness and beauty. So it was the world he was drawn to; he became a painter, an artist: mimicking the world through creation (an old friend) and for a while was content. Or as content as an immortal could be.

The others would stay to chat, but they would not stay. They would compliment his art, but they would leave thereafter. They were not cruel, they were not sweet, but they were kind enough and the brief moments of interaction were their own sweetness.

Perhaps that is why he soon grew comfortable enough to dream. Gods dreamt, but of their devotee’s prayers and wishes. Immortals didn’t dream. Most of them didn’t, anyway. There was just his voice in his dreams. Just him and hopes, of wonder. He was still lonely. The idea of companionship began trickling into his head like water into a cup.

But, for a time, he did nothing about it. It would still be unfair to search for a companion, the nature of his being being what it was. At minimum it would hurt him to leave them behind in death’s arms; he had heard stories of forlorn lovers, broken hearts and people driven to insanity faced with the death of a beloved. The heartbreak might even be mutual; then, he mused, what joy would there be in such a relationship? What would be the point?

For a while he considered kin instead of love. But separation would be no less painful than with a lover, perhaps worse: would the nature of his being affect a child of his? He did not want that. So for a time he was alone, and found what bliss there was in it. 

Then there were the Fae. They had always been there, really; just as Ink had been, and with the very nature of their existence being so different they hardly ever made contact. It was mutual, really; the breadth between them, a silent agreement to stay out of the other’s path.

But that agreement was no more than silence when the thought came to him one autumn-stained night. And the thought would not leave him, nor did he let it. So one night, with the wind of fallen leaves in the air, he made his way to the village well and tossed a copper coin into it. Quickly the wind fell into a silence, the ripples of the toss into the water smoothing over, and he wished for a child.

Then a whisper of sharpness, like a simper, like a laugh. 

“You know there will be a price to pay.” Ink did not look back. “I also know I may set conditions.”

“I suppose.” And the voice had dulled ever so slightly, as if disappointed. Not all-together  pleased. But Ink had not come here for them. 

“The child will be unharmed. You may set me a debt. You may set me a test. But in any case,” He continued, though he knew he would find a way to pay any debt and pass any test. “The child will not suffer. No death, no hurt; no misfortune, no pain. No curse, no hex. Let my debt be mine and mine alone.”

“Ahh.” And there was a note of amusement, of curiosity, of intrigue in his pleased voice. “That is a fair condition. Very well. By sunrise, you will have your child.”

A child that would be nothing like him. A child, whole and loved. A child, safe for him to love. Ink smiled. The wind started rustling again. When he turned to leave, the Fae was already gone. But the apple weighed in his hand and he found his way home in no time at all. 

True to the Fae’s word, which was always true, there was a beautiful babe waiting for him. A boy with charming, glowing eyes and pearly white bones. 

Ink cradled the babe in his arms the same way the mothers he’d watched had, but was careful to adjust the child so he would not kill them in less than a day. He felt almost nothing as he tipped the small bottle of milk into the child’s mouth; the soft, milky aroma that came of it elicited no stronger reaction than a twitch. 

The child smelled so strongly of honey. 

He wiped the drool from the child’s mouth, watched as he gazed back at him with round eyes; then, suddenly, they gleamed with a brilliant gold, and a gurgle left them. 

It was like the sound of a river, the sound of life.

The sheen of gold was gone as soon as it had been there, but then there were the small hands reaching for the half-empty bottle. It was a small bottle. 

Later, he would understand the gold gaze to be a sign of the child being happy. And, perhaps if the child was happy, he was content enough. Someday, there would be a price for this. The Fae would surely claim something grand and terrible. The Fae were not humble creatures.

Neither was he. It would be worth it. He had done miracles before, turned water to wine and blood to roses. If grandness was what was demanded of him, he would simply acquiesce like all the other times he’d done in the past. 

The tiny fingers reached up, grasping at the air before gently curling around the fingers around the milk bottle; he held on as if Ink was his entire world. Ink could feel all the internal gravitas that the memories of a past life had brought forth unravel in an instant.

He could feel himself turning soft. The sensation was not entirely unwelcome. Was this, oh, how it felt like to be mortal?

Ink gave the boy a fitting name, but was not so foolish as to speak it aloud should the Fae have been listening. But it was a beautiful name, and it suited the child very much.

He waited for the Fae to come and collect, but nothing ever came of it. All was well as the babe matured from a very, very small child to a very small child. The child was healthy and knew the joys of living so well that he never cried. They spent springs in meadows and summers in lakes, and though Ink waited for the time where he would need to pay the price, he was left waiting for months and months on end with no Fae contact at all.

Then, when autumn came, the child suddenly became ill. Once so eager to leave the walls of their dwelling Ink had begrudgingly constructed after realising it was not wise to leave a child out in the open, the child now tugged on his hand not to hasten their leave, but to stay. For a while, Ink assumed it had been the cold weather that had brought the abrupt rejection and merely made notes to mark the warmer days for their time outside, but even on the warmest autumn afternoons the child’s resolve remained.

Ink realised the child’s sickness a week in. As the days passed, his bone only grew increasingly, bitingly cold. The nights were the worst of it, and though the warmth of magic he had not used in a very long time unfurled through the house enough that it felt no different than summer sun, the child still shuddered and held onto him, looking upon him with small eyes that seemed to plead for him to make him well. He wailed for nights on end, so pale even in the candlelight of the beeswax candles he kept alight, and Ink began to grow tired. 

Though, the fatigue was minuscule compared to the grief. 

Try as he could, and did, nothing lifted the sickness from the child’s bones. All his Godly miracles did nothing, and neither did the herbs and remedies from the village. Vaguely, he recognised the cruel irony: love heralded grief, he had known that much. Yet, foreknowledge had changed nothing in the end. 

The child stopped crying midway into winter. He was so cold now, as cold as winter ice, but he no longer shuddered and pleaded for him to make him warm and well. The cool neutral nothingness in the child was worse than the days of constant consciousness trying to get him to rest, even for a minute. Neither did the child smile or laugh, and with startling clarity that filled into him as coldly as the child’s bone, he knew very well that this was the price to pay.

But had he not set the condition? Why was the child being made to suffer? Had the Fae wronged him? Now, he did not remember the heat of fury until it filled into him. He would utterly des—

No, he had set the condition, and the Fae could not break the conditions of a deal as they so pleased. There had to be something else at play.

But, suddenly, he cared less about the deal he made now almost years ago, and touched the child’s cheek, warmth pooling in his palm. The child stirred ever so slightly, but it did not seem to melt away the state he had fallen into. The child’s eyes did not show gold for the entire season of frosty winds and snowfall.

“Stay with me,” He murmured. Pleaded. “Stay with me,” He repeated, but the child did not seem to hear. 

By spring, the child had begun to return to his former self. The new season brought with it tentative hope, though the shadows of winter's ordeal still lingered. Ink watched as the child’s colour slowly returned, the once pallid cheeks now flushing with the faintest hints of life. The small eyes that had been so dim and pleading began to regain their spark, the light of curiosity and joy flickering back to life.

Yes, perhaps that was enough. No matter of the Fae’s curse or demand, if the child could recover, that would be enough. 

The next autumn, the child again grew weary and ill, and it was then Ink was certain of the Fae’s role in it. The confirmation had been unwelcome, but undeniable: it had come with the cool, steady clarity of a realisation utterly unquestionable.

But it had been nothing compared to the sight of the baby’s small bed empty. 

He considered many possibilities. Would it matter if he turned wrathful? Who in this world could stop him? Even the Fae would not be able to defend against him forever. It would not be the first time utter destruction had become of him; yes, the memories of previous times brought shame and regret now, but he could find no shame or regret in what he wanted to do in this moment.

Who were the Fae, to demand him come looking for them? Who were they, to abduct his child?

In the end, he merely returned to the well where his wish had been made so long ago. If there was even a chance of retrieving his child, well, how could he not go?

In the small bed of moss behind the well, he found two identical children asleep. Their eyes were closed, but their bones were pearly white even in the light of soon dusk, and the triumphant voice echoed with anticipatory delight. “One is the one you took home with you, the delightful gold-eyed child with the sweetness of honey. The other is a changeling, the one that made your autumns weary and winters fretful. The child you take in your arms and leave with will be yours forever, and the one you leave behind, you will never see again.”

Ink breathed, struck by a so very mortal emotion— terror.

“Choose. That is your test.” The Fae’s voice was so assured in themself, and how could they not have been? It was a cruel test. The cost, he now knew, was the child he would have to leave behind. The Fae must have been sure that he would choose the honeysweet boy; but, as he gazed upon the child that was always sickly in the colder seasons, he could not choose. 

Carefully, he touched the cheek of the honeysweet boy, then the cheek of the changeling child. One was of unbridled warmth, and the other so cold it burned. Surely the honeysweet boy had been tailored to perfection, made beautiful and flawless that he’d want to keep him. And the changeling child, though he did not know for certain, must’ve been made to suffer for the same reason, though for opposite ends. 

This was the cost. He understood it now. It had been the changeling made to suffer, not his own. The condition set had not been broken.

He could not quite take ‘his own’ into his arms and leave the changeling behind, as much as it seemed to be the only option he had.

Then, briefly, he exhaled.

“You said,” He said softly. “That the child I take in my arms and leave with will be mine forever, and the one I leave behind, I will never see again?”

“Indeed,” The voice was cruel, eager, curious.

The decision was made, and Ink took the honeysweet boy into his arms. The glitched, monstrous laughter of the Fae rang out, but it cut off as soon as Ink readjusted the child so he had enough leverage, and took the changeling child into his arms as well. 

“You— you cannot take both!” The voice was layered, glitched; and with the absence of any gloating or cruelty, Ink knew with certainty that he had found his solution. 

“Did you say I could only take one?” Now, the weight of a God found itself in him as he turned sharply to face the Fae, several feet taller than himself, and yet he stared unyieldingly into his mismatched eyes with ferocity that was gaining on him by the second. “No, you did not. I shall take my children, both of which I have loved and grieved, and you will do nothing of it.” “I will not allow that.” Now the Fae’s voice was becoming twisted, angry, inhuman. 

“Yes,” His voice was quiet, piercing. “ You will.”

Because he was watching the Fae so closely, he saw the way he faltered, the way his mismatched eyes widened. 

“You are— not mortal.”

“Your soul will be torn into tatters if you dare take my children from me,” He spoke plainly. “We are not bound by the deal anymore. I have done my part. You have done yours. Now leave me, or—”

“You have not passed.” His voice steadied. The chaotic, messy noise consolidated into a single sound. “You have not failed, but you have not passed. Your debt is unpaid.”

Fool. Ink opened his mouth, but the Fae continued. “I will not claim your children. They will be yours, forever and ever, when you leave with them. That is not what I ask.” “Then,” And Ink’s eyes were sharp, but he was curious too. “What price would you have me pay?”

The Fae was silent. His mismatched eyes were on him, and it was clear for the few moments of silence that lapsed between them that he was hesitating.

“I will go with you.” The words were declarative, sure. Ink blinked. It took a moment for the words to register. “They are still Fae children, even if just half-Fae. I will not have you hurt them with or without intention.”

Ink considered it for a moment more.

“Fine. Come with me, Fae.”

“Actually—” He let out a glitched sigh. “Call me Error.”

Ink glanced upon him. He looked away. 

“Aren’t you going to tell me your name?”

“Nice try.” His tone was completely neutral. He followed the path out, and once he stepped out with his children tightly in his embrace, he let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding in. 

“The honeysweet child will no longer be just sweetness.” The warning came with the tone of conversation. “He was made that way for the test. He will begin to grow into his own, and experience his own unhappiness soon enough.”

“And the changeling child will become well?”

“Yeah, I guess Nightmare will.”

Ink came to a stop, then turned to Error incredulously. “You call him Nightmare?”

He raised his hands in surrender. “It’s not like I realised you would find a loophole and bring him back! His entire existence was crafted to fit that role, anyway.”

Ink let out a huff. Then, he paused, and touched his mouth, as if in a daze.

Error’s eyebrows creased. 

“What’s the matter with you?”

Ink let out a long, steady breath, and continued on his way. He would never voice the thoughts swirling around in his head in a haze of madness: if the children had brought love and grief into his life, what was the biting annoyance he felt now that was yet free of any real ire?

“Please tell me you don’t have iron in your house.” Ink turned to retort, and realised Error had adapted his form so that he appeared less unworldly. The glitching edges of his clothes, and the hum in his voice had been smoothed over or turned quieter, and he now looked no more unworldly than Ink.

“Well?” He prompted.

Ink gazed at him impassively. 

“Don’t make me regret this.”

Error laughed, a laugh steadier than a cackle, but it was still a glitching laugh beautiful in its madness.

Perhaps someday, he would finally tell Error the name he had chosen for the boy: Dream, because the new life had seemed nothing short of a miracle, a dream. 

Perhaps. Perhaps not. He would not make a decision on the first day.

Once upon a time,  there was an immortal that abandoned godhood for the simple reason that he found no meaning in it. He’d left the elaborate altars and ornate temples behind to wander the world, stuck between the living, feeling masses and the simple awareness that he would be alive for forever and ever. There had been simple joys he’d found in this unique sort of existence here and there, across the centuries he’d been alive for.

By the seventeenth year of their marriage, there was still no heir to be had, and the court was growing increasingly worried.

Though both King and Queen were married at the youthful age when it was easiest to be fruitful, the war with their neighbouring Kingdoms inherited from his father kept the King away from their bedchambers in the first few years. But the court was preoccupied with war efforts, and the Queen was a Good Queen. She faithfully waited for her husband to return, the perfect martyr.

The war ended on the enemy Kingdom’s surrender. So instead of the disgrace of defeat, the King returned to his Palace in the glory of victory, Only then did talk of an heir start up again. And the King, finally in the company of his wife after so much time away, did not argu

There would be nothing bourn until nearly a year later; but, less than a month later, what would have been their heir died tragically in the womb. The King and Queen tried again, but they would not conceive until the next Spring.

It would be dead by Winter.

Soon it had been a decade, and both King and Queen so much older, and yet not a single child to show for it. There was fear that soon the Queen would no longer be able to conceive, and that the King ought to marry a second wife, one more youthful, one that might birth him his heir.

However, the King refused to remarry. What an insult to his Queen! But he was not unwise; they had to have an heir, and he understood that the odds were against them. Increasingly so, as day by day passed and no heir was conceived. He invited help from all the corners of the world, summoning midwives and beseeching witches but nothing did any good at all.

Perhaps fortunately, or unfortunately, when he asked for the cause of their misfortune, he was told that the cause was just that; there was no illness, no curse. They were simply unlucky. Time would bring to them their heir soon enough. But time, he feared, was not on their side.

It was in a moment of great desperation that the King began searching the Fae texts for anything that could help.

It was, again, fortune or misfortune that there was indeed something. ***

The birth of the Princess was a truly momentous occasion. She was said to be as bright as Summer skies, and just as lovely a s Spring fields, as the daughter of the very best of their people. So the people rejoiced! And very little of this was a lie. The Princess was lovely indeed, though all babes do seem to be to their parents.

For the wonder that was her birth after seventeen years of failure, she was named Mira***.

The day of her christening was a day of celebration. Nobles and commonfolk alike were invited to the feast, and in his jubilation the King extended the invitation to even the Fae.

The ceremony was only the start of the celebration; the festivities ran into the afternoon, and the feast ran into the night.

It was by the end of the feast that the Fae came forward with gifts for the Princess.

The King and Queen exchanged glances, but they sat still on their gilded thrones and watched the first of them to step forward.

The skeletal faerie in silver armour and, interestingly enough, scarfed in blueberry blue, was the first.1 He stepped to the cradle, and bent to kiss her forehead. “May courage serve her well.”

For an instant there were blue sparks sticking to her forehead left by the kiss, then he gently pulled away from the girl and strolled to the side for the next Fae.

The second Faerie, who was quite a glutton, kissed the girl and commanded, “She shall be as sweet as honey cakes.” There was a slight tension at that, but not an uncomfortable one at all (save for the few who immediately choked on the honey cake in their mouth).2

The third Faerie was meek, reptilian yellow scales glinting in the light as she approached the girl, back hunched.3 She was far quieter as she murmured, “She’ll be an inquisitive girl. One as curious as the breeze of fall.” And the curiosity of the autumn winds had carried the chill of fall to all four corners of the world. Indeed, there was nothing above-ground that the autumn winds had not felt out at least once, curious as they were.

The fourth Faerie was also skeletal, the curious blooms poking out from under his clothing.4 Still, there was just a gentleness in his smile as he gave his blessing. “May the blossom-filled airs alight even her breaths with peace.”

The fifth Faerie’s smile was almost sharp, but he did not approach the girl and merely waved his hand for a cascade of rosy sparks showered upon the girl.5

“She shall be as beautiful as Springtime.” His violet tongue slipped out beneath his teeth as he spoke, voice edged with a certain alluring hunger.

Now the fifth Faerie stepped aside to join the other Fae, and the silence of bated breath swarmed the hall. All this while the Princess was blinking curiously, sweeping her head to the side to catch another glance at these mysterious strangers.

The King and Queen let out sighs of relief, exchanging looks, for they had both been afraid that a Fae’s well-meaning gift might have ended up being a curse. The King got to his feet, ready to address the crowd with new bravado now that the danger had passed. Surely now there was nothing to fear.

‘Nothing’ let out a laugh edged with ice.

The grin on the King’s face froze, the laughter slicing through the brief moment of relief and cutting down to bone. But he did not speak, for he had not seen the intruder form out of thin air. Because no one had. No one noticed the silvery moonlight light being blocked by the figure emerging from its shadow, and nor did anyone realise the appearance of a well-dressed boy before the window.

What they did notice, however, was how every gaze of the Fae fell to the stranger. Then even the King’s eyes were upon them as well. The stranger’s purple eyes scanned the crowd, sweeping across the nobles and commonfolk before pausing at the cradle.

The King’s Guard began to reach for the hilt of their swords. Before the King could raise a hand to halt them, there were yelps and the suddenly frozen swords shattered into useless splinters.

Though the stranger was merely a boy, the King could not quite move.

“Your Majesty,” He spoke, and his voice was a quiet, earthy rumble that permeated the hall. “I see talk has not been exaggerated, much. She truly is beloved. Celebrated.” The stranger’s smile did not meet his eyes. “Quite a miracle, was she not?”

The King’s mouth went dry. And, suddenly, the King on the throne seemed quite powerless. “Guardian, I—”

“And miracles have costs, do they not?” A cost for reward, a price for folly. And the glint in the stranger’s eyes was akin to glare. Suddenly, the miracle baby was the focus of all within the hall, and the stranger— a Guardian?— was watching them with the patience of a predator.

“We did not mean to offend you,” The Queen pleaded. “We simply made— we simply forgot.”

Gasps rippled over the hall. Forgot? And the immediate stiffening of her mouth drawing her lips into a tight grimace might as well have been the nail in the coffin: the confirmation of a debt would be enough to fuel rumours of illegitimacy for weeks, and people had talked of far less. And in the tense quiet no one saw the Fae guests stiffen-flinch-sigh, for they felt the lie as clearly as the stranger did.

“I was so gracious to you, Your Majesties,” He mused. “Seventeen years without an heir? My, in another time that would have meant utter annihilation. And what did I ask in exchange for saving your bloodline from its end?”

“Don’t do this,” The King breathed. He was not so regal anymore, even up on his raised throne. There would have been disdain, if not for the overwhelming fear. And the stranger knew it coyly.

“Without my mercy, your reign would have become ruinous, would it not?” And the stranger’s eyes gleamed with an odd sort of amusement. “Come now, esteemed guests and lessers. Allow me to elucidate. Shall you make your own judgement?”

“Don’t.” But the King was absolutely helpless.

“Did none of you find it odd there was not a single heir for seventeen years of marriage? No, perhaps odder that after all that stagnancy, there was a miracle of life. Time was running out, was it not? And you sought a child. I was very fair with the price, no?”

She clambered to her feet. “You wanted our daughter—”

“Your daughter?” His voice was so very quiet. “Your daughter?” The air had turned freezing. What warmth was left was stolen away from the broths like gems picked out of the soil. “My, what an awkward situation. I assumed, even after all this offence, you would know to pay back your debts.”

A whoosh of wind blew out the candles.

“A child for a child. A life for a life. The Fair Folk are very fair, Foolish King. I will be fair. So tell me,” And his voice had grown deafeningly quieter. “How will you pay for your offence?”

There was a sharp pause as the people registered it: this was a Fae. Sharp breaths echoed throughout the space, some taking steps back but the King hesitated only a fraction of a second.

“Gold.” The words came as if drowned in the quiet. “Jewels, land, crowns—” He began to trip over his tongue. “Paintings, sculptures—”

“No.”

The single word broke up the King’s offers.

“No gold shines as bright as the smile of a happy child. No jewel could ever compare to the joy in a child’s eyes. I am unsatisfied.”

The Queen began to shift. “Kind sir,” She spoke with the tone of a plea, “It was our offence, we shall repay it for ourselves, the Kingdom had had no hand in this.” And the stranger began to laugh.

“Is that so? Are you the only souls in this hall celebrating the Princess?”

And the Queen faltered. “I—”

“Payment, then? Every Fae present has presented their own gift to the Princess. I think a curse for the offence is thus suitable, isn’t it so?”

And the Queen’s fair skin grew pale as the King’s eyes widened minutely.

“Good sir, kind sir—”

“A plague, perhaps? Maybe pestilence would break in the lesson well enough. Perhaps famine or flood? Or shall I turn you into a boar? A pig, to be carved up and served for dinner?”And he laughed a cruel laugh. “Or perhaps the Princess into a cow.”

At this the Queen had let out a cry of grief. It was this that the stranger’s gazes honed in on, though he did not miss the King’s clenched fist of the cloth of his clothes.

But then the stranger’s gaze flickered to the Fae, who were looking upon him with a sort of detachment. (The thrum of their gifts hummed, so faint compared to his power.)

The stranger pulled his gaze back. “No, I suppose not.” And there was a strangeness in his eye. A gleam, but made of a shadow. A darkness, but a swallowing one.

There was a lapse in the moonlight. It lasted for a second more. Two seconds. Three.

It was a lunar eclipse.

In the darkness, no one noticed the green emerge from the darkness swallowed purple pupils. No one could see the tendrils extend and lurch out of his back. The King and Queen could not see in the overwhelming darkness, but they could make out a shape of a shadow slowly moving to them— no, the cradle.

No, the Queen tried to choke out, but she couldn’t move from her throne. The King tried to give the command to the King’s Guard, but he couldn’t move a finger.

In the darkness, no one could see the harsh line of the stranger’s mouth soften. Momentarily there was an almost gentleness in the stranger’s eyes looking upon the Princess.6

“The Princess shall indeed grow to be all that the Fae have blessed her to be.” The voice rumbled quietly. “Beloved by all who meet her. But she will never grow older than seventeen.” There was a pause. There was still a gentleness in his eyes that could not be seen. “She shall leave you before she may ever inherit.”

There was a terrible silence. He touched her cheek, green sparks falling from his fingers.

He was long gone by the moonlight filtering back into the hall.

One by one, the crushing pressure loosened on the people and weeping began to fill the hall. The Fae watched on, silent, but with slightly bowed heads. The King seemed stuck, as if not quite grasping the reality or perhaps resisting it. The Queen got to her feet at once and stumbled to the Princess.

“Oh, my darling,” She murmured, fighting the sobbing in her throat. “My darling, my darling…” And against her will her voice began to break.

Then, abruptly, it seemed, gazes one by one turned to the Fae guests. It seemed it would be mere moments before some foolish— “Do something!” Some foolish noble (for only a fool would shout at a Fae) in the crowd cried out. “You are here to bless the Princess, are you not? What could be a greater gift than a lifted curse?”

The Faerie in armour slowly turned his gaze to them.

“We cannot undo the curse of a Ruler.”

And the other Fae dipped their head in silent assent.

The Feast would be concluded with an air so much more sombre than the morning’s. Still the girl in her cradle was quiet, having fallen asleep some time ago. The Kingdom’s beloved little Princess, now doomed to never come of age.

Most of the Fae thereafter vanished into thin air. However, perhaps the sight of the weeping Queen brought one or two Fae to pity, because not all were gone by the midnight bells. The Faerie in silver armour remained by the side, overstaying his welcome, but who dared to chase him away by bringing out the iron?

Long after the last guests were filling out, someone entered the hall. At once the Faerie in silver armour moved, and the two approached the wary King and Queen by the cradle. The Queen kept close to the Princess, as if ready to fling herself to her defence at a moment’s notice, and the King’s hand on his sword was not-to-slowly clenching into a fist.

But the two Fae were unperturbed; they paused a few paces away and did not reach the cradle.

The new Faerie appeared to be a small human child, or she would have had it not been for the blooms swallowing half her face.7 “I have not given my gift.”

The Queen, with her child still in her arms, could not speak. The King spoke first, his voice hoarse and weary, “What gift could you possibly offer now? After what has been done?”

The new Faerie did not flinch. She looked so much like a little girl. She was so small, so little, hardly a threat. Her head was barely above the armoured Faerie’s waist. The sight made the bleeding ache within the Queen’s heart marginally worse.

“Do not despair, Your Majesties. All is not lost.”

“Can you revoke the curse?” She pleaded.

“I am no Ruler,” She spoke softly. “But do not despair. I cannot say if they will agree to help, for I cannot speak for them. But neither does the Winter Ruler.”

“Can they lift the curse?” The King questioned, desperate.

“We only say that they might be willing to,” The armoured Faerie interjected. His face was still neutral, but there he broached the subject with the slightest gentleness. “The Summer Ruler will have the most power to help you. Summer counteracts Winter, after all.”

“He may refuse,” The new Faerie said softly. “If he does, go to Spring before Autumn. You will have a higher chance of saving your daughter’s life in the season of life. But if all else fails, seek from any season but Winter.”

“How do we ask them to help us?” The King’s voice trembled.

“Go to the Summer Court,” The armoured Faerie responded. “And present your case directly to the Summer Ruler.” He gazed upon the Queen. “It will be best for a mother to request his help, he is kinder to mothers. But whoever you send must be ready to make an offer on behalf of the Kingdom.”

The Queen clutched the babe tighter, her voice barely a whisper. "And, if we succeed, he will revoke the curse?”

The two Fae slowly turned to each other. Their gazes were utterly unreadable.

“It is possible. Though we have no authority to challenge the Winter Ruler, the Summer Ruler might be amenable to your pleas. But that all depends on what you offer in return.”

The weight of their words hung heavy in the air. The Queen took in a shaky breath.

“But what if he desires something beyond our means?” The King interjected, his brow furrowed with worry. “What if we cannot fulfill his request? It was a deal that ended us in this… altercation, in the first place.”

The armoured Faerie sighed. “Then you must be prepared to negotiate.”

The new Faerie simply shrugged. “I cannot preside over whatever deal you strike to save your child.”

The Queen carefully placed the Princess back in the cradle. “But you did have a gift for her, yes?” There was an intensity forming in her gaze, the almost-power of a Queen, as she searched the new Fae’s face for any sign of hope.

The new Faerie hesitated. “I do,” she admitted, her voice quiet. “My original gift was spirit. But the gift I have for the girl now, in light of all that has happened, is a chance. A chance for life beyond the curse.” The now sixth Faerie to bless the child tiptoed to the cradle and spoke the words softly, as if afraid they would break if she was too rough with them. “She shall hold the hope of the stars in her heart.”

“That’s a lovely gift.” The Queen’s heartache eased slightly at the Fae’s words. But then all at once they lifted themselves up and turned away.

“Now we must go,” The Faerie in armour murmured, and they were gone. ***

Humans who entered the Fae Realm were usually considered fair game, but when the Queen and her entourage arrived, no Fae deigned to lure them. Or perhaps little Fae, surely one or two thought of it before the weight of the Summer Ruler’s authority crushed any thought of dissent.

For the Queen was there for the Summer Ruler, and no Fae would be so foolish as to attempt to sway his prey away from his grasp. Most Fae, anyway.

The Queen was foolish. There was no way around it; anyone deigning to make a deal with the Fae would be foolish, especially one traversing into their realm for it. But the Queen was clever enough to not fail at the first step; with iron around her wrists, neck and ankles, she followed the path carefully with not a single step off it. Not to say her entire entourage obeyed, but they could not stop for one or two led astray.

They had more important things to worry about, because the Queen was a Queen, and as desperate as she was foolish. But she was also a mother, and it was her sent on the journey because of the advice of those two Fae: ‘It will be best for a mother to request his help. He is kinder to mothers.’ So, her it was. And so they tumbled through the Fae Realm with earnest desperation in their hearts with the Summer Ruler’s eyes on them from their first step in.

As the air grew warmer and warmer, they realised they’d found their way into Summer. And Summer had been waiting for them, because it seemed so very swift that they found themselves in the Summer Court.

There was a gleam of golden light, then: “Ah, Good Queen, what brings you to our Court?”

The Queen, who had come with the hope of hiding her true identity, had to swallow her discomfort and answer. “Good sir, I come looking for the Summer Ruler; whom I have a favour to ask of.”

The surrounding chittering Fae quietened.

The Summer Ruler laughed a clear laugh, and then all at once she realised who he must be when he replied, “Very well, Good Queen. Since you’ve come all this way, I’ll hear your request.”

All at once the Queen was relieved, then the tension of asking something of the Fae settled in her chest so quickly she deflated.

“Come, Good Queen.” And when the Summer Ruler, or Dream as the stories called him, reached out a hand, it was after only a moment's hesitation that she took it. A gleam of scintillating light; then they were gone. ***

“How long will they take?” The casual question was edged with nervous uncertainty. They had their hand resting awkwardly on the hilt of their sword, fidgeting with the slight leverage it gave them.

“Who knows. Could be here 'til sundown.” And did the sun in the Summer Court even set?

A Guard murmured, "Hope they hurry up. I’m getting chills.” His eyes were scanning what they could see of the horizon.

“Don’t say that. You’ll piss them off,” Someone hissed.

Some of the Royal Guard were on their feet, shifting awkwardly and exchanging glances with just enough effort put in to disguise worry. Some of the Royal Guard were resting on the sand, stretching their sore limbs and warily watching the sun above them. It shone like a dozen suns in one; like an otherworldly thing, as if a fire that could burn them up in a flash of light.

Cross was part of the latter group, but he paid no heed to the sun. He was toying his armband as much as the inflexible material allowed, but his mind was elsewhere. This was practically a suicide mission. Literally everyone (or most people, there would always be idiots) knew not to mess with the Fae. Usually it was the Fae messing with them.

Even if the Queen succeeded, they might still be left behind. She didn’t care for them, not so much as to demand their return.

Something cold settled in his stomach. So cold that it burned him from the inside out.

It was nothing personal, he knew.

It was so hot. Cross wiped the sweat off his forehead.

A laugh echoed from the side. He paused.

“My bad, my bad,” The guilty soldier murmured. “It’s not that funny, you’re just sweating a lot and— um, you’re soaking the sand.”

Cross blinked, and looked down. He was.

“Ah,” He said very eloquently, shifting away from the soaked sand with a slight burn in his cheeks.

“Wait, it’s fine!” They were very clearly trying to bite back a smile, and Cross shook his head, almost exasperated with himself. “Seriously, I feel bad now. It’s not that big of a deal,” They tried again.

“It’s very hot,” Cross murmured. “Sorry about it.”

“It’s fine, really.” And there was a glint in their eyes that betrayed their attempt to disguise the humour they found in it. “Really!”

They lapsed into a silence. The other Guard hovered there, quiet. Cross was conscious of his presence, but also didn’t really care, so he just sat there too.

“How long do you think they’ll take?” They prompted.

Cross glanced at them. “Hopefully not long. I’m soaking through my clothes here.”

They let out a laugh. “I can see that, uh, sorry, what was your name?”

A beat. He side-eyed them for a fraction of a second. Bemused, after a moment of silence, Cross replied, “Probably not wise to share names in the Fae Realm. But you can call me Cross.”

They looked at him sheepishly. “Then, uh, you can call me Blue.”

Cross hummed.

“Alright.” ***

Cross would never realise Blue was never a member of the King’s Guard. ***

The Queen did not panic upon being whisked away; she was well aware that most Rulers preferred to make their deals in private. So she eased the slight panic in her throat and spoke.

“I ask for your assistance, kind sir.” The Queen did not waste a second in her haste. “For my daughter has been cursed by another Fae, and the direst of fates has been imposed upon her by it.”

“Ahh. I understand,” Dream mused. “And what would you give for my help?”

The Queen, who had come to bargain, had a ready answer on her lips. “All the jewels in the Palace, good sir. No jewels could ever compare to the joy in a loved child's eyes.” For she truly wanted her daughter to be safe, and she could always source more jewels from the mines.

Dream smiled, tickled. “I agree, no jewel could ever match up to the joy of children. What else would you give?”

“All the gold in the Palace treasury,” The Queen answered, for they could always raise taxes on the Nobility to regain the lost gold. “For no gold shines as bright as the smile of a safe child.”

Dream laughed. “Indeed, Sweet Mother. But what else would you give?

At this, the Queen hesitated. She could think of no more that could be given without even direr consequence, and after a pause carefully asked, “Kind sir, what price would you ask of me?”

Dream chuckled. “I’m sure we’ll figure out an arrangement. Perhaps we should first discuss the feasibility of your ask. Tell me what curse has been put upon your daughter.”

“A terrible one, kind sir. A curse of death, cursing her to never pass her seventeenth birthday.”

It was at this that Dream laughed. But he mentioned nothing of it as he continued, “When was she cursed? At infancy, or after?”

“At her christening, kind sir.”

“Well,” Dream smiled. “Who was the one to curse her?”

The Queen hesitated.

“I— I believe it was the Winter Ruler, kind sir.”

“Oh, yes. Nightmare does seem the type. But I hear this is not the first deal your kin has made with the Fae.” His eyes were gleaming with the intensity of a thousand burning suns. “Is that not how you invoked his wrath?”

She froze.

“Well? Speak, Your Majesty.”

“It was my husband, not I.” She took in a heavy breath. “He made a deal with the Winter Ruler, yes, for a Life Flower. So that I would be able to conceive.’

“Ah, the Flower. Each one takes centuries to bloom, you know. I must admit, I was not too pleased that it was plucked before blossoming into an Apple, but what can you do?” His eyes twinkled. “So shall I keep prompting you? What was your end of the bargain?”

The Queen did not speak, for a moment. She squeezed her eyes shut, let out a breath, and only then did she confess. “There were to be two children. A son, and a daughter. The oldest would have been ours to keep, but the youngest would have been owed.”

“Oh? A fair price,” He mused. “I did not hear of any Prince. You did not want to give your daughter to him?”

“He did not survive.” The Queen had to bite back the anger. “The boy was dead before he left my womb. The exact wording of the deal afforded us the oldest, and my daughter had been the only child to live. Is she not the oldest? How can the only child be younger than any other? Show me the boy that’s supposedly where our claim lies. I know him better than anyone, I spent hours in agony as they removed him from me in bits and pieces. The oldest child is yours, and the youngest child is what is owed. Is it our fault there is no younger child to claim?”

Dream was entirely silent. The Queen was beginning to fear that she’d overstepped when he let out a clear laugh.

“Very well. But, sadly, you still have nothing to offer me, so we cannot make a fair deal. Why don’t I grant you a wish instead?”

The Queen blinked. “What?”

He smiled, amused. “Your argument has merit. I confess, it does please me to thwart Nightmare. I will grant you one wish. Use it wisely.”

She clamped her mouth shut. A wish?

“Is there really nothing we can offer you?”

“Depends.” And by his tone, he was teasing. “Are you willing to part with your True Name?”

“No.” It came so vehemently that it surprised even her. But Dream looked unbothered. “Could you… revoke the curse?”

At this, Dream frowned. “Why does everyone always assume Summer can negate Winter? We may be sides of the same coin, but we don’t cross each other out. Winter is all about death and despair and everything adjacent; Summer is— well, I won’t delve into it. But we aren’t life. That’s Spring’s domain.”

“So you can’t?”

“Revoke it?” He crossed his arms. “No, I can’t undo what has already been done. But there are other ways to prevent the dire fate of the curse.”

The Queen let out a breath, beside herself. “How?”

Dream smiled.

“I could curse her to die at sixteen, instead.”

Her breath caught in her throat. She stared at Dream, searching his face for some sign that he was jesting, any sign—

“But of course, that’s not the only option. I could also, say, turn her into a statue and revert her after. But I suppose you would not be pleased with that?”

“What?” She stared at him, incredulous. “Of course not!”

“So fussy. “ He tsked. “Then what would you have me do?”

Her voice trembled with fear. Or was it frustration? “Anything but that.”

Dream tilted his head slightly, considering her words. “You ask for mercy,” he mused. “But mercy takes many forms. A quick end, a long sleep. Being turned into a wolf, being crushed under the sun. This could all be mercy.”

“What can you do,” The Queen, who felt like she was going insane, said slowly. “To prevent her from dying at or before seventeen, without causing her harm?”

He frowned. “You humans are so fragile. What if she walks off a cliff, or drowns in a river? I’d have to watch her every hour of the day.”

“Can I wish for that?” She could barely process what he was saying. “For you to protect her?”

He reached out, and gently lifted her chin. “I would have to guard her constantly. Every step she’d take, every breath she’d draw, would be shadowed by me. She would need to grow up under my watch in the Summer Court, far from the Kingdom where Nightmare could snatch her up like a bird with the worm.”

Her hands fell to her side, limp.

“You won’t see your daughter grow up. Do you think you can live, truly live, under such a burden?"

The Queen faltered. The weight of choice was— crushing.

Dream stepped closer, his voice a soft whisper now, almost tender. "But if you truly wish it, I can make sure the curse does not so much as grace her dying breath."

She stared at him, torn. And she was not a Queen, but a mother when she begged, "And she’ll be unharmed? No suffering?”

Dream’s gaze was piercing, but not condemning.

“Yes.”

The Queen’s hands were clenched, her arms limp by her side. If this meant never seeing her daughter grow up, even if that would ensure her survival— her heart screamed at her to stop, but her head... her head whispered to her, however resignedly, that there was no other way.

“You will return her home, after?”

Dream looked at her, amused. But he nodded his assent.

“Then I wish it.” She felt so small, but she fought to keep her words steady. “I wish for you to protect her against the curse, and return her home after.”

Dream regarded her for a moment longer, his expression unreadable. Then, with a slight bow of his head, he said, "So it shall be. I will help you. I swear it by the Sun of the Summer, by my Crown as its Ruler. But you must obey my instruction to protect your child to the letter. Do you understand?”

The Queen exhaled, the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding escaping her in a shudder.

“What do I do?” she whispered, speaking more so to herself than to him.

He shrugged. “On the morning of the Summer Solstice, remove the iron in her walls so I may retrieve her. I shall return her to you after her seventeenth.”

Relief was coursing through her. Or was it fear? Had she made the right choice? It was too late to second-guess now. “Is that it?” For a moment the Queen forgot herself and let her surprise slip out. Dream merely laughed again. The Queen shrunk back.

“You may replace the iron thereafter, but do not forget what you owe, Fair Queen. Come; you may have safe passage out as a courtesy.”

Dream reached his hand out again, and the Queen took it in an instant. A gleam of light; then she found herself back where they had been just before entering the Fae Realm. Her entourage was there waiting for her, albeit rather nervously.

It was surprisingly kind for a Fae to return them. Indeed the Queen had already considered the possibility that she would lose members of her party to the Fae Realm, but that was nothing compared to her daughter’s safety. Besides, they knew the risk.

But since the Summer Ruler had returned them whole, it hardly mattered anyway.

But when she returned home and found her sleeping Princess in the cradle, her tiny chest rising and falling with each breath, the thought of missing so many years made her ill with grief. Perhaps she cried for more than one night. How could she bear it? To be absent for her daughter’s first steps, her first words, her laughter and tears— the Princess had taken seventeen years, and now another seventeen would be taken from them.

"Forgive me, my sweet girl." Her voice cracked, though her words were oh so quiet for she did not want to wake the child. "I did this to keep you safe. I will miss you every moment, but I will do what I must.” Her voice was tight, filled with the resolve that only a mother could summon in the face of such pain.

Whatever it takes to protect you, even if it means letting you go. ***

On the day of the Summer Solstice, the Palace was high strung with tension. The King had been sent away, for the danger that the Summer Ruler would pose to him (oddly enough, the Queen was of no concern; suppose she did not mean much to their court after all, but she knew that already, they were already planning to find a more fertile replacement before the Princess’ conception). The Princess’ servants were all sent away, and the Queen joined her daughter in her room to await Dream. The Princess had fallen asleep yet again, but the Queen did not have the heart to awake her.

All she did was press a soft kiss to her forehead. She did not wish to consider that it would be the last kiss from her for the longest time. Already the sorrow was achingly present— but she had to hold her resolve, or it would consume her whole. She closed her eyes, trying to memorize the feel of her child in her arms, and the sound of her gentle breathing.

When she opened them, the Queen briefly felt blinded by a gleam of sunlight. She rubbed the blurriness away, only to find the Summer Ruler sitting opposite her by the Princess’s side.

“So this is your daughter?” The Summer Ruler tilted his head. “She’s been blessed by a number of Fae.”

The Queen nodded stiffly.

“Ah, well.” His fingers dipped to the Princess’ forehead. The Princess, in her sleep, flinched slightly, but he made a soothing noise and she relaxed once more. “Let’s see here.”

His golden eyes began to glint. Carefully, he plucked the hairs away from her forehead and pressed ever so gently.

A quiet. His golden eyes began to gleam. The Queen hovered by his side, uneasy.

“Tell me, Fair Mother. What have you named your daughter?”

And the Queen stilled. Stiffened. “You may— you may call her Mira.”

He let out a quiet laugh. “ Mira? But that is not her true name, is it?”

“You do not have a claim to her true name.”

The Queen stilled, her heart pounding as if trying to escape her chest. "You may— you may call her Mira," she said, her voice barely more than a whisper.

Dream let out a quiet, almost amused laugh. "Mira? But that is not her true name, is it?"

"You do not have a claim to her true name," she replied, with more certainty than she felt. She knew the power of names, and they had already failed to protect her Princess once before. For a moment, fear gripped her—had she been too bold? But the Fae merely dismissed her words with a wave of his hand, oddly forgiving.

"Very well," he said, his tone light, as if amused by her defiance. "I shall make do."

And he laid his arms open: waiting, expectant. The Queen’s breath froze in her throat. It was time to hand her over.

Her hands trembled as she lifted the tiny, warm bundle. Mira stirred slightly in her sleep, but she went on snoring, her small eyes remaining blissfully shut. The Queen held her daughter close for a moment longer, pressing her to her chest, as if it could somehow delay the inevitable. But she knew she could not delay any longer. She was already pushing the Fae’s mercy.

With a shaky breath, she placed ‘Mira’ into Dream's outstretched arms. Just as his arms closed around the child— she let out a breath, the wind knocked out of her.

“Farewell, my little light.” And she could speak no more, or it would be a sob.

Dream cradled the infant with surprising gentleness. “Hello, little sunshine.” He gazed upon her with an expression quite unreadable, but then he glanced up to the Queen, and he said softly, “Fear not. I will keep her safe."

Then all at once he ripped his gaze away. The Queen, confused, met his eyes and flinched back because his gold eyes were burning. Dream’s form was melting away, the air turning a golden glow; the Queen let out a gasp, for his features were blurring into light burning so intensely her eyes were drying up.

She blinked, and both him and her daughter were gone. The Queen stood there, alone in the room. Without a Princess, without her daughter.

She stood there, numb.

The command would be given to seal the Princess’ rooms away, and the King and Queen spent a fortnight in solitude. Away from court, away from the people, as if they were in mourning.

Footnotes:

1. Blue! Starting off the Fae gifts with courage, we can always count on you :]

2. A Spring Fae!OC! Honestly iconic.

3. Alphys! Lovely to see ya, bud. Thought the inherent curiosity of any scientist would be fitting for both her and her gift!

4. Flowertale Sans:) fun fact, if you know Flowertale lore you would know that, uh, the flowers grow where they died the previous timeline... and, y'know, growing out from under his clothes... where his ribs are.... COUGH COUGH.

5. Lust <3 also don't take him to be lusting after the Princess pls the 'alluring hunger' is just how he speaks, pst pst along the lines of... charmspeak? he's just going internally 'pretty privilege is real and it's gonna be a sickass gift'

6. He’s thinking: eh, this technically isn’t her fault. I won’t curse her too badly. He curses her to die rather then, say, be turned into a beast, lose her mind, etc etc.

Nightmare awakes to stinging cold. Which shouldn’t be a difficult problem to solve; at this time, which is surely a late hour, the night air is always chilly. Perhaps there is a window open. 

He knows his room well enough to get to his feet without tripping over his brother, knows his home well enough to locate the window in his room and close it without waking up the rest of his family. However, he is unable to get to his feet. Strange, he thinks to himself. 

He tries to twist, but he only makes it through half of the turn. The blanket must be caught on something, perhaps the edge of the bedframe? He tries to reach out to untangle it, but even that small movement is impossible.

Still, he does not panic. Sleep is only a blink away, though his eyes are still closed. The fatigue is there, smoothing over the edge of any panic that might have otherwise taken root.

It is only when he realises there’s something stuffed in his mouth that he thinks to open his eyes. And when the stinging glare of something much too bright forces him to blink away both the light and the sleep away, he finds the cloth in his mouth is rough. 

Fire, he thinks. A flaming torch. Firelight streaks across the sky turned dark with the late hour; he cannot find the moon, but it must be somewhere above him, because the silver light catching on details around him is what allows his jolted mind to piece it together. 

He strains his neck to look down and sees his wrists and ankles tied with thick rope. The kind of rope he’s seen the butcher use to tie up pigs and sheep before the slaughter. Has he been abducted? He strains to make a noise, one that might alert his family—

Someone’s hand clamps over his mouth. Whatever sound he managed has already been drowned out by the crackling of the fire. He tries to twist away, but there is a huff, and he does not even make half the turn. Panic blooms quickly. He thrashes against the rope, but by the end he is gasping into the cloth, and he is still bound. If not by rope, then by hands, as he is carried none too gently to a place he can only assume spells his doom.

The cloth is bitter with dirt and sweat.

“Stop struggling,” Someone hisses into his ear. He stills. No. No, surely not. He fights to catch a glimpse, as if he is a starving animal faced with food, his breath hitching against the gag. 

The speaker’s breath still warms his earlobe. But they draw back too slowly, and Nightmare had already seen.

That was the voice of his father. And this is his face.

What are you doing? His voice is lost into the cloth. Father?

Already there is the sour ache of muscle tensed too long. But his body has also gone limp. 

“God, it’s so heavy. You should’ve done this sooner.”

That's the voice of their neighbour. The seamstress, he recalls. The one who laughs too loudly after returning from the tavern; voice slurred by cheap ale.

“Not soon enough,” Someone grumbles. The baker’s son. Nightmare knows his face, and his voice. He’s the one that always loiters by the well, complaining about the weight of the pails and the muddiness of the water. 

Nightmare lets out a soft breath. Only he hears it. 

“We didn’t know,” His father mutters some short distance away. “We were only told recently.”

He hears a sneer, or perhaps a scoff. But there is nothing else. There is nothing else for what feels like hours in the dark, save for the moonlight and torch, nothing that he could glean answers from, nothing that helps him make sense of the fact that he’s been bound and gagged. 

There is nothing, when he is suddenly thrown onto the ground. Nothing when he winces at the pressure of a thousand hands and arms pressing down on him, nothing when he feels the ropes shift, nothing when they start whispering, finally, but the whispers merge into some soundless mess he makes no more sense of. 

Nothing when they finally withdraw, and he realises he has been bound to a tree. 

Nothing when he looks up, and realises his father is staring at him. Nothing when he spits in his face.

Sometime in the acrid night, he has begun to cry. “Do we leave him like this?” The voice is gentle. Softer than the others, without any note of accusation.

This is the voice of his mother.

There are more words spoken by more people, but he hears nothing.

He hears her ask something. Plead for something.

Nightmare’s breath hitches. His vision is blurred at the edges, but he strains to find her. To just find her face, in the crowd half-lit by firelight. 

Is she pleading for him?

His mother steps forward hesitantly, her hands wringing the edges of her shawl. He has found her. Her voice quivers as she speaks again. “Just once. Please.”

The silence that follows is swallowing. The only sound there is, is the crackling of the flames and the rustle of the trees. Perhaps, in this silence, they may be hearing him cry. Her hands tremble as she reaches out. The rough cloth falls from his mouth, and Nightmare gasps, choking on the sudden rush of cold air.

“Mother,” He rasps. His throat burns with the effort, but he forces the word out again. “Mother, please.”

She looks so sorrowful, her eyes glistening with tears. “Oh, sweet child.” But she does not move closer. 

“Mother, what’s happening?” He pleads.

She does not answer. Her hand is on his cheek. 

“He looks so scared.” 

Nightmare is scared. He opens his mouth again, and begs her. “Mother?”

“Don't let it trick you, Lydia.” The man, unrecognisably his father, scowls. “This has gone on for long enough. Let's go.”

“And they'll return him? Our boy?”

But he's right here. What do they want returned? Why have they tied him up?

“Yeah.” Some rustle from beyond the trees. “Return the changeling to the Fae, and they return the child. That's how it's always been.”

It feels as if the wind has been knocked out of him. There is no air for him to breathe in.

They think he's a changeling.

“Will you? If we return you, will you return him?” She speaks so, so mournfully.

“I'm not a changeling.” His voice is raw and broken. “Mother? Mother, please.” She was pleading for him, even if she had been part of the company dragging him out, she was still his mother. “Please don't leave me here! I'll be good, I promise. Just let me go home.”

For a fraction of a second, he sees something shift. His mother lets out a breath. Her face contorts. Her hand flies to him; she strikes him.

“Stop trying to trick me! I don't need you! I don't want you!” 

Is this his mother? Is this the woman that stayed up all night to nurse him when he was ill? The woman that carefully braided his hair when any other’s hand would be so rough he'd sooner cut everything off than allow them to continue? 

“You made our lives a living hell!”

Nightmare doesn't understand. Is this because he spat out the food two fortnights ago? But the texture had been so slimy, so foreign. If he'd choked it down, would he still be sleeping soundly at home? 

He makes a sound like a wounded animal. 

He could feel the world slipping sideways, tilting further out of his control. Too many sounds— branches snapping underfoot, whispered mutters from the others, his own ragged breaths. All of it scratching at his ears, scraping along his brain like nails on glass.

Her face crumples, but she doesn’t step closer. “Say it,” She whispers. Her voice is soft. “Admit what you are.”

“Admit it?” He is shaking. “I’m— Mother, I’m Nightmare. I’m your son!”

Her eyes glisten with tears, and for a moment, it seems as though she might reach for him. But then her gaze hardens, and she looks away.

She is walking away from.him.

“Do we just leave it?”

She is no longer talking to him.

It.  

“Mother!” He shouts, voice tearing from his throat like an animal’s cry. “Mother, don’t let them leave me! Please, Mother! Please!”

He knows what happens to those left in the woods. He knows he is being left to die.

She doesn't move. Her hands clenches into fists, and her gaze drops to the ground. 

“Mother,” He tries again. But she doesn’t turn back. And then, one by one, they leave him.

“No!” He shouts. He's twisting and thrashing against the rope; but it's so tight it's choking him. “You can’t do this! Mother, please! Please!”

She doesn't come back. None of them do. The footsteps streak further and further away. 

He forces himself to stop crying. The effort makes his chest ache, but he can’t afford to attract attention. Not now. Not here. 

The trees seem taller. Their branches twist up, up, up into the sky, too far for him to trace with his eyes; he swears the wind carries past him faint whispers, rustles that don’t belong to the leaves. It prickles at the back of his neck. It is as if something is watching him.

He needs to get out of these ropes. He’s seen enough to know he’s as good as dead if he stays put. 

Even if nothing comes for him, he is still going to starve. 

He shifts, to test the ropes again. They’re so tight that the tension burns against his skin, but he doesn’t care. His fingers fumble for any give he can find. 

There must be wild things in the area. He does not want to be there when some wolf decides to take a chunk out of his throat. He does not want to be there when some crow decides to peck his eyes out. 

A wolf’s sharp teeth gleaming in the moonlight. The cold, black eyes of a crow.

His panic bleeds into resolve. 

The ropes won’t loosen, but he twists his wrists harder, ignoring the sting, ignoring the metallic taste in his mouth of a bitten tongue; everything aches, but he forces his fingers to stop trembling.

A soft snap. He feels it, more than hears it. He’s broken something in his wrist. Otherwise, it would be impossible for his arm to tumble free; impossible to twist his wrist this far, at an angle that tells him he won’t be able to use it to write anymore. 

A branch snaps.

He freezes completely. Slowly, as if it a dream or a nightmare, he looks down to find the broken twig crushed underfoot. 

Something is rustling. He tries to trace the source, but he curses himself when he finds nothing. He can’t see anything beyond the tangled shadows of the trees.

The rustling is so near. His heart leaps into his throat.

He swallows hard. Don’t panic. Keep quiet. Think. Pull. Scrape. Twist. Repeat. His breath steadies, his mind quieting as he works. 

He presses his back against the tree he’s tied to. His breath is so, so shallow. A soft rustle, too deliberate to be the wind.

There it is again. Closer this time. Something is out there, watching him.

They left me. They left me to this.

Another snap— a crunch, leaves and twigs. Whatever it is, it’s big. Bigger than a wolf, bigger than a crow.

It might be a Fae.

Nightmare presses his lips together. He folds in, pushing himself as much as he can backwards, trying to make himself as small as possible. Maybe it won’t notice he’s here.

The sound stops.

And then, from somewhere just beyond the clearing. 

“Oh, child.” 

The voice… echoes. But there’s no one near him. He cranes his neck, he does not recognise the voice but that means they were not among the people who just sent him to his death. 

It means this person might be of help.

“Poor thing.”

It seems to come from everywhere at once. But that’s not possible. He turns right, turns left, but he sees no one in the small radius of sight the moonlight allows him. 

His breath catches.

Slowly, he looks up.

The branches are twisting. It must be the wind, rustling the leaves— but he’s sure, now. That voice had come from up there. Was there someone hiding in the leaves? He cranes his neck, tries to catch as much as he can; twisting branches, serrated edges, and the deep yawning void—

There is something. A shape of some sort. Too dense of a shadow, fluid as if ink spilling through water.

“Poor thing,” The voice whispers again. Unmistakably above him. 

His knees threaten to buckle as his eyes adjust. The shape resolves, bit by bit: spindly limbs extending outward, not like arms but more like roots, like skeletal branches twisting into something inhuman. A head tilts at an unnatural angle, almost curious, face veiled by shifting night.

The bark has split. 

Out of the gaping void, the thing leans in.

“Poor, poor thing,” It croons, and a hand— if it can be called that— reaches down, its fingers impossibly long and thin, brushing the edge of his shadow.

The shadow clinging to the thing peels away just enough, to reveal a face. Pools of light where the eyes should be, a cross between verdant green and moonlit water. And in each ‘eye’, a faint golden ring. 

He flinches backwards. But there’s nowhere to go.

The thing’s skin glows a faint, opalescent green; the rare translucent spots of skin reveal delicate pulsing veins of gold. There are flowers tangled in every inch of it, most blooming high above in some crown made of twisted branches, and he swears he longer he stares at it the more he catches: the thorns tilting upwards drip with sap, the drops of dew look more jewel than water, and when it smiles, it reveals ivory teeth.

“Why do you tremble, little one?” 

Its voice is soft, threaded with some alien melody. It draws closer, dragging behind flowers blooming and decaying in the same breath.

It tilts its head. The golden rings narrow.

Nightmare lets out a quiet breath. He steadies himself. This is a Fae, if he’s ever seen one. So he has to convince it to help him. 

“Left behind by the other humans to die. Such a shame.” Its voice drips with something dangerously close to pity, or mocking. “You seem quite astute. It would be a waste to leave you, no?”

He feels the compliment latch onto him, and quickly discards it. This is a trap. Everyone knows it’s better to die than end up in the hands of the Fae. His mind races. He has to say something. Ignoring a Fae has been branded as rude in more than one instance, and he very much does not want to be cursed. 

That would be very, very bad.

“You are here?” He twists it into a question to buy time. 

If he asks for help outright, he’s sure the Fae will twist the offer into something terrible. 

A soft titter. “Why can’t I be here? This is my home. You?” Its lips curl into a faint smile. “You are the guest here.”

He swallows. He thinks, thoughts tumbling over themselves in the tussle to find the right words. The safe words. Ignoring it isn’t an option, and he knows better than to stammer out an apology that reeks of his own stupid fear. 

Nightmare opens his mouth.

“Why are you here with me?”

The faint pulse of gold beneath its skin draws his eye despite himself. 

“Your family. Your blood. My, even I would never abandon my young. And yet humans prove they are more cruel than any Fae once more. And here you are, clinging onto life, much too stubborn to die.”

Maybe I wasn’t their blood. The thought is like a splinter under his skin. If he were a changeling, would he even know? Maybe they were right to leave him. 

“You want something from me.” It isn’t a question. And the laugh that leaves the creature is not refuting it. Perhaps there is no answer, because it wasn’t a question. He already knows what it wants, what all the Fae want in each and every story. His True Name.

“My blood,” He repeats. He does not know if this is to distract it, or himself. “Were they my blood?”

Its smile does not crack open. “What are you asking, child?”

“Am I a changeling?”

It tilts its head, the movement slow and deliberate.

“A changeling?” Its voice lilts as it weighs the word. “Is that your fear, little one? That you are not as human as you believe?”

Its eyes— again, pools of verdant light, dig into him. He swallows the discomfort of feeling so very exposed.

“Perhaps.” It hums. His stomach drops. “But perhaps not. They left you all the same. They saw something in you they could not love, could not keep. That is true inhumanity, no? There is no answer I could give you that would change things. Fae cannot lie, dearest.”

Nightmare feels the exact moment his nerves have been struck. Why do Fae talk in circles? Is it that hard to give a yes or no?

“Am I not a changeling?” He tries again.

“Hm. What they did was wrong.”

He is about to interject when she leans in, and he suddenly realises he cannot move an inch. 

He looks down, and swallows a scream. The ropes are buried under vines slithered up from the earth, tangled tighter than the human knots, and even if he breaks his other arm there’s no way he’ll be able to sneak out of the tightening vines. 

“Come now,” It croons, voice soft, deceptively warm. “Let me look at you. Let me see if you are mine.”

He can’t feel his legs. Oh, god. He can’t even see his legs. There is moss, spread across where his legs should be, as thick as a second skin, damp and shapeless. He watches, horrified, as small shoots push through the fabric of his clothes. 

Arms wrap around him. He stills even more. 

The rich smell of earth fills the air. He smells wildflowers, too.

“Shh,” It murmurs softly into his ear. He hates that it soothes the seed of panic in his stomach.

He forces his gaze back up to it. 

“What are you doing to me?” His voice is hoarse with fear.

“Dearest. You were fidgeting so much, how could I look at you properly? There you are.”

This is no different than the ropes. This is worse than the ropes. He bites back a retort, still not keen on a curse.

“Why won’t you give me a straight answer?” This is risky. He does not like to take risks. But he is not disemboweled immediately, so his fear takes a backseat.

It makes a soft noise.

“No. You were never a changeling.”

The vines are digging into his ribs. Nightmare winces.

“Did that help?”

“Yes.” He hisses in pain. “No.”

“You should not lie to the Fae.” Its smile is not kind. “But I shall forgive you for the transgression. What I wonder,” It murmurs, leaning in closer, “Is what you want of me.”

His breath catches. He starts, but she cuts him off. “Don’t deny it. Is it vengeance? I would not fault you for it. It would be very well-deserved.”

Vengeance. The word echoes in his head for a few moments, and he wants so badly to make them pay. But he tastes ash in his mouth. He is so tired.

“I want to go back home.” The moment he says it, it feels wrong. He does want to go home, but the house he grew up in no longer feels like a place he can return to. There is nowhere safe for him in town. Nowhere he is safe.

His voice is so, so small.

“I just want to live.” 

For a moment, the forest holds its breath, and the only sound is the faint rustle of leaves,

“To live,” It echoes. “Such a simple desire.”

The vines loosen slightly, though they do not release him. Not yet.

It studies him.

“You wish to live,” It says, more softly this time. “Then tell me, little one. What are you willing to give for such a wish?”

It is not actually a question. There is only one thing he can give.

For an instant, he considers refusing. Considers being left to die, just as he was meant to. He considers many things. Perhaps he would be better dead, if there is no place he can be safe without giving up his True Name. If this was the price of survival, if this was what it took to live, then maybe there was no life worth having.

There is nothing left for him. Perhaps it would be better to die.

But then he thinks of Dream. Still sleeping, he hopes, in their room. He refuses to believe he knew of the plot to leave him in the forest. They told each other everything, and Dream could never keep a secret.

There’s no way in hell he’s leaving Dream to them. There’s no way he’s leaving Dream there to rot. There’s no way he’s just going to let himself die and leave him to the wolves.

A single breath, then another.

“Nightmare.” The Name drops from his mouth like a stone.

A beat of silence. Then, the wind picks up.

“Nightmare,” She echoes. She tests the name once, then twice. 

A soft crack splits the soil beneath his feet, and in the blink of an eye, the ground gives way.

He jerks away and gasps as cold, slick fistfuls of soil coil around his ankles; before he blinks a second time inches of him have already been swallowed. He has no time to ponder if he’s just made a terrible, terrible mistake. 

“Don’t fight it, Nightmare. You’ll only hurt yourself more.” 

As he cries out he finds he cannot move even as he’s being consumed by the earth. Her voice comes to him as a soft caress. He shudders, despite himself, and his thoughts scatter like leaves in the wind.

Something is stirring in him. 

He feels something pulling at him, something seeping into him. His head feels very, very delicate, and he does not remember closing his eyes, and he does not quite dislike the soft haziness of it all. It tingles, but only slightly, and everything is dulled over for him. Made softer, made gentler.

“You were never a changeling.” Her voice, wind in the leaves. “But I always wanted a child. This is good for us both, see?”

Then, he understands. 

White was the colour of mourning. It was another one of the nameless traditions associated with grief; as if grief had rules to follow, as if to mourn was just another duty. And for the royalty, it was even more so.

The Princess had not been loved by all the populace. Not everyone had the time to fawn over a girl, and not everyone had the ability to come to the christening. What use was there in praise for a girl quite a stranger? Ambivalence would be the kindest outcome.

But then the christening brought strange stories. 

A man of the moon stealing the babe away. The King having made a deal with some inhuman creature for the girl. The Princess having been a changeling, made beautiful by glamour. Some said that the Princess had been born by Fae magic, not the Queen’s womb. That the reward after seventeen years of toil was won out of trickery, not will.

And together, the rumours brought the worst thing that could happen to royalty. They brought shame. 

Now, of course the commonfolk knew of the Fae. Foolish men would barge into the forests known to be Fae-inhabited for glory and power, and desperate women had sought out Fairy circles on more than one occasion. 

It was not too infrequent that a girl or two would show up with jewel-encrusted shoes otherwise unretrievable from the countryside, or a boy to procure some axe that would never get blunt. But countless more had been lost to the Fae in their pursuit.  It was foolish to risk such a thing for a wish or two; even the rare successes were greeted with stony envy, if not disapproval. 

There had been villages razed to the ground for one of their members having offended a Fae in their search, after all. 

So the rumours of the royalty were certainly unpopular— and did nothing for their reputation.

It was to no one’s surprise, then, that there was a funeral held for the Princess not too long after. The girl, it was said, had gone missing. Gone missing the same way undesirable children disappeared from the sight of the public, gone missing the same way royals that damaged the family name beyond repair were exiled to mountains far beyond their walls. 

Such a fate was as good as death. 

So the King and Queen dressed in their purest hues, and the child that had once been so loved was as good as dead to the Kingdom. *** The girl awoke once they broached the borders. Dream felt the weight in his arms shifting, and made to adjust her so she would not tumble right out.

Her white eyes were blinking up at him. Clear and curious, but not quite intent; they were shimmering faintly in the sunlight. Drool was collecting in the corner of her mouth, like a spool of thread. Her eyes were curious, but not quite lucid; ah, a child exhausted was no sweet thing, even if they had just awoken. 

“Mira,” He mused. The shape of the name was wrong, a hollow thing. 

She did not so much as flinch. It was evidently not her True Name. She did make a soft noise, but it could have just been the tail-end of a breath. 

Her hair was coming in. Not a lot, barely any at all, but faint baby hairs were growing in the same shade as her eyes. The same white, or perhaps silver. The iridescent sheen marked her as a child born from a Life Flower. Though she was flesh and blood, wholly human, he was curious if there was any magic left over from the fruit. 

“Shh. Go back to sleep.” She did not seem very excited to fall back asleep. “Sleep, Mira.”

In a few blinks, she was out cold. The command did work, the heat in his throat only gave proof to it, but the name was no more effective than if he’d spoken any other word. No more effective than any other thrall.

“Stars, Blue, you owe me for this.”

It would be easy enough to deny the curse with an enchantment to keep her young forever. But perhaps an infant would be too much trouble. He’d rather have her a little older to save the hassle of raising a babe that could perish so easily. 

Surely, at the very least, a girl slightly older would be a little less fragile. 

Dream touched her cheek. She was still out cold, even if it’d taken a few more seconds to put her back to sleep. 

“If I’m going to call you by a false name,” He mused. “Might as well be a nicer one.”

He traced his fingers along the edge of her jaw, pondering it. “Mira,” he repeated softly, testing the false name. What other names had he heard of her? Miracle child. Beloved daughter. Oh, and little light? He made a considering sound. My little light. The full address came to him, and he pondered it over.

“How about Lux?” He poked her cheek, and she predictably stirred. “Little light. Is that agreeable?”

She let out the tiniest snore. Dream hummed, the half-formed notes of siren song lingering warmly in his throat. Mortal children were much too fragile. Ink had sent a letter detailing all the ways a mortal infant could pass, and goodness, Dream was sorely tempted to turn Lux Fae just so he would not have to worry about any of it. It would not be too difficult. If her soul withstood the fire, it would be easy enough to mould the melting soul-flesh it into the shape of a Fae’s. If she didn’t, she would die. Done and done, with no room or reason for worry. 

But alas, it would be troublesome to return a Fae-turned child to a mortal mother; away from the magic-imbued Fae lands, she would likely die, or have to return to his Court anyway. It would be much less hassle to just keep her alive as a human for the next seventeen years. 

Or course, it would also be much less hassle if he just let her die now.

But Nightmare had wanted tragedy to befall them, and it would be better if he at least tried to prevent that. Perhaps Nightmare would be even the slightest bit satisfied by their grief. And seventeen years was a small price to pay to deny him it all.  *** Nightmare stormed up the steps of his palace. His footsteps left the ice cracking. 

Frost crept outward from his boots, trailing behind him like the afterfrost of a winter storm. The cold air was rising higher and higher, stirring violently in his wake. The mountain was completely quiet. No Fae would be so foolish as to cross the path of a furious Ruler. Even his own Fae were retreating into the deepest crevices of his Court. How dare they? The ward was meant to be his child. He could still remember the desperation of the mortal King, set into his face like cracks in brittle stone. His voice had trembled so greatly, more man than King, eyes hollowed by sleepless nights. He ought to have frozen him on the spot. Even if he’d been on the very borders between Spring and Winter— he ought to have lured him just a few steps off the path, then frozen him solid for the hubris. At least then an ice statue would make for decent decoration.

But he’d seen the desperation for a child, for a family. And he’d remembered the centuries long, long before his first collected soul; when there had still been so few Fae in the early beginnings of time, when he’d grown tired of seeing no one’s face but his own in the shimmering ice.

And it had been a fair deal. He wanted for a child too, did he not? All the mortals that came traipsing through Winter were always so brash and rude, most quite foolish and stupid, so rare was it that a mortal even half-worthy would be chanced upon. Even fewer were those who had survived their souls freezing over. 

In fact, there had been almost none claimed in the last few centuries. The number of new ice statues that littered Winter were perhaps a hundredfold that. 

He rolled his eyes. The amount of mortals that came seeking power, thinking themselves to be gods among men, only to be ensnared by the simplest trick and taken by the cold was innumerable; surely, by now, they would’ve learnt their lesson. He had watched them approach with bravado, their laughter echoing through the icy air, only to see that bravado falter as the frost seeped into their bones.

But men were always fools first. And he was getting bored of trophies. He’d wanted for something to break the monotony, and a child full of life and promise had seemed like the perfect remedy.

It had been a deal fairer than the rest. He had not laced it with his usual provisions; a child, for a child. How could it be any fairer? He had a room ready for the Princess, stories to put her to sleep, and the softest furs ready for her comfort. 

But by their own fallibility, they had lost their own child, and now they sought to claim his own? The frost crept up the walls.

He let out a quiet sigh, and dissolved the frost. 

The ice trickled away, and true enough, Killer was right there. He leaned against the side of the doorway with his usual casual air, though he did not approach. For all his usual audaciousness, he knew when to be cautious. 

“Approach.” He would not have another one of his own retreating from him as well. 

Killer did approach. "You’re upset," He said in a low amused drawl. Restrained, for him. Still wary, then. He took his usual place to the right of Nightmare’s throne, lazing on the steps to it.

Nightmare reached out to touch Killer’s cheek, the viscous hate gently dripping onto his palm. Though he didn’t have pupils, it was fairly obvious that Killer’s attention was on him. Good.

“They refuse me,” He said softly. Delicately. “They think they can take what’s mine.”

His thumb traced the line of Killer’s jaw. Killer didn’t flinch, but he was completely still. 

“Killer.”’

The silence stretched between them, heavy and thick. 

“Yes, Boss?” He grinned. Good enough. He gently stroked his cheek.

“They took her. They would steal from me, Killer.”

Killer let out a laugh. He stretched out further on the steps, arms lazily draped behind his head. “Stupid, aren’t they?” He drawled. He reached up, and grazed Nightmare’s palm on his cheek. “Why waste your time on them? Honestly, I’m surprised you bothered to go.”

“I’m very angry, Killer.”

His grin stretched out. “I know. But it’s not worth it, is it? You could freeze them with a flick of your wrist. Why not let me handle it? I haven’t had fun in so long.”

His lips curled into a hint of a smile. Ah, Killer was always so skilled at making him fondly irritated. “You had a hunt a week ago. And no. I’ll handle them myself.”

“Come on, Boss. It’ll be fun!”

“No, Killer.” 

He leaned in, just as he let go.

“Why not?”

“How long,” He quietly said. “Would the horror of a statue last?” 

Killer cocked his head to the side. “Not nearly long enough, huh?”

 They’re not just some stragglers that got unlucky. Nightmare’s gaze darkened. No escape for them, not even madness. Let them feel the full height of their stupidity with painfully lucid heads.

“I will find a way to my child,” He said slowly, “And it will be my pleasure to make it hell for the two stupid souls who thought trying to trick me was a decision that would end well for them.”

The thick frost was dripping on the walls.

Killer was quiet, once again.

“Why?”

He looked back to him. “Why what?”

“Why bother? What’s the child to you?”  

Nightmare opened his mouth. Then, he slowly scanned Killer.

“I’m curious, Killer. I ought to be angry. But you, oh, I don’t see why you’d be angry. And I don’t think you’re so loyal that you’d get angry on behalf of me.”

Killer’s grin was gone now.

"I don’t see how she’s worth it, Boss. She’s not even Fae. There’s dozens of brats running around you could pick up with ten times less fuss." A sharp gust of wind sliced through the room. Nightmare rolled his eyes. 

“Did I make a deal for all of them?”

He shrugged. “It’d be half the effort. Especially since your brother’s made a counterdeal.”

Killer’s casual arrogance was met with a long, chilling silence.

Nightmare’s lips curled up into something far from amused. The temperature in the room plummeted, and for the first time in ages, Killer felt the bite of the frost edging into his bone.

“You forget your place.”

Killer let out a breathy laugh. “Maybe. But I remember how we first met, and I don’t think you took me in because I was docile and pliant.”

Killer had been his first soul taken in as his. The first soul of his collection. Before Dust, even before Horror. Even after all this time, he was the same insolent soul.

He looked at him, and let out a long sigh. 

“Are you worried?”

“Who’s worried?” He got up from the steps. 

“You have a reason, you always do,” Nightmare said plainly. “Spit it out. What’s bothering you?”

The quiet footsteps of the other retreating were not so quiet in the otherwise silence. 

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that, Boss.”

The ice on the walls slowly began to recede.

"Don’t play games with me, Killer."

Killer shrugged. “I would do anything for you, Nightmare. I’ll just complain every step of the way.”

Nightmare made no move to stop the ice from melting, made no move to block off the doorway slowly forming. 

“Tell Horror and Dust to come out of hiding. It’s unbecoming.”

Killer let out a snort. Then he was through, and the ice quickly formed back over.

Nightmare stood in the dimly lit chamber, the cold light of the moon filtering through the ice. He let out a quiet sigh.