[story] the accidental keeper of hearts
author: graverunner (graverunner)
email: salemtrials [ at ] gmail.com
There was once a man who lived on the edges of a forest and never was there a more contented man than he. No bright eyed lover did he have to call his own, with eyes like the blue summer sky and hair of rippling wheat, nor did he have coffers filled to bursting with every type of jewel; but what he did have was his cottage and the caress of the sweet air that was better than any a lover could offer while the flowers blooming all around were worth more than their weight in gold.
One day however, when the man walked out of his cottage, he was shocked to see that the land he loved had wilted away.
"It is the Dread King, sir!" a fleeing villager he met cried out to him. "He has brought evil and destruction to us!"
The man vowed then that he would find a way to defeat this Dread King and save the land.
Tyrian had the unnerving and inescapable tendency to fall madly in, and just as fleetingly out, of love.
He's never had a day pass without the slight quickening of the heart, the sweaty palms, the freefall moment when he is helplessly drawn without rhyme or reason to some person or another.
The girl he spots down on the streets while he dangles his feet over the balcony one day, her face thrust into a book, has him clutching to the railing to prevent himself from falling over when the girl stumbles over the sharp edge of a rock sticking out. It wasn't the small stumble that did it, but rather the unconscious laugh that slipped out, half mocking, half amused at her own fall as a small hand came up carefully to tuck back a tendril of stray hair that had slipped loose.
For the next few days, the girl would find that she would have an easier time finding books of interest to her. Her eyes would fall upon one sticking out further than the rest on the bookshelf, another lying innocuously on the top of a pile and she would soon find herself immersed in them when she finally brought them home. Strangely, they were all offered at half price too.
Then there was the man Tyrian's eyes happened to flick to by chance, one whom he has always seen strolling down the park lane, immaculate in appearance and stiff in bearing, and whose comings and goings had never been of any consequence to him. He saw the man crouching down to calm a crying girl, failing miserably to soothe her as the little thing merely increased the volume of her sobs when the grave face of the man was level with hers. The man was awkwardly petting her head, searching desperately for the owner of this lost girl when he stopped, a thoughtful look flitting across his face. His hand tensed by his side, snapped once, twice, and there was a brightly colored flower in his hand where there had been none before.
This he offered to the girl and her sobs dwindled to a hiccup. Another -- one two snap -- and there was a paper crane in his other hand, which he blew softly into, causing it to flutter around the girl before landing in the curls of her hair. The girl was giggling now, beaming up at him with the self possessed trust which only little children seemed to be capable of giving to strangers. When the man finally stood up, the girl cradled in his arms, there was a streak of dirt across the back of his pants left from his shoe and yet another slimy one across the waistcoat the girl had blown her nose into. The man did not seem to mind and Thyrian swooned across the handle of the bench he was sprawled on, earning a frowning glance from the lady beside him.
For the next few days, the well-dressed man would find that what little magic he had came easier to him to perform. He only had to put in half as much concentration, for one thing, and the colors of the flowers and little birds he made seemed brighter.
Soon, Thyrian saw him walking in the park with another lady who had the same curly hair as the little girl did, the latter in between them as they held her hand on either side. Thyrian saw the look in the well-dressed man's eyes for what it was when he gazed upon the lady. The booklover, incidentally, could also be seen reading to the shy boy that manned the bookshop she always frequented.
A hundred loves and a hundred little heartbeaks each and every day.
The man travelled far and wide till he came upon an injured raven in the woods. He knew that the raven was the animal of the Dread King, and he thought of leaving it be to die, but its distressed caws moved him and he could not help but kneel down to help the creature.
"Thank you, good sir," the raven said when it was healed. "I would peck out your eyes but I will give you something in exchange instead for your kindness."
"How do I defeat the Dread King?"
The Raven chortled at this and prepared itself to fly away, but the man had a good grip on its wing and it finally relented. The Raven leaned in close to his ear and whispered the Dread King's secret to him.
"But what should I do then?"
The Raven merely pecked his arm and flew away.
"Find the Wood Witch!" it cawed before disappearing into the distance.
Magic was not uncommon.
There were witches and magicians with varying abilities, from the one just round the corner who was only ever able to cure minor illnesses to those who could conjure fantastical illusions and talking beasts. There were also others who had the good (or bad) fortune to have blood related to the famous ones in the Old Days, which allowed them "talents" such as commonly pricking fingers on spindles or attracting animals with song. Thyrian remembers a famous soprano once who was graced with the latter, and how audiences came from far and wide to revel in his singing voice just as much as for the chance to see the amusing sight of woodland animals crashing into the venue.
Thyrian wonders about his fickle heart sometimes.
It had been so ever since he was young. He would cast his heart out to someone, upon which the receiver would experience a fair turn of luck for however long it remained in their grasp, after which it would be returned back to him when they were urged towards someone else they could call more of their own.
He could very possibly be related to some fairy or being that had helped mortals in matters of the heart. Or cursed, maybe, to walk the earth and fall in love all the time without ever having a love of his own.
The man finally came to a simple hut with an old crone sitting by the fire.
"Are you the Wood Witch?" he asked.
"Why yes, I am," the old crone replied pleasantly.
"Tell me how to defeat the Dread King then," he said and told her the Dread King's secret.
"Sit by the fire with me," the old crone clucked. "Have a cup of tea first before we go talking about dread kings."
The man looked suspiciously down at the cup offered to him, which did not contain anything that looked like tea but rather a bubbling swampy liquid that gave out a horrid odor. He gulped it all down in the end, and looked up to see the delighted face of the old crone.
"Now will you tell me?"
The old crone nodded and told him of three objects that he had to obtain. An apple to fill the fallen, a magic ring that would protect its wearer and a white carnation to heal a heart.
"You have a visitor, the Dread King," Old Crone tells him one day, with a gleam that could be good humour, insanity, or most likely a mixture of both. Tyrian knows that it is good to be charitable to mysterious old ladies, for there had always been the odd person or two who had caused offence to one and was promptly turned into something unnatural as a result. He had let her in when she turned up on his doorstep one day, asking for shelter. Instead of leaving the next day, as all mysterious old ladies were supposed to do, she stayed on. Thyrian did not have the heart to turn her out and had continued providing shelter while she, in turn, cooked food for him which had one eyeball too many.
"Pardon?" he replies, knowing that the Old Crone has a tendency to make cryptic remarks that he can't make head nor tail of.
"The Dread King. He's here to see you. A rather nice man, really, although he wears a bit too much black for my tastes," she rambles on while Thryian makes suitable noises of agreement and notes in his mind to buy a better lock for the booze cabinet.
"Thyrian?"
His head whips in the direction of the voice, which reminds one of dark trees and a flock of ravens taking flight and had no business emitting from his living room. When he sees the owner, he responds intelligently by having his mouth drop open.
"Here he is," Old Crone says cheerfully. "I'll leave you two to it then, shall I?"
If he stretches his mind back far enough, rewinding the reel of his life through all the beautiful (and not so beautiful) people, places, and things he has known, and had to choose the first moment he has ever fallen in love, the reel would have to stop on one John Johnson.
Picture a sullen, withdrawn child with dark hair constantly flopping over his eyes and a permanent scowl etched upon his face. He was the kid that was always seen on the corners of social activity, looking on as the others squealed and ran across the grass. While the boys would indulge in a bit of wooden swordfighting and kick-ball, John Johnson would be over by the apple tree instead knocking apples off with what rudimentary spells he knew.
Thyrian decided to give his white carnation to John Johnson the instant he saw the earnest look on his face followed by a bunch of apples knocking the boy clean off his feet.
"What?" Helena had asked, aghast. Helena was a pretty girl, no doubt about it, but Thyrian rather thought that she had an eye defect for all the fluttering that she did with her lashes.
"Johnson," he said back cheerfully before making his way over to where the boy seemed to be trying to converse to two bored looking crows on the brick wall.
"You can't do that!" Helena sputtered. "Johnson's icky and weird and -- and -- you can't give white carnations to boys!" She stamped her pretty feet to underscore her point. "It's tradition! Where are you going? Thyrian? Come back here!"
"Here you go," he piped up, coming up from behind Johnson and tucking the flower behind his ear, which made a very pretty contrast with his black hair indeed. Johnson turned around from the crows and stared at him.
"It's a white carnation," he offered helpfully, "You'll have to dance with me for the Spring Festival now."
Johnson replied by turning a charming shade of red and blasting a hole in the wall.
The village was to be sporadically littered with detritus in the following days, as Thyrian pestered Johnson for a proper answer and he replied each time in the same manner by turning red and destroying whatever object happened to be near him at the moment.
Johnson said yes eventually, or more specifically, "Alright, I'll dance the stupid Spring dance with you, just -- just leave me alone will you?" but the dance with his first love, unfortunately, never came to be. The next day, a strange lady in a cloak with a raven perched atop her shoulder swept by the village, and John Johnson followed in her wake.
"I'll get straight to the point," John Johnson who was now the Dread King continues in a serious tone. "Give me my heart back.
"Eh?" Thyrian responds intelligently once again.
The Dread King scrapes his chair back to stand and glower, the shadows in the room lengthening threateningly. "Give my my heart back, you bastard! It was fine at first because I very well didn't need a heart then," he says as he starts to pace back and forth. "It will only slow you down when you're planning on enslaving the hearts and minds of the people, but I'm done with that whole business now. My empire has expanded, I have all the riches I need and I am power incarnate itself. Now, what I do not have is my heart and I want it back."
A gloved hand stretches out from beneath his cloak as if he expects one live, beating heart dripping blood to simply be handed over onto his open palm.
"I can't do that," is the only thing that Thyrian can possibly think of to say.
"Whyever not?" he hisses, his cloak rippling angrily while the shadows in the room spikes up into sharp points.
"Is there a problem, dearies?" the mild voice of Old Crone comes as she bustles in. The shadows retreat back to the corners of the room.
"Oh, nothing of the sort," the Dread King replies just as mildly. "Delicious tea, by the way."
"You have good taste, young man," Old Crone shoots a baleful look over at Thyrian. "Which is more than I can say for people who pretend to drink my tea only for me to see traces of it down the drain. I'll make another cup for those that can appreciate it then, shall I?" She shoots a warm smile over to the Dread King before tottering out and he smiles back in acquisence.
Thryian wonders if Old Crone quite knows that the cloaked person now standing in their tea room had been rumoured to drink the blood of children and old ladies like herself.
"You just swallowed an eyeball," Thyrian points out with a fair bit of fascination his voice.
The Dread King blinks at him.
"In the tea."
"Oh. I was wondering what that chewy thing was."
Thyrian blanches and for a fleeting second, he thinks he can see the corner of the Dread King's mouth twitching into a smile. He cannot confirm this, however, for the shadows in the room start their unpleasant wriggling once again.
"But that is not the point. Now, give it back." There is the outstretched hand once again, which flicks in his direction.
"What?"
"You very well know what and I want it now."
"I ... don't think that's the way it works," he says slowly.
"Look here," the Dread King roars, suddenly nose-to-nose with him as all light from the room drains out. "I am finished with trying to talk things through nicely, and if you don't want to return what is rightly mine, I will just have to take yours as payment instead, hm?"
As Thyrian stares back at the Dread King, tiny bits of information such as the stories of slaughter and razing flashing in a panic through his mind, the one thought that starts to drown out all the others and gradually bubbles larger in his mind is how Johnson's eyes are not completely black after all but a very deep shade of purple and that his lips look very soft for an evil overlord and all he wants to do right now is just --
close the gap and lean forward.
It had been but a mere brushing of lips.
Still, when the Dread King fled and Old Crone returns back to the room with a steaming cup of tea in one hand, she raises an eyebrow at the gaping hole in the wall and the scattered remains of the furniture.
"A nice person, but such a temper that young man," she tsks.
As the man continued travelling, he came to a bridge but found that he could not cross it for there was a giant blocking his path. When the giant saw the man, it bellowed out, "I am happy to see you indeed, for you will make a fine feast for me!"
The giant caught the man and bit into his arm, only to release the man soon after, roaring and spitting out the blood from its mouth which sizzled.
"I taste the tea of the Wood Witch!" the Giant raged and while it was distracted, the man crossed the bridge and plucked an apple from the tree that lay on the other side.
"How does it work then?"
Thyrian whirls around in shock, nearly dropping the paper slip detailing when the warlock could come over to patch the hole in the house which let drafty winds in and made the Old Crone complain of aching bones.
"I fixed it already," the Dread King continues. "Your home. So tell me, how exactly does getting back my heart 'work' then?"
"Stay with me," Thyrian says quickly before the rational part of his mind can convince him otherwise. "Keep me company for a few days, and I assure you, you'll get it back."
The Dread King looks at him suspiciously for a few seconds but inclines his head in the end.
Thyrian does not quite know what possessed him to say what he did. He does not know either what he hopes to achieve by having the Dread King accompany him and seeing the streets empty out wherever their path should stray.
At the very least, Thyrian hopes that falling in love (again) with the Dread King who was once John Johnson will in turn help the man find someone else to give his heart over to.
This may be a harder task than he has assumed, though, judging by the amount of gestures against evil being thrown their way. Still, love is a funny thing and he has never failed before so there may very well be an evil overlord-ess to share the Dread King's throne in the future.
He decides to bring the Dread King over to Oliver's Cookies and Crumbs. Thyrian has to admit that the Dread King's black cloak and aura does clash rather horribly with the bright colors of the shop's interior. When they enter, all the customers flee out the door at the sight of the Dread King. Commendably, Oliver does nothing more than to go a whiter shade of pale and proceeds to give 'service with a smile' as stated by the hanging sign with the bright yellow face on the wall behind him.
"Why have you brought me here?" the Dread King grumbles.
"He may be new but Oliver makes the best rhubarb apple pie in the whole town. You always did like apples, didn't you? Two slices please!"
"This is foolish," the Dread King continues as Thyrian leads him to the plush velvet chairs by the side of the window. "I will not be able to taste anything. All food is wasted on me. It is the price I had to pay. They only turn to ashes and dust in my mouth---"
Thyrian shoves a piece of apple pie into the Dread King's mouth to shut him up. The Dread King chews slowly, too surprised to do anything else, swallows and stares at the steaming slice placed on the dainty plate in front of him. Thyrian cannot stop grinning.
"Delicious, isn't it? I've tried to get the recipe from Oliver only god knows a million times now. Says that I can't make it even if I knew how because the recipe, apparently, calls for some magic apple that he received from a mysterious man. Sometimes, I even think he's serious."
"But -- But it's impossible." The Dread King picks up the apple slice and squints at it. "I shouldn't be able to..."
"Better than the newly spilled blood of virgins and newborn babies?" he asks, arching an eyebrow carefully.
The Dread King picks up the fork, takes a hearty bite and nods, the shadows cast from the tree outside flickering in contentment.
The man soon came upon another man lying half-slumped and weary across the road and he declared, "Ho! This be no place to sleep upon."
"I would go to a down-filled bed if I could, but alas, a sore lack of food and water keeps me from rising to my feet."
The man would gladly offer some of his own, but unfortunately, the provisions in his bag had dwindled the longer he walked untill it was only the bright red apple and fleeting visions of returning his homeland to what it once was that gave him strength.
He had intended to continue on his way, but the man on the road did look so very close to the brink of death that it gave him pause. A little bit surely couldn't hurt. After all, the Wood Witch herself had not specified that it was to be a whole apple. So the man broke the apple in half and knelt down then, offering one half to the man on the road who swallowed it in one bite.
The man resumed walking then, only to be stopped mere footsteps later by the sounds of terrible hacking and coughing behind him. He turned around to see the one on the road retching out a brief glimmer onto his palm.
"A ring!" the man lying on the road exclaimed. "It's a sign from above. With this, I may very well be able to defeat the Dread King!"
Thyrian is starting to enjoy his time with the Dread King far more than he ever expected he would. He keeps expecting the Dread King to entangle him with his shadows and strangle him in response to the increasingly absurb joint outings he thinks up, only to amuse himself with the sight of the Dread King feeding ducks or trying on outrageous top hats. The man has agreed to each and every one of Tyrian's suggestions without fail thus far. There are moments when Thyrian even manages to spot a rare smile or two curling at the corners of the Dread King's mouth. There are moments even when Thyrian forgets that the Dread King is the Dread King.
The knowledge comes crashing back swiftly, however, on the heels of a man who comes rushing at them one day with a desperate cry and a sense of terrible purpose in his eyes. The only other thing that Thyrian is able to remember in that moment when the world narrows down to the three of them is the gleaming arc of the dagger in the man's hands and the ring hanging round his neck.
The man stops, as if he is rooted to the spot, as still as if he has been turned to stone. There is a creeping greyness that is spreading upwards from the base of his shoes and Thyrian realises that the man is turning to stone.
The Dread King is standing beside him, calm and terrible all at the same time while the shadows that stretch out behind him wriggle in glee. Thyrian does not know what he is more horrified at, the fact that the Dread King seems to take pleasure from this or that he cannot will himself to say stop, stop it and leave the man be.
He had always viewed love as a pure thing. It had been born in him ever since he was young and had earned the nickname of 'Prince Charming'; all blonde hair, blue eyes and an easy smile that had girls swooning easily into his arms. Love to him was all chivalry and pleasant dates in pictaresque cafes, dropping off ladies and gentlemen alike on doorsteps with a lingering kiss followed by tender lovemaking with the sheets entangled in between. The ugly face of love, the one that grinned murky jealousy, cold terror and bitter fights had yet to rear its head simply because it had never lasted long enough for that.
Of course. Of course there would be all those knights in white armor and young hopefuls wanting to impress come to defeat the Dread King who was once John Johnson. The Old Ways may not have held as much sway as it did before, but some things never did change.
"I must be going soft in the head. I'll be planting flowers soon enough," the Dread King mumbles, a raven on a brach nearby cawing its agreement as he proceeds to turn the man back. "Go home now, and never show your face again."
The man wheezes and turns tail immediately.
"... Are you still angry with me then?"
"I wasn't angry with you," Thyrian confesses. "Just ... Confused. And a little terrified, I suppose."
"I'm not going to be able to change, you know that," the Dread King sighs, the shadows of his cloak trembling with the movement. "I've done far more horrible deeds before."
Thyrian gives a sigh of his own and replies by interweaving their fingers together, a small smile tentatively coming into view.
"Really warm hands though. For a Dark Lord."
The man did not know how long he had been on the roads but his heart ached to return home. But he knew that if he did not want to be greeted to a desolate wasteland, he would have to carry on, and this thought and a clear image of the last object he had to obtain spurred him on. So clear was the image of the white carnation in his mind, in fact, that he did not at first notice that the same field of white carnations stretching out before him was not imaginary at all.
The man blinked, wondering if this was to be the flower he was searching for and if he could finally return home at long last. He bent down to pluck one, pausing when the sounds of sobs finally reached him. In the middle of the sea of white, there stood a woman crying and he carefully approached her to see what the matter was that could cause such a fine lady as her to sob so.
"It's my dear Thomas," she said, shoulders heaving, "and oh I have been so very cruel to him... I miss him so and I wish I could have him back and that I had never --" Her wailings increased. "I didn't know he would take it to heart! 'Never', I said, 'Never will I fall in love with you till you defeat the Dread King' and I don't want that at all now, I just -- I just want him to be here with me."
The man deftly placed the white carnation behind her ear and told her not to worry and that he was safe, recounting the tale of the apple and the ring.
"Oh," she breathed out. "Thomas used to do that... Back when he wanted to court me for the Spring Dance... But I didn't accept, you see? I was such a fool back then." She dashed away the tears from her eyes angrily. "Safe, you say? Thank you. I do not not know who you are nor your name... But I believe you, somehow."
The man assured her that her Thomas would return safe and sound before turning to take the long walk back home.
"Right then, the Dance must go on," she said fiercely to herself as she waved the man goodbye.
"Here."
Cold slithers briefly against his ear and Thyrian sees the tail-end of a shadow along with something white flashing out of the corner of his eyes.
"It is a white carnation. You'll have to dance with me for the Spring Festival now."
The words are a mirror echo blooming anew from the dry rustling leaves of the past, carefully spoken and grave where they had been light and airy long ago, but they did not fail in making his heart skip a beat for all that.
"Oh all right then," Thyrian replies with a laughing gleam in his eyes and a smile threatening to overcome him. "I'll dance the stupid dance with you."
The town was alight and breathless with excitement at the prospect of the Spring Dance still carrying on after all. The Lady of the Troubadours, who had always brought the dance to different villages, had taken ill this year, the whispers said in shades of disappointment. It was only recently that the whispers had turned to joy when they found that the Lady had recovered for the better after all (supposedly, with a new sweetheart in tow even).
From the little corner they were in surrounded by a grove of trees, the sounds of revelry and music drifted to them from the village. Heavy silence, however, filled the tense spaces between him and the Dread King. They stood there awkwardly, hands placed upon shoulders and waists in the proper position and yet neither moving nary an inch.
"Well," Thyrian ventures, clearing his throat.
"Hm," the Dread King replies just as eloquently.
Honestly, the dance is simply too happy. While Thyrian is no stranger to the swinging arms and jaunty two-step needed, he cannot imagine the same for the Dread King.
"Here," the Dread King finally says, slipping his hands away from Thyrian. "Why do we not do it the old way?"
"The old way?"
"Yes. When the dance was meant to mourn the passing of Winter instead of celebrating the coming of Spring."
The Dread King gestures impatiently at his confused look.
"Here, stand a few paces back ... and bow."
Thyrian does so, only to see a black shadow striking out at him when he eventually looks up. Instinctively, his body shifts into a defensive stance, arms up and legs apart to deflect the blow.
"What..?"
The Dread King does not answer but attacks again, shadows deliberately curling into a mock strike that gives Thryian time to retreat and fend himself. They continue in the fight-dance, and as his body slowly adjusts to the new rhythm that begins he realizes that it is a familiar pattern he is easing into -- the same steps that he is used to dancing for the Spring Dance, except slower and with an edge of violence.
This new dance is different, but no less intriguing for it.
It brings them away from each other, closer again, then away; A tendril of a shadow always making contact, brushing slyly round his ankles, glancing off his collarbones, slipping past his wrists.
When the last lilting note trembles in the air and fades, whoops and cheers erupting from the distance, Thyrian finds himself and the Dread King in an impasse. They are breathing heavily, arms locked, and neither being able to retreat or attack.
"I -- I have something to tell you," Thyrian gasps out. He feels the shadows shifting curiously to attention and he bowls ahead before he can lose his nerve. "I lied." The shadows start to prickle dangerously and his words stumble out faster. "I don't know where your heart is or who took it or if anyone even has possession of it right now. I don't know how to give it back, but remember what you said before about taking mine instead as payment? Well, you can have it. I give it. I've given it away willingly to you."
Thyrian waits, wondering if he is going to be struck out of existence soon when the shadows start shifting again, but all that happens is a soft voice saying, "I accept" and before he knows it he is kissing the Dread King back for all he is worth.
The man stumbled to the edges of the forest where he lived. He was tired and aching and needed a bath terribly, but despite all that, he could not quite contain his grin when he noticed green grass and flowers where there had been ashes and cracked grounds before.
"You're back!" A passing youth shouted excitedly at him, running up to thump his back. "You wouldn't believe what just happened. They say that the Dread King just gained a heart, can you believe it? I can't imagine anyone falling in love with such a dreadful creature, but if it keeps him from laying the land to waste and keeps all this fresh greenery popping out, who am I to complain?"
Happy endings were rare too, these days, but some things from the Old Ways never did change.
email: salemtrials [ at ] gmail.com
There was once a man who lived on the edges of a forest and never was there a more contented man than he. No bright eyed lover did he have to call his own, with eyes like the blue summer sky and hair of rippling wheat, nor did he have coffers filled to bursting with every type of jewel; but what he did have was his cottage and the caress of the sweet air that was better than any a lover could offer while the flowers blooming all around were worth more than their weight in gold.
One day however, when the man walked out of his cottage, he was shocked to see that the land he loved had wilted away.
"It is the Dread King, sir!" a fleeing villager he met cried out to him. "He has brought evil and destruction to us!"
The man vowed then that he would find a way to defeat this Dread King and save the land.
Tyrian had the unnerving and inescapable tendency to fall madly in, and just as fleetingly out, of love.
He's never had a day pass without the slight quickening of the heart, the sweaty palms, the freefall moment when he is helplessly drawn without rhyme or reason to some person or another.
The girl he spots down on the streets while he dangles his feet over the balcony one day, her face thrust into a book, has him clutching to the railing to prevent himself from falling over when the girl stumbles over the sharp edge of a rock sticking out. It wasn't the small stumble that did it, but rather the unconscious laugh that slipped out, half mocking, half amused at her own fall as a small hand came up carefully to tuck back a tendril of stray hair that had slipped loose.
For the next few days, the girl would find that she would have an easier time finding books of interest to her. Her eyes would fall upon one sticking out further than the rest on the bookshelf, another lying innocuously on the top of a pile and she would soon find herself immersed in them when she finally brought them home. Strangely, they were all offered at half price too.
Then there was the man Tyrian's eyes happened to flick to by chance, one whom he has always seen strolling down the park lane, immaculate in appearance and stiff in bearing, and whose comings and goings had never been of any consequence to him. He saw the man crouching down to calm a crying girl, failing miserably to soothe her as the little thing merely increased the volume of her sobs when the grave face of the man was level with hers. The man was awkwardly petting her head, searching desperately for the owner of this lost girl when he stopped, a thoughtful look flitting across his face. His hand tensed by his side, snapped once, twice, and there was a brightly colored flower in his hand where there had been none before.
This he offered to the girl and her sobs dwindled to a hiccup. Another -- one two snap -- and there was a paper crane in his other hand, which he blew softly into, causing it to flutter around the girl before landing in the curls of her hair. The girl was giggling now, beaming up at him with the self possessed trust which only little children seemed to be capable of giving to strangers. When the man finally stood up, the girl cradled in his arms, there was a streak of dirt across the back of his pants left from his shoe and yet another slimy one across the waistcoat the girl had blown her nose into. The man did not seem to mind and Thyrian swooned across the handle of the bench he was sprawled on, earning a frowning glance from the lady beside him.
For the next few days, the well-dressed man would find that what little magic he had came easier to him to perform. He only had to put in half as much concentration, for one thing, and the colors of the flowers and little birds he made seemed brighter.
Soon, Thyrian saw him walking in the park with another lady who had the same curly hair as the little girl did, the latter in between them as they held her hand on either side. Thyrian saw the look in the well-dressed man's eyes for what it was when he gazed upon the lady. The booklover, incidentally, could also be seen reading to the shy boy that manned the bookshop she always frequented.
A hundred loves and a hundred little heartbeaks each and every day.
The man travelled far and wide till he came upon an injured raven in the woods. He knew that the raven was the animal of the Dread King, and he thought of leaving it be to die, but its distressed caws moved him and he could not help but kneel down to help the creature.
"Thank you, good sir," the raven said when it was healed. "I would peck out your eyes but I will give you something in exchange instead for your kindness."
"How do I defeat the Dread King?"
The Raven chortled at this and prepared itself to fly away, but the man had a good grip on its wing and it finally relented. The Raven leaned in close to his ear and whispered the Dread King's secret to him.
"But what should I do then?"
The Raven merely pecked his arm and flew away.
"Find the Wood Witch!" it cawed before disappearing into the distance.
Magic was not uncommon.
There were witches and magicians with varying abilities, from the one just round the corner who was only ever able to cure minor illnesses to those who could conjure fantastical illusions and talking beasts. There were also others who had the good (or bad) fortune to have blood related to the famous ones in the Old Days, which allowed them "talents" such as commonly pricking fingers on spindles or attracting animals with song. Thyrian remembers a famous soprano once who was graced with the latter, and how audiences came from far and wide to revel in his singing voice just as much as for the chance to see the amusing sight of woodland animals crashing into the venue.
Thyrian wonders about his fickle heart sometimes.
It had been so ever since he was young. He would cast his heart out to someone, upon which the receiver would experience a fair turn of luck for however long it remained in their grasp, after which it would be returned back to him when they were urged towards someone else they could call more of their own.
He could very possibly be related to some fairy or being that had helped mortals in matters of the heart. Or cursed, maybe, to walk the earth and fall in love all the time without ever having a love of his own.
The man finally came to a simple hut with an old crone sitting by the fire.
"Are you the Wood Witch?" he asked.
"Why yes, I am," the old crone replied pleasantly.
"Tell me how to defeat the Dread King then," he said and told her the Dread King's secret.
"Sit by the fire with me," the old crone clucked. "Have a cup of tea first before we go talking about dread kings."
The man looked suspiciously down at the cup offered to him, which did not contain anything that looked like tea but rather a bubbling swampy liquid that gave out a horrid odor. He gulped it all down in the end, and looked up to see the delighted face of the old crone.
"Now will you tell me?"
The old crone nodded and told him of three objects that he had to obtain. An apple to fill the fallen, a magic ring that would protect its wearer and a white carnation to heal a heart.
"You have a visitor, the Dread King," Old Crone tells him one day, with a gleam that could be good humour, insanity, or most likely a mixture of both. Tyrian knows that it is good to be charitable to mysterious old ladies, for there had always been the odd person or two who had caused offence to one and was promptly turned into something unnatural as a result. He had let her in when she turned up on his doorstep one day, asking for shelter. Instead of leaving the next day, as all mysterious old ladies were supposed to do, she stayed on. Thyrian did not have the heart to turn her out and had continued providing shelter while she, in turn, cooked food for him which had one eyeball too many.
"Pardon?" he replies, knowing that the Old Crone has a tendency to make cryptic remarks that he can't make head nor tail of.
"The Dread King. He's here to see you. A rather nice man, really, although he wears a bit too much black for my tastes," she rambles on while Thryian makes suitable noises of agreement and notes in his mind to buy a better lock for the booze cabinet.
"Thyrian?"
His head whips in the direction of the voice, which reminds one of dark trees and a flock of ravens taking flight and had no business emitting from his living room. When he sees the owner, he responds intelligently by having his mouth drop open.
"Here he is," Old Crone says cheerfully. "I'll leave you two to it then, shall I?"
If he stretches his mind back far enough, rewinding the reel of his life through all the beautiful (and not so beautiful) people, places, and things he has known, and had to choose the first moment he has ever fallen in love, the reel would have to stop on one John Johnson.
Picture a sullen, withdrawn child with dark hair constantly flopping over his eyes and a permanent scowl etched upon his face. He was the kid that was always seen on the corners of social activity, looking on as the others squealed and ran across the grass. While the boys would indulge in a bit of wooden swordfighting and kick-ball, John Johnson would be over by the apple tree instead knocking apples off with what rudimentary spells he knew.
Thyrian decided to give his white carnation to John Johnson the instant he saw the earnest look on his face followed by a bunch of apples knocking the boy clean off his feet.
"What?" Helena had asked, aghast. Helena was a pretty girl, no doubt about it, but Thyrian rather thought that she had an eye defect for all the fluttering that she did with her lashes.
"Johnson," he said back cheerfully before making his way over to where the boy seemed to be trying to converse to two bored looking crows on the brick wall.
"You can't do that!" Helena sputtered. "Johnson's icky and weird and -- and -- you can't give white carnations to boys!" She stamped her pretty feet to underscore her point. "It's tradition! Where are you going? Thyrian? Come back here!"
"Here you go," he piped up, coming up from behind Johnson and tucking the flower behind his ear, which made a very pretty contrast with his black hair indeed. Johnson turned around from the crows and stared at him.
"It's a white carnation," he offered helpfully, "You'll have to dance with me for the Spring Festival now."
Johnson replied by turning a charming shade of red and blasting a hole in the wall.
The village was to be sporadically littered with detritus in the following days, as Thyrian pestered Johnson for a proper answer and he replied each time in the same manner by turning red and destroying whatever object happened to be near him at the moment.
Johnson said yes eventually, or more specifically, "Alright, I'll dance the stupid Spring dance with you, just -- just leave me alone will you?" but the dance with his first love, unfortunately, never came to be. The next day, a strange lady in a cloak with a raven perched atop her shoulder swept by the village, and John Johnson followed in her wake.
"I'll get straight to the point," John Johnson who was now the Dread King continues in a serious tone. "Give me my heart back.
"Eh?" Thyrian responds intelligently once again.
The Dread King scrapes his chair back to stand and glower, the shadows in the room lengthening threateningly. "Give my my heart back, you bastard! It was fine at first because I very well didn't need a heart then," he says as he starts to pace back and forth. "It will only slow you down when you're planning on enslaving the hearts and minds of the people, but I'm done with that whole business now. My empire has expanded, I have all the riches I need and I am power incarnate itself. Now, what I do not have is my heart and I want it back."
A gloved hand stretches out from beneath his cloak as if he expects one live, beating heart dripping blood to simply be handed over onto his open palm.
"I can't do that," is the only thing that Thyrian can possibly think of to say.
"Whyever not?" he hisses, his cloak rippling angrily while the shadows in the room spikes up into sharp points.
"Is there a problem, dearies?" the mild voice of Old Crone comes as she bustles in. The shadows retreat back to the corners of the room.
"Oh, nothing of the sort," the Dread King replies just as mildly. "Delicious tea, by the way."
"You have good taste, young man," Old Crone shoots a baleful look over at Thyrian. "Which is more than I can say for people who pretend to drink my tea only for me to see traces of it down the drain. I'll make another cup for those that can appreciate it then, shall I?" She shoots a warm smile over to the Dread King before tottering out and he smiles back in acquisence.
Thryian wonders if Old Crone quite knows that the cloaked person now standing in their tea room had been rumoured to drink the blood of children and old ladies like herself.
"You just swallowed an eyeball," Thyrian points out with a fair bit of fascination his voice.
The Dread King blinks at him.
"In the tea."
"Oh. I was wondering what that chewy thing was."
Thyrian blanches and for a fleeting second, he thinks he can see the corner of the Dread King's mouth twitching into a smile. He cannot confirm this, however, for the shadows in the room start their unpleasant wriggling once again.
"But that is not the point. Now, give it back." There is the outstretched hand once again, which flicks in his direction.
"What?"
"You very well know what and I want it now."
"I ... don't think that's the way it works," he says slowly.
"Look here," the Dread King roars, suddenly nose-to-nose with him as all light from the room drains out. "I am finished with trying to talk things through nicely, and if you don't want to return what is rightly mine, I will just have to take yours as payment instead, hm?"
As Thyrian stares back at the Dread King, tiny bits of information such as the stories of slaughter and razing flashing in a panic through his mind, the one thought that starts to drown out all the others and gradually bubbles larger in his mind is how Johnson's eyes are not completely black after all but a very deep shade of purple and that his lips look very soft for an evil overlord and all he wants to do right now is just --
close the gap and lean forward.
It had been but a mere brushing of lips.
Still, when the Dread King fled and Old Crone returns back to the room with a steaming cup of tea in one hand, she raises an eyebrow at the gaping hole in the wall and the scattered remains of the furniture.
"A nice person, but such a temper that young man," she tsks.
As the man continued travelling, he came to a bridge but found that he could not cross it for there was a giant blocking his path. When the giant saw the man, it bellowed out, "I am happy to see you indeed, for you will make a fine feast for me!"
The giant caught the man and bit into his arm, only to release the man soon after, roaring and spitting out the blood from its mouth which sizzled.
"I taste the tea of the Wood Witch!" the Giant raged and while it was distracted, the man crossed the bridge and plucked an apple from the tree that lay on the other side.
"How does it work then?"
Thyrian whirls around in shock, nearly dropping the paper slip detailing when the warlock could come over to patch the hole in the house which let drafty winds in and made the Old Crone complain of aching bones.
"I fixed it already," the Dread King continues. "Your home. So tell me, how exactly does getting back my heart 'work' then?"
"Stay with me," Thyrian says quickly before the rational part of his mind can convince him otherwise. "Keep me company for a few days, and I assure you, you'll get it back."
The Dread King looks at him suspiciously for a few seconds but inclines his head in the end.
Thyrian does not quite know what possessed him to say what he did. He does not know either what he hopes to achieve by having the Dread King accompany him and seeing the streets empty out wherever their path should stray.
At the very least, Thyrian hopes that falling in love (again) with the Dread King who was once John Johnson will in turn help the man find someone else to give his heart over to.
This may be a harder task than he has assumed, though, judging by the amount of gestures against evil being thrown their way. Still, love is a funny thing and he has never failed before so there may very well be an evil overlord-ess to share the Dread King's throne in the future.
He decides to bring the Dread King over to Oliver's Cookies and Crumbs. Thyrian has to admit that the Dread King's black cloak and aura does clash rather horribly with the bright colors of the shop's interior. When they enter, all the customers flee out the door at the sight of the Dread King. Commendably, Oliver does nothing more than to go a whiter shade of pale and proceeds to give 'service with a smile' as stated by the hanging sign with the bright yellow face on the wall behind him.
"Why have you brought me here?" the Dread King grumbles.
"He may be new but Oliver makes the best rhubarb apple pie in the whole town. You always did like apples, didn't you? Two slices please!"
"This is foolish," the Dread King continues as Thyrian leads him to the plush velvet chairs by the side of the window. "I will not be able to taste anything. All food is wasted on me. It is the price I had to pay. They only turn to ashes and dust in my mouth---"
Thyrian shoves a piece of apple pie into the Dread King's mouth to shut him up. The Dread King chews slowly, too surprised to do anything else, swallows and stares at the steaming slice placed on the dainty plate in front of him. Thyrian cannot stop grinning.
"Delicious, isn't it? I've tried to get the recipe from Oliver only god knows a million times now. Says that I can't make it even if I knew how because the recipe, apparently, calls for some magic apple that he received from a mysterious man. Sometimes, I even think he's serious."
"But -- But it's impossible." The Dread King picks up the apple slice and squints at it. "I shouldn't be able to..."
"Better than the newly spilled blood of virgins and newborn babies?" he asks, arching an eyebrow carefully.
The Dread King picks up the fork, takes a hearty bite and nods, the shadows cast from the tree outside flickering in contentment.
The man soon came upon another man lying half-slumped and weary across the road and he declared, "Ho! This be no place to sleep upon."
"I would go to a down-filled bed if I could, but alas, a sore lack of food and water keeps me from rising to my feet."
The man would gladly offer some of his own, but unfortunately, the provisions in his bag had dwindled the longer he walked untill it was only the bright red apple and fleeting visions of returning his homeland to what it once was that gave him strength.
He had intended to continue on his way, but the man on the road did look so very close to the brink of death that it gave him pause. A little bit surely couldn't hurt. After all, the Wood Witch herself had not specified that it was to be a whole apple. So the man broke the apple in half and knelt down then, offering one half to the man on the road who swallowed it in one bite.
The man resumed walking then, only to be stopped mere footsteps later by the sounds of terrible hacking and coughing behind him. He turned around to see the one on the road retching out a brief glimmer onto his palm.
"A ring!" the man lying on the road exclaimed. "It's a sign from above. With this, I may very well be able to defeat the Dread King!"
Thyrian is starting to enjoy his time with the Dread King far more than he ever expected he would. He keeps expecting the Dread King to entangle him with his shadows and strangle him in response to the increasingly absurb joint outings he thinks up, only to amuse himself with the sight of the Dread King feeding ducks or trying on outrageous top hats. The man has agreed to each and every one of Tyrian's suggestions without fail thus far. There are moments when Thyrian even manages to spot a rare smile or two curling at the corners of the Dread King's mouth. There are moments even when Thyrian forgets that the Dread King is the Dread King.
The knowledge comes crashing back swiftly, however, on the heels of a man who comes rushing at them one day with a desperate cry and a sense of terrible purpose in his eyes. The only other thing that Thyrian is able to remember in that moment when the world narrows down to the three of them is the gleaming arc of the dagger in the man's hands and the ring hanging round his neck.
The man stops, as if he is rooted to the spot, as still as if he has been turned to stone. There is a creeping greyness that is spreading upwards from the base of his shoes and Thyrian realises that the man is turning to stone.
The Dread King is standing beside him, calm and terrible all at the same time while the shadows that stretch out behind him wriggle in glee. Thyrian does not know what he is more horrified at, the fact that the Dread King seems to take pleasure from this or that he cannot will himself to say stop, stop it and leave the man be.
He had always viewed love as a pure thing. It had been born in him ever since he was young and had earned the nickname of 'Prince Charming'; all blonde hair, blue eyes and an easy smile that had girls swooning easily into his arms. Love to him was all chivalry and pleasant dates in pictaresque cafes, dropping off ladies and gentlemen alike on doorsteps with a lingering kiss followed by tender lovemaking with the sheets entangled in between. The ugly face of love, the one that grinned murky jealousy, cold terror and bitter fights had yet to rear its head simply because it had never lasted long enough for that.
Of course. Of course there would be all those knights in white armor and young hopefuls wanting to impress come to defeat the Dread King who was once John Johnson. The Old Ways may not have held as much sway as it did before, but some things never did change.
"I must be going soft in the head. I'll be planting flowers soon enough," the Dread King mumbles, a raven on a brach nearby cawing its agreement as he proceeds to turn the man back. "Go home now, and never show your face again."
The man wheezes and turns tail immediately.
"... Are you still angry with me then?"
"I wasn't angry with you," Thyrian confesses. "Just ... Confused. And a little terrified, I suppose."
"I'm not going to be able to change, you know that," the Dread King sighs, the shadows of his cloak trembling with the movement. "I've done far more horrible deeds before."
Thyrian gives a sigh of his own and replies by interweaving their fingers together, a small smile tentatively coming into view.
"Really warm hands though. For a Dark Lord."
The man did not know how long he had been on the roads but his heart ached to return home. But he knew that if he did not want to be greeted to a desolate wasteland, he would have to carry on, and this thought and a clear image of the last object he had to obtain spurred him on. So clear was the image of the white carnation in his mind, in fact, that he did not at first notice that the same field of white carnations stretching out before him was not imaginary at all.
The man blinked, wondering if this was to be the flower he was searching for and if he could finally return home at long last. He bent down to pluck one, pausing when the sounds of sobs finally reached him. In the middle of the sea of white, there stood a woman crying and he carefully approached her to see what the matter was that could cause such a fine lady as her to sob so.
"It's my dear Thomas," she said, shoulders heaving, "and oh I have been so very cruel to him... I miss him so and I wish I could have him back and that I had never --" Her wailings increased. "I didn't know he would take it to heart! 'Never', I said, 'Never will I fall in love with you till you defeat the Dread King' and I don't want that at all now, I just -- I just want him to be here with me."
The man deftly placed the white carnation behind her ear and told her not to worry and that he was safe, recounting the tale of the apple and the ring.
"Oh," she breathed out. "Thomas used to do that... Back when he wanted to court me for the Spring Dance... But I didn't accept, you see? I was such a fool back then." She dashed away the tears from her eyes angrily. "Safe, you say? Thank you. I do not not know who you are nor your name... But I believe you, somehow."
The man assured her that her Thomas would return safe and sound before turning to take the long walk back home.
"Right then, the Dance must go on," she said fiercely to herself as she waved the man goodbye.
"Here."
Cold slithers briefly against his ear and Thyrian sees the tail-end of a shadow along with something white flashing out of the corner of his eyes.
"It is a white carnation. You'll have to dance with me for the Spring Festival now."
The words are a mirror echo blooming anew from the dry rustling leaves of the past, carefully spoken and grave where they had been light and airy long ago, but they did not fail in making his heart skip a beat for all that.
"Oh all right then," Thyrian replies with a laughing gleam in his eyes and a smile threatening to overcome him. "I'll dance the stupid dance with you."
The town was alight and breathless with excitement at the prospect of the Spring Dance still carrying on after all. The Lady of the Troubadours, who had always brought the dance to different villages, had taken ill this year, the whispers said in shades of disappointment. It was only recently that the whispers had turned to joy when they found that the Lady had recovered for the better after all (supposedly, with a new sweetheart in tow even).
From the little corner they were in surrounded by a grove of trees, the sounds of revelry and music drifted to them from the village. Heavy silence, however, filled the tense spaces between him and the Dread King. They stood there awkwardly, hands placed upon shoulders and waists in the proper position and yet neither moving nary an inch.
"Well," Thyrian ventures, clearing his throat.
"Hm," the Dread King replies just as eloquently.
Honestly, the dance is simply too happy. While Thyrian is no stranger to the swinging arms and jaunty two-step needed, he cannot imagine the same for the Dread King.
"Here," the Dread King finally says, slipping his hands away from Thyrian. "Why do we not do it the old way?"
"The old way?"
"Yes. When the dance was meant to mourn the passing of Winter instead of celebrating the coming of Spring."
The Dread King gestures impatiently at his confused look.
"Here, stand a few paces back ... and bow."
Thyrian does so, only to see a black shadow striking out at him when he eventually looks up. Instinctively, his body shifts into a defensive stance, arms up and legs apart to deflect the blow.
"What..?"
The Dread King does not answer but attacks again, shadows deliberately curling into a mock strike that gives Thryian time to retreat and fend himself. They continue in the fight-dance, and as his body slowly adjusts to the new rhythm that begins he realizes that it is a familiar pattern he is easing into -- the same steps that he is used to dancing for the Spring Dance, except slower and with an edge of violence.
This new dance is different, but no less intriguing for it.
It brings them away from each other, closer again, then away; A tendril of a shadow always making contact, brushing slyly round his ankles, glancing off his collarbones, slipping past his wrists.
When the last lilting note trembles in the air and fades, whoops and cheers erupting from the distance, Thyrian finds himself and the Dread King in an impasse. They are breathing heavily, arms locked, and neither being able to retreat or attack.
"I -- I have something to tell you," Thyrian gasps out. He feels the shadows shifting curiously to attention and he bowls ahead before he can lose his nerve. "I lied." The shadows start to prickle dangerously and his words stumble out faster. "I don't know where your heart is or who took it or if anyone even has possession of it right now. I don't know how to give it back, but remember what you said before about taking mine instead as payment? Well, you can have it. I give it. I've given it away willingly to you."
Thyrian waits, wondering if he is going to be struck out of existence soon when the shadows start shifting again, but all that happens is a soft voice saying, "I accept" and before he knows it he is kissing the Dread King back for all he is worth.
The man stumbled to the edges of the forest where he lived. He was tired and aching and needed a bath terribly, but despite all that, he could not quite contain his grin when he noticed green grass and flowers where there had been ashes and cracked grounds before.
"You're back!" A passing youth shouted excitedly at him, running up to thump his back. "You wouldn't believe what just happened. They say that the Dread King just gained a heart, can you believe it? I can't imagine anyone falling in love with such a dreadful creature, but if it keeps him from laying the land to waste and keeps all this fresh greenery popping out, who am I to complain?"
Happy endings were rare too, these days, but some things from the Old Ways never did change.