by JR Thomas
Of Danu
Liam Mayweather pulled the sheet of paper from his typewriter. It snagged at the machine's metal teeth, as he crumpled it up and tossed it into the wastepaper basket along with the ink stained mountain that was today's effort.
"Aisley!" the old man screamed. His voice was hoarse from neglect. The manuscript had been consuming. One would think that, with such an expansive series under his belt, the characters might come a little easier, their problems might have clearer resolutions.
"Yes sir," Aisley ran in, brushing strands of dull brown hair from her face. "What can I do?"
"Start by empting that," he pointed to the overflowing basket.
Aisley scrunched her brow as she took in the sight. "Another hard day?"
"It's killing me," he smiled at her forward nature.
"I have faith in you sir," she answered.
"You've read my books?" he asked.
"Oh no," she grinned, as though the idea was preposterous. "I prefer focusing on your other accomplishments. The real world is much more compelling than anything you could make up, no offense." She picked up the basket.
"Darling," he said, grabbing a few of the papers that had fallen to the floor. "You are far too young to close yourself off from any facet of the world, imaginary or otherwise. Besides, I've found writing is a far nastier beast than any of the others I've faced"
"Sir, with all due respect, you're High King of the North. You beat back the Faye insurgence and commandeered the Great War, I doubt a running narrative is a match for you."
"Do you? I must admit, there are times when I don't feel much like a King."
"Well sure," the girl said, flashing eyes so bright and green that Liam imagined a more prolific wordsmith could spin legend from them. "Not here, not in this house." She lifted her arms from her sides, showcasing the modest drawing room they stood in. Though no one would consider the two story cottage Liam called home a castle, it was certainly one of the nicest homes in his village, perhaps in all of Ireland. "But this world doesn't matter, sir. Not really. If the world knew what we really were, if they knew anything about the reality of the place they live in-"
"My dear," he answered, cutting her off. "You remind me very much of someone who used to be quite dear to me."
"And who would that be sir?" she asked.
"Sir?" A woman's voice sounded from behind. Liam turned to find mist, a thick cloud of living smoke that spoke as it swirled around the drawing area. "Is that any way to address your King?"
The mist took the form of a woman. She was tall and regal. About the age of Liam, she held a golden staff in her hand. Her dress, green and silver, trailed the floor, hiding whatever footwear she had chosen for the day.
"Serves me right for leaving the window open," Liam muttered.
"I asked you a question, child," the woman snapped.
"No, Your Highness," Aisley bowed her head, pinning her green eyes to the floor. "I'm sorry Your Highness."
"Leave her alone Helen," Liam waved his hand. "You can go Aisley."
"Thank you, Your Highness," she answered, stressing his title. "Mrs. Mayweather was asking for you. Should I tell her you'll be awhile... with your book?"
"I would appreciate that."
Aisley nodded and took the basket from the room, closing the door behind her.
"Do you always have to be so hard on them?" Liam asked, turning to Helen.
"She'll get over it. Besides, the young always need people to hate. It gives them purpose," Helen answered. "So, it is to her credit, really."
"As always, you're a saint," Liam smirked. "Might I get the patron of youthful indiscretion a drink?" He walked toward the pale beige globe sitting atop his counter. Opening the top, he revealed a crystal bottle of scotch.
"I take it your blushing bride would not be pleased to see me?" Helen asked as Liam poured the glasses.
"You're kind. My bride hasn't blushed in quite some time. Besides, you know Cessily has never really, what do you English say, fancied my role in the 'other' world," he answered.
"I'd wager she fancies me even less," Helen said, letting her accent lay heavy on the word. "And regardless of her feelings, you are High King of the North. With that title comes certain responsibilities, responsibilities that you have shirked for too long. I mean, look at you. You spend your days hold up in this cottage writing children's books. All the while, leaving the real work to your advisor."
"Antonio is a good man," Liam said, handing her the bottle.
"Perhaps, but he is ill equipped to do your work. I understand that you have a certain affinity for this regular world and these baseline humans, but certainly you understand why, for them to live, we must do what is required of us."
"And is this ethics lesson the sole reason for your visit, Helen?" Liam asked, knocking back the scotch. "Not that I haven't enjoyed it."
"I wish that were the case. Unfortunately, there's more"
"And what does the High King of the South have to say for herself," he smiled.
"That she tires of cleaning up her counterpart's messes. A warlock has escaped from your dungeons. You, it turns out, were unreachable. Either that or your people have finally begun to take your indifference personally. Either way, it was brought to me. While I am more than capable of dealing with the situation, I find the prospect of usurping your authority, and very possibly the loyalty of your people, rather unseemly."
Liam began to giggle hoarsely.
"What the devil are you laughing about? Did you not hear that a powerful enemy escaped from your dungeons and you hadn't the faintest idea?"
"Oh I knew," Liam said, still laughing, holding his gut. "Of course I knew dear Helen. I'm the one who released him."
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Bell Watkins walked quickly, trying to catch up with Kara. Given the short stubby nature of her legs, one wouldn't think his best friend would be able to outrun him. He was at least a foot taller than her, after all. Of course, that didn't take into consideration how angry she was.
"I'm sorry," the boy yelled, stomping on the sidewalk behind her. "I don't get why you're so mad."
"Of course you don't," the round featured girl said, neither breaking stride nor looking in the red haired boy's direction. "And do you know why you don't? Because you're stupid. That's why."
"So you mean to tell me that my mom was lying when she told me I was a genuis," he said, jumping in front of her and smiling. "I suppose you're going to tell me I'm not ruggedly handsome either."
"Shut up," Kara said, stifling a reluctant smile.
"Seriously though," he continued. "What's wrong? It's not, like, touchy feely kind of stuff, is it? Cause I don't know what I'd do if you started turning into a girl on me."
"How long have you known me?" Kara asked, tapping her foot against the sidewalk.
"I don't know. This side of forever," he answered.
"And in all that time, is there anything about me that would make you think that I had a thing for Davis Etcher? Anything at all?"
"Well no," he defended. "But-"
"So," she interuppted. "Knowing me like you do, and knowing that there isn't anything in heaven or hell that could possibly persuade me to talk to, let alone flirt with, God forbid date him, why would you give him my number?"
"Um...I'm stupid?" he answered.
"There we go," she said, as though he had found the right answer. She began walking again, and he followed.
"But I'm still handsome though, right?"
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"What in Danu's name are we doing here?" Helen asked, standing beside Liam as they
watched the teenage pair bicker. They were solid, being that they were no longer in the mist form they used to travel the distance between Ireland and Boston. Still, hidden behind the wall of shrubbery that lined the opposite side of the street, they were little more than shadowy figures.
"We're watching," Liam answered.
"These children?" She balked.
"Does he not look familiar to you Helen?" Liam pointed to the red haired boy, as Bell opened the door of Ruffio's pizzeria and let Kara enter. Helen peered, squinting through the darkness and aged vision.
"Oh Liam," she said. "Not him again. A king must not have favorites."
"A king doesn't," he smiled, never taking his eyes off the boy, who had taken a seat at a window table. "But a grandfather does."
"You have plenty of grandchildren, Liam. Some of whom you haven't even met, if I have to remind you. And really," she crinkled her nose. "To saddle the poor boy with such a name."
"Bell is a family name," Liam chimed in.
"Perhaps, though wouldn't you agree that we have more pressing matters at the moment. A dangerous warlock walks freely, one that you inexplicably released and we-"
Liam pointed inside the pizza place, cutting the woman off. "Victar. The warlock's name is Victar, and he's right there."
Inside, a man with pale skin and long features sat at the table across from Bell and Kara, he watched them intently, the spikes of his black hair shooting like wayward rockets into the sky.
"We must-" Helen began to move, but Liam held her in place.
"No! He is there under my order."
"Why on Earth?" Helen asked, pulling away from the man's grasp, but staying