more half-finished shit
Clouds chased each other across the skies, hiding the plump orange moon from sight. Loral cursed his sordid luck again, tugging his threadbare cloak tighter around his shoulders with one hand while he desperately attempted to shelter his guttering fire from the chill autumn winds. What had he been thinking, taking a job so late in the year? Winter would be upon the kingdom in a matter of weeks, and if he were caught in even the earliest snow flurries he’d be all but doomed. Still, he reflected bitterly, a fool’s errand or not, it wasn’t like he had to much of a choice in the matter--even if the job hadn’t been a royal demand, there was still his father and younger siblings to think about….
“Damn that royal bastard anyway.” Loral grumbled between his chattering teeth. “He calls himself a king? What kind of king decides he wants his land surveyed and mapped in the middle of the damn harvest season?”
Well, no use crying over spilt milk his dear mother would say, God rest her soul. If the weather continued to worsen, he’d just have to turn back--if His Majesty wanted the map that badly, he’d have to get someone else to do it. Loral liked living, thanks.
One thing at a time though. First, he had to make it through the night without freezing to death. There was no shelter out in the middle of the heath, only loose, sandy dirt and dry, long-dead scrub with the occasional boulder thrown in. The winds had been blowing almost non-stop for the last three days, and the sky constantly threatened rain, though, luckily, it had yet to deliver. Loral’s cloak and winter jacket were so old and worn he probably could have worn them during the hottest part of summer and been comfortable, and so afforded him small relief from the biting chill.
“I could go back now, save myself the cold, and tell the king to get stuffed. And then I’ll probably be beheaded, or tossed in prison or...something.” Loral grumbled, tossing another handful of dry scrub onto his pitiful flame. It flickered and flared up briefly before another gust of wind knocked it back down. Loral scowled at it. “Well fine then. Be that way.” Giving up on what was clearly a losing battle, Loral dragged his pack over and lay down, curling protectively around himself and closing his eyes, praying briefly that nothing tried to eat him in his sleep.
#
He woke from an uncomfortable and fitful doze sometime later. The fire had finally given up and died and the surrounding area was pitch black. He doubted that he’d be able to see his hand if he held it in front of his face.
He lay still for a moment, wondering just what had woke him. An uneasy feeling was building in the pit of his stomach--something was not right, and it was nagging at him, but for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what it was.
Then he noticed the pack he'd been using as a pillow was slowly but surely moving out from beneath his head.
Loral sat up with a startled yell, grabbing for his bag but only catching air as it was yanked out of his reach. He felt around for his walking stick, only to find that that too was not where he had left it. Loral scrambled to his feet with another yell, this one of anger and panic. That pack had all of his food and equipment in it, including his compass, which he needed in order to find his way safely back to civilization.
There was a moment of complete silence as Loral stood unsteadily, trying to get his bearings in the impenetrable dark. Everything looked the same and it was dizzying, disorienting him almost completely, but he watched carefully anyway, head twisting this way and that, eyes straining as he listened for some sound, some sign of where the thief had gone to. Even the long sighing wind seemed to be holding its breath.
Nothing but a large black expanse greeted him. His heart beat louder and he swallowed, trying to quell the rising panic. He’d be ok---he’d been traveling North to begin with, so all he had to do was wait for the morning to come and start out somewhere to his left. If Lady Luck decided to be kind to him for a change, then maybe the sun would be out and he could get his bearings from that. If he hurried and made good time, he wouldn’t have to worry about his lack of food.
He sighed, running a frustrated hand through his long tangle of curls. The decision did not make the tight ball of fear in his stomach shrink, but it did help him keep it from escaping. He had a plan. Plans were always good.
He started to sit back down when something made him pause---at first he thought that it was his imagination; He’d strained his eyes to hard trying to spot the thief in the dark. He blinked and rubbed his eyes, but it did not go away--a small globe of light, weak and orange, hovering a few feet above the ground several yards to his left.
Ah ha. Loral thought with a rush of smug satisfaction. Not so smart, thief. I can see you over there. Wondering both at his sudden luck and the thief's obvious carelessness, he made his way cautiously, careful not to trip or to make any more noise than was necessary. The light didn’t move, so he was sure the bandit (or bandits) hadn’t heard him. They probably thought he had gotten so turned around in the dark he wouldn’t notice them. I’ll show you. he thought. He wasn’t worried about the fact that they might be armed while he was not--he had the element of surprise and plenty of muscle from the various odd jobs he did around the town during the summer months. Anyone living out in the middle of nowhere like this had to be weak and starving by now, with the soil so poor for farming during the best of times and the game hidden away to wait out the chill. He had the upper hand.
He was almost upon the light, planning out exactly how he was going to attack when the globe suddenly flickered out, leaving him blinking at the place where it had just been, mere feet away. Loral cursed softly to himself, rushing blindly forward in the dark. Off to his left, there was a flicker and then the orb was back, hovering serenely. Loral paused again, a puzzled frown tilting his lips. What was this, some kind of game? They couldn’t just steal from him, they wanted to play tag too? Loral growled, irked. Well fine, if they wanted to play, he’d play--there was a reason he’s been the hide-and-seek champion in his village when he’d been a kid.
Instead of moving closer to the orb, Loral slipped off to the side, making a wide half-circle around the light until he estimated himself to be somewhere approximately across from where he’d been previously standing. The orb didn’t move, didn’t so much as flicker, and Loral had to stifle a laugh as he crept closer. They thought he’d attack from the front, but oh no, he was smarter than that! He’d have his stuff back before those stupid bandits even knew what hit them.
The moment he got within a few feet the light flickered out and disappeared. He gaped at the spot, spluttering. There was no way they saw that coming. Even with a lantern they couldn’t have seen him! He’d still been to far away for the light to touch! Snarling to himself, he pivoted, looking this way and that, and, sure enough, there was the light, hovering several yards away to his right. This time, Loral didn’t bother with stealth--he charged the light, slipping and tripping on hidden rocks and tangled scrub but managing to keep his balance and his momentum. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that this was a terrible idea--he needed to sit still and wait for the sun to come up before he got completely lost and turned around! Be he also knew that if he managed to get his compass and food back, he’d have more of a chance of making it home alive than he did trying to guide himself home unaided. And so, when the light blinked out again, just a few feet from him, he didn’t bother slowing down; He kept charging straight ahead, arms held out from his sides both for balance and to catch anyone who might be trying to flee in the dark.
For a brief, fleeting moment he thought that maybe his plan had worked--through the numbing cold that had chilled his skin, he through he felt the brush of some soft cloth against the fingers of his right hand. He jerked, snatching at the feeling, only to be met with cold air and the faint but distinct sound of laughter.
~~~~~~~
After quietly listening to Loral’s (slightly embellished) tail of woe, the man clicked his tongue in what Loral assumed was sympathy.
“Strange boy, didn’t your mother ever tell you not to go chasing faery lights in the night? Such things hardly ever lead to a pleasant end to any mortal involved.”
Loral lifted his chin defiantly at the chastising tone.
“My mother died when I was six, so she hardly had a chance to tell me much of anything, sir.” He replied somewhat sharply. “And whatever she did tell me, she certainly never mentioned anything about magical lights.”
The man dipped his head. “I‘m very sorry, I didn’t know about your mother.” He said, his tone genuinely apologetic. Loral felt a stab of guilt that he immediately ignored. “Though I gather form your tone that you don’t believe in the fair folk?”
Loral snorted, picking at some of the cooling roast meat left on his plate. “What, magical little creatures that have nothing better to do than mess with us boring, non-magical people? Please.” The stranger seemed amused, leaning back in his chair and regarding Loral with another one of those smiled that sent shivers down his spine.
“I suppose that makes you solely a man of God then.” Loral laughed outright, and the stranger raised an elegant eyebrow. “I take that as a no as well?”
“If there really was a god, and anyone but the priest had a say in who was king, we wouldn’t be suffering the rule of the moron currently seated on the throne, would we?” he scoffed. Then, realizing belatedly that he had once again let his mouth run off in the presence of someone who could very well have him arrested for treason, he winced, ducking his head in what he hoped was a demure and properly apologetic way. “Um, but that’s just my opinion, I’m in no position to do anything about it and if you would just maybe forget that I said that I would be forever in your debt.”
A quiet chuckle and the shifting of cloth against leather made him wince, but when no blow or reprimand was immediate in coming his curiosity got the better of him and he looked up. The man was reclining further in his chair, looking for all the world like a great cat eyeing the biggest, plumpest canary it had ever seen. Far from being relieved that the strange noble wasn’t offended, this disturbed Loral more than ever and he began to wonder at the wisdom of an escape plan.
“So,” the man purred from the depths of his chair. “You don’t believe in the Fae, you don’t believe in God, and you don’t believe in your own mortal king…what exactly do you believe in?” Loral opened his mouth to answer, the word “myself” hovering on the tip of his tongue, but something in the man’s gaze gave him pause-- they seemed to pierce right through him. It gave him the willies and made him hesitant to give that as an answer, though why he couldn‘t really say. Still, he knew an answer was what the nobleman was waiting for.
After a moment’s deliberating pause, Loral shrugged and gave an answer that felt a little better. “Money, I suppose.” He said. “It doesn’t lie to you and it can’t let you down. It lets you live. Everything in this world revolves around money, and that’s just that.”
The nobleman arched his brows again, a small twist to his lips giving Loral the distinct impression that he was being laughed at. “Such a cynical outlook from someone with such a handsome face.” Loral scowled darkly.
“What’s my face got to do with it?” he demanded.
______________________________________________________________________________-
This attachment obviously wasn’t healthy, he decided. He needed to forget about Tybalt; the man had been nothing but an insufferable annoyance anyway, and now that he thought back on it, he really shouldn’t have been surprised that he’d been left like that. If he’d maybe given into daydreams of maybe having found someone who cared what happened to him outside of whether or not he’d bring home food that night, that was his own fault for being weak. The weak did not make money and the weak did not get fed. He’d do well to remember that in the future.
Still, the lingering ache in his chest persisted, panging him whenever his mind ventured to thoughts of long, elegant fingers and catlike green eyes. It was vexing to the extreme, but he’d been in worse situations. All he had to do was make himself forget.
With a single-minded determination, he set about doing just that, taking up as many odd jobs as he could. His father was very pleased with this change, as were his siblings, and he began to bring home enough money to feed them comfortably and still have a little left on the side. For two months he worked himself as hard as he could from day in to day out, and was quite happy to note that he was thinking about the Fae man less and less each day. In fact, in time he may have succeeded in forgetting the whole affair ever happened….but then the gifts started to arrive.
It started without warning; one morning he woke to the sounds of commotion in the kitchen. He could hear his sisters and brother exclaiming over something, their voices muffled by the walls. Curious, he’d dressed and made his way into the room, cramped with his siblings as they surrounded their father.
“What’s going on?” He asked, puzzled by the general lack of arguing. Jackie, the oldest of the girls, looked up at him with wide, shining eyes.
“I think I have a suitor!” she exclaimed, her voice high and breathless with excitement. Mitzy, the second oldest, elbowed her sister in the ribs.
“Not you, it’s definitely me!” she tossed her long blond curls over her shoulder. “I’m prettier.”
“You may be pretty, but you’re as clumsy as a cow.” Jacob, the third oldest brother, interjected. “No man who valued his breakables would let you within fifty feet of his house.”
The expected squabble broke out, but Loral had long ago stopped paying attention--the object of his family’s attention had finally been revealed to him as his siblings parted to take sides in the upcoming fight. Sitting in front of his father was a small, ornate golden box, it’s velvet lined lid opened wide to reveal a small mound of shining golden coins, which his father was closely examining. The clasp on the box was a hawk in flight.
Sensing his son’s gaze, the old man looked up from the coin in his hand, smiling.
“I don’t know who this is from, but I thank them.” He said quietly. “With this, we can eat well for a very long time--you no longer have to work so hard to support us.” He reached out and took Loral’s hand in one of his aged ones. “You can finally go and do whatever it is young men your age do without worrying about us.”
Carefully extracting his hand from his father’s, Loral headed for the door.
“I’m going to work.” he said, not turning to acknowledge the puzzled frown on the old man’s face. “You do whatever you want with that money. I want no part of it.”
The next gift came the next day. This time Loral was awake for the discovery--he had an errand to run for the local butcher that required him to travel to the next village and back. He had been just about to leave when an exclamation from Jackie, who had returned with the milk, caught his attention.
“Another gift from my besotted!” She declared, sitting the golden box down on the table with exaggerated care. It was slightly larger than the one from the day before, and upon lifting the lid it was apparent why--instead of a pile of golden coins, a long, delicate rose, made of gold, sat nestled within the folds of scarlet velvet. It was lifted out and passed around for everyone at the table to ooh and aww over, and Loral had to admit that it was very pretty--only the finest of craftsmen could have wrought the flower, as every single detail was captured to perfection from the veins in the leaves to the graceful curves of the petals. It made his stomach turn, and he quickly left, sighting his need to hurry if he was going to make it home before sundown that evening.
The next day passed without a golden box appearing at their door, much to the disappointment of his sisters, who were still arguing over which one of them the gifts were intended. Loral told himself quite firmly that he didn’t care. Gifts from that man could only mean trouble, and he wanted no more of that. Instead, he settled himself down at his bench, half-finished map in hand, and continued his work. He was nearly done, having painstakingly worked since his arrival back home to complete his original assignment, as per his agreement with the king. Still, it was slow going, made even slower by the face that every few minuets, he’d look up, examining the room and trying to pinpoint why, exactly, he had the feeling he was being stared at. It was not a pleasant feeling, especially since he had a sinking suspicion as to who was doing the watching. But he was almost done, finally, and he had no intention of not finishing the map that very night.
He picked up his quill and started working again, resolutely focusing on the map in front of him and ignoring the cold, itching feeling of eyes staring holes into the back of his head. This worked for an hour or so and he managed to make quite a bit of headway. Then, just as he went to dip his quill back into the ink well, the desk he was working at gave a shuddering lurch, upending the jar of black ink and spilling it all over the map, completely ruining it. With an inarticulate yell of suppressed rage and frustration, Loral leaped to his feet, grabbing the ruined vellum and tearing it to pieces before tossing them haphazardly into the corner.
“I wasn’t going to put your damn house on the map!” he yelled, throwing his hands up. “You cause enough trouble without me sending unsuspecting humans right into your clutches, thank you very much.” He stalked out of his room and out of the house, slamming the door behind him and ignoring the alarmed looks he got from his family. He didn’t care. He didn’t.
He didn’t.
The next morning, his foul mood hadn’t exactly improved, so it was a bit of a surprise when there was a timid knock at his bedroom door.
“What?” he snapped. There was a pause and then the golden curls of his youngest brother peeked slowly around the corner.
“This is addressed to you.” The child said softly, holding out a slender golden tube. Around the middle was wrapped a heavy piece of vellum with his name written in it in flowing, elegant script.
“Throw it away.” Loral said, rubbing the sides of his head where he could feel a headache coming on. “Please, don’t argue. Just….get rid of it. I don’t care how.” A long silence greeted his words. Then his brother shrugged and ducked back out of the room, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. Loral let out a long, shaky sigh, burying his hands in his hair and pulling. This whole forgetting thing was not going as well as he had initially hoped. That was probably the point, of course---Fae revenge for the rejection he’d given. The man had found a sour spot and now he was picking at it. Well, he’d show him! He was going to forget about that man if it killed him.
He grabbed his jacket, fired with the power of resolution and very nearly tripped over the gold tube on his way out his door. He managed to catch himself on the door jamb, spluttering out a few choice words that would have made a few of the men in the tavern turn red. The metal tube gleamed innocently up at him in the sunlight. Loral briefly considered tracking his brother down to see if he really knew the meaning of ’get rid of,’ but decided against it--his siblings were already on edge around him; it was senseless to make it worse. Instead he picked up the tube and retreated back into his room, intending to stick it in a corner or something so that he could dispose of it himself later. Still, the more he looked at it, the more his curiosity was aroused, and by the time he had made it to his bed, he had decided that one little peek at the contents before he threw them away couldn’t hurt, so long as no one saw.
He fiddled with the tube for along moment before he found the small, nearly invisible seam that marked the lid to the container. He twisted it open and tilted it gently, dumping the contents out onto his bed. He felt his stomach drop at the tightly rolled piece of vellum. It was tied with a black ribbon and sealed with scarlet wax bearing the insignia of a hawk in flight. That wasn’t what aught Loral’s attention though---he was more interested in the act that the vellum was the proper size for a map.
___________________________________________________________________________________
Loral threw the tube across the room with a strangled noise of fury, only slightly mollified by the bang it made when it hit the far wall. He sat back on his bed, dropping his head in his hands and trying to ignore the fact that he was angrier at himself for the brief moment of happiness he had felt upon seeing the map than he was at Tybalt for giving him the damn thing in the first place.
“Now that was rude.” The smooth, rich voice behind him startled him to his feet. “When people give you gifts you’re supposed to thank them of give them something in return, not disrespect them by throwing what they’ve given you across the room.” Loral narrowed his eyes and directed his fiercest glare at the Fae. The man in question seemed as unruffled as ever, and in fact looked a little angry himself, which just served to make Loral’s anger burn brighter. He could feel his cheeks heating with it.
“What are you doing here?” He snapped. “I told you before to go away.” A slow, cold smile curved the fae’s lips, sending that familiar shudder down Loral’s spine.
“Do you really think I’d take orders from a mortal like you?” he purred, taking a smooth step around the bed that separated the two of them. Loral moved away, matching every step Tybalt took forward with a backwards one of his own. “Why won’t you accept my gifts?” the Fae man demanded. “You know they are intended for you and yet you allow those girl-children to keep what is rightfully yours and claim it as their own. Why?”
“I don’t want your gifts. Take them back if you’re so offended, but I won’t touch them.”
________________________________________________________________________________
The fae man did not release his grip on Loral’s arm. “Tell me!” He demanded, shaking the boy in his grasp sharply, ignoring the pained gasp the action caused. “What. Do. You. Want. From. Me!”
“I want you to go away!” Loral shouted, voice tight and frightened. “I want you to go away and leave me alone! I want you to never bother me again!”
Just as suddenly as his arm had been captured it was released. Loral reeled back, holding his aching shoulder. Tybalt watched him, his gaze colder than any Loral had received thus far.
“Very well then.” The man said, his calm voice completely at odds with his angry shouting from a moment before. To Loral’s surprise, the man sketched a mock bow. “My last gift to you then. You will never see me again.”
And, true to his word, the last word had no sooner faded from the air than he had disappeared into this air, leaving Loral completely alone in his suddenly to-silent room. As much as he knew he should be jumping for joy, all Loral felt like doing was curling up on his bed and crying.